The Salei Plain, which forms a broad step between the Gols and the brink of the escarpment, is a bitter place of tussock and coarse bush that rises from gray cindery ash of the volcanoes, and for a time it seemed that its creatures were all solitary—one hyena, one giraffe, a rhino—as if only here, in this land too poor to support predators, such outcast animals could survive. The big coarse grass, too high to walk through with impunity, hid stones that could gut a car, and progress, which had been slow all morning, became slower still. In eleven hours of lurching and jarring, with one half-hour stop, we were to travel less than eighty miles.
Once our route crossed an old track of the Somali traders who make their way to the Sonjo villages that overlook Lake Natron; their most popular product is Sloan’s Liniment, taken internally as a beverage and nostrum. The Sonjo are a xenophobic tribe of Bantu-speakers who defend an enclave in this remote corner of Maasai Land. Like many eastern Bantu groups of hill regions, they may have a strong Caucasoid strain in their blood from the Hamitic tillers they displaced, for the average Sonjo is lighter in color than the Maasai. With the digging stick that is their only tool, they practice irrigation farming, eked out by goats and poaching. Maasai still raid their outlying camps, and the Sonjo construct fortified villages and fend off attacks with poisoned arrows. Today, the six villages still existing are built on the escarpment slopes on this west side of Lake Natron, and all overlook Ol Doinyo Lengai, which like the Maasai they consider to be the Mountain of God. It was Ngai who gave the digging stick to the Sonjo and Kikuyu, to whom the Sonjo are linguistically related, although the Sonjo themselves have a tradition of common origin with the Ikoma of Lake Victoria, with whom they still share such obscure customs as scarring infants above the left scapula and under the left breast.7 The Ikoma and Sonjo are eighty miles and at least two centuries apart, for the tribes were probably separated by the coming of the Maasai.
The Sonjo are bad people, Leite says, teasing the Ikoma driver about Bantu fears of the Maasai and of wild animals; how could it be that people so frightened of animals could be famous poachers, like the Ikoma and the Sonjo? The driver’s tribe is held in low regard by Maasai and white alike, though it must be said that the Maasai despise all Bantu tribes, known collectively as il-meek. The most charitable view that one hears of the Ikoma is that centuries of exposure to the tsetse fly have leached away their human virtues. “Murder everything,” Myles says. The Ikoma driver, one of the rare survivors of a black mamba bite, remarked that all Maasai were cattle thieves, which of course is true.
The second ranger was Corporal Nyamahanga, an Ikuria from the Mara province at the Kenya border. Last year a poacher fired two poison arrows at Myles and the corporal, and Myles said, “Pot him,” which Corporal Nyamahanga did. “Had three great whacking buckshot holes in his forehead. Bandaged him up, but I thought he was a goner. Couldn’t get him to hospital that night, we were twenty miles from our vehicles, and next morning I said to Corporal Nyamahanga, ‘Is he dead?’ ‘No sir, he’s eating a good breakfast!’” Myles turned to gaze at me, disgusted. “Survived a charge of buckshot in the head, he did; took him to hospital at Musoma.” He contemplated the corporal, a very strong big serious man whose black laced boots curled up sharply at the toes. “Good people, the Ikuria, and Corporal Nyamahanga is a good man—great runner, too. I’ll make him sergeant as soon as there’s a place.”
The Land Rover groaned on through a thickening heat, but the rim of the escarpment kept retreating; each ridge disclosed new gullies and rough broken ground. Up one gully that deflected us off to the north came a lone Maasai, with a few cattle; he disdained to show surprise at meeting a vehicle in this waste where no vehicle, it seems certain, had ever been before. In his faded red toga, face a mask, the only human figure that was seen on the safari to the Gol Mountains scarcely turned to watch us pass. On a journey, the Maasai say, if a man is met who walks alone, the journey will be unsuccessful. So it proved this day, for we never reached the rim of the escarpment.
