A FARAWAY PLACE WHERE THE ELAND ROAM

There is a strange, faraway place under the Southern Cross, called Kalahari. The word has a dry sound , aptly so for the place is dry. Its vast emptiness is unlike any other place, except perhaps Alaska. It is, however, very different from Alaska. Instead of spongy tundra, the ground underfoot is very deep, dry sand, not unlike beach sand in places, except there is hardly any water to be found there. Instead of rivers of water, rivers of sand course between dunes. Instead of stands of spruce, thorny brush. And instead of wandering Caribou, Eland are found there: gentle giants with great folds of skin hanging from their short thick necks, their color the color of sand.

The Kalahari is a desert, but it is not always dry and dusty. It’s a hot, dry place, but each year, after the Spring thunderstorms finally come, it is a green carpet splashed with an abundance of colorful wildflowers, waves of yellow and mauve against the fresh green leafiness of the scrub. It is also home to large numbers of beasts who are free to move large distances in search of grass and water, much as they did when the only men they encountered were small bands of wizened Bushmen with their little bows and poisoned arrows. Of all the beasts that fell to those almost toy-like arrows, not the Springbok, not the Gemsbok, not the little Duikers and Steenbok, not even the regal Kudu with his handsome headgear, not the startling striped Zebra, nor the black-maned Wildebeest, but the gentle giant Eland were held in special regard by the San hunters. For the Eland are to the San what the Bison was to the American Indian.

The Bushmen, like their prey, have adapted to survive in the desert. They were not always desert-dwellers. At one time, they reigned over the subcontinent, from the cold Atlantic to the warm Indian Ocean. They alone were Homo Sapiens in that world. But civilization came from the oceans and swept them North, out of the green valleys and mountains, to places where civilization did not follow. Darker-skinned men moving South in search new lands to conquer met them and deflected their march to places no man coveted. Places like the Kalahari. There they survived, moving with the herds, relying on their hunting and gathering skills for sustenance. Man needs water, more so than the animals, many of which gather all the moisture they need from their forage and early morning dew. So the Bushmen used the giant eggs of the desert Ostrich as canteens, burying several in strategically-located places where they could be tapped during a long migration march or a hunt that took them far into the desert. They used vegetation to construct simple shelters. They learned to utilize the plants for sustenance and the insects for poison for their little arrows. And they owned nothing they could not carry.

The San are not the only hunters in the Kalahari. Solitary, cunning leopards stalk the sandy dunes and prey on the animals of the desert. Prides of dark-maned lions exact their bloody tax from the herds of antelope. The jackal and hyena follow these predators, feasting on the remnants of their kills, scrapping with the vultures who appear from nowhere and sit, grim-reaper-like, in the dead branches of stunted trees until the killers have had their fill.

So it was for many years, years that saw the rest of the world make great advances in culture, medicine, and technology. Wars came and went, but the desert was little changed. A few hardy cattle ranches, a lonely road, and an aircraft passing overhead were pretty much the only signs that the world was changing.

But then civilization came looking for something lost during all this change and progress; looking for the velvet night sky, the quietness of the desert, and the water that feeds men’s souls, water that does not come from a faucet or a lake or a stream. This water is found only in places that civilization has passed by. Men with strange accents, speaking strange languages, came with their version of the San’s survival tools. Instead of a skin thrown over the shoulder, fanny packs bulging with gadgets. Instead of little bows, shiny rifles of steel and wood and plastic that spoke loudly and could kill at great distance. Not the by a sharp prick, but by violent impact and torn organs.

I have been one of those men. Twice I have traveled to that faraway land called Kalahari and drunk deeply of that special water. To get there one must have faith and determination, for it is a long journey even by modern conveyances. To find the water, one must rise early, before the sun warms the land. One must walk the rivers of sand, reading the writing written there during the night, keeping the wind in your face and if possible, the sun at your back. Walking and watching, your footsteps mingling with the sign in the sand. A glimpse of a tan flank, or a horn flashing in the early sun above the brush lead one to the water. But one must not rush to drink. Patience is called for, and one must kneel. Kneeling and watching. Looking for the blue color of the mature bull, the hairy tuft between their eyes betraying his age.

If the wind is steady and the prey absorbed by their eating, then one can slip a cartridge into the chamber, sling one’s rifle across one’s chest and begin to crawl in that sand, which will still be cool to the touch. Now the thorny brush is your friend, for it will hide you from your prey. From bush to bush, you approach. As you approach, bodies will appear through the brush, moving slowly in their daily ritual. Closer yet. There they are, bright in the sunlight, legs and heads and horns. Now, carefully, one removes the rifle and readies it. When the chosen one shows himself, slowly but not too slowly, the rifle is brought to your shoulder and the sights settle. Breath out. He moves. Acquire again, breath again. Everything slows down. The water is in your veins, washing away civilization. You are a predator, focused on your prey.

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