Mukurob

by André Costa

  In the capital, as the taxi drove through the well-kept streets, David’s first impression was that he had arrived in a small, charming city nestled between impressive mountains and with an urban atmosphere that blended the styles and tastes of the old German and Dutch colonizers with native African culture. The parched vegetation discolored by the long dry season stood in stark contrast to the flawless blue of the sky, and it all seemed more vivid than he had imagined.

  After arriving at the two-story guesthouse with large balconies reminiscent of German colonial style, the taxi driver unloaded David’s luggage. The seemingly historical building rested on a hill overlooking the center of Windhoek, which the driver explained meant “corner of wind” in Afrikaans. David was overwhelmed by the view, almost leaving his possessions behind on the side of the road. What he was yet unaware of was the contrast between the two worlds on the same horizon. At one end, the township of Katutura—“the place where people do not want to live”—where the persistent scars of the apartheid regime were evident in poverty and harsh living conditions; and, at the other, the modern and elegant neighborhoods of the middle and upper classes.

  Chapter II

  Gretha Schwartz had transformed the expansive white house into a bed and breakfast after her family’s original business in the seaside town of Swakopmund had gone bankrupt. The gray-haired lady and her granddaughter stepped into the yard, opening the gate to the property just as the cab pulled away. They welcomed David warmly, and the young lady offered to carry the smaller suitcase. David returned their kindness with a broad smile. The relief of finally having reached his destination eased his down-to-the-bone fatigue and stiff neck and wrapped him in happiness. Before entering the house, he took in the view once more, along with a deep breath of dry, cold late-winter air as if seeking to rejuvenate his lungs and his entire being.

  In the large entrance hall, the girl introduced herself as Brigitte, Gretha’s only blood-related granddaughter. Her blond hair, braided into a long plait down her back, framed a face radiating amusement. She wore a yellow dress with white dots more suited to her grandmother—it looked too conservative and frumpy for a girl fresh out of adolescence. Yet the glow of her skin more than made up for the dowdiness of her clothing.

  David would later find out that her seemingly contradictory appearance was symbolic of the girl-woman’s role in the Schwarz family. Despite her young age, Brigitte had become the operating arm of the establishment due to Gretha’s rapidly developing osteoporosis. In addition, Gretha’s five foster children—who she had taken in over the years—did their part in keeping the business going, and together the interracial family lived and worked like a clan.

  As the girl put down David’s suitcase, he registered the empathy behind her smile at close range. The staring lasted no more than a second, since a young black man appeared out of nowhere, grabbed his luggage and escorted him upstairs.

  The bedroom had a private bathroom and a view of the center of Windhoek. Like Brigitte’s dress, it was a simple square box—sparsely furnished with two single beds, a bedside table, and a chair—unfit for longer stays, and quite a contrast to the tastefully decorated and bright downstairs’ hall. On the bedside table lay a Lutheran Bible, devoid of meaning after decades of service as a base for a candleholder. The modest furniture, as well as the now forgotten sacred book, had most probably been the choice of a humble soul, thought David. The sizeable bathtub in the en-suite bathroom provided though the only element of luxury.

  David, who had already started scrutinizing the local culture, devoted his first prayer to his gratitude for having arrived safely. However, through the open window, the wind blew so fiercely on his face that he had to cut his prayer short. He learned that the end of winter was the period when the city best conformed to its baptismal name.

  After a long soak in a tub filled to the brim with warm water, he went downstairs to the reception with a clean-shaven face and combed hair to request a cup of tea. His fresh appearance immediately caught the two ladies’ attention. Since Father Callaghan’s arrival, Gretha and Brigitte had entertained themselves trying to imagine the reasons for his coming, as well as his culinary tastes. As a priest, they did not think he had come to Namibia for one of the coveted hunting safaris. Nor did he appear to be part of an evangelizing mission, since nobody from the local Catholic Church had contacted the inn. And even more mysteriously, he had come alone.

  Being in his early thirties, the opposite sex rarely ignored his slim physique and his look vaguely reminiscent of innocent seduction. Brigitte’s blue eyes registered both sides of the man standing before her, with and without a cassock. The girl also presumed that his stay in Africa had little to do with his priestly commitment, a conclusion she had easily reached in the absence of any opposing evidence.

  David, having sat down at a table in the dining area, carefully sipped his steaming tea. He could not remember when people-watching had become his favorite mental distraction. At a table in the corner, a young couple looked like birds being freed, so eloquent were the caresses and moves. What had been left behind in the empty cage? Some other lover who still nursed the hope for reunion? Overdue rent and an angry landlord? Or perhaps a dog or a puppy guarding the safe nest in case the adventure goes wrong…

  At the table nearest the fireplace, a lady sat alone. A flashy red scarf was wrapped around her neck, and on the table, beside a cup of coffee and a pack of cigarettes, lay an elegant straw hat and a bottle of sunscreen. With tight fists, she held on to a tourist guide. Would she find a landscape that fits her expectations? Or would she just gather more sketches to her life?

