Cry of the Kalahari Read online

  We were reliving an important part of our evolutionary history as social carnivores. The hunting stories, the fire, the drink, the camaraderie—all a legacy from the first frail prehominids who descended from the trees, leaving behind their herbivorous existence in the forests of Africa to venture onto the savannas. Ill-equipped as they were for stalking and killing dangerous game, there was a great advantage to hunting cooperatively, both for the sharing of meat and for the development of language skills for communicating the details of the stalk and kill. Sharing food while verbally reviewing their techniques reinforced the essential cooperation between hunters, as well as encouraging and teaching the young. Powerful social bonding, together with the evolution of superior intelligence, made human beings the most successful carnivores the earth had ever known. As I took part in this primitive ritual I was reminded that this part of our fundamental nature hasn’t really changed that much in thousands of years.

  After the braii, Dolene and Simon invited us to sleep at Buffalo Cottage. Their bungalow, set on a bulge in the river, was smothered in flowering bougainvillea, and the head of a cape buffalo glared from over the door. Our bedroom had a sweeping view of the water, and clean sheets and towels had been laid out for us on a kaross of jackal pelts. Before we went to sleep, I ran my fingers through the silky black and silver hair of the kaross. It had taken thirty Captains to make it.

  Next morning we were awakened by the smell of tea and spice cookies, as the bare feet of a small native boy padded off down the hallway. Later we shared a breakfast of toast, orange marmalade, and more tea with Simon and Dolene, on the veranda overlooking the river. Several other hunters, bleary-eyed and thick-tongued from the night before, arrived, and Simon called for another pot of tea.

  They all asked us to go fishing the next day, but we felt pressed to get back to the Kalahari and regretfully declined. “Right then—piss off to the bloody Kalahari,” someone said in jest. Though we knew it hadn’t been a serious jibe, it still hurt, and we worried that perhaps we were being antisocial. The talk ran to Dad’s braii and plans for the fishing trip and now and then someone mentioned the job to be done on Simon’s truck. We excused ourselves and began shopping for supplies.

  The stores in Maun are low concrete block buildings with tin roofs set along the footpaths and major tracks that run through the village.

  We usually had to visit every one in order to find all the food staples and bits of hardware needed for another few months in the Kalahari. Items as basic as truck tire tubes and patches were often unavailable, and we had to arrange with one of the transport drivers to purchase them in Francistown and bring them back with his supplies for the village. Sometimes, when the gravel road was bad, we waited for days to get gasoline and other essentials. Only recently have such perishables as cheese, bread, eggs, and milk become available, with the arrival of the first refrigerators in one or two of the shops.

  We made our way from one store to the next along deep sand ruts, jamming on the brakes, banging the sides of the Land Rover, and whistling away the donkeys, dogs, goats, cattle, and children, who sometimes dared us to run over them by dashing in front of the truck. At Maun Wholesalers, also known locally as Spiro’s (for the Greek who owned it), a horse was tethered to a rail. A goatskin saddle, a bedroll of plaid wool blankets, and a skin sack of goat-milk curds were tied over its back with rawhide strips. The shop was a single large room lined with shelves of rough-cut lumber; a heavy wooden counter ran nearly all the way around it. One end was stacked to the ceiling with canned foods, bars of Sunlight soap, boxes of Tiger oats, Lion matches, packets of lard, tins of Nespray powdered milk, and other grocery items. There were shirts, pants, cheap tennis shoes, and yards of colorful fabric. Metal bins of bulk flour, mealie-meal, samp, and sorghum stood along the front of the shop, and an iron scale with a copper pan and sliding weights sat on the wooden counter above. Saddles, bridles, hosepiping, chains, and kerosene lanterns hung from the rafters.

  Two tall, somber-faced Herero women swayed into the shop. In spite of the heat, they were dressed in brightly colored flowing dresses, purple shawls, and red turbans. Puffing on their pipes, each filled a Coke bottle from the spigot of a kerosene drum; a tin bathtub caught the spills. The shop was crowded with men, women, and children lying across the counter, holding out money and shouting their orders to the shop assistants.