Ol Doinyo Lengai, though shrouded, was a heavy presence in the sky. Lost bands of kongoni and gazelle, wandered down out of the highland clouds, waited for everything and nothing on the edges of the cinder plain, and on a rise stood a stone oryx with one horn. The horn was long and straight and whorled; here was the unicorn. The beisa oryx is a strong gray antelope, wary and quick and spirited; oryx have been known to kill attacking lions. This one, given sudden life, went off at a fast trot. Far down the slope its herds were already moving at our approach. Myles said that in this region, where the animal is rare and wild, the hunter who killed an oryx usually earned it.
On the level ground, the game trails radiated out in cracks from the dry waterholes. Near one hole a dead zebra, still intact, had drawn a horde of griffons from the sky. The zebra did not look diseased, and we searched it for sign of Sonjo arrows, but there was nothing; it had merely died. Straightening up again, black men and white stood stunned beneath a leaden firmament, awaiting impulse: there was no sound but our own boots on the cinders. At midday Lengai loomed through the clouds and again vanished. Heat and silence became one. Adding their silence to the silence, the griffons waited.
The Land Rover retreated westward, toward the east face of the Gols. A band of green lined the bases of these cliffs, where the rare rains came down out of the mountains, and plains game stood expectant in the low still woods. Under the cliffs was a Somali track, headed south toward the mouth of Ngata Kiti, where we climbed out of the Salei in late afternoon. Soon the air was cool, and we paused on the slope, gazing back toward Lengai, which had come up out of its clouds to watch us go. The Mountain of God is a magnificent pure cone, a true mythic volcano, shrouded in pale ash so fine that it mists into the canopies of clouds, making the whole mountain an illusion.
Now the sun appeared, and the air dried; the pale tones of Ngata Kiti came to life. Round-haunched zebra stood, tails blowing, on a round curve of a hill, each wild horse in silhouette against the sky. A cheetah appeared, and then two more, moving westward up the valley; the animal survives in such dry country by lapping blood from the body cavity of its kill. The walk of lions is low-slung and easy, and leopards move like snakes, striking and coiling; the cheetah’s walk looks stiff and deadly as if it were bent on revenge. The three cats were traveling, not hunting, and did not look back.
Three miles from Naisera, we got down from the Land Rover to walk home. Bouncing away, the Africans stared back at us as if we had gone mad. Then the car stink was gone, and the motor; the twilight valley rang like a great bell.
On the plain lay a tawny pipit, dead, raked by a hawk. Somewhere jackals were keening, and a restless lion roared from across the valley. Then owls emerged, and in the growing dark, the white bellies of gazelles flashed back and forth like flags in a ghostly dance. From the mouth of a burrow peered four faces of bat-eared foxes, and from Naisera came a troop of mongoose, looping out in single file over the plain; it was the time of the night hunters.
Today we were beaten, but another day we would come back. At the evening fire, we planned a foot safari that would take us southeast across the wild Loita Hills of Kenya to the Sonjo villages, and down along the western shore of Natron; we would climb Lengai, then continue south into the Crater Highlands, to Ngorongoro.
At dawn we left the Gol behind, turning north toward Loliondo. A wind from the northeast was high and cold, a wind of hawks and eagles, and beyond Lemuta, the delicate pearl-and-chestnut kestrels dipped and rose, snatching dung beetles from the hard-caked ground. Farther on, four steppe eagles in a half-circle at the mouth of a hole fed with ravenous dexterity on a hatching of termites. Africa is a place of incongruities, as if its species were still evolving—kingfishers that live in the dry woods, owls that seize fish, eagles that eat insects. And doubtless the great variety of raptors here is accounted for by their versatility of habit: nothing is overlooked, and nothing wasted.
Across the plain came a strange hyena that behaved like no hyena we had ever s
een. Though unpursued, and pursuing no other creature, it ran hard, and though its head was half-averted in the manner of hyenas, its tail was raised, not tucked in the usual way between the legs, and it came straight for the car instead of fleeing it, only turning off in the final yards, still unafraid, still searching.