  It was a habit dating back to David’s childhood pranks. In fact, his interest in the priesthood had begun with his keen observation of the dress code and theatrical movements of priests at the altar. Suddenly, the lonely lady turned to him and flashed a smile. David blushed and looked the opposite way, only to find Brigitte watching him with equal attention. It was enough to stop the scrutiny of his surroundings, and instead, he pretended to examine the intricate pattern of the tablecloth.

  During supper, which was promptly served, David had the pleasure of the company of both the grandmother and granddaughter alternately. Within a short period, new characters emerged in the dining area: a neatly dressed homosexual couple from Germany, and a small but noisy group of American backpackers who incessantly shared their photos on social media throughout dinner, as if posterity were in absolute need of them.

  “A young and charming priest isn’t exactly one of our usual patrons. Are you a guest of the Archdiocese of Windhoek?” Gretha asked.

  “No, ma’am, I have come for personal reasons. It’s quite complex but let me say that I’ve come to examine our human condition,” replied David, not expecting to be understood.

  “Well, then, you’ve come to the right place, Father. I’m the result of this questioning. My father left Germany between the wars to look for the same answer.”

  Surprised, David asked a question he knew to be somewhat foolish, but which suited the context. “And he found it?”

  “Well, he had two sons and me. He should have at least found some meaning,” she laughed.

  Brigitte, who had been paying more attention to their conversation than to taking orders, smiled at herself as she realized that her intuition had been right on track. “That sounds a bit philosophical to me, Father. Are you going to study or write about it? Forgive me if I’m nosy,” the young lady interrupted.

  “I was sure your ears were stuck in our conversation,” Gretha said with obviously theatrical consternation.

  “No, not at all. But, yes, I intend to take some notes. Nothing special. I won’t publish them. Just for the sake of helping to organize my thoughts, so I won’t forget anything when I return home,” said David.

  “But do you know where you will start?” Brigitte asked.

  “I have made some contacts. I plan to m
eet with a San community.”

  “The San people? Interesting beginning, Father!” said Gretha. “You’ll be surprised. Don’t be fooled by their simple way of life; they are brilliant people.”

  “It’s true. I’ve been reading about them,” said David.

  Pleased with the confirmation of her intuitive powers, Brigitte returned to the business of taking orders and tending to the other guests.

  “I see that you have a large and beautiful family. And by the way, call me David, please”.

  “Well, David, I’m indeed old enough to be your grandmother, so that should be fine. I always liked a big family, you know… and being surrounded by young people is my secret to keeping old age at bay,” Gretha smiled.

  “Well, it seems to be working. You emit such youthfulness. It’s beautiful to witness...”

  “I love children, and I love to see a blend of every possible color,” she laughed looking at her grandchildren, and as if reading his mind.

  “It’s a beautiful spectacle.”

  “It’s like a defiance of our own history, Father. A tribute to progress and peaceful coexistence.”

  “Yes, of course... the apartheid.”

  “Not only that. Have you heard about the Herero genocide? It happened even before the Afrikaner rule.”

  “I know. I’ve bought a book on the topic... The Kaiser’s Holocaust, but I haven’t had time to read it yet.”

  “Well, this country experienced the first genocide of the twentieth century. It was a colonial war thing, but the methods they used... ah, it was awful. The German imperial forces practically exterminated the Herero people, who at that time, I mean, before the First World War, were the largest group of people here. They were forced to run away into the desert. Those who made it to Botswana survived. Unfortunately, most died on the way.”

  “Why don’t we know this from our history books? We only ever hear about the European Holocaust.”

  “Well, it’s still disconcerting for Germany to recognize that genocide as a state policy existed long before the rise of Nazism. My family came to this country a few decades later… My father was a businessman, not out of passion but out of sheer need for survival. He was an idealist, you see… very curious about local cultures and history. I guess in a way he felt guilty for what his people had done and tried to help indigenous communities as much as he could.”

  “He seems to have been a great man.”

  “He got involved with the San people, by the way.”

  “Really? How?”

  “In the 1950s he was part of a special government committee responsible for the preservation of the San culture. They visited all the San communities in the country, saw their problems, and took proposals on how to improve their living conditions back to the government. They encountered many difficulties; it wasn’t easy to get to the different San communities—there were a lot of challenges, no roads, no communication system… My father took special care of the San tribe of Etosha.”

  “The Etosha National Park? I’m going to that northern area. I mean, if they ever contact me again. Do you know anything about the San people in that area?”

  “My father knew the Hai//om tribe very well.”

  David had been waiting to hear the click sound (//) in the middle of a word; he had just not expected to listen to it from the mouth of a German lady.

  “The committee recommended the demarcation of their lands and a prohibition to recruit them for work outside the territory,” Gretha continued. It had been a long time since she had found another interlocutor so interested in her family’s history. “They should live as they have always lived, from plentiful hunting and gathering. But here, the San people have always been vulnerable. They are the first inhabitants of the Kalahari, from all over Southern Africa, but they were victimized—and still are—by the prejudice of all the peoples who came later.”

