A Rock and a Hard Place

by George Zelt PhD

  About two miles away from Lamu was a village on the beach called Shela. It had a nice small hotel and, to my surprise, expensive yachts and dhows anchored offshore. The sand was pure white quartz. I passed it one day as I went for a glorious long, hot run on its isolated beach and beyond. I wore only shorts.

  After a mile or so I saw someone walking on the beach in front of me. As I got closer, I realized it was a completely naked young woman, short and muscular.

  “I have to pass her,” I said to myself, looking at her tight behind.

  I ran up, clearing my throat, not wanting to startle her, and stopped. “Hi, sorry to disturb you, but I didn’t want to pass you without saying something.” I tried to look straight ahead and not stare at her nakedness, her muscular shoulders, and large breasts.

  “I Mary from Milano,” she offered in broken English, and extended her hand.

  “I’m George from Buffalo,” I replied, stopping fully to take her hand. I tried to look somewhere else. “Nice day for a walk.”

  “Yes, no rain. No get cold here much. Italy like that but better here.”

  “You must like the sun?” I offered as we strolled along. “I mean, you’re naked.” The moment I said that, I knew how dumb it sounded.

  “Yes, sun good, and I naked. You like be naked?”

  “When I’m taking a shower,” I replied, still not thinking. “Well, I suppose it feels good in the sun.”

  “Why you not naked?”

  Not wanting to be rude and not able to think of any reason why I shouldn’t be, I took off my shorts, exposing my white skin.

  She leaned forward a bit and looked at me. “Skoose-se. You big.”

  “Aaaaaaa . . . thank you.”

  “You like me?”

  “Sure,” I said. What else could I say?

  “You want me?” she asked, her eyes shining.

  The idea took hold, so to speak, and I began to get an erection. “Well, I just came out for a quiet run. I think I will continue running before I stiffen up too much.” I waved as I hurried forward.

  “Stiffen is good,” she yelled.

  What the hell? Weren’t Italian girls Catholic and kind of reserved on this subject? She wasn’t carrying any clothes . . . nothing. She didn’t have sandals on. Hell, I’m running and still getting hard.

  Farther down the beach I ran into the cool water and splashed myself. Suddenly, I felt sharp pains up my leg. Shit! Shit! I stumbled back on the beach, clutching my leg. I fell to the sand and looked at the welts on my leg. A jellyfish had wrapped a blue tentacle around me up to my knee.

  I knew the treatment was applying vinegar and picking the tentacle off with tweezers. I would also need to shave the area to remove pieces that might remain. This knowledge was of no help now on this isolated beach. I hobbled to a beached log and sat smashing the jellyfish with cups of sand in my hand while frantically prying off pieces with a sliver of wood.

  My leg went numb. Was this like snake venom? I couldn’t walk. Would the numbness abate? Would the toxin take minutes or an hour to spread? I had no idea. I wondered if that fucking thing had killed me.

  Along came nude Milano Mary, as if on a Sunday stroll. “What problem?” she asked.

  “Jellyfish.” I pointed to my leg while focusing on her breasts. They pointed at me like cannons. They may be the last thing I see. “I can’t walk.”

  She sat next to me on the log. “I massage leg. I know massage. I know Mr. Jelly also from Italy.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mary spent several minutes rubbing my thigh and picking away at the remains of the jellyfish with the sliver of wood. She was meticulous and devoted; kneeling on the sand in front of me, she made cooing noises. She was getting turned on. Part of me is numb, another is getting stiff again.

  “Massage good?” she queried huskily, looking up at me as I began to ease off the log.

  “Oh, very . . .”

  We had sex.

  With Mary acting as my crutch, we later began a slow walk back to Lamu. Needles shot up my leg as feeling returned. We stopped when she felt additional massage was required, or when my hand slipped off her shoulder and onto her hard breasts. I lost count of the number of times Mary and I stopped to rest on the white sands. Someone following our tracks and counting the distinctive sand angels we left in the pristine sand would know. The blazing sun had burned my ass red.

  Dear God, what have I become? I had no principles anymore. Still, how often do you get the chance for something like this on an isolated white sand island some fifty miles south of Somalia?

