Mukurob

by André Costa

  “John Paul?” interrupted David.

  “Jack. You can call me Jack.”

  “Jack?” David asked.

  “My formal name has more to do with the choice I made, or perhaps the one I didn’t make. It doesn’t matter. Jack is a nickname resurrected from childhood.”

  “So be it!”

  “My family still calls me John Paul. It was a tribute to the pope, you know, but it was more suited to a priestly career which didn’t happen.”

  “And you can call me David. I didn’t bring my cassock,” he smiled, as he gestured for the former seminarian to follow him to the dining room.

  Jack was as thin as a Kalahari meerkat. He was also short, with a slim face and a sharp voice, a stark contrast to the image evoked by his written words. David, who had been particularly touched by the many messages exchanged within a few days, somehow recognized him immediately.

  “Forgive me for being so quiet lately. There were some setbacks and delays, and we also didn’t have access to the Internet for the past days,” Jack explained.

  The men sat down at a table already set for the first meal of the day. As David breathed in the scent of the coffee, sharp and fresh, he realized how hungry he was. He ordered scrambled eggs from Brigitte and helped himself to a piece of home-baked bread with a generous amount of cheese, inviting Jack to do the same.

  “No, thanks, I’m not hungry.”

  With his mouth unoccupied, Jack realized he would have to be the first to speak. He scratched his knees and shifted in his chair.

  “So, as I said in the emails, we are a small team: three professional researchers and me.”

  “What do you mean by...”

  “Professional? They are all academic anthropologists, with PhDs and stuff. My education is far less orthodox. I’d rather call it holistic. And so, it doesn’t conflict with my faith.”

  “Oh, I see. And it also sounds much more interesting,” David smiled. “So you’re still a Catholic?”

  “It’s difficult to define myself within Judeo-Christian parameters, Father…I mean, David. Certainly, I’m no longer a Catholic, though Jesus is still a great master to me. And having incorporated the animist belief into my thinking, I like to define myself as an animist Christian,” Jack said, noticing David’s eyes staring at the ceiling. “Anyway, David, you must know by now that the San people have already been studied a great deal, but our experiment is unique. We’ll re-create an ‘original community.’ The idea is to help some semi-westernized families completely revert to a hunter-gatherer lifestyle. We don’t know what might happen. Many have already assimilated our worst vices, such as drinking and the notion of possession. The children already have a desire for things that other people have and the fear of not being unique or special...”

  “It sounds like it could be a huge challenge,” said David, dropping his gaze to the ground. “It’s like trying to turn back time.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And these families, how do they feel about the experiment?”

  “If they were aware of the project, they wouldn’t act naturally, you know. These people have lost all their possessions, and we are giving them a second chance. But the return to their cultural origins must be voluntary and spontaneous, even unconscious. Our influence must then be very subtle. And most importantly, the authorities know nothing about this core intention.”

  “I understand...”

  This implied request for secrecy came as a surprise and was not in line with Jack’s previous communications, always plain, transparent and forward. And yet, the more he heard the excitement in Jack’s voice, the more his ears capitulated. After all, Jack had written the messages that had been instrumental to David’s departure from Newcastle West and to his belief that somehow his inner torment—fueled by the death of his mother and Father Duane, and plunged into greater depths by the brutal murder of Karen—could be softened through an unusual adventure.

  Brigitte, who had been standing in the doorway attracted by the synergy in their conversation, finally brought the scrambled eggs.

  “You seem more positively disposed to me this morning, Father Callaghan. I think I don’t need to ask you how your first night in our country was.”

  “I wouldn’t know how to answer your question, Brigitte, since I was completely knocked out last night.” With the morning sunlight and a soft breeze behind her, a hint of the young woman’s contours was visible through her casual, loose dress—which was classic, but not conservative. With the hem slightly above the knees, it had suggestive slits on each side and a neckline David did not dare to glance at. Instead, he looked at the symmetry of her facial features and believed he saw a Renaissance angel as only Raphael could have imagined. His mind returned to earth when Gretha rushed toward her granddaughter, carrying a thermos.

  “More coffee, Father? Mr. Elliot?”

  “Good morning, ma’am! I think you have met my friend John Paul Elliot, or just Jack. From now on, he will be responsible for my misdeeds,” said David, with a smile. “And I was about to tell him what I learned from you last night about the people of Etosha.”

  “Oh, we’re actually working with them,” Jack exclaimed.

  “With who is left of them,” added the old lady.

  “Exactly,” said Jack.

  Gretha dragged a chair to the table and sat down.

  “I told Father Callaghan that my father was involved with the San people of that region for decades. I just don’t know how much the priest was able to pay attention; he was so tired from the trip, poor thing. You know, Mr. Elliot…”

  “Please, ma’am, call me Jack.”

  “Well, Jack... at that time, they were considered second-class citizens, a sub-race, and all other ethnic groups heavily discriminated against them in their homeland…,” she said with gestures as expansive as those of the previous night, sending a teapot tumbling to the floor. The men were ready to spring into action to clean the mess, but Gretha said, “Don’t worry about it,” before shouting, “Brigitte, please help us.”

