Yesterday as Umpuperi was walking in front of me at the huge ‘machamba’ farm we went to investigate deep in the bush I noticed he was wearing long grey velvet trousers. This was only matched by seeing Unkaheli in bellbottom jeans with denim plates down each side the week before. The normal wear for a local and Ranger ‘Fiscal’ is old, ill-fitting or practical simple camouflaged uniforms, supplied with the job. Such sharp clothing and juxtaposition instantly brought a smile to my face. There is so much beauty here all around I am always transfixed by the women who layer such happy materials of simple bright patterns (often graphic with pots, umbrellas, chickens and hearts) on the odd t-shirt from a charity parcel and now the addition of large plastic hoop earrings, a new import from china. Decorated effortlessly to carry water, firewood, babies and with angular expressive faces full of life.
Much of my time here is spent taking forays into wild bush, not knowing what we might encounter elephants, a flat tyre, an unexpected hole, poachers, a felled tree. My wits are about me and I feel a sort of anxiety that is very primitive, my eyes are well trained and my hearing and smell on red alert...but I know I can see nothing compared to all that looks at me through the tangle of dusty coloured undergrowth.
Today we have driven far into an area I haven’t explored before, we are following a track that the elephants use and in the last wet season a large animal has left great pits as foot prints which the truck rockets dramatically over. Now the three Rangers with us are sent ahead to mark out a road, it has disappeared with new growth and Dominik takes me to a thicket of woodland on a river bend. The river has dried up which makes it is easy to explore and I know that it is unlikely to be hiding elephants without cool bamboo cover or water. The web of vines against the large tree we are resting against look so like a twist of snakes. Now that the dry season is at its height the only very visible life are ants, jumping spiders, the odd butterfly and chatter of merry birds. Well apart from the monkeys that cannot hide its not in their nature - they have to lark and eat noisily in tree tops whatever the season.
I have brought a cup of coffee and one chocolate biscuit I have been saving/hiding for us! Then we go to find the new road. Much searching and lurching from cut tree to large landsnail on a stick to absolutely nothing - keeps us turning in circles on the high open savannah for about an hour when suddenly quite out of nowhere the new guy, Bacar appears. They have found poachers, four with dogs – he is holding a confiscated arrow, beautifully crafted from guineafowl feathers. So we take him drive following instructions.. We find the others and they are holding a bag of meat, Unkahli has a basket of vegetables on his head but no poachers, they have escaped. Thanks to our new radios the other group of rangers are contacted and sent up the river to try to intercept them – we were all meant to be congregating at this large farmed area.
We drive on and then we arrive down a dip and up to a plain which is full of planted vegetation and rising on every side but on the highest ridge above us there is a cluster of houses. It is another totally new juxtaposition for me, and although I am not meant to approve of the ravaging of bush for domestication it fills my heart with an ease and familiarity - gentle civilisation. We drive across the plain passing all sorts of strange plants. This area has been abandoned as Dominik has just done a deal with the families here after years of trying. We visit their old water hole, cut deep into the earth and then stop at the edge of the incline to the houses. Large stones form steps and we meander up a path long and windy to dots of houses, four in all. Domestication here is so meagre as a reclaiming of land is feels like a mere brush with a light finger.
The houses are behind neatly and densely constructed bamboo fences, as their elephant defence, and I wander inside uninvited to look at signs of their lives. One mud house each and inside another mud construction, what is it, a room, bedroom but there is no entry? D tells me it a store room against the monkeys. I find another very small mud house beautifully constructed on stilts for ducks. There are knots of plants everywhere and now I recognise tomatoes, small and green, chilli and lots of them. It is so peaceful and deeply moving here, a quiet existence with a wide view on every side and I love it because of its contrast to the wild bush.
The last house I look in has a bed, a basket and an old bicycle, the full quota of possessions needed and then strangely a pair of shoes lie outside eaten by the sun, a rather stylish pair of material moccasins left as if in mid stride and now rotted into the soil. They tread so lightly here, surely?
D finds all sorts of signs of their hunting life, arrows, a Sable horn and hip joint, preserved skin of an Antelope. One of the fires is still smoking but detective skills reveal this was where the poachers spent last night, they set up a meat drying rack and ate a monkey brain, they must be Machondas, the local tribe Machua do not eat monkey.
But try as I may I can’t banish my fondness for this farmed patch and try as I may I can’t find blame for their wanting a slice of meat to go with tomatoes. The juxtaposition of my world and theirs meet on this point – we eat whatever we want. This quiet remote example of life choices seems so carefully measured and deserved.
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