  What the hell . . .

  Chapter 21

  Trading with Xhosas

  The time had come to return to Nairobi, catch a plane to the United States, and visit my family.

  Seeing my family again was wonderful, but I soon realized my experiences in Africa were alien in my parents’ small, quiet house on a peaceful blue-collar street. I owed my family a great deal for the freedom and financial support they gave me when I needed it. They didn’t have a lot of money, either. What would I have done without them? The quiet people in the background make the dreams of people like me possible. I loved them but was never good at showing it.

  A successful dissertation would make a big difference to my life. It would allow me to substantiate my long studies and justify future adventures associated with my work as a geologist. It was something my parents would understand, my happiness. And it would make them proud their son had risen to such a high educational level. If I failed I’d likely have to return and somehow try to fit in knowing I’d failed; and my employment options would be comparatively limited. I had to get back to my dissertation—I knew in my heart I had to keep trying. If I didn’t, Joost would win. As much as receiving my degree was my dream, it had now become personal too. Hatred is strong ammunition.

  My parents knew I was worrying; I couldn’t hide it from them. But how do you explain such a situation? Who would believe me? It felt like such a mess. It was the worst kind of pressure—the unbelievable and unrealistic kind.

  And then, a few weeks later, I received a telephone call from Martin. I had been accepted at the University of Natal at Pietermaritzburg (UN-P). He explained the head of the university’s geology department—Professor Don Hunter—had sent a letter to Professor NASA at UCT, asking about my problem. It was a form of due diligence. Professor NASA had replied, “In geology, the truth is somewhere in the middle.” Apparently, I was no longer 100 percent wrong.

  Professor NASA had begun to protect himself. He was no longer in control of me.

  The conclusion at UN-P was that there was indeed something strange taking place. It was all still rather unbelievable, but the nightmare had happened. Now I finally had the support of key people. A huge weight rose off my shoulders. I was coming out of the shadows.

  My parents told me I was smiling more often after that telephone call.

  * * *

  With a new visa I flew to Cape Town to collect my old car. Patrick had safely driven it back from Jo’berg after our trip. I packed it with personal items, rock specimens, and notebooks filled with data. On the front seat I laid my well-used map. I would have to drive slowly.

  Patrick, Catina, and I enjoyed a final Sunday chicken dinner. I showed them my new route, again using a chicken bone as a pointer. Although we laughed, we knew this would likely be our last time together. I promised myself that if I was able to finally publish my dissertation work, I would acknowledge my gratitude to them.

  I had the choice of several routes to travel from Cape Town to Durban, but following the Indian Ocean shoreline along the N-2 looked the most fascinating. The first 150 miles, from Mossel Bay in the Western Cape to the Storms River, is called the Garden Route. That sounded a hell of a lot tamer than the Skeleton Coast or Forbidden Coast.

  The locals tell the story of a man named Joseph Wilhelm von Mollendorf, who sailed out of Cape Town, heading toward the Indian Ocean. He was looking for a place to settle. Several people s
aid his ship could have been the Dutch East India’s Maria, which was lost about that time, in 1788. A wealthy man, von Mollendorf carried his money in the form of jewels and gold coins in a strongbox. The crew put into Plettenberg Bay, where the ship lost anchorage due to a gale and began drifting down the coast to be eventually sunk on rocks. Before that happened, von Mollendorf had enough time to make a raft for himself and his strongbox, and, casting off, he drifted toward the entrance of Ballot’s Bay. He rocketed up and down on the berserk waves that smashed their way to the rocky shore near the bay. The raft broke apart, his strongbox sank, and he fractured his arm, but he made it to the shore. On calm days the unsalvageable heavy treasure box could be seen wedged in the rocks below a hysterical, deadly current. The lost box remains a kind of folktale that some swear is true.