  Delia began taking cans from the shelves. A young black girl, her dress hanging off one shoulder, tore a strip from a brown paper bag, brushed away the mealie dust on the counter, and began to tally with a pencil stub. I found a hefty axe handle in a tumble of three-legged pots, kettles, tin bathtubs, shovels, and picks leaning against the wall.

  Later, when we unloaded in camp, we found that our three months’ supply of flour and sugar had been stolen from the truck, along with some other grocery items. We were furious. On our limited budget, there was no going back to Maun until our next regularly scheduled trip, so for three months we were without bread, an important part of our diet. Since most of the door and window locks on the old Land Rover were broken, there seemed to be no defense against being robbed, other than for one of us to watch our goods every minute while in the village. But on our next supply trip, I solved the problem for good.

  When we were getting ready to go, the birds in camp suddenly burst into a cacaphony of chirring, twittering alarm calls. We soon spotted two ten-foot mambas winding their way into the trees above our dining tent, apparently intending to have a couple of our feathered friends for lunch. The black mamba is so poisonous that the natives use a term for it that literally means “two step”; according to them, two steps is as far as you ever get if you’re bitten by one.

  I shot the snakes, took them to Maun with us, and coiled them over the pile of fresh supplies in the back of the Land Rover. It didn’t matter that they were dead. The first curious young lad who strolled past our truck, trailing his fingers along the side of the window, suddenly leaped back with a yell and disappeared through the village. The word soon got around that the Grey Goose was not to be molested.

  There were two butcheries in Maun, both owned and operated by Greek merchants: the “Maun Butchery” and “Dirty George’s,” the latter known for its flies, general lack of sanitation, and cheaper meat.

  We always shopped at the Maun Butchery, though there was actually little difference between it and Dirty George’s. These two places were the only sources of fresh meat for villagers who had once lived by hunting large herds of antelope, most of which have now been displaced around Maun by monocultures of cattle, goats, and sheep. Two towering tribesmen in blood-smeared boots and aprons heaved slabs of stringy, tough meat from blocks to scales to counter, slicing off portions as demanded by customers. I often wondered if the poor quality of the meat was due to the reverence that native ranchers had for cattle on the hoof. A cow is worth much more to them as a display of wealth when it is alive. Many Maun people believed that only the oldest and most infirm and scrawny beasts found their way to the butchers.

  When we had finished buying supplies, we drove north on the track to Eustice’s small farm at a bend in the Thamalakane. The small frame house stood high above a broad sweep of the river. Behind the house a big yard with tall trees and a vegetable garden fell gently to the water and reed banks below.

  As we drove up the long, sandy driveway, Eustice appeared from a side door near the garden. A slender black man in his mid twenties, medium in height and wearing a floppy hat, stood under a jacaranda tree next to his canvas tote-bag. I shook his hand, noticing that he had strong arms and shoulders, but that his legs were those of a gazelle, long and slender.

  While Eustice interpreted, I explained that we lived in a camp far away in the Kalahari beyond the Boteti River, and that if he came to work with us, the life would be hard: There was very little water; he would not see other people for months; there would be lions in camp some nights; and we could afford to pay him very little other than his food. The only shelter we could off
er was what we could make from a ten-by-twelve tarp. He would be expected to patch tires and generally help maintain the truck. He would help keep camp clean, assist me in hauling water and firewood, and lend a hand with the research when we needed it.

  Throughout our one-sided conversation I could see that Mox was extraordinarily shy. He stared at the ground, unmoving, with his hands hanging awkwardly at his sides. Now and then when Eustice asked him something he would utter, “Ee”—little more than a whispered assent.

  “What does he know how to do?” I asked Eustice. “Can he patch a truck tire or cook?”

  “He says he doesn’t know how to patch tires, but I taught him to cook a little. He’ll try to learn anything you want to teach him.”

  “Can he spoor—track animals?”

  “No, but . . .’ell, Mark, any of these blokes can pick that up, but quick.”