Myles stared after it in real surprise: he would demand a scientific explanation of such behavior from his friend Hans Kruuk. (Dr. Kruuk, the hyena specialist at Serengeti, has a high opinion of the charm, playfulness, and cleanly habits of these creatures in captivity, and keeps one as a pet). Hunters and game wardens are the traditional authorities on animal behavior, but today their opinions are regularly challenged by biologists and ecologists, and Myles, who works closely with the people at the Serengeti Research Institute, feels obsolete, “Scientists are in charge of the animals these days,” he said shortly. “We just keep things going for them. But now and then we catch them out—there are still a few things they don’t know.”
The vehicle traversed the lonely rises, rolling a thin dust cloud toward the west. Myles wished to show me an enormous fig that stands by itself far off beyond Barafu Kopjes. These hard plains are bare and bony, with only a whisper of grass, yet the animals keep to the ridges, where the grass is shortest. In a tilted world, the wildebeest went streaming down the sky, black tail tassels hung on the wind behind, all but a solitary bull, thin-ribbed and rag-tailed, old beard blowing. Perhaps he felt his death upon him, for he paid no attention to our intrusion. Soon he had the whole sky to himself.
The giant fig, which looks like a small grove in the distance, is at least as old as man’s recorded history on this plain. Its spread is not less than one hundred and fifty feet, the size of six ordinary figs, and it is a tree of life. Cape rooks, kestrels, owls, and the shy brown-chested cuckoo were in residence, and none would willingly leave the tree because there are no other trees for miles around. One owl that moved onto a nearby rock was punished by the kestrels; at each blow from above, it shifted its feet and shuffled its loose feathers.
The tree has a Maasai hearth built into its thick base, and a flat stone near at hand for sharpening spear blades. One day I would like to sit under this tree that has drawn so much fat wood and fleshy leaves out of near-desert, and stare for a week or more into the emptiness. One understands why these monumental figs take on a religious aura for the Africans; they are thought to symbolize the sacred mountains, and the old ways of close kinship with the earth and rain, Nature and God. The Mau-Mau leader Kimathi used such figs for prayer as well as message depots, and his people said of one great tree that it would fall of its own accord when Kimathi was taken. In the police inspector’s unsuperstitious account8 of the hunt for Kimathi, the tree in question fell within that hour.
Even the most pragmatic narratives of life in Africa must touch on what H. M. Stanley was pleased to call “my dark companions and their strange stories”—the pervasive witchcraft and sorcery, which may be legitimate, in one’s best interests, or may be used wrongfully, taking the law into one’s own hands. The Kikuyu recognize nine categories of magic besides charms (protective magic) and sorcery (destructive magic), and strange powers are by no means limited to the witch doctor, but are freely applied by all. Thus his captor was awed by Kimathi’s uncanny sense of impending danger, as Karen Blixen was awed by the instincts of her servants, who would always know of her return and would be at the railroad to meet her. C. P. J. Ionides, the great reptile man of southeast Tanzania, was mystified by the preventive cure administered to him by an African which appeared to have made him immune, or nearly so, to dangerous snake bites.9 A doctor who has worked with Africans for thirty years has told me in detail of the spells and curses, especially popular among wives of unwanted husbands, that can cause a healthy person to give up and die in a few days of strange wasting diseases: he resigns himself to death because a witch has eaten his “life-soul.” Or a man whose wife is unfaithful while he is off hunting is subject to death or serious injury from wild animals.10 Fetishes are in common use: certain Karomojong are cursed with drought if someone experienced in these matters places an ostrich head on a mountain top with its bill pointed at their village.
