Itchy Feet

We pulled over under a thorn tree, more for the idea of shade rather than the meager expanse of shade itself.
However dirty our 4WD, it still looked out of place there, in the Tsodilo Hills of north-western Botswana, almost a day’s drive off the main road on rough terrain. Silent, brooding, monoliths: sacred to the San people.
Sitting on the dry spindly grass, mum smeared the contents of a can of sun-warmed sardines onto sun-warmed bread.
It was only after we had moved on to the muesli bars that they appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.
I remember being frightened. These people looked so strange, so unlike us: unlike the kids at school, the men in the supermarket or the women in the bank.
The family of Kalahari bushmen greeted us wordlessly, tentative but warm. My parents gestured for them to sit and so they did.
Few words were spoken, conversation was conveyed through the languages of facial expressions and hand gestures; it seemed enough.
A trade was agreed upon. Out of the back of our car and onto the backs of a few of the children went some t-shirts. From their hands into the hands of my brother and I arrived bows and arrows. Quivers of leather of some description, decorated with fur from an equally unknown animal.
My fears were forgotten. Dad removed the lethal tips and we were given a tutorial on how to ‘kill’ our ‘prey’.
After appreciations were exchanged, the mother presented a child to us. Until then the child had remained hidden from view, shielded behind the mother’s back. A baby: eyes wide and distressed, skin raw and blistered.
How it had happened was lost in translation. However, the fact that the child had met with fire was undeniable, as was the impending threat of infection. Flies circled overhead tauntingly.
We were a full day’s drive from ‘civilization’, a week on foot. The mother’s face pleaded for one thing and one thing only: aid.
Out of the car came our medical kit. Whilst Mum cleaned and dressed the wounds, the previously silent baby cried. Its wails pierced through the otherwise silent backdrop.
The mother remained silent, yet speechless expressions of sincere gratitude engulfed her being.
As we drove away on the sand track, back toward our lives governed by sealed road surfaces, bow and arrow on my lap, I understood that I need not be frightened of the unknown, for if I allow it to become a part of my ‘known’, I will surely come to appreciate it for its unique worth.