  “Jack is part of a foreign mission working to preserve the San culture,” David explained, glossing over the awkwardness of the incident.

  “Preservation?” Gretha asked, one eye on the table and one on the floor.

  “It’s more than that. They will try to re-create the original San way of life,” David continued.

  “Like in a lab?” Gretha asked.

  David remembered that the subject was classified, and, feeling like a student who had failed his first exam of the year, avoided Jack’s eyes. Instead, he gave his exaggerated attention to helping Brigitte clean the liquid and shards of porcelain spread across the floor.

  “I think it’s an extraordinary fact that a number of these people have maintained their language and culture,” continued Gretha. “There was always a lot of pressure on them to abandon the practice of foraging and collecting from the land, and to start planting their food instead.”

  “More than hunting?” David asked.

  “Oh, much more, Father!” replied Gretha. “Hunting was a game, an honored activity. The protein they needed came mainly from what they gathered.”

  “The San name is in fact representative of this prejudice that you... I’m sorry... Mrs....?”

  “Schwartz... Gretha Schwartz!”

  “Mrs. Schwartz, the San name is derogatory; it means ‘scavengers,’ those who crawl on the ground,” continued Jack, “but as for their culture, madam, our greatest focus is to support the preservation of their widely endangered languages. With the extinction of their language, we will lose all knowledge dating back to prehistoric times. So, we have developed a project to perpetuate the language of the Hai//om people, whom you know very well.”

  “How wonderful!” said Gretha, clasping her palms together and getting up from her chair, “I’ll be right back.”
/>   Gretha returned moments later with a small chest filled with keepsakes of her father’s expeditions. Between photographs of indigenous leaders and members of local authorities, newspaper articles, personal letters and notes, the old lady removed an artifact and placed it in David’s hand, closing his fingers tightly around it. “This is a pipe from the Hai//om tribe. My father used it during the evocation ceremonies of the spirits. Take this with you, David, and may the peace my father felt be present in your heart too.”

  The offer was sincere and sealed with a stare that implied a command rather than a request, although a smile softened Gretha’s expression. David quickly tried to think of several polite ways to refuse the honor, but nothing came to his mind. It was too awkward to accept something so precious from someone he barely knew. Yet at that moment, he remembered that he had entrusted the relic of the Irish saint to Elizabeth, so he kissed Mrs. Schwartz’s scented face as a gesture of acceptance.

  Soon afterward, Brigitte came to announce the arrival of the driver. David went upstairs and returned with his sole piece of luggage and a handbag. In less than an hour, he and Jack had left the guesthouse.

  Chapter IV

  The trip to Grootfontein would take a little over four hours, and the plan was to arrive before sunset. In addition to the two passengers and the driver, the old Toyota 4x4 carried countless boxes of supplies and electronic devices, which filled the trunk and part of the back seat where David sat.

  While the vehicle left Windhoek via the B1 highway heading north, following the central plateau, David thought about everything he had read about the desert ecosystems, the abundant wildlife, the stunning topographic variety, and the diversity of peoples.

  A massive territory with just over two million inhabitants made Namibia one of the least populous, yet paradoxically one of the most ethnographically diverse, countries in the world. The majority of inhabitants were of Bantu origins, such as the Ovambo and Herero. Other ethnic groups included the ancestors of the Khoisan, namely the San and the Nama—whose languages had similar click sounds—and the white populations of Afrikaans, German, British and Portuguese origins. David had read that the coexistence between races seemed democratic and cordial, as result of the harmonization policies implemented after Namibia’s independence from South Africa in 1990, but that it still carried heavy historical stains of tragedy and destruction.

  The trip proceeded comfortably on flawless asphalt. Jack fell asleep as soon as they left Windhoek, while David’s attention was once again captured by groups of baboons, the majestic outline of mountains, and the sparse and dry flora—all under a heavenly and infinite blue sky. He could feel the prayer in the air and connected momentarily to the divine.

  “So, you’re a priest? Catholic?” asked the driver with the authority of a guard at heaven’s gate demanding identification.

  Benjamin was a robust and tall Herero man. His facial features were firm and austere; he rarely smiled. Jack had warned David that the driver was not exactly friendly and did not possess the gift of dealing with people. Considering these attributes, David had decided it would be better to remain quiet and enjoy the picture-perfect images parading outside his window. However, Benjamin’s tone of voice, thick and intrusive, could not be ignored.

  “Catholic and a priest… but it doesn’t need to be in that order,” answered David.

  “You won’t find many like you here. First time in Namibia? Do you intend to stay long? You haven’t come at the right time. Everything around here is very dry.”

  “David, Benjamin is Herero,” said Jack, who had been woken by the low timbre of the driver’s voice and just in time to interrupt his questioning.

  “Herero? How interesting! Yesterday, I learned a little about your people’s history,” said David.

  “I don’t know what you heard, Father, but it must have been rather ugly,” said Benjamin.

  “It was indeed. A nice lady told me about the war of your people against the Germans,” David continued, relieved that Jack was awake and part of the conversation.

  “I don’t know if Mrs. Schwartz told you, but there’s a diplomatic struggle nowadays to recognize the Herero genocide as the first holocaust of the twentieth century,” Jack said.

