Standing on the roof of our Land Rover and peering through binoculars, I saw the ocher land was flat—a seemingly endless plain, as if it were possible to march directly to the rim of the world. When the hot August winds blow, Kalahari sand can be carried across the whole southern portion of the continent. At the same time, the tracks of Land Rovers like ours can leave impressions that last decades. It was that kind of place; imprints could last a day or months or years. The only landmarks were the occasional odd-looking stunted trees, bushes, and ephemeral rivers. Without the sand road, it would have been easy to lose direction and wander off. It was said even the Bushmen, who were walking compasses, could get lost. They called the Kalahari the Big Dry.
It was so silent. How could something so big be so quiet?
Every so often the sunken, pitted remains of a stream or riverbed came, gouging the road. In the spring or after the rains fell, these channels would fill briefly and flow in some direction until the Kalahari opened its sand mouth and swallowed it all. In one we saw dried wisps of grass and light-green striped tsamma melons. When they mature the rind gets tough, protecting the water inside. When the rains come, the rind rots, releasing its seeds. Red cucumbers nearby would rapidly ripen with the coming of rain; a bit of water would be enough to fortify the odd, gnarled acacia tree and mimosa shrub joining them.
In the distance, there seemed to be a huge plate of salt.
As we drove, Patrick gave us a quick language lesson. “The word ‘Kalahari’ is from the Tswana word kgala, meaning ‘the great thirst.’ In the heat of the summer, there are mirages, which appear to have water. The camel thorn tree grows near salt pans, and that helps promote the oasis idea. This confused people, especially when there were no roads. Years ago, travelers in the dry season often failed to reach the swamps.”
He continued. “The Bushmen and a tribe called Bechuana were able to find water by recognizing the exposed withered stalks of tuberous plant roots that store moisture. They knew below them water, in the form of moist sand, could be found. To get that water one of them, normally an old woman dug a hole several feet deep and positioned a ball of grass in its bottom. Sticking a long hollow reed into the ball and covering the hole over with sand with the reed extending to the surface, she laboriously began to suck on the reed. That created a vacuum in the ball, which drew moisture from the surrounding sand. After several minutes, water went up the reed into her mouth. From one side of her mouth a thin, short stick led to a shell from an ostrich egg. A minute or two after that, a trickle of water would begin to run down the short stick into the shell.”
“You mean she sucked water up like a pump?” Marcus asked, incredulous.
Patrick nodded. “Drawing air up the reed creates spaces between the sand grains for water to move into. It’s the same way an oil well works. Basically, they invented the concept.”
As we drove along, we saw in the distance the unmistakable silhouette of a four-foot-long secretary bird striding majestically. In addition to their long legs, which promote a stately walk, their height is accented by a crest of feathers projected from the back of their head. The feathers are reminiscent of the era when secretaries inserted their quill pens behind their ears, hence the name. As we watched from our windows, the bird suddenly ran toward our vehicle, only to stop some hundred feet away. With its wings fully extended, it began what appeared to be a very complicated, fast-moving dance.
“Is it mad?” Marcus asked.
“No,” Patrick said. “It’s discovered something—likely a snake.”
The heat notwithstanding, we stopped the Rover to watch. The bird was using its wings as a shield against the snake’s strikes while delivering violent blows with its feet. After about twenty minutes we thought the snake was dead, but we weren’t sure. Neither, apparently, was the bird. It began an elaborate procedure of kicking, throwing, pecking, and watching for the slightest movement before it swallowed the reptile whole. Better to be exhausted than bitten in the neck as the snake went down.
As we drove on, the endless sand road passed through a few dusty villages and clusters of huts. It was so hot, the dogs didn’t bark. They lay looking at us, too lazy to fully open their eyes. “It’s said that at times the centipedes emerging from their holes are roasted alive in the heat,” Patrick told us.
We had about a hundred miles to go before reaching the delta.
“Didn’t Livingstone first find the delta?” Marcus asked.