  About six hundred miles east of Cape Town on the N-2 sits peaceful King William’s Town. Nearby is the port town East London. It marks the beginning of the 150-mile-long Wild Coast, named for the large number of shipwrecks there. Just north of King William’s Town, the N-2 crosses the Great Kei River. This waterway forms the southern border of what was the first independent, apartheid-driven homeland for some five million Xhosa natives, named the Transkei, which means “the area beyond” (i.e., beyond the Kei River). Prior to this, over the past two centuries, the Xhosa had lived in the broader southeast portion of South Africa. The Transkei was isolated and peaceful.

  Travelers are met with a variety of greetings like, “How are you?” The traditional Xhosa greeting is, “Inkaba yakho iphi?” which means, “Where is your navel?” After giving birth, the Xhosa mothers are required to bury the afterbirth and umbilical cord near their village. The answer to that greeting conveys where the respondent comes from, what his status is, what clan he is from, and so on.

  I drove north, arriving in the port city of Durban, in the province of Natal, a day or so later. It was named by Vasco da Gama, who anchored in the bay of Natal in 1497 on Christmas Day: “Natal” in Portuguese means Christmas. (Following the 1994 elections and the formation of a black-led government, the province would become KwaZulu-Natal in honor of the eleven million native Zulus living there.)

  I turned inland at Durban and followed the N-3 west fifty miles to the town of Pietermaritzburg, where the UN-P campus was.

  In 1979, the year I arrived, the University of Natal had two campuses—one at Durban, the other in Pietermaritzburg—and was one of the three best universities in South Africa. I was happy to be able to continue my studies, also receiving a grant as an incentive.

  Pietermaritzburg was founded in 1838 by Afrikaners who traveled there by ox wagon. Following a fight, the British took over the city in 1843.

  The city is regarded as the birthplace of legends. Some years prior to my arrival—seventeen to be exact—and not far away, Nelson Mandela was arrested and began his twenty-seven years in prison. In 1893, Mahatma Gandhi was thrown off a train in Pietermaritzburg, which prompted him to make the momentous decision to stay in South Africa and fight against the nationwide racial discrimination of Indians.

  The university’s two campuses became a major voice in the fight against apartheid, and UN-P was one of the first universities in South Africa to accept black students. In this quaint place with historic buildings, a multitude of aged trees, uncongested roads, and a famous botanic garden, I immediately felt comfortable.

  Martin welcomed me. We discussed in detail the metamorphic petrology and structural geology of the area integral to my dissertation. He knew the subjects well and showed great interest in what I said. Finally, he shook his head in amazement at understanding the problem. My days at UN-P would be busy. I had about eighteen months to finish my dissertation. And I looked forward to it.

  I got right to work. It was my custom to work on my dissertation studies until two or three in the morning, as I was a night person. One evening, I sat in my office with my window fully open to a warm summer breeze. It would rain soon; the feeling was in the air. A sizable ant flew onto my desk. I had read that from time to time a large, fat-looking queen ant flies off by herself to establish a new nest. Could this be one? Amazing, I thought, that a rare queen ant would land right here in my office. Finding a new home for herself and her people is an awesome responsibility.

  I gently maneuvered her onto a piece of paper—she wasn’t aggressive—and put her on the outside window ledge before, in an act of unnecessary deception and considering her size, I hit her with a rock. She did indeed splatter. The truth was I didn’t like ants; too many smaller, more aggressive varieties had bitten me as I slept in the bush.

  Another “queen” entered. Two? I stared in disbelief at such odds. In a moment more came in, and then more and more. “Shit!” I said, slamming the window closed. These weren’t queens; they were all exactly the same size: huge. Flying ants, they landed all over the place. I began swatting them. Thousands of golden clouds swarmed outside in all directions, obscuring streetlights. It was madness, an attack from space.

  I learned the next day that they flew into car windshields and left thick, oily spots. Smacked and run over, they left giant puddles of grease, making the roads slippery. As it turned out, just before a rain, flying ants leave their nests to establish new ones. Millions of them look for a dark, wet area that will allow them to survive when the burning sun comes out. It’s a frenzy of wings—all beating mightily at their one chance to perpetuate life.

  The black people eat them; the ants are full of protein. To catch them they sometimes make a noise that sounds like rain by brushing straw on a pail over the nest. The ambitious ants are fooled into flying out into a waiting basket. I liked that trick.

