Baboons for Lunch

by James Michael Dorsey

  The king and I

  Of Email and Kings

  Once, I went to Africa in search of a king.

  I had met more than a few over the years, but there was only that one I ever made an effort to find.

  Several kings whose paths I crossed had appropriated the title while being mere chiefs, while others had bought and paid for the moniker. Ask as I might, it was always difficult to get a definitive answer as to what constituted being a chief as opposed to being a king, and it all seemed to come down to being able to get away with what they called themselves.

  So that is why Africa has so many kings. Some of them are some self-proclaimed, while others are hereditary, and they cover the spectrum from despot to enlightened ruler, but I had never before deliberately sought one out.

  The oral histories of Africa allow for personal interpretation and thus the expansion of the truth, and stories of great men usually carry much embellishment creating a chasm between the myth and the actual person. The stories I had heard of this king could only be called legendary; that he was a shape shifter, assuming the guise of a panther at night to prowl the tribal lands of his people. Some said he could fly, talk to animals, and was a gifted healer. They also said he was only a boy. Some said this king took the throne at age eleven, wise beyond his years, with worldly insight that far exceeded his isolated existence. Such a story begged to be followed.

  Centuries ago, the Kaan or Gaan people (pronounced Goon) depending on who is doing the spelling, migrated from Ghana into what is today the southwestern corner of Burkina Faso in West Africa, settling near the once bustling trade center of Loropini in an area of thick forests that is still pockmarked with gold mines. It is rather lawless to this day and has long been an area whose history is steeped in slavery, and, like its South African cousin, the diamond, Loropini gold has fueled its share of local genocides. Three centuries ago, the black kings of Benin, Burkina, and Togo, routinely rounded up their own people to sell them to white slavers from the new world, and today, indentured servitude is still prevalent in this part of Africa. Because of this, the Gaan people retreated deep into the hinterlands long ago.

  They are primarily animists and practitioners of voodoo, an ancient but local religion that permeates the eleven West African nations and remains the official belief system of Benin. The Gaan king is elected from and by members of the royal family, rules for life, and is the keeper of traditional fetishes that are the soul of Gaan beliefs. He is also polygamous; a benefit of wearing the crown.

  The Gaan were isolated from much of the world until the 1950s when the first paved roads appeared and photos from that era show them hunting in loincloths with bows and arrows, touched only by minimal white contact. Some neighboring tribes have recently been converted by Christian missionaries, but the Gaan have for the most part, steadfastly remained animists, turning their back on the modern world.

  Monsoon-clogged roads forced me to abandon my vehicle miles from my destination, stuck in mud up to the axles, forcing a bushwhack through millet fields dried by a scorching sun that included a close encounter with a puff adder.

  Hours and miles passed slowly, but in time I broke through into a clearing, my feet sloshing in the sweat inside my boots. Before me in a cleared field stood seven diminutive stone houses that could have accommodated Disney’s dwarfs. They were windowless and had door openings but no doors; each contained a seated clay effigy of a former king, each image inlaid with cowry shell eyes and mouth. Their grey pallor suggested I was viewing mummies that seemed lifelike enough to stand and accost me. I had stumbled onto the voodoo soul of the village, a ritual burial ground holding not the bodies of kings, but their magical essence. It was the Gaan place of ritual and source of the king’s power. It was there that he would seek the advice of his ancestors when the mantle of rule grew heavy or when he heeded a call to wander through the spirit world.

  I slowly went door to door, communing with a line of monarchs that stretched over 28 lives and centuries in time. One day, an effigy of the 29th and current king will join them. The place was his charge so I knew he was close. I did not linger, because in many tribal areas, violating a burial ground, even a virtual one, is a serious offense. I left an offering of salt, more for the benefit of prying eyes than my own beliefs.

