by D C Macey
‘How much longer now, Mauwled?’ said Sam, when they were once again driving through the bush. At this end of the pan, the track was rutted though much less sunken than the track they had followed leading in. This was a yet quieter place with very little traffic.
‘Not far … five, ten minutes maybe.’
‘How would you approach this?’ said Sam, keen to push on but mindful that breaching any local protocols would not be helpful. In his experience, pretty well throughout Africa no matter what you were proposing, it always paid to have the local chief or headman on board. Without their blessing, no locals were going to raise a hand to help.
‘We should go straight to the village to meet the local chief. We won’t ever make it to the runway without his say so.’
‘Right, and what’s this man like?’
‘I haven’t seen him for a couple of years, more. Not since I stopped driving for the smuggling gangs. But we got on fine then.’
‘Is he involved in the smuggling?’ said Helen.
‘No, no. But nothing can happen in his area without his blessing. He’s okay, don’t worry.’
Moments later Sam gave a sudden cry of surprise. ‘What’s that Mauwled? Over on the left.’
Mauwled swung off the track, worked his way between some clumps of bush before coming to a halt. They were in a manmade clearing and the bush was obviously kept at bay by regular cutting. In the middle of the clearing was what had caught Sam’s attention. A building. A single-storey modern building with concrete foundations, whitewashed breeze-block walls, and a tiled roof that hung out over the front by eight or nine feet to provide the cover for a concrete-based veranda.
‘What is this?’ said Sam, opening the Land Rover door to go get a better look.
Mauwled beckoned him back. ‘Let’s visit the chief first, Sam.’
Sam hesitated for a moment then nodded, getting back into the vehicle. ‘I thought there was nothing here.’
‘It’s an old health clinic for the peoples of the area. It was closed. It’s always been closed as long as I’ve known it.’ Mauwled made a chopping sign with his hand. ‘Government cuts, everything was closed. Now it’s a community centre and used for visitors to stay.’
‘What visitors?’
‘NGO workers mostly, but not very often. The local people sometimes use it when they need to gather.’ He got the Land Rover moving again, edged back onto the track and continued along the way.
The bush began to thin perceptibly. Then, after a hundred yards or so, it gave way completely to a clearing of dry and dusty earth that was held in place only by grasses, mostly grazed down to a rough stubble. The track continued in an arc as it crossed the clearing, skirting round a big boma in the centre before continuing on and disappearing back into the bush on the far side.
Twenty paces from the boma, Mauwled stopped the Land Rover. They all looked ahead. They were being watched by a group of people standing at an opening in the outer ring of thorn-bush fencing.
It was the biggest boma they had passed on their journey. The high thorn-bush fence described a great circle, within which was a circle of twenty or more huts, identical in construction to others they had passed. Some were rectangular shapes, others round, some constructed in close proximity to one another, edges touching, to convert their shape from circular to figure-of-eight - twin-roomed huts.
Within the circle of huts was another ring of thorn bush that was formed to enclose the livestock. It seemed that on the wide flat valley floor this enclosure was the only significant raised ground they had passed. Helen commented on it and Sam agreed it was an odd feature in the landscape.
‘I will go and speak with them,’ said Mauwled. ‘You should stay here. Don’t get out of the Land Rover without me.’ And he was gone before there was any opportunity for debate.
Sam leaned his head forward into the gap between the front seat headrests, so he could get a better view of proceedings. Mauwled approached the gap in the outer thorn bush where the stooped figure of an old man had appeared. He was flanked by a tall young man who leant on a long thin staff. Helen realised it was a spear, and not for show.
Hands were shaken, words spoken. Mauwled pointed back at the Land Rover, the old man nodded then pointed away in the other direction. At some point, the little children of the boma became emboldened and started to appear. A mixture of toddlers and little ones, some naked, some in tee shirts, some in shorts. The children demurely took up places behind the old man and the warrior.