  * * *

  To pursue my studies, I drove south several times to the Transkei. Certain rocks there were of igneous origin. Thinking they might help me visualize my metabasite rocks before they were metamorphosed, I packed a Land Rover belonging to the geology department and stopped along the way at a small town called Tabinkulu. I became friends with Henry, the only white trader in the town; he owned a large barn-like store where I bought supplies.

  The dirt track leading to Henry’s trading post was just two parallel red ruts or, in the rainy season, two red streams. A few old acacia trees rose sporadically out of the surrounding open fields, which were covered in tall elephant grass.

  From my Land Rover I could see distant paths broadly zigzagging through the grass-covered, round hills that led to the Xhosa mud and thatch-roof huts (also referred to as “brown nipple” huts)—always on hilltops. Several old and bent-over women were slowly carrying the ubiquitous four-gallon paraffin tins that served as water vessels. They balanced these on their heads up the steep trails, looking a bit like snails. Life hadn’t changed in hundreds of years here. It was Africa.

  After a few miles the track descended into a forested valley. I caught up with an ox-drawn sleigh with woven sapling sides moving lazily with the rhythm of the powerful animal. The driver, a bare-breasted pretty black Xhosa girl, whipped the sullen beast with a stick to the side of the track. She smiled at me with bright white teeth as I raised my hand and passed.

  Because it was Saturday morning, she would be taking sacks of mealies, corn, to Henry’s store. I wiped red dust from the rearview mirror and gazed back at her. Without Henry’s gristmill, she would have had to grind the corn herself on a rock with a smooth river stone.

  The track widened nearer to the store, where I parked. Several groups of women sat discussing their purchases. Another was trying to lift a newly purchased coffin made of uneven boards onto her head. Several shoppers and I helped lift and balance it. It was heavy, and I knew it contained whatever additional items she had bought. She would probably carry the coffin a considerable distance, possibly up one of the hill paths to her home where someone lay either dead or dying.

  The one-story trading store was twice the size of a large barn. Higher-priced items, like the varnished plywood coffins with shining brass handles, hung between the slowly rotating ov
erhead fans near the ceiling and distant from the edibles. “It helps keep the store a bit cheerier,” Henry pointed out. More in demand were the clothing, bolts of bright-colored cloth, enamel kettles and cooking pots, bars of blue washing soap, beads, bottles of cooking oil, tobacco, paraffin, and staples like sugar, milk powder, flour, and salt, as well as rows of tins and boxes of this and that lining the walls and floor.

  The store also sold hardware, like various gauges of wire used to construct the beaded bracelets that covered entire arms, with only elbows visible. In Xhosa society, bracelets are a status symbol. Hands and fingers are left undecorated, available for labor. I did, however, notice an older lady who had adorned several of her fingers with the pull-off tabs from soft-drink cans.

  For some women, such decorations on the little fingers of their left hands would be impossible. It seemed to be a custom to chop the digit off at the joint when they were born, with the expectation it would prevent ill health in later life.

  Henry spotted me through the busy mass of shoppers—some with babies strapped to their backs—and invited me into his office. We were the only whites around for miles and about the same age; both enjoyed hearing about each other’s life. As a youth, Henry’s father sent him to an all-white school elsewhere in South Africa, and since returning to run the store, he didn’t see many people of his color. He offered me a whiskey and apologized that there was no ice.

  “A snake crawled into the generator room last night when it got cool outside,” he explained, holding a glass up to the light and frowning. “It was attracted by the warmth of the motor. The servants are afraid of it. They came out screaming this morning, and I haven’t had time to chase it.” After pouring a whiskey for himself and for me, he sat down and crossed one leg over the other.

  “What kind of snake?” I asked.

  “Spitting cobra. If the venom hits you in the eye, which is where they aim with terrible accuracy, you’re blinded immediately. The worst part is they sometimes fake being dead. You can beat the hell out of one and think it’s gone—even pick the damned thing up, limp and hanging, shit dragging from its ass—and wham! All of a sudden your eyeballs are full of snake spit, and you can’t see.”