Alexandria of Africa (17 page)

The first group of girls finished filling all their containers and climbed out of the depression. Two of Ruth’s sisters, including one who couldn’t have been any older than four or five, climbed down to the bottom, and the older girls tossed and rolled all the containers down to them. Other sisters went partway down the slope and Ruth and I stayed at the top. The littlest girl tilted the container into the puddle and it quickly filled. She handed it up. I could see the strain in her face, see the muscles of her arms working to hold it up. Hand to hand, the container made it to the top, where Ruth took it and placed it down in the sand between us. The water was filthy! They couldn’t use this for cooking or for washing, and it certainly wasn’t anything that they could even think about drinking.

A second and then a third container made it to the top.

“This water … it doesn’t look very clean,” I said.

“Not now. It has to sit so the dirt falls to the bottom.”

“And that makes it clean?”

“Not clean, but clean enough to use. Oh, look!” Ruth said, and she pointed to the rocks off to one side.

Peeking around the rocks and ridge was what seemed like a whole herd of animals. There were zebras and some little gazelles and a couple of impalas.

“They’re waiting their turn,” Ruth said. “They’ll drink after we leave.”

“But how can they all drink from this?”

“In small groups. They’ll take turns. It’s maybe the only water around here,” she answered.

Then I remembered something I’d read. “If there are grazing animals like that, doesn’t that mean there are animals around who will try to eat them?”

“There will be, but not now. See how calm they are,” she said.

They did look calm, quiet, gentle, almost like little pets, patiently waiting for us to finish. Then I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I felt a rush of fear and then realized it was just two of Ruth’s brothers and another boy. They were circling around the herd. I guess they wanted to get a closer look or … no, not a closer look … they wanted to get close enough to kill one of the animals.

I watched as the three boys moved, slowly, from rock to rock, or just froze in place, moving slowly again as the herd stared in a different direction.

“They are trying to move downwind,” Ruth explained. “Most animals smell better than they see.”

I was mesmerized. I had never seen anything hunted before, never seen anybody hunting. I was a meat-eater, but I’d never seen a living animal become meat before my eyes. Part of me was cheering the boys on, and part of me was almost panic-stricken and thought I should yell out to warn the animals. These were a bunch of cute little animals. Wasn’t this like trying to kill Bambi?

The boys got closer and closer … and the herd suddenly bolted! The boys ran after them and tossed their spears, which flew through the air and landed harmlessly in the dirt where the animals had just been. They’d all gotten away. Again, I wasn’t sure whether I should be disappointed or cheer.

“That is the last of them,” Ruth said.

The girls all picked up containers.

“Here, let me help,” I said, offering to relieve Ruth of one of her burdens.

“No, you are a guest.”

“It would be rude if you didn’t allow me to help,” I said.

Ruth nodded her head. She lowered one of her containers to the ground—the littler of the two. I picked it up by the strap. It weighed a ton! It banged against my leg as I struggled forward.

“Easier if you carry it different,” Ruth said.

She took it from me, looped the strap over my head, and put the container on my back. “Hold the strap with both hands and rest around your head.”

She helped me get it into position. It was still heavy, but at least the weight was now distributed between my back, my hands, and my head. Maybe this way I could do it, or at least get it partway back. I struggled up the little slope.

Beside me was one of Ruth’s little sisters. She was carrying a container identical to mine, the same size exactly, using the same method Ruth had shown me. She was probably seven, maybe eight years old. She looked over at me and smiled. If she could do it, there was no way I could put that container down.

I drank the last of the water from my bottle. It helped to wash down the cornmeal mush that had been the basis of our supper—that and some beans and a little bit of rice. Because Ruth’s father had invited me, I had assumed that he would be joining us for the meal, but he hadn’t appeared. None of the men had. They were all still out with the cattle, and it was the women and children who ate together, carefully saving enough food for the men for later.