After a little while, some youngsters moved forward and happily wove themselves around Mauwled’s legs. As the adults’ conversation wore on, a few of the bolder ones edged beyond Mauwled to get a closer look at the orange Land Rover and its occupants. A sharp word from the old man had them scurrying back into line.
Eventually, Mauwled reached out his hand, shook the older man’s hand, then the warrior’s. Helen noted how, on each occasion, the palm shake morphed into a thumb grip and then Mauwled turned and headed back for the Land Rover.
Mauwled got in and turned to face Sam. ‘We can’t do anything for now. That was one of the elders; it’s his son who has assumed leadership now, we need to speak with him. He won’t be back until much later. We are to come back in the morning.’
‘Hell, are you sure? Is there nothing we can do?’
‘We must wait. If you try to push ahead without his son’s authority, it is bad. In fact, it’s all bad. The old man thinks we will not get permission to travel to the runway. They have already made an arrangement with somebody else.’
‘It has to be Ro, he’s bought them off,’ said Sam.
‘So, what now?’ said Helen.
‘The elder’s son is the leader now. He will decide when he returns. We can stay in the old health centre tonight, but I think he’s just being kind because there’s no time for us to reach anywhere else before dark falls. He will send word when we should call in the morning.’
• • •
The old clinic had four rooms leading off the veranda. A quick inspection had identified that two rooms were bedrooms, each filled with four sets of bunk beds, the third a store-cum-washroom and the largest - which must once have been the clinic’s treatment area - was now cleared except for a few tables and chairs stacked at one side.
Helen had picked a bedroom, and she and Sam had given it a once over for unwanted snakes and insect visitors. Then they went out to see what Mauwled was doing. He had opted not to use the other bedroom; instead, he had taken a little tent from the back of the Land Rover and had pulled it up on to the vehicle’s roof. They watched as he popped it up and secured it.
‘What are you doing Mauwled?’ said Helen.
‘I like to stay with the Land Rover, security.’ Then he gave a little laugh. ‘And it’s safer up here.’
‘Safer from what?’
He spread his hands wide and looked about. ‘Snakes, lions, people. I don’t like to sleep on the ground in the bush, if I can avoid it.’
‘You know best, I guess,’ said Helen, ‘but given a choice, I’ll settle for indoors.’
‘We’re going down to the river, want to come?’ said Sam.
‘Sure, I’ll come. But you must be careful at the river, never go close to the edge. You must watch for crocodiles.’
The walk through the bush here was easy. Livestock from the boma made their way out every day and kept the bushes and the undergrowth well down. It took only a few minutes’ walking before the bush began to turn greener where the roots were able to tap down to the river’s underground water table. When they reached the riverbank, it was immediately clear just how low the water level had dropped.
Much of the riverbed that would normally have been under three or four feet of water was now dry pebble beach. What remained of the shrunken flow moved slow and muddy brown through only the deepest part of the bed. On its surface, fallen leaves and clumps of water plants, dislodged upstream by drinking animals, floated slowly past. Sam guessed that right now, even
at its deepest, the river would be only four or five feet deep.
They settled down on some big rocks under the shade of the green-leaved trees to enjoy the calm and relative cool, listening to what remained of the river as it flowed by.
A little while later, the tranquillity was broken by the arrival of a herd of animals. There were a number of goats and about forty young cattle, all immature, little more than calves. Some of the livestock were fitted with roughly fashioned bells round their necks that gave a gentle clunking sound as they walked.
Herding the livestock were half a dozen boys. Helen guessed their ages at around ten or eleven, certainly none more than twelve. All carried thin wooden-shafted spears, pointed with sharp metal tips; these were rested over the shoulders of some, while others had them reversed, using the shafts to guide wandering animals back into the herd. The boys called to one another and whistled to the livestock, comfortably at ease with the environment as they guided their wards down to the water for a last drink before returning to the boma at the end of the day.
‘They’re very young,’ said Helen.
