Everyone laughed, which helped calm our nerves just a little.
“I second that vote,” said Jubjub.
“Agreed,” Chocs said. “No more stopping for rhinos.”
Chocs asked my mom if she wanted to return to camp for a rest, but she insisted we continue the day as planned. Chocs then jumped into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition. Much to our surprise, the jeep started.
“I can’t believe it still works after taking such a beating,” my dad said.
“These jeeps are rhino proof,” Chocs said with a smile.
I rested my head against the back of the seat and closed my eyes. We were safe. After such a terrible scare, that’s a good feeling. But how long will it last? As the desert sun warmed my face, I considered just how much I had underestimated the risk you take when exploring the wilds of Africa. No matter how thorough your knowledge of animal behavior, you never really know what they’re going to do. One predator might pay no attention to you. Another might tear you apart. As my mom later said, “A safari is safe… until it isn’t.”
GANNON
I thought for sure I’d be having nightmares about that crazy rhino rampage for the rest of my life. I literally couldn’t stop my hands from shaking. I even sat on them to hide the fact that I was trembling from Wyatt, but the shakes traveled right up my arms and I started to think that maybe I’d suffered some sort of trauma and would need to get professional help to recover from this whole thing, but the moment we arrived at the Bushmen village all of my fear totally disappeared.
Dozens of children ran to the jeep as we drove up. They were cheering and clapping and when I climbed out of the vehicle the kids surrounded me and were tugging at my arms and wrapping themselves around my legs and laughing and shouting. One of the kids even jumped on my back and I gave him a piggyback ride into the village. I honestly felt like a celebrity being mobbed by a group of crazed fans.
Our new friends, the Naru Bushmen
In the village, the kids scattered, and we were greeted by the elders. They all nodded and bowed slightly and we all shook hands. This tribe has about eighty people, Chocs told us, and about thirty of them are children. One of the things that stood out to me was that some of the kids were basically wearing loincloths and nothing else even though it was still really cold outside. There was one small boy that was shivering and I knelt down beside him and hugged him to warm him up. He felt like an ice cube and his nose was running and he had this hacking cough and I really wanted to give him my jacket, but was afraid that giving it to one kid might be a problem when there were so many in the village who could use it. Still, I was about to take it off and put it over him when an elder woman noticed the boy shivering and came over. She wrapped him tightly in a blanket and wagged her finger at him and said a few words in the Bushmen language, which, if I had to guess, probably translated to something like: “Are you crazy wearing only that loincloth in this cold?”
A traditional Bushmen hut
Not all of the Bushmen were almost naked. Some were draped in homemade blankets with colorful patterns and still others wore random hand-me-downs that I guessed had been donated by previous visitors. One kid even had a New York Yankees baseball cap on his head. I wondered what this Bushmen child might think if he went to a baseball game in Yankee Stadium. It’d probably be so strange to him he’d think he had traveled to another planet.
An older man, his face creased with deep lines, gestured to us, sweeping his hand across the horizon—a welcome invitation, Chocs said, for us to tour the village.
The village had about ten mud huts and when I say mud I mean mud. To build a hut, Jubjub explained, branches and sticks are put into the ground and then mud is packed all around and when the mud hardens it’s almost like concrete. A couple windows are cut out using sharp handmade tools and then more branches and sticks are propped on top for a roof. In the center of the village was a courtyard where women were making all kinds of crafts that they sell to visitors, like beaded jewelry and ornaments and stuff like that. A few hundred feet away from the living area was a small chicken coop with twenty or so chickens clucking around and a separate fenced area with a few scruffy looking goats.
As we walked through the courtyard, the children surrounded us again and started singing and dancing. I got some video footage of their performance, but after a few minutes I put away the camera and joined the festivities. They were all having so much fun and every one of them had a big smile on their face, and I couldn’t help myself, I just had to be part of it, so I danced into the circle and was humming along to their melody the best I could and stomping my feet in the dirt and snapping my fingers and doing the occasional spin move. The kids all slapped their knees and laughed hysterically as I put on a show. Wyatt eventually joined in too, and they laughed even harder at him, which is understandable, because he dances like some kind of rusty old robot that’s in desperate need of a good oiling.