  “Does he speak any English?”

  “No.”

  I glanced at Delia. We were both skeptical. How could we possibly work with someone this shy, who was too embarrassed even to look at us, and who had no skills and was unable to speak our language? According to Eustice, Mox had spent most of his twenty-six years tending cattle for thirty cents a day. He lived with his mother, to whom he gave everything he earned. His father was a skinner for Safari South.

  Without skills or the ability to communicate with us, we didn’t see how Mox could be of much assistance. If he did agree to come to the Kalahari with us, I felt sure he wouldn’t last for more than one three-month stint. But we needed help badly, and for what we could afford to pay, we wouldn’t be able to hire a skilled worker.

  “Ask Mox if he’ll come to the Kalahari for fifty cents a day and food—that’s twenty cents more than he’s getting now. If he learns well, and if we get another grant, we’ll give him a raise.”

  Eustice rattled off more Setswana, and Mox raised his eyes to me for the first time. They were bloodshot from native beer. Through a ragged cough he whispered, “Ee,” and we arranged to meet him at Safari South the next morning.

  We had finished packing the Land Rover by the time the sun rose over the river. While we were thanking Dolene and Simon for their hospitality, the others in the fishing party arrived—fishing rods, shotguns, folding chairs, old mattresses, and cases of cold beer in the back of their trucks. Simon insisted that they should all have tea and biscuits before leaving. We said our goodbyes, and they all settled down around the table. Someone said that if they got back before sunset, they might work on Simon’s truck.

  We found Mox sitting next to the sandy track on a small bundle of blankets. Inside the bundle was an enamel bowl, a knife, a piece of hardwood for sharpening the knife, a piece of broken comb, a wooden spoon, a splinter of mirror, and a small cloth sack of Springbok tobacco; it was all he owned in the world. Wearing holey blue shorts, an open shirt, and shoes without laces, their tongues hanging out, he climbed to the roofrack and sat on the spare tire.

  It was about 9 A.M. when we passed Buffalo Cottage on our way out of Maun. The hunters were still drinking tea on the veranda, and, jacked up on blocks, Simon’s truck stood beside the house.

  That night we spread our sleeping bags and set our chuck box on the ground near the edge of the Central Kalahari Game Reserve. Mox built a fire, and Delia made a supper of goat meat, mealie-pop, and tea. We sat eating quietly, happy to be back in the bush, yet both of us feeling somehow lonely, missing the warm afterglow that usually follows a visit with good friends. “I feel let down . . . as though we don’t really belong anywhere but Deception Valley,” Delia said sadly.

  We had gone to Maun not only to get supplies, but also to socialize. Yet, in spite of the generosity of the people in the village, we had come away disappointed and unfulfilled, still feeling that we weren’t really a part of any group. We were both overly friendly after long stretches alone in the Kalahari. Our Maun friends did not respond to us with the same exaggerated enthusiasm. In contrast to us, they were casual, and we misinterpreted this to mean that we weren’t really accepted by them. And since there was no other social circle, it was important that we be accepted. This anxiety grew over the years, and we gradually turned more and more exclusively to each other.

  It felt strange to have someone else around the campfire. Mox was silent, totally unobtrusive, yet we felt his presence, as though the shadow of a person was with us but not the person himself. We tried to communicate with him, using what little Setswana we had learned, aided by a phrasebook published by Catholic missionaries. He never spoke unless a question was addressed to him, and then very softly, hardly daring to glance at us. His answers were mostly, “ee,” and “nnya.” Still, we were able to understand some of what he knew about the world.

  Though he had lived all his life on the edge of the Okavango River Delta and the Kalahari, he had only been into the delta during a few hunting trips with Eustice, and he knew little about the Kalahari. Using a stick to draw a picture of the globe in the sand, we tried to explain that the earth was round and we were from America, across the ocean on the other side of the world. But he half smiled and shook his head, his brow furrowed in embarrassed confusion. He didn’t know what “world” or “ocean” meant, in his language or any other. He had never even seen a lake, much less an ocean, and his world consisted of little more than what he could see.

