industrialized nations that had benefitted from the modified E. coli . The sugar industry no longer had to boil away
ninety percent of the raw cane during refining. Grains no longer had to be as
thoroughly processed. But in the Third World bureaucrats became dangerously lax
in educating the people about the need for population control, and the added
demand for wood exacerbated the already severe deforestation problem. The
climate had rebelled.
Cherop, the granddaughter for whom my friend had been
renamed, skipped along ahead of us, always alert for a sunning lizard or a
pretty stone. We were solemn in spite of the child’s exuberance. KoCherop’s
husband had died two months before. This was my first visit since that event,
and our conversation had awakened some of KoCherop’s sense of loss. Now we just
walked, thinking about the changes brought by time. It was young Cherop who
broke the silence.
“Look!” she cried, pointing. Not far off the path, partially
hidden in a thorn bramble, stood a termite mound.
Assured that we were watching, she ran over to it and began
climbing. The mound was nearly three times as tall as she, rising into a dozen
eroded towers. A hyena or aardwolf had dug a burrow at its base; birds had done
the same, on a smaller scale, in its heights. The termites themselves had
abandoned the site. Cherop explored the structure as much as the thorns would
allow, no doubt hoping that one of the nests would still contain something
interesting.
I smiled. The girl gave
me a big, toothless grin, breaking off a small projection to demonstrate
her strength, offering the dust to the wind.
I turned to KoCherop, and stage by stage my smile faded. I
had never seen such a bitter look on her face.
“What’s wrong?”
“I wish that all the termites had died ten thousand years
ago. Then maybe your people would never have thought of a way to make us like
insects.”
It felt like I had been stung. The worst part of it was that
she seemed unaware that she was hurting me. I could not avoid blurting out a
response.
“Maybe if your people had stopped having so many babies, my
people wouldn’t have tried to solve your problems.”
August, 2011 continued
We reached an armed checkpoint shortly before dusk. An
overweight minor officer, skin so oily it gleamed, examined our papers with a
frown, peering repeatedly at our vehicle’s
contents. He spared KoCherop a disinterested glance, mostly toward her
breasts. Greg bribed him with two packs of American cigarettes and we were on
our way. “Wish it could be that easy at the
border,” said my husband. We camped not far down the road, reasoning
that bandits might be discouraged by the proximity of the checkpoint.
It was crowded in the back of the Land Rover. I slept
between Greg and KoCherop, listening to the wind moan and the crickets trill,
unable to sleep. KoCherop’s scent evoked memories. It is strange that an entire
tribe can have an identifiable essence. When I had lived with them year round I
had become oblivious to it.
I thought about the city, trying to picture KoCherop walking
to the supermarket, wearing a cotton smock, smelling the civilized odors of
cement and auto exhaust. What kind of fool was I to think that, simply because
I loved her, I could succeed in transferring a human being from her culture
into mine?
Greg woke and crawled out
of the vehicle. Soon I heard the muffled, rain-on-the-roof sound of
urine splattering dust. I glanced at
KoCherop. Even in the dim illumination I could see the determined, stubborn
tension in her shoulders, and I became angry.
“Damn it,” I murmured. “What more do you want me to do? It’s not my fault .”
She didn’t stir, but something in the stillness of her
breathing hinted that she was awake. But after Greg returned and began snoring,
I convinced myself that I had imagined it.
In the distance, I was certain I heard a hyena laughing,
like a ghost of Africa of old.
July, 2011
The refugee camp was a sea of
ninety percent of the raw cane during refining. Grains no longer had to be as
thoroughly processed. But in the Third World bureaucrats became dangerously lax
in educating the people about the need for population control, and the added
demand for wood exacerbated the already severe deforestation problem. The
climate had rebelled.
Cherop, the granddaughter for whom my friend had been
renamed, skipped along ahead of us, always alert for a sunning lizard or a
pretty stone. We were solemn in spite of the child’s exuberance. KoCherop’s
husband had died two months before. This was my first visit since that event,
and our conversation had awakened some of KoCherop’s sense of loss. Now we just
walked, thinking about the changes brought by time. It was young Cherop who
broke the silence.
“Look!” she cried, pointing. Not far off the path, partially
hidden in a thorn bramble, stood a termite mound.
Assured that we were watching, she ran over to it and began
climbing. The mound was nearly three times as tall as she, rising into a dozen
eroded towers. A hyena or aardwolf had dug a burrow at its base; birds had done
the same, on a smaller scale, in its heights. The termites themselves had
abandoned the site. Cherop explored the structure as much as the thorns would
allow, no doubt hoping that one of the nests would still contain something
interesting.
I smiled. The girl gave
me a big, toothless grin, breaking off a small projection to demonstrate
her strength, offering the dust to the wind.
I turned to KoCherop, and stage by stage my smile faded. I
had never seen such a bitter look on her face.
“What’s wrong?”
“I wish that all the termites had died ten thousand years
ago. Then maybe your people would never have thought of a way to make us like
insects.”
It felt like I had been stung. The worst part of it was that
she seemed unaware that she was hurting me. I could not avoid blurting out a
response.
“Maybe if your people had stopped having so many babies, my
people wouldn’t have tried to solve your problems.”
August, 2011 continued
We reached an armed checkpoint shortly before dusk. An
overweight minor officer, skin so oily it gleamed, examined our papers with a
frown, peering repeatedly at our vehicle’s
contents. He spared KoCherop a disinterested glance, mostly toward her
breasts. Greg bribed him with two packs of American cigarettes and we were on
our way. “Wish it could be that easy at the
border,” said my husband. We camped not far down the road, reasoning
that bandits might be discouraged by the proximity of the checkpoint.
It was crowded in the back of the Land Rover. I slept
between Greg and KoCherop, listening to the wind moan and the crickets trill,
unable to sleep. KoCherop’s scent evoked memories. It is strange that an entire
tribe can have an identifiable essence. When I had lived with them year round I
had become oblivious to it.
I thought about the city, trying to picture KoCherop walking
to the supermarket, wearing a cotton smock, smelling the civilized odors of
cement and auto exhaust. What kind of fool was I to think that, simply because
I loved her, I could succeed in transferring a human being from her culture
into mine?
Greg woke and crawled out
of the vehicle. Soon I heard the muffled, rain-on-the-roof sound of
urine splattering dust. I glanced at
KoCherop. Even in the dim illumination I could see the determined, stubborn
tension in her shoulders, and I became angry.
“Damn it,” I murmured. “What more do you want me to do? It’s not my fault .”
She didn’t stir, but something in the stillness of her
breathing hinted that she was awake. But after Greg returned and began snoring,
I convinced myself that I had imagined it.
In the distance, I was certain I heard a hyena laughing,
like a ghost of Africa of old.
July, 2011
The refugee camp was a sea of
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