by Tahir Shah
The Bedouins’ unfaltering belief in themselves, as well as their unsurpassed generosity, gained Thesiger’s undying respect. “The challenge of the desert kept them on their toes,” he said. “They accepted no one as their equal... they would say, “I am Bedu and the cold does not matter to me.” “
Thesiger’s memories, as clear as his piercing gaze, spanned eighty years. One moment he would be recounting details of his first trip to India, in 1917; and the next he would be speaking of hunger in Arabia.
“I remember one day,” he recounted, “we were longing to eat the hare we’d caught that morning. We hadn’t tasted meat for ages. I kept suggesting that we stop and cook it there and then. But each time the answer was that we could only rest when there was water for the camels. At last a suitable spot was found. The camels drank and we cooked the hare. I can still smell it now, it was a smell from paradise.
“Just before we were about to begin eating, someone noticed three Arabs approaching in the distance. When they arrived the hare was presented to them. One of our party said “Please feast, it is a blessed day that you have come.”
As the old explorer conjured his recollections before me, the door was flung open. In its frame was hunched an aged Samburu woman. Completely blind, she had been led up the hillside by a child. She and Thesiger were old friends.
She stumbled into the room and began to embrace me, kissing my hands. Multi-colored beads adorned her neck, and her ear lobes had been cut in the traditional Samburu manner. I looked over to Thesiger. He let out a roar and shouted, “She thinks you’re me!”
The herd of zebra moved about uneasily in the valley as if a predator were nearby. It was almost too hot to move. I was very lightly dressed, yet sat palpitating in the tremendous heat. Sweat ran down my face as I took in the indefatigable explorer’s tales.
Pausing for a moment, Thesiger glanced over to where I was slumped. An apparition had begun to haunt me, blotting out all else. It was a glass of freezing cold water with tiny droplets of condensation on the sides. My head began to spin at the very thought of gulping such a deliciously cold liquid. Thesiger pulled his Savile Row coat closer about him, as if an icy chill had run down his spine. He rearranged himself in the armchair and said, softly, “Let’s have a nice hot cup of tea shall we?”
* * *
Marsabit is a dusty enclave in the desert. Kennedy’s schedule forced us to travel further northwards to attend to his family’s business. I had left the great explorer — now retired — vowing to return if time allowed.
Samburu warriors were lounging about, chewing on roots and trying to keep cool. Some plaited their hair, covering it with red ocher. We were about the same age and for a moment I contrasted our lives. Was it possible to compare them? We had been exposed to such different aspects of life, yet being with them I felt a common link.
Kennedy drove to the building site so that we could deliver the paint to the foreman. His name was Julius. He wore pink Wellington boots and greeted us with a grin which seemed to bisect his face. We were escorted behind a row of unfinished houses. Julius stopped frequently to point out the quality of the workmanship and the materials used. I praised both, and handfuls of soft insulation asbestos were brought for me to fondle and appreciate.
The buildings were at an early stage of construction: still having no roofs or doors. However, painting had begun, and now we had delivered the topcoat it would be used immediately.
In a banda, a small round hut, we were given tea. Two-litre tins of bronze emulsion were drawn together in a circle so that we might sit, cushioned with wads of fluffy white asbestos fibers. With the collapse of the asbestos market in the west, stocks of the hazardous material had been shrewdly sold to developing nations.
The world was warm yet seemed remote, as the sun fell behind a row of the unfinished houses. I sipped the hot sweet tea, no longer bothering to scrape off the black film of drowned insects from its surface.
Julius stood up and exclaimed in a deep, proud voice that Kennedy and I were invited to his home. We were to be the guests of honour.
Big Ben looked down at me from a faded postcard on one wall. We had been hurried away to rest in Julius’ house. He was happy that I noticed the card and said:
“My friend, Francis, is in London. He sends me pictures and I pack up special maize-flour porridge, ugali, which he likes to get.”
