Cutting down through the deposited rock strata, as Dara had now taken to spending his days, the time-machine ran backward with each layer. From the time that our more recent Paleolithic ancestors were making stone tools, past the Jurassic with the great lumbering dino-beasts, to the reptiles that pre-dated even them in the tropical swamps that once abounded in this now dry space.
And when he came back from the veld, it was the little copper-skinned people, Dawie’s folk, who fascinated Dara.
Many of the house staff and those in the town bore the classic features that came to them through sixty thousand years of genetic lineage in this place and a culture distinct from all other peoples of the earth—small ears, tufting hair and sometimes oversized rumps. Steatopygia, his father had called it.
Dara had looked it up: “An accumulation of large deposits of fat on the buttocks, especially as a normal condition in the Khoikhoi and other peoples of arid parts of southern Africa,” the encyclopaedia confirmed. It was an evolutionary bulwark against the deprivations of endless drought in these barren lands.
The plight of any population crushed by history is always a point of contention and in contemporary politics a potential powder keg for its remnant descendants.
The modern predicament of the Bushmen had its first foundations in equatorial Africa nearly a thousand years earlier and four thousand miles north. Population explosions in the black groups there sent an undulating wave of migration ever southward. The black Nguni tribes—farmers and herders—marched over the centuries steadily forward, generation after generation, valley and plain after valley and plain.
Ahead of them, they enslaved and pushed the escaping hunter-gatherer bands ever further, ever southward toward the coast.
The process was a slow seep of humanity; the subtle differences in appearance but vast differences in cultural organization creating a patchwork of group-to-area designations.
These were Dara’s thoughts as he squinted from his vantage point to pick out the thread of asphalt that offered an eight-hour drive southward to Cape Town, the Mother City.
Five hundred years after the first dramatic migrations that he was imagining in this dry interior, the Heeren XVII or Lords Seventeen of The Dutch East India Company back in Amsterdam, had promulgated their orders for the first of the European explorers to make Cape Town a victualing station and so unwittingly join the coming mélange of cultures assembling for collision.
Ship after ship, they arrived slowly but steadily, planting their flag at the foot of a comely mountain that embraced a welcoming bay.
Within a century, their numbers bolstered, religious instability in Europe and enmity between its nations sent out shockwaves that set them on their way, fanning out from Cape Town to the north—columns of mostly Dutch descendants bringing their guns, language, culture and Bibles.
They, in turn, had pushed the Bushmen toward the equator again.
The Bushmen’s path blocked by the Nguni in the north and east could only go into the arid west where Carnarvon now lay, into the desert badlands of scrub and hardship.
The Europeans brought disease too—smallpox and other plagues—against which the aboriginal occupants had little or no resistance. Alcohol, unknown to roving bands, decimated those who survived the other apocalypses. Few bloodlines of Bushmen avoided mixing. Fewer yet maintained the wandering subsistence culture.
Subsistence back then meant following the seasons and masses of game. Now, the great herds decimated by guns, and barbed fences penning the last traces of quarry in and the subsistence hunters out, it meant handouts and stipends from tourists along the national road or near game park entrances, traded for trinkets and small change.
As Dara sat contemplating it all, the tragic realization struck that there was possibly not a single human left who still held to the old ways. The nostalgia of it weighed like a boulder in his soul.
“When the last is gone, Dara,” his father had said, “we lose the biggest part of ourselves.”
“The biggest part?” It sounded rather an exaggeration and Dara challenged his father.
“I mean it literally, Dara,” his dad had assured. “They are our anchor—our lifeline to finding out who we are today in our psychology, in our sociology, and anthropology. These are important questions. We live in vastly complex societies full of different cultures and competing political ideologies each with their own basket of economic systems. But we’re still only collections of individuals, and for half a million generations, millions of years of hunting and gathering, our individual psychology evolved to cope with a few other individuals—mostly extended family members forced to live highly cooperatively with no concept of possession over things or others. At most, we’ve been in larger communities and dealing with strangers for five hundred generations, and that is not enough time to overcome bred-in psychology that held sway for a thousand times longer. For one, two, three or more million years, not much changed from generation to generation until the concept of farming and with it ownership arose, and then everything changed. And we’re watching the last of our species give up that ancient simple lifestyle.”
Dara learned how even the benign but necessary act of paying cash for an item at a store involved a prescribed exchange that was unnatural to our deepest selves. It ran contrary to our wiring for close cooperation with kin. That exchange introduced a barrier between the parties that reinforced the emotional distance between them—and ultimately drove competition and enmity.
He mulled these thoughts in his mind as he looked out over the lands his and every other human’s ancestors had certainly once wandered.
Until recently, these concepts had been academic to him, theoretical. But sitting on a koppie—a rocky outcrop—contemplating these things, barefooted with the dust of this earth powdering his skin, he realized that he was growing small roots into Africa.
And through his intimate acquaintance with Dawie and other indigenous workers around the compound, the theoretical was fast catalysing into the emotional. Only a generation or two from humanity’s ‘wild’ condition, Dara could detect the difficulty these kindly Bushmen still grappled with as they tried to fit into the modern world.