A witch has mystical resources not possessed by the mere sorcerer, and will often remain at home while his “shadow-soul” is abroad in the form of a night animal. A missionary tells11 of an old witch doctor in a tribe plagued by lions who for years refused to be converted; then a hunter was sent in by the Game Department, and soon thereafter, the old man became a Christian. When asked why, he shook his head in resignation. “Why not?” he said. “You’ve shot my lions,” Cults of leopard-men12 and lion-men who kill with claws are both well known, and the lion-men, if they exist, may cloak their work behind that of a real man-eater, as was thought to have been the case in the widespread deaths in 1920 and again in 1946 among the Turu in the region of Singida, in south-central Tanzania, which came to a prompt halt when an investigation was begun: “Too many eyes are watching now,” said a Turu chief.13 Another chief in the same region predicted to a British District Officer that elephants would take care of a local man who was annoying the village by holding up an irrigation scheme, and shortly thereafter a herd of elephant came through the nearby banana groves without touching a tree and utterly destroyed the shamba of the offender.14
Most rural Africans have knowledge of animals controlled by gifted individuals—not always witch doctors—whose spirits inhabit them: the man-eaters of Tsavo were especially feared due to their occupancy by human spirits, and many tales are told in many parts of Africa of hyena spirits in human form who are detected by some such sign as a mouth in the back of the head.15 A werewolf hyena is often an old witch woman, “trotting along the river now, baring her teeth in the night air,”16 and the Bantu of Tanzania know of those who ride hyenas in the night. Peasants are more witch-ridden than hunters and nomads, and among the Mbugwe, tillers of sorghum and millet who settled on the bare mud flats south of Lake Manyara as a protection against Maasai raids, more than half the adult population are considered witches who control all the hyenas or “night cattle” in the region, and sometimes lions into the bargain; fear of black magic is so prevalent that people eat in the darkness of their huts rather than expose their food to the evil eye of others, and when in the bush hide their food with their clothes or go to eat alone behind a tree.17 That several people in the Manyara region have been taken by lions in recent years will only affirm the beliefs of the Mbugwe.
Belief in lycanthropy involving lions and hyenas, like the summoning of beasts to carry out specific deeds, is not only widespread but in many cases very difficult to put aside as superstition; these events have a reality in the ancestral intuition of mankind that cannot be dismissed simply because it cannot be explained. The story I like best—because it is mythic and rings true, whether or not it actually took place—was told me by a lady whose husband had it from the hunter Bror von Blixen, a practical sort, so it is said, not given to flights of fancy. One day on safari Blixen was begged by natives of the locality to deal with a dangerous hyena that was raiding the village stock at night; no one dared to kill it himself for fear of reprisal from its witch. Blixen agreed, but his staff would not keep watch with him: to kill Fisi, the Hyena, would bring evil luck. Finally Blixen prevailed on his gun bearer to go along, and later this man bore witness to what happened.
The moonlight was crossed by the silhouette of a hyena, and when Blixen fired, wounding it, the creature dragged itself into a thicket. They followed the blood trail to a bush, from the far side of which the hyena soon emerged. Blixen’s second shot killed it, and the two men went forward. Where the hyena had fallen, in the moonlight, lay the body of an African.
The great fig west of the Gol Mountains overlooks a dry korongo, and nearby there is a Maasai cattle well. In the well lay a drowned hyena so blue and bloated that the rotting skin shone through the wide-stretched hairs. Though it had been there many days, no scavenger had touched it. Even its eye
was still in place, fixed malevolently upon the heavens.
We headed south. Miles from where it had first appeared, the lone hyena rose out of the land, and this time it came even closer, loping along beside the car, tail high and bald eye searching. We wondered then if this haunted beast was hunting for its mate, and if the mate might be the hyena in the well. But we did not know, and never would, and the mystery pleased us.
VI
RITES OF PASSAGE
“. . . we have to share our land with wild and dangerous animals. We have to learn to give way to the elephant, the rhinoceros, the lion, etc., and this has not been our way of life. Many of us have lost children, others have lost relatives and stock to these animals which belong to the Government. The Government has value for these animals but they are of no value to us any more. The only value of of these animals which we knew about is that they used to be the source of our traditionally important trophies, such as kudu horns used for war signals, lion manes worn as a sign of gallantry by the morrans (young warriors), buffalo hides for shields, elephant tusks for ornaments worn by the morrans, etc. The use of these things in our daily life is quickly becoming a thing of the past. This value of wildlife being gone, we know of no other value whatever and yet our cattle are being killed and our people either being killed or injured by these animals. We are fined or imprisoned when we kill these animals for food even in times of extreme famine despite the fact that we share our land with them. The presence of these animals in our district means loss of lives and stock very year and nothing else.”
The Tree Where Man Was Born Page 13