‘Yes, by our standards, but I’ve seen exactly the same in Kenya. The children and the animals grow up together. The little ones we saw earlier, soon they’ll be responsible for the goat kids and youngest calves, which are kept in and around the boma, where there’s always an adult around if a predator turns up. Then, about nine or ten, they’ll move up to caring for the older calves and goats; they’ll move a bit further from the boma.’
‘That progression kind of makes sense, I guess. I saw something similar in West Africa, but they still seem so young,’ said Helen.
‘It’s what they’re brought up to expect. Once they graduate from this lot, it’s rituals and initiations and before you know it they’re propelled headlong into adulthood. Then they’ll join the young men to take the main cattle herds away for part of the year to their seasonal pastures. And the senior warriors remain here with the breeding herds.’
Once down the side of the riverbank, the goats and calves hurried across the dry riverbed bleating their joy at the smell of water. They quickly lined up along the river’s edge, their mouths all down to the water, taking a long drink. The sun cut through the tree canopy above them to dapple the water and animals with sparkling light. The young boys wandered up and down the line, still calling out to one another, pausing to check a calf’s hindquarters here, making sure a weaker animal fitted into the drinking line there.
As Sam tried to plan a route through their problems, Helen took in the bucolic scene. She opened her water bottle and took a drink, absorbing the atmosphere and relaxing, letting the ordered harmony of nature wash over her.
Suddenly, the calm of the riverbank was shattered in a rush of water as a shape exploded out of the river and grabbed one of the drinking calves by the throat. The calf tried to retreat with the rest of the herd but was held tight in the crocodile’s jaws.
The two-metre crocodile immediately began its inexorable reverse back into the water; the screaming calf fighting for its life. The calf’s resistance could only slow the monster’s retreat into the water; it was no match for the reptile’s strength and there was only one possible outcome.
The nearest boy hurried to the calf, jabbed his spear at the crocodile then abandoned his weapon to grab the calf and throw his weight into the struggle.
The other boys all arrived in a hurry, each one jumped into the shallows beside the crocodile’s head, there they mounted a constant jabbing, jabbing, jabbing with their spears. All the time aiming for its eyes or trying to force their spears into the beast’s mouth.
Helen, Sam and Mauwled were on their feet, running for the riverbank.
A spear penetrated the crocodile’s eye socket. It jerked its head but kept hold of the calf, which was now dragged knee deep into the bloodied river.
Finally, one of the boys managed to thrust his spear into the crocodile’s mouth. Shouting in triumph he leant his weight against the shaft, driving it in. A second boy got his spear in too and pressed it home into the croc’s soft inner flesh. The boys were making a terrific noise. The distracted beast, facing an unexpected attack, opened its mouth in defiance and the calf was immediately dragged back on to dry land by the first boy, who had steadfastly clung on to it throughout.
The crocodile was maddened by the unexpected assault. As it retired to midstream, it swung its tail, smashing into the head of one boy who had knelt to retrieve a dropped spear. He fell like a stone into the water and immediately disappeared beneath the surface. For the first time, the other boys looked stunned; this was beyond their expectations.
Sam shouted over his shoulder to Helen, telling her to stay away from the water as he rushed to where the boy had disappeared. The water only came to his waist. He plunged under, reaching for the bottom, feeling around until his hands made contact with the boy. Surfacing with a desperate gasp for air, Sam pulled the youngster back to the surface.
He turned to make for the bank, only to find Helen in the water beside him. She grabbed the boy too and together they dragged him to safety. Around them was an escort of excited jabbering boys, stabbing their spears into the water to deter any further attack and retreating in pace with Helen and Sam.
On the bank, Helen took charge and called on her earlier years of nursing experience to check the boy. She rolled him over and applied compression to his back, squeezing water out of his lungs and onto the dry riverbank. She squeezed again, getting more out, and was about to roll the boy over and start CPR when he coughed, wheezed and cried out in distress. Helen looked up and grinned at Sam; the boy would live.