Dawie was a spectacular find for Dara, almost royalty in this regard, his grandfather was a clan leader of sect of Bushmen. His grandfather’s grandfather was recognized as the last of the “wandering Bushmen” who lived wild off game, indigenous plants and wits.
Dawie had posed a conundrum that Dara was still mulling.
“A Zulu man can wear a suit and take his seat in the National Assembly of our country’s parliament, and a Xhosa woman can be an IT expert or sit on the board of a multi-national.” Zulu and Xhosa are splinters of the Nguni nation. “And nobody questions if either are a real Zulu or a real Xhosa. But I’m a bushman boy who loses his cultural identity the moment I put on shoes or use a mobile phone.”
It was true—Dara had already detected that prejudice within himself.
Dawie’s family had been driven off the land and forbidden their traditional rights. Now, outside of academia, they were not even considered ‘Bushmen’ or Khoi. Instead, the collective noun ‘coloured’ was applied—a catchall designation for anyone not white, black or Asian. The coloureds numbered in the majority for the region—nearly ninety percent of the population so designated. But they held little economic or political sway.
It was deep into afternoon already when Dara came out of his daydream and reminiscence. He donned socks and shoes and began to make his way home.
The wind had risen and tall thunderheads like the phalanx of foreign invaders in centuries past marched abreast steadily forward. And then salvos of thunder began to reverberate off the surrounding mountains. As Dara passed, a lazy windmill on borrowed time groaned at the labour the rising wind was forcing on its rusty gears.
Just then, the first lonely drop of rain splattered out of a darkening sky, a dollop of hot water doled from the heavens.
Dara looked skyward just as two
… three… four more globules slapped his visor. He opened the throttle a little to beat the deluge and smiled in praise of Dawie’s people and their unflinching conviction that the ancestors will always protect the land from the ravages of man.
Chapter 4
Three days later, mid-morning, Dara was on the bike, bound for the hills five kilometres to the east where he’d have a good view of the blossoming veld. It was a spot where he’d found interesting fossils of tropical ferns some days before. But before he’d gone three minutes into the bush, the bike spluttered and coughed.
He felt below the tank and flipped the fuel lever to ‘reserve’. This would give him a few extra kilometres but it was too risky on a deserted dirt track to ignore, so he doubled back. Back in the garage, he found the fuel drum empty.
“Fuckit…!” he bellowed. Though he’d been told not to do so countless times, the gardener was always topping the lawnmower off with Dara’s stash of fuel and once again the petty pilfering had run Dara’s stockpile dry. Diesel the farm had in abundance, but gasoline was rarely used.
Dara was furious—he stormed off to find the man but couldn’t locate him.
He went inside again intending to find something else with which to busy himself, to abandon the outing. But, try as he might, he was still fixated on the far hills and couldn’t find a distraction from it. More than that, he heard the old echo of cowardice taunting in the shadows of his mind, questioning why he was really so reluctant.
What’s out there that’s so important? He asked himself, already knowing he was about to break a rule.
He was under a spell that only Africa casts; becoming African, craving it raw and untouched before the imminent departure back to city life.
The clock in his head and fall of the shadows agreed that it was near ten in the morning. School and its dangerous inmates would still be in session for two more weeks. Those in their final exams should be hard at their studies, and there’d be next to no traffic to speak of, so he dared himself.
It would be less than a twenty-minute round trip—illegal, yes—but the engine capacity, he convinced himself, was only juuuust over the limit his age allowed. Very quickly he convinced himself it would be the right thing to do, to not let the calls of cowardice within defeat him.
The heat of the day was already up, yet he wore longs and sleeves with gauntlets and his visor was mirrored—normally, protection from a fall but today it thwarted prying eyes.
It proved to be a milk-run into town—he only passed two cars out on the lonely highway. Instinctively, he’d dropped his head down while riding by. He kept his visor down for the duration of the refuel.
There were only two pumps, one of which was out of order. As the pump attendant tried to squeeze the last drops into his tank, a pickup passed and immediately slowed. With a prick of terror within, Dara saw the brake lights come on. It pulled over to the side then completed a U-turn, entering the lot right behind him. Dara’s heart thundered in his ears—he dared not to look as he felt the bumper pull up close behind his rear tire, the clatter of its diesel engine a din.
Without looking back, he overpaid the attendant and stalled the bike within a pace of pulling away, kicking it frantically back to life.
His breath rasped and momentarily fogged the visor as he stole a glimpse to recognize the vehicle’s two occupants, poorly reflected as they were in the engine-jiggled image of his handlebar mounted rear-view mirror.
He over-revved his pull away and turned onto the road that took him momentarily past the vehicle. It hadn’t pulled forward to the pump, but the driver was talking to the pump attendant and looked past the man straight at Dara as he shot away.
Against his best intentions to appear calm, fear gripped Dara. He hit the gas and dropped his chest onto the tank, winding the screaming engine up through its gears.