  “I don’t know why there’s so much fuss about that since it’s pure mathematics,” interrupted Benjamin, raising his tone above a level considered polite. “At the beginning of the German occupation, there were eighty thousand of us. By the end of the war… Well, it wasn’t much of a war if you consider the disparity of weapons between the two sides… Anyway, we were only fifteen thousand at the end. Do the calculations!”

  “There were also concentration camps, expropriation of lands…” continued Jack.

  “And of cattle, too,” added Benjamin.

  “Ah, of course. You see, David, the Herero people are traditionally cattle farmers.”

  “So, it’s true that the Germans almost exterminated your people,” said David.

  “That’s why the Ovambo are the majority today,” explained Jack. “I think you might not have noticed yet, David, but it’s quite easy to spot a Herero on the streets, am I right Benjamin? Especially the Herero women.”

  “Why is that?” asked David.

  “The women wear a headpiece shaped like the horns of a cow, a clear reference to their traditional economy,” said Jack. “And what’s most interesting is that they wear dresses inspired by the Victorian fashion of the old settlers.”

  “Is that so? But why?” asked David, his eyes burning with curiosity.

  “They adopted that way of dressing after the defeat of the Germans as a way of demonstrating who the new lords were,” replied Jack.

  The hours flew by, with the travelers making only a quick strategic stop in Otjiwarango—“the place where the fat cattle graze.” The small town, the most important urban area in the northern part of Namibia, was home to the largest cattle ranches in the country, as suggested by its Herero name. Jack told David that on long journeys to the north, it was not wise to ignore its shops and conveniences.

  Stretching his legs in the town’s commercial center near a gas station, David remembered the fate that had befallen Benjamin’s people whenever he saw a Herero woman walking by. He was also amazed by the frequency with which he heard the German language. It seemed logical that the independent Namibia had chosen English as the country’s official idiom, thought David. It’s practically a neutral language.

  During the second part of the trip, Father Callaghan spoke of his interest in the San people. The Herero holocaust seemed like a distant tragedy, while the destiny of Earth’s oldest people felt like a personal and present calling. He felt a deep and direct kinship to the San, seeing clearly the genealogical line that linked the Kalahari to Ireland. At least that was what he wanted to see; a web that connected all humans, where individual dramas would quickly dissolve into a much more impersonal and universal misery.

  Just before dusk, the Toyota arrived in Grootfontein—a small miracle in light of failures in the electronic injection and loss of power. Grootfontein, in the country’s northeast region, was an even smaller town than Otjiwarongo. It had been founded by a hundred families of South African settlers who had planned to reach Angola but gave up when the territory fell under Portuguese rule. Although very green in summer due to above average rainfall, the town’s public areas were now quite dead. David lamented the lifeless jacaranda and other trees completely stripped of leaves, courtesy of the cold winter months.

  Benjamin parked the vehicle close to a surprisingly modern shopping mall. Not far from the spot, but inaccessible to the Toyota, a two-story house served as a logistical base for the team of scientists. The unloading of cargo began slowly and was a time-consuming and laborious task that fell to Benjamin and two other helpers. Meanwhile, inside the house, Jack introduced the Irish priest to his colleagues.

  “This i
s Father Callaghan, or simply David, as he prefers to be called.”

  “Nice to meet you, David,” said Dr. Ecklund, smiling with the lower part of his face only—a mere formality.

  The scientific project, authored by the Swedish anthropologist Andreas Ecklund, had been developed in partnership with Dr. Marie Steensen, his former Norwegian student at Lund University. Together, they had convinced a large Danish pharmaceutical company to allocate the necessary funds to a Nordic foundation for which they both worked. It had been no easy task, despite the intellectual brilliance and seductive charm of the young female doctor. The businessmen gave in to humanitarian pleas only when the duo committed to broadening the focus of the project to include the study of Hai//om medicinal plants and herbs, instead of just the preservation of their language. Dr. Andreas Ecklund and Dr. Marie Steensen agreed because the most important motive behind the research was neither one; their true intention never reached the negotiation table.

  To achieve the proposed goals, they secured the services of the North American linguistic anthropologist, Edward Freeman. Ed, as called by the team of researchers, was a man of noticeable presence, a Clark Gable of looks and moves. Contrary to the “King of Hollywood,” however, Dr. Freeman’s charm was not innate and needed a bit of push to work out, as well as a generous amount of resilience on the part of his pray.

  It fell to Jack, who defined himself as a holistic and self-taught anthropologist, to fill the gaps and, in particular, to satisfy the immediate interests of the sponsors. In short, he was the one in charge of researching the tribe’s traditional medicinal knowledge. He knew that the study of herbs and plants—the written records of which dated back to 5,000 years to the ancient Sumerians—was currently quite trendy due to the growing disenchantment with the synthetic and biomedical products of Western society.

  The task suited Jack well. He had as much difficulty explaining his unique concept of anthropology as limiting his field of activity, which often included metaphysical reasoning. Far beyond the knowledge of herbs and medicinal roots, Jack longed to broaden his study of Hai//om healing to its spiritual belief systems and traditions.