The strange food had made me nervous at first, but I’d watched Ruth and her sisters cook it all. I’d even helped … a bit. It certainly wasn’t
haute cuisine
but it wasn’t bad, either. The worst part was having to squat around the little table while we ate. It was a far cry from sitting in our dining room with fine china, a freshly ironed linen tablecloth, my grandmother’s antique sterling silver, candles lit, classical music playing discreetly in the background, with
half a dozen courses prepared by the cook and served to us. A different world, for sure.

Funny, though, I had few memories of smiles around our own dining-room table, and I couldn’t even imagine my family spontaneously breaking into song. But these people were just like that, and I couldn’t understand why they seemed so happy. They had nothing … and they were
happy
. How was that even possible? How happy would they have been if they’d had everything we had? Utterly ecstatic, right? Or would any of it have made a real difference? Was it possible it would even have made them
less
happy? It was kind of hard for me to get my head around.

All around us other families had been having supper together the same way. It was as though we were separate but together. And there were so many kids. Every home was overflowing with children. I knew some families with two kids, usually one of each, a boy and a girl … what did they call that,
a millionaire’s family?
That wasn’t true because most of the millionaires I knew believed in the
one-and-done
theory of children. More than half of my friends were only children, squeezed in between their parents’ work and social and charitable commitments. It wasn’t that they couldn’t afford to have a lot more children, but they couldn’t afford the
time
to have more. One was essential, and possibly a second was good—you know, like an heir and a spare—but anything more was deemed superfluous. Interestingly, they didn’t consider having too many cars or too big a house or too much money to be unnecessary, but extra kids were not considered.

There were times with some of my friends when I got the feeling that they were more like accessories than children. Their parents trotted them out, showed them off, and then pushed them into the background to be raised by
surrogate parents and placated by cars and cash and activities. I had to admit it, sometimes I felt a little bit that way too.

“There are so many children,” I said to Ruth.

“Many.”

“And is one of them your best friend?” I asked.

“They are all friends.”

“But is one your very
best
friend?”

She looked confused.

“You know, somebody you want to spend time with the most, the person you like talking to, that you want to do things with … your
best
friend?”

She nodded and smiled and then pointed at me. “You. You are my best friend.”

“Me?” I gasped. “But there has to be somebody else.”

“I like everybody, but I want to spend time with you. Do you have a best friend?”

I instantly thought of the girls I hung around with, the ones I shopped with, went to school with. There were so many, but not one name popped out. I had friends, but did I have a best friend?

I pointed at Ruth. “You. You are
my
best friend.”

Her smile became even broader and she gave me a big hug. I guess in part I had said it for the same reason you have to say “I love you” when somebody says it to you first, but there was more. Ruth felt like the first person I’d met in a whole long time who wasn’t trying to impress me, or who I didn’t have to try to impress. I got the feeling I could tell her anything and she’d hold on to that secret and not use it as a juicy tidbit the next time she was talking to somebody. I didn’t know if I knew anybody else I could say that about.

I heard a gentle ringing and realized what it was.
Some of the cows had bells. The cows were coming home, the fathers were coming home with their herds. Almost instantly the first cows poked their heads through the small opening in the wall that ran around the village and strolled into the corral. It was as if somebody had turned on a tap. They just kept coming and coming, until they began to fill the large muddy pasture.

“There are a lot of cows,” I said.

“Many,” Ruth said. “Our village has many. My father has many. How many cows does your family have?”

“We don’t have any.”

“Oh, that is so sad,” she said, and she did look genuinely sorry for me.

“We’re not Maasai,” I explained. “We don’t keep cows. We keep cars and money.”

“Aahhhh.”

Apparently that made sense to her.

“We don’t have cows because we know that all the cows in the world belong to the Maasai and it would be rude of us to keep your cattle.”

Ruth laughed. “I will tell my father that. That will make him laugh.”

“Your father must be coming soon,” I said.

“Maybe, but maybe not. Depends on where the herd was today.”

“I’d like to meet him. Hopefully I can wait around until he comes.”