“Yeah,” I replied from the backseat. “I read that in 1849 or 1850, he traveled from South Africa to this region of Botswana. He and his party first discovered Lake Ngami, which teemed with masses of animals. A few days later, his party reached the waters of the Okavango Delta.”
“That was only about one hundred twenty years ago,” Marcus replied, he must have taken the same route to get here that we did.
“At five thousand square miles it’s considered the largest inland delta in the world,” I said. “More than ten thousand animals a day came and drank from the lake. In Livingstone’s time they had no fear of humans. They didn’t know what guns were.”
“The first sign that something is happening ahead in flat terrain like this usually comes from birdlife,” Patrick added. “They can be seen from a great distance, especially if the air is not polluted.”
If a bird you recognize is attracted to something below, you can generally anticipate what the object is. The classical examples are vultures circling over the dead and dying. They don’t waste time on something expected to live. In front of us, soaring and circling high were several specks. Although we couldn’t be sure, they were probably large, gaunt storks, which characteristically gyrate in thermals and then glide off. They have a very high tolerance for the presence of (live) humans and are not easily frightened. Oddly enough, they have no voice, but clap their bills instead.
“Lake Ngami must lie below their spirals,” Patrick said.
It was the lake, all right, but there was little hint of a hunter’s paradise. Natives lived on its shores with their cattle. The men paddled and poled dugouts, setting their nets among abundant birdlife that was also fishing. Dead trees and dark stumps starkly protruded from the calm, smooth water. Marabou storks, the same we had seen in the sky from a distance, stood on their long, pencil-thin legs in the branches of the dead trees, probably watching for elusive frogs and fish below them. Everything was watching for food.
“The skeleton trees look creepy,” Marcus muttered.
“Actually,” Patrick said, “what happened to them was kind of creepy. After Livingstone’s visit, hunters and others came to the lake. That’s when the problems began. They abandoned the rafts made of papyrus they’d used to transport themselves down the main channel. The papyrus took root, multiplied, and slowly strangled the channel, causing the lake to dry up. As this happened, the fish became more concentrated and readily available to the ever-increasing numbers of birds who came to feast. The hippo and crocodiles were forced to leave or died trying. In the stagnant pools of water that were left behind as the lake receded, mosquitoes bred, and soon malaria broke out among the baTawana, who raised cattle on the shores of the lake.
“A drought came, and more cattle died from lack of water and food. By 1896, some thirty-seven years after Livingstone found the lake teaming with life, it was virtually dead. It was one of the first ecological disasters caused by man in southern Africa. Because of such catastrophes, a study called environmental science would later develop.”
Patrick continued. “In the early 1950s, water began to enter the dry lake as rainfall increased. It drowned the trees that had subsequently grown. But for some reason the major fluctuations of rainfall were out of phase. In any event, it brought the animals back. Then, in the 1960s, a drought came. Everything apparently died.”
“How do you know all that?” Marcus asked.
“I lived in Botswana for four years. One fellow told me the vultures were so well fed, they couldn’t fly. In the 1970s, the water came back aga
in. Now the algae eat the cow shit, the fish eat the algae, and birds eat the fish.
“To survive,” Patrick concluded, “life adapts. It may not be easy, but the alternative is defeat.”
Yeah, I thought, thinking of myself, I’ve also eaten shit to survive. Let’s hope if I reach Natal, it will be like the water coming back.
Chapter 15
White Hunter Remembers Livingstone’s Folly
Continuing east and moving slowly so as to not make too much dust as we passed the settlement crossroads called Maun, our goal was the Makgadikgadi Pans to the east. We would camp there for the night. The Makgadikgadi is made up of several smaller pans, like the Sowa Pan. Sowa, in the language of the Bushmen, means “salt.” Overall, the salt-pans region was huge. Nothing lived unless it could move on its own feet in and out of the area, and the rhythm of life didn’t change from generation to generation.
