an anthropologist?”
She nodded. “See my people with their scythes? See this
mountain? I am in my place. Why do you live so far from your parents? Why do
you go to the forest to study the pygmies, instead of having children? You are
too old now to start a family. How can you be happy?”
There were occasional times, as menopause approached and I wondered what would have happened
if I had married my college
sweetheart and stayed in the United States, that I wasn’t totally
content with the alternative I’d chosen. But I was able to answer KoCherop
honestly, “I do what I do because I want to. My work fulfills me.”
She shook her head, mystified. “I could never be like that. Take me from my clan and this dirt and I
would die.”
August, 2011 continued
We stopped in the shade of the escarpment, where we were
relatively inconspicuous but nevertheless had an unobstructed view of the road. Greg got out quickly, looked
toward the rear of the truck, and groaned.
“I thought that last mile was a mite rough,” he said. I walked around to his side, and saw that we had a
flat tire.
“A gift from the Samburu?” I suggested.
“Could be. Most likely the frigging road.” He opened up the rear of the Land Rover. “Last spare,” he
said, which we both knew already. I checked the map to measure the
distance to Lake Victoria, and gnawed at my inner lip.
I began to help him, but he convinced me to relax, and in exchange I would drive the remaining short
leg until sundown. KoCherop and I found a relatively comfortable spot in
the talus a few yards away, where I spread out the last of our fresh fruit, as
well as bread and, most important of all, a jug of water. The flies were
overjoyed at the repast.
KoCherop ate a piece of fruit, a treat even in good seasons and a part of her diet of which she had
surely been totally deprived lately, drank her fill, and turned to look
at the plain.
“Have more,” I said.
She didn’t answer. Occasionally her glance would dart toward
the north, where we had now left the last of the Pokot lands behind. She began
taking apart her head-band, running the beads off the ends of their threads one
by one and flicking them away.
I am ashamed to confess that my own appetite was ravenous,
and when I was certain my friend was not going to touch another bite, I saw to
it that the ants had nothing more than stems and gleaned rinds to attack. The
sand at the edge of the talus was now vivid with specks of color, an
inadvertent piece of artwork created by KoCherop’s cast-off beads, each one a
particle of the life she knew, gone. I made sure not to disturb it as I walked
back to check on Greg.
He was cinching the last nut. I handed him his canteen. He
drained it. “Next time we bring a chauffeur,” he joked, slightly breathless.
“We’re losing her,” I told him. “She’s just waiting until
the wind calls her name and takes her away.”
He stowed the tire iron. “Well,” he murmured, “the choice is
hers now, isn’t it? You can’t make it for her.”
The words seemed callous, but I had no answer for them at
the time. KoCherop was waiting for the world to conform to her desires, not
unlike the scientists who had created the Termite bacteria. But the world has
ways of turning the tables back around. Now it was mankind’s, and KoCherop’s,
turn to adapt, and she was refusing.
Brooding, I assisted Greg in lifting the flat tire into the
Land Rover. The winds of upper Kenya had arrived with their usual vigor,
hurrying us toward the next leg of our journey.
March, 2007
We were walking along the bank of a river. The drought had
been severe for three years, and now the watercourse contained only sand,
pocked with pits where the tribespeople had dug to reach the watertable. Now
even those holes were desiccated. Thirty years before, when I had still lived
here, the river had been lined with grass and overhung by broad, leafy acacias.
Now even the stumps were gone.
Ironically, it was the
She nodded. “See my people with their scythes? See this
mountain? I am in my place. Why do you live so far from your parents? Why do
you go to the forest to study the pygmies, instead of having children? You are
too old now to start a family. How can you be happy?”
There were occasional times, as menopause approached and I wondered what would have happened
if I had married my college
sweetheart and stayed in the United States, that I wasn’t totally
content with the alternative I’d chosen. But I was able to answer KoCherop
honestly, “I do what I do because I want to. My work fulfills me.”
She shook her head, mystified. “I could never be like that. Take me from my clan and this dirt and I
would die.”
August, 2011 continued
We stopped in the shade of the escarpment, where we were
relatively inconspicuous but nevertheless had an unobstructed view of the road. Greg got out quickly, looked
toward the rear of the truck, and groaned.
“I thought that last mile was a mite rough,” he said. I walked around to his side, and saw that we had a
flat tire.
“A gift from the Samburu?” I suggested.
“Could be. Most likely the frigging road.” He opened up the rear of the Land Rover. “Last spare,” he
said, which we both knew already. I checked the map to measure the
distance to Lake Victoria, and gnawed at my inner lip.
I began to help him, but he convinced me to relax, and in exchange I would drive the remaining short
leg until sundown. KoCherop and I found a relatively comfortable spot in
the talus a few yards away, where I spread out the last of our fresh fruit, as
well as bread and, most important of all, a jug of water. The flies were
overjoyed at the repast.
KoCherop ate a piece of fruit, a treat even in good seasons and a part of her diet of which she had
surely been totally deprived lately, drank her fill, and turned to look
at the plain.
“Have more,” I said.
She didn’t answer. Occasionally her glance would dart toward
the north, where we had now left the last of the Pokot lands behind. She began
taking apart her head-band, running the beads off the ends of their threads one
by one and flicking them away.
I am ashamed to confess that my own appetite was ravenous,
and when I was certain my friend was not going to touch another bite, I saw to
it that the ants had nothing more than stems and gleaned rinds to attack. The
sand at the edge of the talus was now vivid with specks of color, an
inadvertent piece of artwork created by KoCherop’s cast-off beads, each one a
particle of the life she knew, gone. I made sure not to disturb it as I walked
back to check on Greg.
He was cinching the last nut. I handed him his canteen. He
drained it. “Next time we bring a chauffeur,” he joked, slightly breathless.
“We’re losing her,” I told him. “She’s just waiting until
the wind calls her name and takes her away.”
He stowed the tire iron. “Well,” he murmured, “the choice is
hers now, isn’t it? You can’t make it for her.”
The words seemed callous, but I had no answer for them at
the time. KoCherop was waiting for the world to conform to her desires, not
unlike the scientists who had created the Termite bacteria. But the world has
ways of turning the tables back around. Now it was mankind’s, and KoCherop’s,
turn to adapt, and she was refusing.
Brooding, I assisted Greg in lifting the flat tire into the
Land Rover. The winds of upper Kenya had arrived with their usual vigor,
hurrying us toward the next leg of our journey.
March, 2007
We were walking along the bank of a river. The drought had
been severe for three years, and now the watercourse contained only sand,
pocked with pits where the tribespeople had dug to reach the watertable. Now
even those holes were desiccated. Thirty years before, when I had still lived
here, the river had been lined with grass and overhung by broad, leafy acacias.
Now even the stumps were gone.
Ironically, it was the
Similar Books