I really wished that I spoke the Bushmen’s language so I could have conversations with everyone, but other than the Bushmen, I was told that not many people do. It’s made up of sounds and clicks and it’s all verbal, meaning there is no written version that you can study. Still, we were able to overcome the language barrier thanks to Chocs and Jubjub, who had spent enough time with the Bushmen to be able to translate some of their language into English. After we finished dancing and I had caught my breath, I asked Jubjub to translate a song the kids were singing so that I could write the lyrics in my journal, but she said this particular song didn’t contain actual words, only sounds from a song ancestors had been singing since before a Bushmen language even existed. That totally blew my mind!
My mom was so taken by the children that she volunteered to lend a hand to the villagers who had just started building a new, bigger school hut so that more children could attend. The Bushmen way of life seemed so simple and carefree and the children were all so happy even though they had almost no possessions. Seeing how they were so content made me wonder why they even needed a school. Jubjub told me that the younger generation was encouraged to get an education so that they could learn to negotiate with the government to keep certain lands free from private ownership, otherwise they would continue to be run off by ranch owners and have no place to live.
“The Bushmen’s traditional way of life is under threat,” Jubjub said. “Sadly, it’s a dying culture.”
WYATT
AUGUST 22, 4:35 PM
KALAHARI DESERT
20° CELSIUS, 68° FAHRENHEIT
SKIES CLEAR, WIND CALM
After we toured the Bushmen village, an elder woman led us into the desert with some of the children to show us how they gather food and water. We walked slowly, stepping cautiously over the dusty, dry land. I wasn’t sure what the Bushmen were looking for, but I was keeping a sharp eye out for three things:
1) rhinos, for obvious reasons
2) spiders, which can be huge and poisonous in the Kalahari
3) black mambas, one of the most venomous snakes on earth
About a half hour into the trek, the elder woman bent over and picked up a brown twig about four inches long. She held it up and called to her children. They all gathered around and began digging in the spot where she had found the twig.
“When they find this particular twig,” Jubjub explained, “they know that there is water underneath.”
Searching for water in the Kalahari
How she spotted that twig, I have no idea. To me, it looked just like every other twig in the Kalahari, but she knew that because this twig was a slightly lighter shade than the others, it meant there was water below it. I watched as they dug, expecting them to uncover a natural spring. But after digging a two-foot hole, there was still no water in sight. Instead, they removed a round gourd the size of a basketball. They then took a long stick and began rubbing it over the gourd’s surface, creating a pulp that they piled up in the dirt. Once they had a handful of pulp, they packed it into a ball, held it over the
ir mouths and squeezed. Sure enough, water dripped from the pulp. Each handful of pulp produced about an ounce of water.
It amazed me, the work that went into getting a single sip of water. I felt guilty about having two liters of bottled water in my backpack. Watching the Bushmen drink from the shaved gourd, it made me sick to think of how much water most of us waste every day. We take long showers, leave the faucet running, and dump out the rest of a glass of water when we’re no longer thirsty. Truth is, we take water for granted. I swore to myself then and there that I’d never again waste another drop.
GANNON
LATE AFTERNOON
Sitting here against the trunk of this thorny bush, looking out at this stark desert landscape of rocks and sand and bony shrubs, watching the Bushmen share a potato they just dug out of the dirt, the concept of a restaurant or grocery store where food and drinks are available in such abundance is almost hard to imagine. Thank heavens they exist, though, because trekking through the bush this afternoon something has become very obvious—if I had to survive in the Kalahari, alone, I’d be buzzard meat in no time flat. No ifs, ands, or buts. Even if I were taught how to find those tiny twigs in the sand and dig up a gourd, I’d still be in trouble. I mean, you’d have to find ten a day just to squeeze out a couple glasses’ worth of water. And let’s be honest here, it’s not really water. Calling it water is like calling asparagus a candy cane. It’d be more accurate to call it “a milky-type, pulpy liquid that’s really bitter” or, if that’s too long, “gourd juice” would probably get the point across just as well. Sampling a few drops, I had to turn away to hide the fact that I was gagging. The Bushmen are able to exist on very little water, so a few sips a day is really all they need to survive, but that wouldn’t work so well for me.