One boy tended to the injured calf, while one remained with their fallen friend. The others were busy gathering their herd together again, but always keeping a watchful eye on Helen’s actions. They all heard their watching friend’s shout as he saw Helen’s grin and read the signal. Cheers and shouts rang out amongst the boys, and once they had the herd back together, they clamoured round Helen and Sam shouting their thanks.
After a little while, the injured boy stood. Helen protested that he should not be walking anywhere but Mauwled explained he needed to. His pride and honour demanded he go home on his own feet.
Helen, Sam and Mauwled walked up the riverbank with the boys and their herd. There they paused to watch as the boys drove their livestock in a slow procession through the bush back to the boma. The injured young boy, still a little unsteady on his feet, brought up the rear. He paused just before disappearing into the scrub with his herd, turned to look back at the three adults and raised his arm and spear in salute. Then he turned again and vanished from sight.
They made their way back to the clinic in silence. The lazy pleasure of a still, dry, African afternoon was gone. Here they were at the sharp end of nature.
Entering the clearing beside the clinic, Helen eyed Mauwled’s tent pitched on the Land Rover’s roof. ‘You know, I think you’re right Mauwled. This is not a place to take even half a chance.’
‘I’ll get a fire started so you two can get dried out. And I’ll see what rations there are for a meal. At least you won’t be in the dark here, there’s a solar lighting cell. It worked when I was here last. Enough to see by but not enough light to read.’
Helen smiled a thank you and sat down on the edge of the concrete veranda’s patio where it still caught the late afternoon sun’s rays. Its warmth was welcome as she suddenly found herself shivering.
Sam sat beside her and put his arm round her. ‘Come on, we’d better get dried off. I think we’re going to stink a bit after that dip.’
Helen nodded but didn’t move. ‘What I don’t understand is why those boys didn’t just let the calf go. It wasn’t worth risking their lives for, it was madness.’
‘It’s their life and honour. The Maasai live for their cattle. The boys couldn’t have gone home had they not at least tried to save the calf. It’s just that simple. For the Maasai, cattle are everything - part of the family group.
No halfway house.’
29.
Friday, 1st November - Evening
Mauwled was busy trying to get a fire alight in the open-air firepit set to the side of the clinic. In spite of his repeated efforts, the flames were reluctant to do more than flicker and glint before fading away. As darkness pushed out the twilight, the solar lighting came up on the veranda, casting just enough light for Helen and Sam to see one another - they were still sitting cold and wet, quietly coming to terms with nature’s brutality and the boys’ bravery, their attempt to catch warmth from the setting sun having failed.
‘Come on, let’s make a move,’ said Sam, standing. As he did, he tensed; there was a sound of movement beyond the clearing. Looking round, he saw Mauwled was on the alert too.
‘What’s up?’ said Helen, rising to join Sam while giving an involuntary shiver. The boy’s close escape had brought bush life into sharp focus. She glanced towards Mauwled, wishing he could get the fire blazing. She saw he was looking off into the darkness; saw Sam was looking in the same direction. ‘Is there something there?’
‘Yes, I heard something. I have no idea what. Listen …’
They stood in silence, straining their ears. And the sound came again. Movement - it was coming closer.
Mauwled joined them, taking up a position beside Helen. She noticed that he had a machete in his hand and wondered where it had come from. He reached across her and handed Sam a heavy stick. Sam took it and hefted it in his hand, finding the balance point and shifting his grip.
‘What have you got for me?’ she asked.
‘You just keep back,’ said Sam.
‘I don’t think so, Cameron,’ she said, jumping down from the veranda. In the half-light of the veranda’s solar lights she cast about, selected a large stone and then stepped back onto the veranda, standing between the two men. They all stared towards the approaching sounds.
A shape separated from the dark of the bush. Then another and another. Men coming closer, closing on the clinic. The leading man paused, waved his hand and called out. Helen couldn’t understand and Sam, for all his language skills, grasped none of it. But Mauwled understood. It was Maa, the Maasai language. By the time the speaking man had finished his second sentence, Mauwled had stepped down from the veranda, thrust his machete into his belt and reached out a welcoming hand.