A goat was led into the kitchen: it skipped along with a degree of curiosity. Then there was the glint of a knife in the moonlight and it was announced that dinner was soon to be served. The foreman’s young son was paraded in front of us and prodded, to demonstrate an unusual talent. A beer bottle was handed to him and he removed the top with his milk teeth. Julius was proud of the boy.
He cleared his throat and announced that there would be no salt with the meal. It was far too dangerous to venture out to the shop after dark. Four people had already been killed that month by elephants running amok.
The oil lamp was dimmed and a large tray bearing a whole goat was trundled in. The animal had acute rigour mortis. A limb was hacked off and presented to me. It was absolutely raw. I held the hoof in my fingers and tried to look pleased. The other three legs stood perpendicular to the corpse and were removed with some degree of surgical precision, Julius using a rather blunt hatchet. I pretended to gnaw enthusiastically, before exclaiming that I was far too full to eat another bite.
A bed was made up, its pillows plump with asbestos and newspaper, and I lay down to sleep. As I drifted off, a picture of Rick and Gracie Schmetman rolled in front of my eyes. Each was wrapped in a golden raincoat with transparent buttons. Rick looked at Gracie and Gracie looked at me. Then they both shook their heads slowly, in disappointment.
* * *
Back in Nairobi, a flock of ravens had crossed Oswaldo’s path and he knew that he was cursed. As we sat at the Impala bar in Westlands, drinking mango juice from molded Chinese glasses, he spoke tenderly:
“Meng, Patagonia calleng me. Dose eyes mounteens at me hoome waiteng me.”
The news of his father’s death had been a severe blow to the Patagonian and, although he had obtained new strength from the talisman, it was clearly not enough. His left eye had developed a disconcerting twitch and from time to time his top lip ruffled upwards for no reason at all. Concern for omens occupied his time. We began to take elaborate routes around the town as he trod on every crack and avoided ladders, old women and black cats. Sometimes he would sit and stare into space, his eyelashes would quiver as if he were remembering Patagonia, of whose beauty he so frequently spoke.
Then, one day, he put his hand on my arm while we were walking, as his feet juggled with the crazed paving:
“Chappy, came to South America...” he said; “Vee goo Amazon, vee goo leoopard hunting! Yoo like us Latin peeples... vee crazee meng!”
Images of lost cities, jungles thicker than any on earth, and visions of mountains made of ice, ran through my mind. The thought of venturing to the last piece of the Gondwanaland puzzle began to tug. I told Oswaldo of my thoughts.
“Vats Goondwannahland?” he asked, screwing up his face.
“Well,” I explained, ‘scientists say that once, long, long ago, India, Africa and South America formed one giant continent. This was called Gondwanaland.”
The Patagonian seemed confused.
“But that’s not all!” I cried, hoping to recapture his attention, which was flagging. “You see, this super-continent got its name from a mysterious, barbaric tribe who used to Uve in Central India... they were called the Gonds.”
Without warning, Oswaldo suddenly slapped me on the back. As I recoiled from the blow, he chortled, “Khey chippy, Patagonia once coled Patagondia... mean “foot of dee Gonds’ eat ees home of dee Gonds, chap!”
Oswaldo had a point: I was quite ready to be sure. Patagonia could have evolved from Patagondia. This remote region of southern Argentina might indeed have played a key role in the Gondwanaland story. I glanced at Oswaldo. Smiling bro
adly, with his arms akimbo, he was revelling in his new role as an amateur philologist.
Oswaldo’s link between Patagonia and the Gonds almost seemed plausible. I would certainly try to look into the connection, once having reached the area.
But my interest in Macumba still superseded any other. I was enthraled that such a cult existed and was growing; a creed whose heritage was based in three continents. I had not told Oswaldo much of Macumba, as my curiosity for it might have upset him. Yet I was determined to learn more of this fantastic Brazilian art. I knew no other way to get the compelling itch of curiosity out of my system.
I pledged that I would venture across the continent from the north to the southern edge: and yes, I would journey to Patagonia, where my extraordinary companion had been born.
