Edge of the Rain

by Beverley Harper

  ‘Okay. But I think you should get advice. If you start fiddling with nature anything could happen.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Why don’t you go to the University of the Witwatersrand. They have an Institute for the Study of Man in Africa which is headed by the same man who is Chairman of the Kalahari Research Committee. Someone told me about him the other day. If he can’t help you he can probably put you in touch with someone who can.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘I don’t know but I can find out tomorrow.’ She frowned. He noticed she did that whenever she was deep in thought. It made her look sort of serious yet like a little girl at the same time. She stopped frowning suddenly and looked at him. ‘How about water? That’s a constant problem for the San. You told me there’s subterranean water all through the Kalahari. Couldn’t bore holes be put down or water pumped to them in some way? Then they might even be able to plant their own crops.’

  He shook his head. ‘Water’s a good idea but it brings about the same problem. They’re hunters and gatherers. If they start planting their own crops they’d stop wandering.’

  ‘I’ll get that name for you tomorrow. I think you’d better get yourself down to Pretoria and talk to this man as soon as possible.’

  He was not able to see Professor Tobias as he was on a lecture tour in Canada and the United States and not expected back for four months. But he made an appointment to see an Associate Professor in the same medical school at the university who told him, ‘The Bushmen need protection. Some disruption, and some influence from outside is inevitable. You’ve virtually said it yourself. Death by any means is nothing more or less than death. But death by starvation because a man has gone blind when his sight might have been saved is downright neglectful. And as for water changing their way of life, we have found that the nomadic Bushmen prefer their hunting, gathering ways. There’s nothing wrong with giving them an option for when times are hard. I’m sorry Professor Tobias is not here. He would be more helpful. But I know he would tell you that any scheme which enables the Bushmen to integrate with others yet retain their own cultural coherence should be encouraged.’

  She smiled at him. ‘In that feasibility study of yours, you might like to include some suggestions as to how the Bushmen can govern their own affairs. No-one else should be allowed to interfere. They’re extremely moral people and quite capable of developing a governing system which can straddle their own culture as well as the laws of Bechuanaland. Inflicting our rules on them will not only confuse and anger them, but will ultimately bastardise their own codes. Then you’ve got a real problem.’

  Alex chewed on the inside of his lip. ‘Are you sure about this? I mean, is it a good thing? It seems to me that every action has a counteraction. I want to help them, not go down in history as the man who destroyed their ways.’

  ‘They have to change, young man, just as everyone else has had to change. They can’t be preserved in a time warp. Just remember to keep any changes in line with their ethos. In my experience, they’ll be quick to reject anything they have a problem with anyway.’

  ‘They are like that aren’t they? They have a sense of who they are and it gives them self-respect.’

  She smiled again. ‘A public relations exercise wouldn’t go astray. People need to understand them. Your study should provide for that.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Alex said, rising. ‘I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me.’

  She rose as well. ‘What are you proposing to do for the farm Bushmen?’

  Alex grinned at her. ‘Give me a break, lady. I’m not qualified at all for this. All I want to do is help my friends.’

  She stared at him seriously. ‘Young man, you are probably more qualified than anyone else I know. You think like them. Take your scheme and go for it. Formally trained you may not be, but at least you are doing something. And that, young man, is more than anyone else has done.’

  ‘She may have a point,’ he thought, as he left the building. ‘I just hope I’m doing the right thing.’

  His time with the clan showed him they were content. In their own eyes, they didn’t need help. But Alex could see what they couldn’t. They were losing more and more of their traditional hunting and gathering lands to game reserves and dry land farming. Cattle breeders, experimenting and testing, were coming up with hardy beasts able to survive in the desert. In an ever-changing world, the inevitable losers would be the San unless something could be done.

  Payment, in the form of medical clinics and water wells, was only the beginning. Alex knew that, ultimately, the San would probably develop a cash economy, the same as everyone else. As soon as that happened, the old ways would start to change. It saddened him to think that in order to help them, he was also helping to destroy their unique culture. But he could not sit back and wait for progress to destroy it. The San had to be ready.

  In June 1964, just a month after Alex started work on his project, Britain accepted the new constitution. Four months later, considerably out of pocket having paid for preliminary work to a catalogue which included the taking of hundreds of colour photographs, and having purchased a mailing list of all the major craft and curio shops in South Africa, Britain, America and Europe, Alex went back to see Sir Peter Fawcus.

  ‘Awfully busy today, young man. Tell you what, go and talk to the Social and Economic Development Committee, they’ll put your mind at rest about aid.’

  This time Alex was ready for him. ‘It’s not the bloody aid money, sir, it’s . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes, you’d like some reimbursement I’m sure. Can’t say I blame you.’ He pressed the button, rose and put out his hand, ‘Show Mr Theron out, there’s a good girl.’

  Jesus! He’d done it again. This time he’d only lasted thirty seconds. But as he left the building he realised that Sir Peter Fawcus, for all his briskness, had once again hit the nail right on the head.