Along with the gourd and potatoes, the Bushmen collected a bag full of sticks that they use to clean their teeth. One of the boys gave me a demonstration, scrubbing his teeth with the stick just like you would with a toothbrush. These sticks must work pretty well because most of the Bushmen have great teeth and I think it’s safe to say that there aren’t any dentists out here in the Kalahari.
The elder woman is satisfied with all that we’ve found and has plopped down in the sand to smoke a cigarette. Out of respect, we are all sitting around and waiting patiently until she is finished. The tobacco, Chocs said, was a gift from previous visitors. I could think of a much better gift for the Bushmen than cigarettes, but I’m going to keep my mouth shut.
WYATT
AUGUST 23, 5:53 AM
KALAHARI DESERT, EDO’S CAMP
4° CELSIUS, 40° FAHRENHEIT
SKIES CLEAR, WIND 5-10 MPH
It’s not even light yet, but my dad is already up and preparing for a day photographing the white rhinos. In spite of our frightening encounter yesterday, he can’t wait to get up close and personal with the beasts. He’s also set up an easel near the watering hole, so that he can make a painting when the rhinos come to drink in the evening.
My mom, obviously wanting nothing to do with rhinos, is going to go back to the Bushmen village to begin building the school hut.
I am going to join Chocs and my dad on their rhino expedition. Gannon is going back to the Bushmen village with Jubjub and mom. It was tough for me to decide what I wanted to do today. Both are unique adventures, not to mention tremendous learning experiences, so I decided to divide my time down the middle. Today I’ll go in search of the rhinos; tomorrow I’ll go to the Bushmen village.
GANNON
AUGUST 23
JUST AFTER BREAKFAST
When I got to the dining tent this morning for breakfast, I had the pleasure of meeting Tcori (Te-cor-ee), another member of the Bushmen tribe who had just returned from an expedition in the Okavango Delta.
Tcori is the son of the elder I met the day before. Like his father he is skinny and short, probably no more than five feet tall, if I had to guess. Also like his father, Tcori’s face is weathered and marked with lines from years of exposure to the harsh African sun. It would be pretty difficult to guess how old he is, because his body is lean and muscular and could easily pass for the body of a teenager, but his face, with all the lines, looks a lot older. When I asked, Jubjub explained that Tcori didn’t know his age because the Bushmen don’t follow any sort of calendar so they have no way of knowing how old they are. Bushmen, I guess, have no use for such information. I kind of like that. No calendar, no birthday, no age. It made me think, what’s it really matter anyway?
Tcori wears a tan cloth wrapped around his waist and a beaded necklace and like the other Bushmen, his feet are small, coarse, and bare. I can’t imagine walking around the Kalahari without shoes. I mean, it seems totally insane to me. The bottoms of my feet would be torn to shreds before I’d taken ten steps, but after I watched Tcori walk over thorn bushes, jagged rocks, and hot sand without even seeming to notice, I realized that a pair of shoes would be of no use to him. A lifetime of walking through the desert has made the soles of his feet as tough as leather. I’d be willing to bet Wyatt’s beloved microscope that Tcori could walk over hot coals without even flinching.
The most fascinating thing about Tcori isn’t that he walks around barefoot. It’s that he carries a spear. I kid you not. An honest-to-goodness spear. The neck of the spear is made from a Marula branch that has been shaved smooth and the arrow is carved out of elephant bone. As I looked at it, all jagged and sharp and stained with blood, I couldn’t help but wonder just how many times he’d used it to bring home food to his people in the village. We were told that Tcori was one of the last remaining hunters in his tribe.