Before recorded history, the pans were formed by a lake that covered most of northern Botswana. The water obviously contained a certain amount of salt, and as it evaporated, the salt condensed, making the remaining water increasingly salty until it lay on the ground like snow. Only after the rains come are the pans reborn, virtually overnight, into great, shallow stretches of blue water. Like the Land of Oz, they are almost mystical places where one world becomes another, when a dry pan becomes a lake teeming with millions of animals. The animals sense the transformation and come to drink the water and lick the salt. In the process they also forage on one another.
Earlier we had filled our roof rack with wood from the dead trees of Lake Ngami. That evening on the perimeter of one of the pans, we built the largest and most memorable fire in all my days in southern Africa. It rose higher than six feet and lighted our suntanned Irish, Australian, and American faces as we sat around it on the sand. It was a fire in the middle of blackness, endless blackness rudely ruptured by frantic sparks rocketing outward with unsuppressed energy. It was a fire that wrenched thought and reason from ideas that otherwise stayed in darkness. It was a fire that rivaled thousands of jeweled stars hanging in emptiness for attention. It was a magnificent fire, it was a magnificent evening.
Our Africa was campfires by night, geology and wild things by day.
It was an evening for stories, as huge succulent steaks simmered over glowing yellow-red coals while Patrick’s favorite, potatoes, baked beneath them. We smoked cigars and drank our usual cheap dry red wine from battered tin mugs. Patrick reminisced about his life, poverty, and accumulating every penny to attend the University of Dublin. He mentioned a female he invited to a university dance. She accepted and he bought tickets. Then she refused him and attended with another. He’d saved for months for that event and never spoke to her again. Marcus talked about life on an Australian farm, the heat, the emptiness, and the desire he’d had to learn and see something else. They were my friends telling simple stories about simple events that shaped their lives. I listened and spoke, forgetting my problems and disillusionment as our fire launched its rocket flames into the dark sky. I felt young and in love again with dreams and hope.
There were realistic reasons for the large fire other than cooking; it was lion country, and they are afraid of the flames. It should blaze all night. We agreed to wake up in turns to ensure that. In addition, Patrick placed upright shovels around his head as he crawled in his sleeping bag on the perimeter of light. Marcus and I stared at him.
“Lions often drag people out of their sleeping bags by the head, like removing a hot dog from a bun,” he explained matter-of-factly. “The shovels may confuse them.”
“Oh, I thought you were just preparing yourself to take a crap in the middle of the night. What about Marcus and me?” Not receiving an answer, I looked around for a way to protect myself. Marcus lay down with his head under the Land Rover, and I decided to stack backpacks around my head so I could at least see the sky. Actually, I felt like a small piece of meat left on an empty white tablecloth haloed by our fire candle. “There’s even salt here to make us tastier,” I grumbled.
Tiredness overcame us and no one woke up to feed the fire, which, insatiably hungry for food, had reduced itself to a glow of its former self by the time the sun rose. Lingering by the pans the next day, we realized that as it was the dry season, most of the animals, including lions, were far away in the Okavango Delta. We needed to go into the swamps to find them.
That meant a drive of about one hundred miles back in the direction from which we had come. “West toward the delta,” we chanted, taking off again. The nameless sandy red track led to a crude causeway of stones and Mopani timbers. The baTawana settlements crowding around the small administrative settlement of Maun were the first sign we had reached our destination. It was the gateway to the Okavango swamps and home to hunters and poachers, among others.
Trees grew around the water and the bridge. A large number of round huts suddenly appeared before us like stemless mushrooms after a rain. They had no protective stockade around them. These belonged to poorer people, those who worked as servants and others with no cattle to protect.
With the exception of the major sand road we came in on, there were just odd tracks weaving in the red sands around huts. All was overprinted and trampled bare; only sporadic acacia trees grew.
Near the village center, a half mile or less of tar had been recently laid over the track—a sign of progress. Before this, only a four-wheel-drive vehicle was able to pass through. Kicked-up sand would clutch the wheels of other vehicles until they sank spinning. Time tested ox- and donkey-drawn sledges did pass, churning the sand like making milk into butter. Riding on a smooth road felt weird after so many miles of washboard sand tracks. The section led to an assortment of European-style homes, trading stores, and a hotel. These one-story buildings, arranged side by side, lay inside a compound facing an inner courtyard. We drove in and pulled up in front of the hotel. As our engine sighed, so did we.