  A tiny critter path through the millet was as good an exit as any that I followed for perhaps a hundred yards, passing several animal skulls nailed to trees. It was local gris-gris; voodoo fetishes that repel evil spirits, when suddenly, there before me was a village of mud and straw so perfectly camouflaged as to be part of the forest.

  I saw his majesty sitting placidly in a wooden deck chair under a shade tree. He was not a boy, but not yet fully a man either. His ebony skin was flawless and he had long thin fingers that would be at home on a piano keyboard, locked in clenched fists under his chin suggesting deep thought. His long caftan and skullcap did not betray his status, and none of the ostentatious trappings that usually accompany African royalty were in evidence. In fact, he had images of turkeys wearing pilgrim hats on his robe, so the king was cool. He turned to offer a slight smile at my approach, saying in French, “I knew you were coming, Papa.” “Papa” is a simple term of respect paid to most white-haired men in Africa and did not originate with Mr. Hemingway. I have earned it.

  His majesty’s simple phrase alluded to psychic abilities, but I knew countless people had seen me fighting my way through the bush, and no doubt the “jungle telegraph” had alerted him to my arrival. Still, that prophetic announcement added to his mystique of special knowledge while throwing me off balance.

  He motioned me to a bench in front of him while a lady approached from a nearby hut. She was dark and stately, dressed in a long elegant Western-style dress and sat at his side with her hand on his shoulder, introducing herself in English as his fourth wife and thus a queen. After our initial meeting, the king spoke directly to me in his native tongue, his black eyes never wavering in their stare, while his wife explained that he was in mourning for the death of one of his three other wives and not in the best of spirits, but his quick smile did not betray any such emotion.

  I could not help but notice the hood of an aging Nissan sedan poking out from behind another hut and wondered how such an appliance of the outer world had made its way to this place when my own four-wheel drive sat useless several miles away. I asked about the car, because I could see no signs of a usable road. He replied that it was a gift from his people, as though there are used car lots aplenty in the bush, and I decided not to pursue the subject as there were far more pressing topics to inquire of a king.

  Now most of the kings I have met in my travels had an angle. More than a few have cashed in on the proliferation of trekking companies that now seek them out, demanding set amounts of payment, usually so much per head, to give an “audience.” They will answer a few questions before a lackey appears announcing that matters of state are calling them away. Some trekking companies have elevated minor chiefs to kingship in exchange for higher payments. I had a wad of bills tucked inside my vest for this occasion, prepared as a loner, to be heavily shaken down, but money was never mentioned.

  I spoke with him, through her, of all manner of topics, from African politics to the health of our own families. Our conversation wandered up hill and down dale and survived the passing of hours. His most interesting question to me was about snow, asking what it felt like to be cold, as that was something he had never experienced. He asked about American reality television, saying that he thought all television was real, and when I registered surprise at his even knowing about television, he told me he had watched it in a hotel once during a trip to the big city of Ouagadougou. It also explained why he asked me if all American horses could talk. Still, when he asked how they made people small enough to fit into the box it was a great insight to his literal bushman’s thought process.

  When I asked his name I was told I would not be able to pronounce it, and that his true
name was known only to his people, for such knowledge in the hands of his enemies could harm him. That is voodoo.

  The king spoke in broad general terms reminding me of a seasoned politician addressing issues without committing to a specific point, and he often used parables as someone used to educating those of lesser knowledge, but referred to himself in the first person, eschewing the royal “we” so often preferred by self-important people. He had the self-assurance of one trained to be a royal, and I guess he had some formal education. Television aside, I found him to be enlightened on current topics for one who lived in such an isolated place. He possessed a quick wit and eloquence, but in no way struck me as a man of greatness. If he was either a shape shifter or gifted healer I got no sense of either.

  He came across as a benign ruler who loved his people and did what he thought best for them and in rural Africa it does not take much for a ruler to qualify as a great man. In a land filled with violent despots, a benevolent king would almost certainly be called great by his people, and in Africa, if you achieve greatness, legends quickly grow around you.