After Tcori had been introduced to everyone, we learned that he had come to us with a message. While in the delta, he got wind that a poacher had shot and wounded a female lion and to make matters worse, the lioness had four young cubs! The lions were able to escape from the poacher, but he was tracking them and would definitely finish the job if someone didn’t stop him.
Hearing this news just about sent me off the deep end. I literally couldn’t stop pacing around and running my hands through my hair like a nervous lunatic. I mean, how could someone do something like that? There was no question in my mind: it was up to us to save the lions!
“If we don’t help them, who will?” I yelled. “You heard Tcori! The poacher will catch the lioness and her cubs before long, and when he does he’ll kill them! Come on, we have to do something!”
If Chocs hadn’t settled me down, I would have probably jumped in a truck and sped off to the airstrip by myself. I tend to react passionately when something is really important to me. Some people might even say I overreact. Maybe I do. Whatever. That’s just the way I’m wired, I guess. Anyway, the rest of our group was more levelheaded. We all sat down in the dining tent and discussed our options. Right now, Chocs is trying to reach a local pilot on the radio to see if he is available to fly us to the Okavango Delta.
WYATT
AUGUST 23, 9:14 AM
KALAHARI DESERT, EDO’S CAMP
16° CELSIUS, 60° FAHRENHEIT
SKIES CLEARING, WIND 5-10 MPH
Typically, humans shouldn’t interact with wild animals under any circumstances. It’s an unwritten law. In the wilderness, we must allow nature to take its course. But this is different. The lioness was shot by a poacher. And being shot illegally, with a high-powered rifle, is not an act of nature in my book. If the lioness had been injured in some other way, say, for example, she had broken her leg and was dying because she could not hunt for food, we would not get involved. That may seem cruel, but again, it’s the law of nature, and we’ve learned that in Africa no animal ever dies in vain. They feed off one another. When one animal dies, it helps another animal survive. It’s the circle of life in action.
The lioness will not live long with a gunshot wound. This puts her cubs at great risk. For the first year of their lives, lion cubs feed on their mother’s milk, and these cubs are only a few weeks old. If the mother dies, so will the cubs. Even
if they are able to escape the poacher, they will face the danger of another predator. Most people think lions aren’t challenged in the wild. But lions actually have an enemy who is strong enough to attack and kill them. That enemy is the hyena, and there are thousands of them on the delta.
“Some experts estimate there to be fewer than 30,000 lions left in the wild today,” Chocs told us. “Their numbers have decreased significantly since the early 1990s, when it was believed the lion population was over 100,000.”
Learning this only confirmed what I already knew. We had to help these lions!
Chocs, Jubjub and Tcori are loading up a jeep with a week’s worth of supplies: food, water, tents, sleeping bags and a medical kit. I also saw Chocs packing a rifle, which makes me a little nervous. I suppose it’s better to have a rifle and not need it, than to need one and not have it. I’m always up for adventure, but our safari has turned into something much more serious.
My parents gave the thumbs-up for Gannon and me to go along, provided Chocs promised to keep us at a safe distance from the wildlife.
“I assure you,” Chocs said to my parents, “we will take every precaution. Tcori knows the bush better than anyone. If we searched the continent over, we could not find a better guide. Should you allow your sons to join us, it will be a tremendous learning experience for them.”
I think it was this last part about it being a learning experience that ultimately sold my parents.
Jubjub is going, too. However, she will stay at the main camp and act as our radio contact while we search for the lioness. The radio antenna at camp sends a signal as far as Maun, so Jubjub will be able to contact the authorities if we run into trouble.
I need to finish up this journal entry and check to make sure that I’ve packed all the necessary supplies. In less than an hour, we will make our way to the airstrip, where a pilot will be waiting to fly us to the Okavango Delta. From there, we will embark on our mission. I can’t ignore the fact that we are venturing into a hostile environment. There will be predators, snakes, disease-carrying insects, and venomous spiders, any of which could bring our expedition to a disastrous end. I am confident, however, that with Tcori’s guidance we will be safe and our mission to save the lioness and her cubs will be successful.
Botswana Page 3