“There’s a bar here,” Patrick said, perhaps forgetting he had mentioned it a half-dozen times already that day.
We walked inside, rather wide-eyed, and stood in silence in front of a long line of wooden barstools.
“My ass hurts,” Marcus said.
It was midday. There was only one other customer, a gray-haired old-timer dressed in khakis, sitting firmly on his stool and sipping a beer. His wide-brimmed, sweat-stained hat lay next to him on the wooden bar.
The entrance walls were decorated with crowded configurations of horns, skins, traps, and other wildlife mementos. Bottles of labeled and unlabeled brew rested behind the bar.
A cold beer, homemade and gassy, was handed to each of us in response to Patrick’s anxious gesture of nodding the full upper half of his body at a tap. Marcus added shots of whiskey as he gulped the beer. I struck a match and lit my pipe, and the old-timer sniffed with a show of appreciation. We caught each other’s eyes. He had a tough weather-beaten face and carried a small knife on his belt, the size for gutting and skinning. He was a white hunter, maybe a poacher, I guessed. I asked if he’d like some tobacco.
“Dumela,” he replied, using the local word for greetings. “Sure, thank you.”
Drawing on my pipe, I sat down next to him and passed my pouch over. As he struck a match, he said, “The River Bushmen believe that the ostrich first brought fire to the world. The bird kept it hidden under its wings so no one would steal it. Man tricked the bird—I don’t recall how, maybe the myth didn’t say—and found out the secret, but even today, the ostrich will not use its wings to fly for fear that other animals may steal the secret, too.”
Yeah, he was a white hunter, a stalking guide for those hunters who could afford it—a fascinating, dying breed in Africa. Animal stories and sage-like stories were part of their well-known campfire character. I pictured him with heavy-caliber cartridges in loops across his chest.
Patrick joined us. “I once heard that the Ila people of Zambia believe that fire was brought by a mason wasp.” He sat down and leaned around me to lo
ok at the hunter.
“Are those the ones that are yellow and make mud nests everywhere?” I asked.
“Especially on fireplaces, where it’s warm,” the hunter said.
“So what’s the story, Patrick?” Marcus asked, taking a step closer as we all took a sip of beer. I ordered another for the hunter, hoping he would stay, although I needn’t have worried about that. At that point, we introduced ourselves. His grip was firm, and I felt the calluses on his hand, including his index trigger finger.
Patrick settled further into his barstool, holding his beer. I guessed this was a story he had heard in an Anglo exploration camp. Sometimes outdoor people are judged by the stories they know.
The white hunter sat, sipping his drink. If he knew the story, he didn’t say so.
“In the beginning, there was no fire on earth. All the insects and birds gathered and decided that to keep warm, they would ask God if he had fire. The mason wasp said he would find God and ask him but wanted somebody to help him. Three volunteered—the fish eagle, vulture, and crow.
“All flew high in the sky for many days. Finally, some bones from the vulture fell to the ground. Next the bones of the fish eagle fell, and a day later the small bones of the crow fell. For a month or more the mason wasp carried bravely on without his friends. He rested when he could on the clouds but couldn’t reach the top of the sky. God heard about this, however, and decided to come down and talk to him.”
Patrick stopped, gulped his beer, and continued as we all leaned on the bar, listening.
“The mason wasp explained that he was trying to reach the Chief of All to ask for some fire, but he wasn’t able to fly any higher. He sadly said his friends had disappeared behind him. God felt sorry about all this and said he would give humans fire. He also said that since only the mason wasp had reached him, the wasp, as a leader, would be allowed to live all over Africa, and whenever he wished, he could build his nest near a fireplace to keep his children warm. To this day, the mason wasp does this, as God gifted him.”
A Rock and a Hard Place Page 14
