BIOPHILE 16 — JUNE/JULY 2007 R25 - Biophile Magazine

Confessions ofa ConvertedCarrot CruncherTo the Bush withCarnivoresby Patricia GlynTHE PLACE: Central Kalahari GameReserve, BotswanaTHE PLAN: To find out which, if any,Bushman/San communities have takenthe opportunity of going back to theirhomelands after several years’ exile,now that they’ve won the right to do soin a lengthy legal battle with the Botswanagovernment.The team: Travelers, translators,camp hands and a wise, elderly expertin Bushman culture. Meat eaters all,except me – and oh how much I was tolearn from them about animal rightsand conservation!On the peripheries of the park, ata place called Phuduhudu, we spendtwo nights with a large settlement ofKua (as the “first people” are known inthis area). The sad cost of their interactionwith other cultures is everywherein evidence. A couple of drunks weavearound the huts, and old tins andplastic bags litter the pathways. Thetoothless elders are overcome with joyat seeing our old guide, a regular visitorto their community for over 20 years.But their proud self-reliance isnowadays replaced with poignantgratitude for a little tobacco and a bagof sugar. We’re shown how, once upona time, they made fire by rubbing stickstogether.But the spark doesn’t come, and theyabort their attempt with shy, embarrassedsmiles. Maybe we’d like to seethem sing and dance? Sadly, the singingis lack-lustre and the dancing hasnone of the ebullient foot-stomping ofdays gone by. For hours these beautifullittle people crouch around ourcampfire, eating from our bush kitchenand drinking deeply from our watertanks. And on the cold, dark edges ofthe festivities, three skeletal dogs skulkaround, their sparse and brittle coatsfull of horse-flies which bury deep andbite hard.Eventually, I can stand the dogs’parched, sidelong glances no longerand I go for a bowl of water. The Batswanacook chortles with derision at mygesture, the Kua snort with unmistakabledisapproval and our white guidelambastes me for my “sentimental firstworldvalues”.But the dogs drink, and drink, anddrink. How can it be that these aboriginalwonders, revered for their almosttelepathic ability to communicate withanimals, and renowned for their deeprespect for all living things, have noregard for the suffering of these cravencreatures? If Gandhi is correct in claimingthat one can judge a civilization bythe way it treats its animals, then theKua are clearly in the same melt-downas we Westerners.Into the Kalahari Reserve we go, tofind several abandoned Kua settlements,their earlier occupation signaledonly by ghostly circles of sand wherethe huts once stood, and former goatkraals piled high with petrified dung.Days later, we come across a wellmaintainedbut apparently unoccupiedhut. Much noisy coaxing from us drawsa small, stocky girl from the dark wombof her stick home. She has Down’ssyndrome, that’s clear, and her terrifiedlittle brother tries, unsuccessfully, tohide in a folded mattress – we may bethe police and they may be dragged offto an uncertain future outside the park.We leave them food, tobacco andwater, and I ask the translators if theycould please tell the girl to make surethat the dog (whose bones are surprisinglywell covered) has some water too.Now I’m definitely pushing my luck,and the tone of my travel-mates getsstridently critical.“Don’t interfere, don’t impose, don’tpresume,” they scold.Well, those who know me, know thatI will always interfere when the voicelessare at risk. As it happens, though, Ihave no more tests awaiting my tootenderheart as we move further intothe relentlessly harsh Kalahari. To ourgreat joy, we find several communitiesof ecstatic Kua, recently returnedto their ancient hunting grounds insomething akin to a biblical migration– albeit one facilitated by rattle-trapToyotas. And the more remote the settlement,the healthier the dogs.Here the canines are robust, evenrotund, and their care-givers providethem with juicy Tsama melons in lieuof water. Sure, the dogs are of useto the Kua in their hunts, but is it acoincidence that the more culturallyintact the group, the more the weak anddefenseless are protected?The final few days of the expeditionsee me once again biting my tongue –and so hard that the Kalahari sand isspattered with blood for many a longroad! My guides, you see, are all avowedconservationists.“Ag shame” they lament, “those poorbokke, it’s so hot out here and the waterholesare completely dry.”So they proceed to apply admirableeffort to the rehabilitation of a defunctborehole pump in the middle ofnowhere. Ah, I get it - dogs are to bedenied water, but not gemsbok. Is thatbecause they’re edible? Or more beautiful?Or what?The delightful Sandtonite in ourmidst trains her binoculars on the telegraphtail of a stiff-strutting warthogand sighs (much as I would have in myhypocritical carnivorous days): “I justdon’t know how anyone could shootsuch a cutie!”At lunch, half an hour later, she pilesinto a ham sandwich. You see, somepigs are more equal than others - andthat’s why it’s all gone so, so wrong.Suggestions (with balls please!) to:patriciaglyn@wol.co.zaBiophile Issue 1635