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bodies. If the old traditions are lost, we will make new traditions. The Maasai will never become a
footnote in ethnographic histories.
 I know this must come to pass someday, and the sadness it will bring will lie heavy on many hearts. But
not mine. I will be gone. I will not live long enough to see the open plains and wandering game vanish.
That will be a problem for new laibon and younger ilmoran to cope with.
 How? wondered an angry Kakombe.  How can a man be a warrior and fight for his way of life if they
take away his spear and his land?
Olkeloki had no simple answer for the senior warrior. It was quiet in the car for a long time.
 Well, Merry finally said into the silence,  there's always football.
 An all-Maasai football team. Now that's something I'd pay to see, chuckled Oak, feeling a little better.
 An interesting idea, my friends. The concept appeared to please the old man.  New traditions. He
speaks of American football, Kakombe, and not the kind the village children play. Much hitting is
involved, besides running and kicking. Throwing as well.
 Spears? asked the senior warrior hopefully.  War clubs?
 I fear not. An oblong ball is employed instead.
 Can we carry our knives when we play this game?
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 No, Oak told him,  but don't worry. If you can recruit a few more players like yourself you won't need
 em.
They had to drive through Mikumi National Park. Oak was worried about having to answer the
questions of local authorities, but not for long. There were no local authorities. Only a pair of game
wardens who didn't even bother to look up from their station as the Land Rover trundled past. Nor were
there any gates; only signs. Gates would be useless, Olkeloki explained sensibly, because the elephants
would either push them down or eat them.
For that matter they saw no tourists so far from Kenya. Only a few local Indians sipping tea inside an
open-walled park boma. Outside the city, traffic vanished. They passed only an occasional truck as they
began to climb through the river gorge that split the Rubeho Mountains.
 The Ruaha, Olkeloki informed them, indicating the river running far below the winding road.  It flows
east from the Kipengere Range, past the place we must find, until it joins with the Rufiji. Together they
enter the ocean near the isle of Mafia.
Eventually the road leveled out and ran straight across a high plateau. Villagers sat by the sides of the
road selling bushel baskets full of the ripest tomatoes Merry had ever seen. Then on to Iringa, the first
town they'd seen since leaving Arusha which boasted buildings that didn't appear on the verge of
collapsing.
They filled the Rover's tanks and jerry cans at a small garage. Idle men drifted over to stare frankly at
Oak and Kakombe. They avoided Kakombe's shadow and failed miserably to avoid looking at Merry
Sharrow. There was no hostility in those stares; only a vast and unsatisfied curiosity.
Sitting against the wall of the garage, five men were trying to patch a tire. They were taking their time and
making a major project of it.
 It will take them two, perhaps three hours, said Olkeloki.  Why hurry? They could do it faster, but
then they would have nothing to do with themselves. So they linger over it. They have no work. They
have no cattle. Their government gives them nothing to do. A terrible waste.
Outside Iringa they left the highway for a dirt track angling north. They passed through one small town, a
second, and then there was nothing: no buildings, no people, no animals, for endless miles. Only
thorn-tree and acacia forest and red dust. Finally Oak had to turn on the Rover's air conditioning.
Olkeloki thought this a terrible waste of petrol but said nothing.
In this difficult and empty land they finally encountered Africa's toughest citizen. Not crocodile or rhino,
neither elephant nor Cape buffalo, this scourge of the veldt and savanna was perhaps half an inch long,
clad in steel-gray armor, and well-nigh invulnerable.
One of them found Merry and nearly sent her through the roof. Kakombe finally crushed it with the butt
end of his knife.
 Tsetse fly. Olkeloki didn't have to inspect the remains to identify the attacker.  These do not carry the
sleeping sickness which affects humans, but they are deadly to cattle. That is why there are no Maasai
here. See. He ran a finger along the inside of the window. Tiny bulletlike shapes were bouncing off the
glass.  They will attack anything that moves in search of blood. They think the car is alive. But if you
stand still they will usually leave you alone.
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It was like driving through a hail of BBs. Eventually the flies gave up and flew off in search of prey with
thinner hide. As Merry had discovered, however, once inside a vehicle they had a disconcerting habit of
hiding until the passengers relaxed. Then they would come straight at exposed flesh like darts fired from a
tiny gun. Nor did they waste time the way horseflies did by searching around for the best place to bite.
First contact was always made with the lancetlike proboscis. About all that could be said in their favor
was that the pain faded rapidly and left no swelling behind.
Killing one was another matter. Their bodies had the consistency and resiliency of tire rubber. A
flyswatter was useless against them. So was anything smaller than a Webster's dictionary or hammer. The
best method of extermination consisted of trapping one against the glass and pressing a shoe heel, tire
iron, or other unyielding object against them. The result was a messy window but peace of mind.
Several times in the gathering twilight the road ahead seemed to disappear into the trees, but Olkeloki
always chose the right path. As the sun was starting to set, the forest abruptly gave way to a steep slope
at the bottom of which flowed a lugubrious stream. Here the Great Ruaha River was no more than a
hundred yards across. There was no sign of a bridge.
There were, however, a couple of curious game wardens living in round steel huts that were metallic
duplicates of traditional African bomas. One had them sign their names in a register while eyeing them
suspiciously. He accepted Oak's story that Olkeloki was their guide and Kakombe his son with great
reluctance. Why get into a fight with two muzungu over the purpose of their visit, however? So they didn't
look like typical tourists neither did they look like poachers. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]