  Expecting another frustrating delay, he telephoned the Social and Economic Development Committee for an appointment and was amazed when they not only agreed to see him the next day but also mentioned that Sir Peter Fawcus had been in touch with them about his plans and had recommended they hear him out.

  Up till that point, Alex had not discussed his project fully with anyone other than Chrissy. He had mentioned it in passing to many but, in the feverish activity affecting everyone in the lead up to independence, no-one had the time to stop and listen. Therefore, he had no real yardstick by which to judge the validity of his proposals, he simply had an urge to help the San. So it came as some surprise to him when the Social and Economic Development Committee not only listened carefully to his plans, but agreed to refund most of the money he had spent to date and urged him to proceed with the production of a catalogue, mail it out and come back to them with the responses. Encouraged, Alex decided to include the tannery suggestion in his feasibility study despite the Chiefs’ lack of support.

  Suddenly Bechuanaland was flush with money and brimming with projects. Britain was embarrassed by the impoverished land they had administered, halfheartedly tried to improve, failed with, and then gladly handed back. Doubtful as to how a country with a Gross National Product of less than fifteen million pounds could survive, the British government found they had all sorts of aid money available for all sorts of projects.

  It wasn’t only Britain’s money either. The World Health Organisation, whose mandate was to improve the health of all countries and control disease by the collection of information, training, and guidance of all kinds, chipped in to the tune of five million pounds of general aid money, and quite coincidentally specified that special clinics be set up for the San. The Museum of Primitive Art in New York was good for 80,000 American dollars, no strings attached. They had their sights set on the Bushmen rock paintings but carefully didn’t mention it. The National Assembly continued to contribute and the United Nations, with a nod and a wink, or in some cases, a vigorous shove in the back, directed dozens of organisations’ aid packages to Africa’
s newest, about-to-be independent country. Alex’s project, the Social and Economic Development Committee told him, was high on the list for special funding. Not, as he was quick to realise, because anyone gave a damn about the San people, but because they wanted to be perceived as giving a damn.

  A month after he had been given official approval for his scheme a row blew up between the Chiefs and the new administration. The Chiefs were losing power and they didn’t like it. Any attempt Alex made to have land allocated to his tannery failed. Alex tried again to find land in Molepolole. Angrily, the Chief told him the land was no longer his to give and referred him to the District Council. The District Council did not think it was theirs to give either and sent him to the Land Board. The Land Board had not been set up long enough for them to know if it was theirs to give and suggested he try someone in Central Government. And Central Government, with its mind on other things, claimed never to have heard of his scheme.

  Finally a House of Chiefs was formed, legislation relating to tribal land falling under their mandate. Or so Alex thought. After several months someone was considerate enough to inform him that, while the House of Chiefs would examine his request for land, they could only make recommendations which Parliament was not obliged to act on.

  And so the wheels of impending independence ground on, delaying him at nearly every turn.

  Independence had not been a matter of going to bed one night in Bechuanaland and waking the next day in Botswana. From June 1964, when the proposed constitution was accepted by Britain, events behind the scenes worked towards full independence but progress was slow. The first house-to-house census was conducted and, by the end of 1964, voters had been registered in thirty-one separately defined constituencies. Shadow ministries were created and, in February 1965, the seat of government was transferred from Mafeking to the new capital Gaborone, changed from Gaberones, the colonial administration’s incorrect name for Chief Gaborone’s village. The following month full internal self-government became reality and in the first ever elections, Seretse Khama and his Bechuanaland Democratic Party won a sweeping victory, taking twenty-eight of thirty-one seats.

  On 30 September 1966, the independent Republic of Botswana’s flag was raised for the first time. Three weeks earlier, as he worked late at night in his office, South Africa’s Prime Minister, Hendrick Frensch Verwoerd was stabbed to death by a white parliamentary messenger, sparing him the pain of seeing the emergence of yet another independent black country, this one rather closer to South Africa than he would have liked. The murder barely raised a ripple in a Bechuanaland gearing itself for the most important day ever.

  After eighteen months of thinking, planning, setting up markets, working out distribution details, talking to the clans and producing an eighty-page document in support of his proposals, Alex’s cock, as Marv would say, was on the chopping block. The external funding had stopped. Now it was down to the Botswana government to accept or reject the project. And it was down to him to get them to back it.

  ‘. . . so you see, if this plan is implemented the San have a place in the new Botswana which does not jeopardise their lifestyle. They want to be involved. They want better conditions. And they’re happy to contribute their skills in exchange for this. We could open a Bushmen curio shop here in Gaborone to sell their craft.’

  ‘I see you have put a great deal of work and thought into this scheme.’ Timon Setgoma flipped his hand towards the eighty-page feasibility study. ‘What’s the bottom line?’

  Alex passed him a single sheet of paper. Timon adjusted his glasses and read it thoroughly before passing it across the table to the head of the Kweneng District Council. He in turn read it before passing it to the man next to him who was in charge of the Kgalagadi District Council. Alex held his breath. Their support was vital. Although their responsibilities lay mainly in providing schools, health facilities, water supplies and in maintaining roads, the activities he was proposing would affect many people in a fairly large proportion of their territory. Both men gave the sheet of figures a cursory glance before passing it back to Timon. Alex realised neither of them would voice an opinion until they learned what Timon thought.