By the time he pulled into home, the engine popped and pinged in outrage. The terror was gone, replaced by the exhilaration of winning over fear. He never sang, but he belted out a popular tune, giddy as he was with the unscathed escape. Removing his jacket, he smelled the sweet reek of adrenaline sweat and his hands still shook, but he didn’t care—he’d had a victory, a victory over his own timidity.
By the time he caught up with the gardener, the excitement of the sortie had planed the edge off his anger, and all he could muster was a tepid rebuke that didn’t carry much authority. The gardener adopted a dull look in his eye as if he didn’t fully comprehend it, earnestly repeating his appology, “Ja kleinbaas.”
An hour later, Dara was in the hills, the drama forgotten.
Chapter 5
A delegation was in town, come to inspect the SKA site and progress.
On Friday, they’d done their fieldwork.
Today was Saturday and a banquet had been laid out in tents pitched on the local school grounds. Dignitaries and prominent citizens were present for various speeches and presentations.
On Sunday, the same tents would be used to drum up enthusiasm for the less prominent citizens of the area, laborers and farm workers. The agenda for that upcoming event would be to detail the promised benefits that the SKA investments would bring to the area.
Marsha had been speaking at some length with one of the visiting politicians who had presented a keynote address. Guests milled, joined them and broke off to chat with others. The topics Marsha and the Minister had talked about ranged widely until the drift of conversation allowed Marsha to bring up the incident.
“My son ran into some trouble at the school, quite unpleasant really…” she went on to describe the details.
“I think it’s an isolated incident,” the Minister assured her. “We were originally presented with a petition, but our PR people took care of it—the town council is fully behind us now.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt the council,” Marsha agreed, “but it does seem that the religious groups are… how shall I say...? Underwhelmed by the implementation.”
“Yes,” the Minister declared, “it’s a small group who are unhappy about the loss of farms and other conveniences.” He made light of it.
“Of course, there are legitimate gripes—I’m talking about something much more unsettling. It seems that we’re treading on religious toes…”
“Oh, the zealots,” the roll of his eyes suggested he knew about them. “I think you’ve uncovered the Israel-Visie, a lunatic splinter group of the church. There are just a few of them that we’ve identified, mostly old men past their prime who have to hide their affiliations, or they’ll push the enlightened younger generation away from the church. Regardless,” he went on before she could challenge him, “the infrastructures we’re bringing in are going to continue to isolate them as the youngsters adopt new thinking. The new IT infrastructure at the school… new tar roads… upgraded airport… fastest fibre optic internet connection on the continent…”
Though the politicians weren’t bringing anything tangible in, they unashamedly took full credit with an inclusive “we” to the very people who were bequeathing these things, but Marsha let the petty point go.
“Sure. But how much do the farmers value these things going on in the town when we’ve cut all wireless connections to their farms? They’re feeling isolated. There’s a lot of discontent. Maybe it’s one of your old men, but at least one of the teachers at the school is putting real negatives into the kids’ minds. He’s the local pastor, so…”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. If you look at church influence, it is plummeting,” said the Minister confidently. “Thirty years ago, they had nearly a thousand members out here; it’s a third of that now. He has no real influence anymore. I know this because it was an early concern and my office looked into it. We got it resolved.”
“I hear your assurances,” Marsha conceded, “but with all due respect, I don’t sense it is resolved. The church’s influence may be down in numbers, but the world over, their attitudes and resolve to fight back are sharpening dramatically. My husband is an evolutionar
y anthropologist and author. His work has hit a lot of headwind, especially in America.”
“Well, that’s America for you,” the Minister commented, and smiled with a practiced sincerity that was anything but. “We’re not in America.” He aimed his reminder that Marsha was an outsider with an American accent at the flock of eavesdroppers and voters listening in.
“I must disagree,” she persisted. “I think there is cause to worry. These people seem very passionate, and...”
“I have no doubt in my mind that this significant project will serve as a catalyst to improve learner performance in the area of mathematics and science and to prepare learners to take advantage of the opportunities that will emanate from the developments associated with the Karoo Array Telescope—the MeerKAT—and the SKA.”
The Minister repeated verbatim an extract from the speech he had only just delivered from the podium. This wasn’t a conversation, Marsha realized; it was just more political cheerleading for the small audience listening in.
Chapter 6
Constable Andre Kruger had not been invited to the banquet. As a rank and file policeman, he’d long ago accepted that the closest he would ever come to such an event would be to attend to the parking of dignitaries.
No, he argued; what rankled him was the insult from his standing as Diaken. A Deacon was second only to the Dominee. The position demanded respect. But these godless outsiders had snubbed it.
Like his father before him, rising through the police ranks had been his childhood ambition until this communist—as he called labelled it—black government had come to power decades ago. And since then, his rank and prospects had been stillborn and pegged. He’d long since abandoned all hope of that changing—the passion was dead, and the grind of it had become a mere job-for-a-wage.
So, his passion and energy to pursue meaning in life had diverted to faith. After the Dominee, he was now the most respected man in town, even if the outsiders shunned his position.
A Trojan Affair Page 4