  “Your father’s work must have been quite valuable then. Is it registered somewhere?”

  “By 1953, the government had ignored all their recommendations,” she continued, so immersed in the topic that she did not register David’s question. “In fact, the Hai//om people were forced to leave their lands in Etosha. Such a shame! They even had to leave behind their animals, which ended up being sacrificed.”

  “And why did they kill the animals?”

  “Apparently because there was an overpopulation in the park. But things just got worse for the San. Because they are peaceful people, they didn’t put up a fight. If they had been like the Ovambo or the Herero, there would certainly have been resistance. To this day, they have not received any compensation.”

  The chat with the landlady continued for another half an hour. The misfortunes of the Etosha San tribe deeply moved him, but at the same time, he was grateful for having gathered so much relevant information during his very first conversation in Windhoek. The old lady was the ideal companion for any traveler—a real find. In David’s mind, her words were a genuine embodiment of what he knew for compassion.

  When it was time for dessert, Gretha politely excused herself. Every evening, she served each guest her unique version of crème brûlé, customized by the addition of Amarula liqueur.

  Soon after, Brigitte replaced her at David’s table. It seemed like some arrangement rather than chance; a privilege that had not been extended to the other guests, he thought. As he expected, given her youth and limited experience of human insanity, the dialogue with Brigitte was far less weighty.

  “Catholic priests cannot marry, right?”

  “Right. We must remain celibate.”

  “And why?”

  “Well, this is a rather complicated subject, Brigitte. But you might call it the triumph of the spirit over the flesh, the belief that only total dedication to the Church makes a priest.”

  “So you don’t want children?”

  “I have a herd of them in Ireland,” David laughed.

  “Interesting...”

  There was a short pause, and David took advantage of it to change the subject. “And what about this dessert here? Does it contain alcohol?”

  Brigitte’s laugh lit up her face. “Amarula! It’s an extract of the fruit from the Marula tree. Elephants love the fruit, so it’s also called elephant tree, or wedding tree.”

  “Wedding tree?”

  “You know, Father,” Brigitte said, pausing to dig for the right words. “I still haven’t made up my mind if I want to be a wife one day, but I’m sure I want to be a mother.”

  “You don’t think about having your own family?”

  “Just to be able to say it’s mine?” she smiled. “I’m kidding... sorry, but with a husband and everything? I don’t know. I have difficulty with men; I get easily bored with them.”

  “I see.”

  What experience could she possibly have? How old was she? David was lost in thought for a few seconds but quickly found his way back to the subject and her eyes.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “I’d rather say I don’t. Otherwise, I would have to give you two or maybe three names,” she smiled pretending shyness. “But it’s nothing serious; just a way to pass the time. There’s not much for young people to do around here.”

  “You’re indeed very young, Brigitte,” David said as he straightened the collar of his polo shirt. “I believe you’ll still find the right man and get married. I bet in ten years from now.”

  “Ten years?” she laughed, then frowned. “Father, if I move at the pace of this town, I’ll be a grandmother in ten years.”

  “That quickly?” asked David through their laughter.

  “Here, it’s certainly likely. Do you believe that you’ll still be a priest in ten years from now?”

  Father Callaghan did not find the question impertinent, so he was not upset. His countenance, however, was that of a besieged king
.

  “It’s a choice and a calling for life, Brigitte,” he said with folded arms.

  “You see me as a very young woman, but I have already made choices that will impact the rest of my life. It’s my way, Father. I’m very inconstant.”

  “That will also be resolved soon.”

  “In ten years, or when I have your faith?” she blinked, sitting on the edge of her chair, with her face uncomfortably close to his.

  At that moment, David no longer knew whether he was talking to a teenager or a grown woman. He admitted to himself that the combination of both within Brigitte had, at first, aroused some fascination, but had in fact gradually made the dialogue disconcerting. With his soul in distress, David remembered the needs of the body. The long trip finally took its toll, and he excused himself to go to bed.

  Chapter III

  Having arrived in Windhoek the previous night, Jack had been awake for a long time, even before the sun had come up. He waited, however, for a more civilized hour before going to the guesthouse. On his way, and to kill some time, he decided to stop at the iconic Lutheran Christ Church—fondly called the Gingerbread Church by locals—and pray for the success of the Irish priest’s visit.

  Yet on this particular morning, the thoughts of the old practitioner of meditation were too erratic. The necessary spiritual introspection refused to settle in, so prayer did not keep Jack’s knees on the ground for too long. Thus, he stepped into the reception of The Flower of Kalahari Guesthouse sooner than planned and made himself comfortable in an armchair to read the front-page of the local newspaper while waiting for Father Callaghan. The main article was about the government’s new policy for combating rhino horn trafficking. There was also a story about female victims of domestic violence, which did not grab his attention for such stories were almost a daily occurrence.