  Neither was he a disappointment, as we shared a fascinating conversation through the afternoon. His stare was so unwavering I thought he might peer into my soul as we talked, and I felt under different circumstances, we might even become friends. At one point he reached out and laid his hand on my arm in what I took as a simple gesture of friendship and brotherhood.

  Had he invited me to spend the night, I would have accepted, but no such invitation was forthcoming. Then I realized the villagers I had seen when I arrived had all disappeared during our lengthy conversation. It occurred to me only then that I might be unnerving to his people while keeping them from their king’s attention and I should not overstay my welcome.

  I paid respects to both king and queen, thanked them for their time, and stood to leave when he inquired about my vehicle, and showed great surprise when I told him it was parked miles away in thick mud.

  He said he could not allow his guest to walk so far and clapped his hands twice producing a small boy from a nearby hut who approached but would not make eye contact. The king whispered in his ear and the boy took off like a shot into the bush. His majesty informed me that the boy was a runner, sent to spread the word to his people who might have motorbikes to come and find me on the trail and take me back to my vehicle. I thanked him profusely and set out walking in hopes they would find me soon. Within minutes, I heard a terrible noise and turned to see the king’s aging sedan, belching smoke and chugging along over the rocky ground that passed for a trail. It looked and sounded like a ghost from a Mad Max movie. Its aging paint was sun faded to almost pure metal and its tires were smooth. I stopped as it pulled alongside me, and there behind the wheel sat his majesty. He flung open the door and motioned for me to get in.

  He was smiling broadly, proud to show off his ride, and I took in a panoramic view from the American flag deodorizer on the rear view mirror to the candy wrappers at my feet. I was obviously not this king’s first trekker and only then did I think perhaps this was how he intended to shake me down for cash but he never asked for money. Dust covered everything and it smelled rancid. I would bet that critters slept inside at night. The windows, if there were any, would not roll up and there was no door handle on my side. The king was secured by a seatbelt but I had none.

  I was not yet settled when the king popped the aging clutch with a neck-snapping jerk. It took a while for the old machine to get rolling, but when it did, his majesty swerved off the road and into the millet. Now for those not familiar with millet fields, they are plowed in neat rows, the furrows allowing water to reach the growing stalks on top of the speed bumps. Logic would have dictated that to drive through such a field you would go with the furrows, but his majesty chose instead to drive perpendicular to them, launching my head into the ceiling with each bump while he visibly enjoyed my suffering; in fact’ he began yelling with pure glee.

  A Cheshire cat grin covered his face as he drove like a tank commander. I waited to hear the snap of an axle, or crunch of a gas tank being ripped from its mooring. Birds took flight in panic and small creatures ran for their lives. We crashed through the jungle like some great prehistoric beast. In the tall dried fields, the king could not see ten feet in front of us and he was having the time of his life. It took a moment, but I got it.

  In the village, surrounded by his people, he was the noble leader, quiet and dignified, but there in the bush, behind the wheel of his car, he could be the young boy that still resided in the man’s body. Driving his car was his relief from the prison of rule and I was his excuse. We passed startled villagers, wide eyed and open mouthed, as they watched this strange white intruder bouncing along in the king’s car, many of them bowing as we passed, but most were too startled to move. Because of that, I probably, and hopefully, entered their oral history as a story.

  The king drove with complete abandon and realizing a moment like that would never come again, I surrendered to the now and joined him in howling at the forest spirits at the top of our lungs. I have never had a wilder or more exhilarating ride.

  We eventually broke through into a clearing and saw my vehicle ahead where I had left it, finally coming to a halt with a sliding, dust-scattering, brake-wrenching stop. How we found it with our meandering route is beyond me, but the king knew exactly where he was.

  His majesty smiled, gesturing toward my Land Rover as calmly as if asking me to take a seat at lunch.