  Much later, when the fire had died to embers, I lay on my back looking up at the blue-black star-filled sky. Had we made a mistake? Had Mox? Why had he left the security of the village and his family—his social group—for the unknown of the Kalahari Desert? I turned the question back on myself. Far away to the south, somewhere near Deception, a lion roared.

  8

  Bones

  Mark

  A king of shreds and patches

  —William Shakespeare

  SWAYING and ducking tree limbs, his wiry black hair plastered with grass seed and straw, Mox rode on top of the Grey Goose through the woodland of East Dune and into Deception Valley. At the edge of the riverbed, still half a mile from camp, we could see that something was wrong. We raced toward our tree island, the truck shaking and rattling over grass clumps, and found pots, pans, bits of clothing, pieces of hose, sacks, and boxes scattered for hundreds of yards around. Camp was a shambles.

  A big dust devil? A heavy storm? What or who could have made such a mess? I began picking through the rubble and found one of our heavy aluminum pots with a large hole, the size of a fifty calibre bullet, in the bottom. Just as I realized the pot had been punctured by a big tooth, nine furry heads emerged to peer at us from a thorny hedge west of camp. We were still standing next to the Land Rover when the lions started strolling toward us in a long single file. Two large lionesses led the way, their bodies swaying with easy power, and five slightly smaller subadult females strode confidently after them. Two yearling male cubs, biting at each other’s ears and tail, brought up the rear. This was the same pride I had herded into West Prairie with the Land Rover the. night Delia had been trapped in the tent. We had seen them many times since then in this part of the valley, and apparently they were the ones who had raided us.

  Like justices arriving in court, they slowly took their places side by side in a half-circle on the perimeter of camp, not more than twelve or fifteen yards away. Licking their paws and washing their faces, the lionesses watched us with idle curiosity and without apparent fear or aggression. Besides the excitement and mild apprehension we felt with them so near, there was also the sad feeling that it would end all too soon, whenever they chose to go away.

  Mox felt otherwise. While Delia made a fire and put on a pot of soup, he and I began, with slow, cautious movements, picking up the pieces of camp. But he kept the Land Rover between himself and the lions, and he never really took his eyes off them.

  Later, we drove Mox to another stand of trees, 150 yards south of our own, to help him rig a tarp shelter beneath a spreading acacia tree. We lashed together deadwood poles for a frame, and with the canvas fas
tened over it, a crude but snug hut took shape. To “lion-proof” the camp according to Mox’s native custom, we cut wait-a-bit bushes, a shrub with wicked clawlike thorns that snare the flesh and clothing of those passing by, forcing them to “wait a bit” while they unhook the needle-sharp spines. We piled the thornbush in a tight boma—a circular enclosure—leaving an entrance for Mox that he could close with a single large bush. When he seemed satisfied with the comfort and security of his quarters, Delia and I went back to our camp, leaving him to make his bed and arrange his belongings.

  The lions stood up as we drove in, but then lay down again. Around sunset Delia served up steaming potato soup, and while mealie cakes sizzled in the black skillet, the lions watched everything we did, seldom moving, except to yawn or lick a forepaw.

  This was a valuable experience for us, and we took careful note of the way they reacted to what we did: Their widened eyes and tense shoulder muscles expressed fear if we walked too quickly or too directly toward them. Their chins lifted, their ears perked, and their tails twitched with curiosity when I dragged a branch toward the fire. Each posture and expression told us more about how to avoid inciting fear, aggression, or undue curiosity in them.

  The cool evening air began to settle from the sandslopes into the valley, and the last colors of sunset were draining from the sky behind West Dune. The forms of the big cats grew dim, lost focus, and finally faded. As it grew dark, more primitive, less scientific feelings settled in on us, and I switched on the light to check the positions of the lions. To our surprise only one large lioness and the two yearling males were left; the others had quietly disappeared. Despite the protection his thornbush boma provided Mox, we had to make sure that he was safely in his shelter.