“I do not think so. Look.”

Among the cattle were a number of men, and I recognized one—it was Nebala. He’d come to get me.

“I guess my ride is here.” I gave Ruth a hug. “Could you please say
‘Asante sana’
to your mother for me?” Her mother had gone inside to lie down. She wasn’t feeling
well. I guess she was proof that being pregnant didn’t necessarily get easier just because you had a lot of practice.

I waved goodbye to the other girls and made my way across the pasture. It was harder now. It wasn’t just cow-pies I had to dodge but cows. They were everywhere. I know, it was Africa, so it should have been lions and leopards that I was afraid of, but cut me some slack—these cows were big and they had horns and—

“Uhhh!” I lifted up my foot. I’d stepped in a fresh, heaping, still-steaming pile of cow crap. I shook my foot and a few little flecks came off, while a couple of shaken pieces bounced off my leg! Like
that
was somehow better!

I limped over to Nebala.

“Look before you leap,” he said. “Old African saying.”

“Right. Just get me home and I’ll change my shoes.” And my clothes, and shampoo my hair, and put on some fresh makeup. Then I thought how I hadn’t even met Ruth’s father. I wanted to meet him. “Could we stay a little longer?”

“We do not have time. We have to leave now.”

“Just a few more minutes, please?” I said, putting on my best puppydog face.

“No. We need to leave now. There is only so much light.”

“But it’s not going to be dark for a while, and so what if we’re in the truck after …” Then it came to me. “Did you bring the truck?”

“I brought my feet,” he said. “Left and right.”

“You mean we’re walking?”

“We could beam you up … Scotty.”

“Funny.”
Star Trek
was officially getting old.

“Then we walk. Or we could run. Maasai can run without stopping.”

“I’m not Maasai, so we’ll have to settle for walking. I’m sorry you had to come all this way to get me.”

“I like walking.”

“So do I, but it’s still nice of you.
Asante.”

“Karibu.”

“Is this your village?” I asked as we started to walk, wondering if he was related to Ruth.

“Not even my clan. My village is in that direction,” he said, pointing off toward some distant hills.

“How far is it?”

“Depends. Maybe five hours if I walk without stopping.”

“How far is that?”

“Five hours.”

“No, I meant distance. How many miles is it?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I just know how long it is from here to there. Five hours.”

I looked at my watch. It was almost five-thirty. The sun went down at about six-thirty and there was a dusk that followed for another twenty minutes or so. We had to travel another two and a half miles in the next hour and a bit. Moving at this pace, we could do it. That was good. With or without a Maasai warrior, I didn’t want to be out here in the dark.

The road was, as always, potholed and grooved and washed out. The scenery was the only thing that changed. Sometimes we passed fields of cultivated corn. Other places the vegetation was sparse, with only a few cacti and the occasional tree or a couple of shrubs. From time to time the road banked around small bumps of hills or passed by rocky outcrops. There were villages off in the distance sometimes, with little pillars of smoke rising up into the sky from the centre. There were also some of the
roadside stands I’d seen before, small shacks where people sold their wares. They were all closed for the night.

As the sun was starting to fade it cast longer shadows, and my mind started to play tricks with the shadows, wondering what might be hidden behind every object.

“Do you ever get spooked when you’re out here alone?” I asked.

“ ‘Spooked’?” he said, shaking his head. “What means ‘spooked’?”

“Nervous, scared.”

He laughed. “I am Maasai. There is nothing in the world that frightens me. Nothing.”

“Come on, everybody is afraid of something. High places, public speaking, dogs, snakes—” He made a little sound when I said “snakes.” “Are you afraid of snakes?”

“Not afraid. I just do not like them. Snakes are so, so, creepy.”

I had to laugh. I hated snakes too.

I went to put my foot down and then saw something in the road and stepped to the side. It was a gigantic piece of cow dung, so big that if I had stepped in it my shoe would have sunk in all the way up to my ankle.