* * *
Mich and Denzil had lost all their money gambling with some card-sharps in Nairobi’s International Casino. They mumbled that a Mafia element had short-changed them. Now, sick of city vices, they wanted to leave that very night for the hills. I suspected an ulterior motive for such a speedy getaway. Mich broke down under interrogation and said:
“Those Sicilians gave us till tomorrow to pay our debts... otherwise they would take necessary action.”
“How much do you owe?” I asked.
“Nine,” said Mich.
“Nine hundred shillings?”
“No, nine thousand shillings.”
“And...” murmured Denzil “a side bet of two camels and a race horse with another player.”
The first matatu leaving Nairobi was heading towards Ngorengore, a small town west of Narok. Mich managed to send a message to Kennedy of our whereabouts. I tagged along to give moral support. Fifteen bodies and thirty chickens pressed tightly together as the matatu wound down into the Great Rift Valley.
It was very late by the time Ngorengore’s single street-lamp lit our descent down the rutted road. Oswaldo, Mich, Denzil and I huddled in one clump, wondering what to do. A man wearing dark glasses and 1973 silver disco boots whistled and we followed. His name was Basil. In a strange way, he resembled a crocodile. Taking pity on our motley group, he invited us to come and stay in his hut, to meet his family, and to share with them what little they had.
A yellow tin can was passed to me and in the darkness I began to drink. It contained a muddy brown mixture: a special homemade potion, concocted from fruit, I was told, within the very black walls of the room in which we sat. Basil was jubilant when I complimented him on the brew, “It”ll make you potent forever and women will run to your side,” he said.
But he stopped speaking as I began to chew on the grit at the bottom. The lumps would not grind up and so I swallowed what felt like bits of broken glass. Basil said that we were to stay forever and become his new children. We thanked him in chorus. He wore a three-piece suit. I could make out the lines of wide stripes which rolled up and down the cloth, undulating around the creases, giving it character. When he noticed me looking in admiration at the silver disco boot strapped firmly to each foot, he removed one and handed it to me for closer inspection. Here, as elsewhere in the Developing World, boots and shoes are talking-points, for they bespeak sophistication, and even relative wealth.
Three women in the one-room dwelling lolled about and giggled, as if in confusion at everything that was said or done. I was not sure whether they were Basil’s sisters, wives or even his daughters, but it hardly mattered, as everyone was having such a nice time.
The yellow tin can was taken away and refilled with a new potion. It was hot, and the vapours which poured off made my head spin. This was changa”a, a drink prepared locally. I managed to avoid it, as the women climbed over each other to get to the liquid.
At that moment the babies appeared. Their small, round torsos were passed from one lap to the next, as they passed water with surprising frequency.
The tea-chest table was removed and Basil announced that it was time to dance. Denzil passed out cigarettes, hoping this would frustrate Basil’s intention. Basil grabbed the carton and lit two. He drew in smoke from alternate hands. The women were too drunk to appreciate his skill. They lit cigarettes and started to choke, violently. They had obviously never smoked before.
As the confined chamber filled with tobacco smoke, the babies screamed as one. The largest of the women pulled me up to dance. Her enormous breasts closed in around me, engulfing me like an amoeba, against the wall. I shouted out. No one heard me, except for a baby who threw up with excitement. Then, in one movement, another of the women stripped off all her clothes and ran around the room. No one showed any surprise at all. Only I stared in dread. She plucked a yellow dress from beneath an infant and put it on. She looked like a marigold. When I told her this, she tried to drag me into a corner.
Basil said he had a secret to show us. He went to one corner of the room and removed a large piece of dry mud from a cavity in the wall. He turned back, holding a shiny, brightly colored object in his palm.
“This comes from Ethiopia,” Basil began. “An Ethiopian chief gave it to me in exchange for four cockerels.”
He held it out at arms’ length with confidence: almost as if the object radiated an invisible power. We sat in silence and stared at the cube. Was it a new kind of magical device, perhaps in some way related to the Borfima? Each of the six sides was made up of nine colored squares: it slowly penetrated my fuddled brain that it was a Rubik cube.
