7
That afternoonour drive was a little different. Rather than each Jeep splitting up and heading into the wilderness in search of animals, we were all visiting one of the local villages.
Thomas explained, “This land is all part of the tribe’s remittance. And the lodge partners with the locals to share the profits and to promote the education of the people. Amukela has sent two dozen of the locals on scholarship to become certified rangers, and many more work in the service side of the lodge or get English and hospitality lessons. In exchange, the people want you to come and see their way of life.”
“Are you from here?” Meino asked.
“No, I am from Botswana. But I’ve been here for many years, and on my off time, I stay in the village.”
“Are cameras okay?” I asked.
Thomas nodded. “Yes, the village wants people to explore and share their culture. Photographs are fine.”
He fielded a few other questions and then we gathered into the Jeeps.
We drove along the road rather than the dusty trails in the park, still seeing wildlife here and there; elephants rumbling through the trees, or giraffe heads poking above the treetops. Thomas always pointed them out, but we didn’t stop.
We slowed as we approached a fence constructed with large, rough-hewn posts pressed tightly together. Over the fence, I could just barely make out the thatched rooftops of a few buildings. The Jeep rolled to a stop next to a rusted lorry and a few motorbikes.
Thomas shouted out as we walked through the opening in the fence, and he was greeted by loud calls back. The village was set up with different stations, and there were adults seated on the ground with blankets spread out in front of them, and Thomas led us to the first one. A tall man with peppered gray hair and a short beard stood behind it wearing a loincloth and holding a spear. All of the villagers were similarly dressed, women in fur skirts and men in loincloths. All the adults were bare-chested, and I worried my lip. I wanted to photograph the experience but also wanted to be respectful of their culture and bodies. The man stared at us, sternly, and I began to wonder if we weren’t as welcome here as Thomas made it sound.
But then the man cracked the largest smile I’d ever seen. He said something to us that I couldn’t understand but then switched to English.
“That means welcome in Xitsonga. I am Kuhlula, and this is my village. Thank you for joining us.” His English was halted and careful. “Please, sit.”
He gestured down at the dirt, and I folded my legs under me as I sat. The eight of us formed a circle around Kuhlula’s mat, which was filled with clippings of plants and flowers. Picking up a bouquet of slender stems with purple flowers, he handed them out. “This morning I walked for you. I will show you how to survive in the savanna, just in case Thomas loses you.” His eyes twinkled.
Kuhlula walked us through all the plants in front of him teaching us which ones held water, which ones could be used for practical purposes, like an antiseptic, which ones were poisonous. We nibbled on plants that didn’t taste very good, but if you had to choose between eating them and starving, at least you’d know.
It could be a tough life out there.
We went from blanket to blanket, sitting and learning some aspect of the tribe’s life. Kuhlula often stood to the side and spoke for his villagers. The last blanket was full of handicrafts for sale. “Please explore our village. If you want to make a weaving or try on a piece of jewelry…” Kuhlula made an open gesture with his hand.
The two German brothers made a beeline for the men carving tools and weapons. They didn’t hunt in this traditional way much anymore, though they kept up sports for their heritage. Alex, to my surprise, wandered over to the kids who played under the watchful eye of a matronly woman sitting in the shade of the fence. The wide-eyed children approached him, and he squatted down to talk. I held the camera up to my face and snapped some photos as Alex chatted with them. The kids all knew English pretty well, as Kuhlula had explained it was now compulsory in school. Alex and the young girl, maybe eight years old, started holding up fingers and counting together in Xitsonga. She giggled at his pronunciation, repeating words back to him until he got it right. Soon they were surrounded by the rest of the kids, and Alex had them teaching him songs.
Someone tugged on my sleeve, a child—four years old?—with wide eyes and a snotty nose. He pointed at the screen of my camera.
“You are a smart little tot, aren’t you?” I crouched down further and aimed the camera his way. I snapped a few shots and pointed the screen toward us. He saw his own face on the camera and squealed in delight.
Of course, that drew attention, and soon all the kids were around me, posing for pictures and mugging for the camera. I took shot after shot, delighting the kids, until Thomas rounded the guests up, and we loaded back into the Jeep. Many of the villagers came out to wave goodbye as we pulled away, waving back.
As we cleanedup for dinner, Alex asked me if I had enjoyed the village visit.
“I did. You seemed to make friends pretty easily with the kiddos.”
“So did you,” he pointed out from the bathroom. “I’ve never been to a place like that.”
“What do you mean?” I asked while I cleaned and checked my camera gear.
“We didn’t travel much when I was a kid, with Mum always working. If we did, it was just around the continent, not really exploring cultures beyond our own. With the exception of going back to Malaysia to visit some of Mum’s family.”
“What is that like?”
“Ah, we don’t do anything touristy there. I guess it’s culture by proxy; we get to see what life is like for Mum’s family, the everyday quiet type of life. What about you? Have you been to villages like that before?”
I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see me. “No, most of my trips have been in the Mediterranean.”
“Didn’t you go to the Maldives last year?”
