Heart of the World: Missing Africa
July 30th 2008 08:36
Six months ago, I travelled to Africa with two close friends. Some of the experiences we had there will be with me for a lifetime. Here is Part 1 of the first of many fictionalised tales of our trip...
It was late and I was in my tent. My mind’s eye flickered over the pages of The Picture of Dorian Gray when the boy called me over to the fence. It bordered the Karatu Wildlife Park where our tour group of Australians, New Zealanders and Canadians camped for the night. Earlier, from behind the same fence, the bleating herald of an East African goat had woken me.
There was a gap in rotted wood and two shiny brown marbles beamed curiosity at me through its splinters.
“Hey,” he said – called, actually – with urgency.
“What?” I defended, rarely prepared for urgency.
“Pez-far-khool,” he said.
I was sure I’d misheard.
“I can’t hear you.”
Susceptible to the oddities that galvanise even the most mundane daily routine, I rushed toward the fence; but once I was there, the boy disappeared from his spy-hole in the broken wood with the sharp, shrill giggle a morning bird. I kneeled and put my face close to the splinters.
“Where are you?” I called.
“Here,” he cried.
I met the boy face-to-face for the first time, up close, and there was nothing to do but smile. He giggled again – shrill but sweet, a harp being plucked in welcome – then blinked shyly, with his eyes to the ground.
“What is your name?” The question had been on my lips. Coming out of shyness, he still beat me to it.
“Jason.”
“That is a good name,” he reassured me.
“Thank you,” I said. “What is your name?”
Before I finished, he had disappeared behind the fence again. I waited for him to quickly return and try and surprise me into more smiles. Ten seconds passed and he did not return.
“Hey, where did you go?”
“Here!” he called from about a dozen palings up. There was another spy-hole.
I shuffled even faster this time and put my forehead to the splinters once again.
“What is your name?”
“I am Siah,” he replied.
“Sire,” I repeated.
I was no longer talking to a farm boy but a Tanzanian boy-king, I told myself. I felt foreign and uncertain for the first time since I arrived on the continent.
“Was that your goat that woke me earlier?”
“Yes,” Sire said. “He is very smart.”
“Meh-zunguuuuu!” bellowed the goat.
“Come here, Gamba!” called Sire.
“What does Gamba mean?” I asked.
“Warrior,” Sire informed me without taking his eyes from the goat.
“Meeeeeeh-zunguuuuu!”
The goat seemed jealous of the attention I was getting. It came through in the tone of his bleat, the same tone locals often gave naďve foreigners when they tried to speak pidgin versions on their language.
“Is he annoyed with me?” I asked.
“No, he likes you,” Sire said, assuredly. “Mzungu means White-person. He wants to take us to the Serengeti. My people are expecting you there.”
“Who are your people?”
“The Maasai.”
At the mention of his people, I lost patience at the child’s game. I had encountered enough Masai in East Africa to have bought every hand-made or hand-woven piece of jewellery I ever wanted. Their authenticity was questionable, and I certainly wasn’t going to be cornered and forced to buy jewellery in the middle of the night. I was in no mood to care for barter or the forced condescension of my own voice.
“Oh, no. I’m sorry, Sire,” I said. “I have to get back. I cannot leave here. My family is sleeping and I need to be here when they wake.”
“Jason,” he said in a voice of frustration beyond his years. Frustration born from the rich, haughty tones of travelling Mzungus. “Trust me. We will be back before dawn. It will be fine. Gamba is very fast.”
The goat appeared next to Sire at the second spy-hole. He was wearing a Masai robe that appeared black and red in the darkness, and held the bladed staff of a warrior in his mouth.
Siah: Encounter with a Karatu King (Part 1)
It was late and I was in my tent. My mind’s eye flickered over the pages of The Picture of Dorian Gray when the boy called me over to the fence. It bordered the Karatu Wildlife Park where our tour group of Australians, New Zealanders and Canadians camped for the night. Earlier, from behind the same fence, the bleating herald of an East African goat had woken me.
There was a gap in rotted wood and two shiny brown marbles beamed curiosity at me through its splinters.
“Hey,” he said – called, actually – with urgency.
“What?” I defended, rarely prepared for urgency.
“Pez-far-khool,” he said.
I was sure I’d misheard.
“I can’t hear you.”
Susceptible to the oddities that galvanise even the most mundane daily routine, I rushed toward the fence; but once I was there, the boy disappeared from his spy-hole in the broken wood with the sharp, shrill giggle a morning bird. I kneeled and put my face close to the splinters.
“Where are you?” I called.
“Here,” he cried.
I met the boy face-to-face for the first time, up close, and there was nothing to do but smile. He giggled again – shrill but sweet, a harp being plucked in welcome – then blinked shyly, with his eyes to the ground.
“What is your name?” The question had been on my lips. Coming out of shyness, he still beat me to it.
“That is a good name,” he reassured me.
“Thank you,” I said. “What is your name?”
Before I finished, he had disappeared behind the fence again. I waited for him to quickly return and try and surprise me into more smiles. Ten seconds passed and he did not return.
“Hey, where did you go?”
“Here!” he called from about a dozen palings up. There was another spy-hole.
I shuffled even faster this time and put my forehead to the splinters once again.
“What is your name?”
“I am Siah,” he replied.
“Sire,” I repeated.
I was no longer talking to a farm boy but a Tanzanian boy-king, I told myself. I felt foreign and uncertain for the first time since I arrived on the continent.
“Was that your goat that woke me earlier?”
“Yes,” Sire said. “He is very smart.”
“Meh-zunguuuuu!” bellowed the goat.
“Come here, Gamba!” called Sire.
“What does Gamba mean?” I asked.
“Warrior,” Sire informed me without taking his eyes from the goat.
“Meeeeeeh-zunguuuuu!”
The goat seemed jealous of the attention I was getting. It came through in the tone of his bleat, the same tone locals often gave naďve foreigners when they tried to speak pidgin versions on their language.
“Is he annoyed with me?” I asked.
“No, he likes you,” Sire said, assuredly. “Mzungu means White-person. He wants to take us to the Serengeti. My people are expecting you there.”
“Who are your people?”
“The Maasai.”
At the mention of his people, I lost patience at the child’s game. I had encountered enough Masai in East Africa to have bought every hand-made or hand-woven piece of jewellery I ever wanted. Their authenticity was questionable, and I certainly wasn’t going to be cornered and forced to buy jewellery in the middle of the night. I was in no mood to care for barter or the forced condescension of my own voice.
“Oh, no. I’m sorry, Sire,” I said. “I have to get back. I cannot leave here. My family is sleeping and I need to be here when they wake.”
“Jason,” he said in a voice of frustration beyond his years. Frustration born from the rich, haughty tones of travelling Mzungus. “Trust me. We will be back before dawn. It will be fine. Gamba is very fast.”
The goat appeared next to Sire at the second spy-hole. He was wearing a Masai robe that appeared black and red in the darkness, and held the bladed staff of a warrior in his mouth.
~~~ tbc ~~~
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