“I, too, was surprised when I saw this magic block,” Basil continued, “it seemed a very odd thing; then, after many days, I understood the power that it has. Shall I tell you the secret?”
Mich and Oswaldo nodded, mesmerized by Basil’s cube.
“When I move one of the sides, it may seem a very small thing that happens. But when the colors turn over at the body of a sick person, he is healed. Those little children who run about in here were all covered in a rash. One of the ladies used to shout out at night, another had a bad fever.”
“Is it really that easy?” asked Mich.
Basil looked deep into his eyes and said:
“No. I close my eyes and must say some words of magic. It is only then that the spell will be made.”
The next morning a row of ill people loitered outside the hut. Mich rearranged a set of five stones around under a cloth. In his trick, one of the stones magically appeared above the cloth. The woman in the marigold dress sat and watched for hours. Now and again she prodded Mich’s legs, suggesting that he go round to the back of the hut with her.
Basil’s makeshift clinic was really thriving. He stumbled about in his disco boots, between lines of bodies which were scattered outside the hut. Each patient paid one shilling and was given a sip of changa”a.
On our fourth day a whirling cloud of dust approached at speed from the distance. It cut between the mud houses of the town and I recognized the pick-up’s driver. It was Kennedy. He greeted us, then led Mich aside.
They returned a few minutes later to where we were sitting. Mich’s eyes were bulging with tears; he clasped Kennedy’s shoulder. I asked him later what had moved him so. He replied:
“Kennedy came out here to offer me all his savings. He knew that my debt must be very big.”
“How much did he have?” I asked.
“Nine hundred and thirty-four shillings. He said that his father would give me another five thousand, but it would take a week before they could sell their animals to raise the money. Of course I couldn’t take it.”
Denzil and Mich said they would stay with Basil until things in Nairobi quietened down.
Oswaldo, Kennedy and I climbed into the cab of the little silver pick-up and sped along towards the capital. I stared at the ground as it ran by beneath the car’s shadow. We entered the expanse of the Great Rift Valley, where human life, it was said, began.
Suspicious now of anything with the word “Great” in its title, I had learned my lesson from the Great Thar Desert.
The Great Rift Valley surrounded us in all directions unti
l the earth curved away.
In the late afternoon we ascended one of the steep slopes of Ngong and sat on the grass to watch the world. A lone thorn tree stood as the last perpendicular object before the horizon. Vultures and eagles rode high on the thermals and swooped past each other in diagonal lines.
At that moment I felt the force which embraces the African continent — the power which bonds man to nature and nature to mankind. Kennedy came over to where I sat and whispered, “There is a story in East Africa,” he said. “One day a Luo herdsman was leading his cattle across the valley in search of water and new grass. His name was Joseph. In the far distance he noticed a tall warrior approaching. The cattle grew restless and moved their feet in circles when the tall man arrived. The two men were from the same tribe and embraced each other. Joseph said to the tall warrior, “Why have you returned to this place?” The other replied, “I went far away to live with those people in the north. It was a very nice place, and eh, I would have liked to stay there very much.”
“But what made you come back?” asked Joseph.
“You see,” said the other, “I had seen this sight before I left and the memory tormented me. I had to come back, for I need it as a cheetah needs meat.”
Kennedy turned and pointed far across the Great Rift Valley and continued, “Tahir, those two Luo warriors were standing where we now sit. Like the tall one, you will return. The memory of all this will draw you back, Africa is now your real home.”
Oswaldo, Kennedy and I sat for a long time, looking to where the savannah became the sky. I thought over what Kennedy had said. Then I smiled.
PART THREE: WEST GONDWANALAND
South America
THIRTEEN - Beyond the Devil’s Teeth
FOURTEEN - Opera in the Jungle
FIFTEEN - For the Need of a Thneed
SIXTEEN - The Mountains of Blue Ice
THIRTEEN
Beyond the Devil’s Teeth