  ‘The San are not commercially orientated,’ Timon said.

  ‘Only because they’ve never had the chance.’

  ‘Money will ruin their culture.’

  ‘They already sell spears and things to buy tobacco. They won’t expect much money. They’ve indicated to me that clinics and a better water supply will be more than enough payment.’

  Timon stabbed his finger at an item on the sheet. ‘Why do you need so much money to set up a tannery?’

  The bargaining had begun.

  Three hours later he emerged from the meeting dazed, elated and charged with excitement. It had gone better than he’d hoped. Financial support for his scheme would be forthcoming but not without some concessions.

  The head of the Kgalagadi District Council wanted the tannery in Ghanzi where, it seemed, half his extended family were out of work. Timon Setgoma overruled his demand and Alex got a tannery site in Molepolole but, to appease the head of the Kgalagadi Council, Timon promised that distribution of skins to predetermined pick-up points throughout the desert would be the responsibility of a small cartage company in Ghanzi which just happened to belong to the councillor’s half-brother.

  To assist the San, and to ensure that money did not have to change hands, the government would buy skins from the abattoir and finance the tannery. The Bushmen therefore did not have to purchase leather. Instead, skins would be labelled and recorded in a register. Anybody participating in the scheme would be allotted three skins at any one time. The finished products had to equal in bulk, the equivalent of these three skins, with a reasonable adjustment made for waste. Artifacts sold had to cover the cost of the subsidised leather and contribute to the running of the tannery. Anything left over would go into a special fund and be used, alongside a small amount of aid money, for clinics and water supplies.

  The rest of the curios, those made from anything other than skins, were, for the moment, the responsibility of the Bushmen. ‘One thing at a time,’ Timon said, when Alex argued. ‘We’re prepared to subsidise skins. If this scheme works, we’ll look at beads and paints and all the rest you have in your recommendations.’

  ‘What about the other side of it?’ Alex asked. ‘The self-administration aspect and the public relations campaign?’

  Timon removed his glasses and looked at him. ‘Mr Theron,’ he said patiently. ‘We are an emerging country. We’ve only just got our independence. Do you, in all faith, imagine we’re likely to hand the smallest shred of control to anyone else?’

  Alex was frustrated and looked it.

  ‘We take your point, Mr Theron,’ Timon continued. ‘You’ve got some good recommendations in here. But for now the Bushmen will have to accept that, like the rest of Botswana, they are at the receiving end of . . . well . . . let’s just call it an experiment.’

  As for the proposed Bushman curio shop in Gaborone, he was advised to wait until market acceptance and demand had been established through existing outlets outside Botswana.

  ‘Besides,’ Timon said, smiling slightly, ‘Botswana at this stage is hardly a tourist mecca. I think the curio shop is a little before its time.’

  Alex thought that was fair enough.

  He was put in overall charge of the project and given an office in a building occupied by the Town Council. It was cramped and dark but it gave him access to a secretary, photocopying, telephones and a mail box. He still had a lot of work to do before the project was actually operating.

  Chrissy and Alex saw Marv and Pru occasionally, either visiting them at their farm or, more often, when they came down to Gaborone. Marv had taken to farming as though he were born for it. With his practical nature and mechanical aptitude, there was nothing he wasn’t prepared to tackle. The house had been extended twice already in anticipation of starting a family which, while everything else w
as working well for Marv and Pru, was something which seemed to be causing some difficulties.

  ‘It’s not as if we’re not trying,’ Marv confided to Alex.

  Marv had quickly learned the jargon of the cattle world and had a canny knack of buying the right beasts at the right prices. His life, as Alex observed with no rancour, was happiness from the moment he woke in the morning to the moment he fell asleep at night. He loved his cattle, his farm and his wife, not necessarily in that order. All he needed to make his life complete was a child.

  Paul, freshly graduated from university in Basutoland, had returned to Gaborone and was immediately taken on as an economist by the Ministry of Finance. The Minister, Quett Masire, was also the country’s Vice President.

  Alex and Chrissy saw quite a lot of Paul. With his economist training, it was Paul who worked out the figures for Alex’s feasibility study. Paul believed the scheme had a great deal of potential.

  ‘I’d put in a good word for you at work but it would look a little obvious,’ he said.

  Kel and his Uncle Ben had tried to get finance for their diamond project from the Ministry of Finance. ‘Dr Masire had them thrown out,’ Paul told Alex gleefully. ‘I think they’re running into financial trouble.’ Alex, very involved in his own scheme, was pleased to discover that the only emotion Paul’s news evoked was indifference.

  Chrissy’s work had taken longer than anticipated but she was almost finished. The museum had a special room for her photographic display of the Tsodilo Hills rock paintings. The brief description, explanation as to materials used, cultural significance and dating of the paintings which were displayed under the photographs did not do justice to the months of patient research she had undertaken for each. She had been asked to stay on and help in the museum and art gallery. So far she had declined to accept. Alex did not push her. He knew her well enough by now to know she would make up her own mind in her own time.