  I set my camera in a tree branch and we took a selfie together and then he reached under his robe to hand me a small slip of paper. It was a Xerox with his photo on it and read, “His Majesty, the 29th King of the Gaan.” It also had a cell phone number.

  So there, under the broiling African sun, I exchanged business cards with a king who drove like a NASCAR veteran and got back into my own vehicle as he put his sedan into reverse and backed away with all the élan that had brought us there.

  I have often thought about that encounter and of the two sides of the person I had found. Many times I thought of calling his cell phone but knew the call would not go through, nor would he remember me even if I could speak his tongue.

  A couple years passed and one day I received an e-mail from the king. Where he got his connection from is anybody’s guess. Either he had learned impeccable English or it was written by another in his name, but I did not care. I could not believe he had kept my card and was reaching out to contact me. He asked if I had enjoyed the ride so it must have stood out in his mind.

  We write to each other every few weeks, not important things, just stuff like what snow feels like and whether horses can talk or not, and he told me his car had died not long after our ride. It seems that now, on special occasions and for ceremonies his people attach it to ropes and pull him along while he steers.

  Now at dinner parties, I tell people that I have an African king for a pen pal.

  I went to Africa to find a king. I became a story for his village and he became mine.

  Halis on a satellite phone in the Sahara

  The Sahara Dialogues

  For me, travel has long been the great equalizer.

  To voluntarily leave ones comfort zone and enter another culture, especially those more exotic and remote, is an act of courage that helps to define our place in the collective consciousness of man. Common ground is an elusive goal for diverse societies, because we are all separated by the minute nuances that define everyday life for each of us. I buried some of my differences in the sands of the Sahara Desert of Mali.

  Tuaregs were, in my mind, the last of the last great nomadic desert clans whose society was open to curious outsiders. At least they were until recently. It was my opportunity, as a white Western Christian, to enter the world of Islam, even if theirs was a watered-down version filtered through desert superstition. Since the early 1990s both government and outside factions have decimated the Tuaregs ranks and driven many into exile, the reasons for
which deserve their own retelling at another time. Most recently, an incursion by Al Qaeda has limited the country to all but the most intrepid explorers, and so this is a story of better times gone by.

  Tuaregs are a Berber ethnic group that range across several countries in North Africa and claim the Sahara Desert as their ancestral homeland. Each major clan calls their part of that desert by a different name and so, in Africa, it has many. Sahara is a term known only in Western countries. They are called “blue men” not because of their indigo robes and turbans (tagelmoust), but because they employ the ink of sea urchins to create the luminous color that in time, saturates the pores of their skin, rendering it permanently blue. I believe them to be the only Islamic faction in which the men cover their faces and the women do not. They entered written history in the fifth century b.c., when the Greek historian Herodotus called them Canaanites or Garamantes, depending on who is interpreting.

  They refer to themselves as Imohag (free people) who are fiercely independent and, while some have moved into cities, those who choose life in the Sahel remain warriors of the first order. For more than two millenniums, the have controlled the Trans-Saharan camel caravans whose gold, salt, and slaves have driven the economy of much of Africa. Their oral histories speak of warfare and foreign invasions. I found my own personal Tuareg, Halis Al Moctar, during an internet search, and was surprised to find that he operated out of an internet café in Timbuktu, running day trips into the local Sahel.

  At first, he was taken aback by my request to live with and travel among his people, but he eventually agreed, as intrigued by me as I was of him. Shuttling tourists about did not fit my image of a desert lord, but I was not exactly the day-tripping, camera-toting tourist he was used to either. So, after an epic exchange of e-mails I felt that perhaps I had found my guide, not too war-like and not too citified, a middle of the road Tuareg, if you will. He was my logical shot at entering that society and to make the trip happen, I had to put absolute blind faith in some stranger eventually. Only after we had agreed to travel together did it occur to me that I was voluntarily putting myself under control of Sharia law; me; a white Western Christian infidel, far, far from home.