Blood & Milk (22 page)

“I don’t know,” I answered. “But we will find it together, yes?”

He glanced at me and almost smiled. “Yes.”

I scanned his face, taking in the extent of his injuries. It was better than I was expecting. “Hey, your eye is much better. And your lip.”

He smiled, and at least his cut lip didn’t reopen and bleed. “
O’remiti
plant is good.”

I got to my feet, and taking his left hand, I pulled him to his. “Come on, the sooner we get there, the better.”

I could almost feel the hot shower on my skin, and my stomach grumbled for the food it would get. I wrapped my shuka around my shoulders and collected my backpack. Damu applied some more of the aloe-like gel to his eyebrow and lip. I held some of the edible grass to his mouth, which he ate with a smile.

And with upbeat spirits, we walked the final leg of the path I’d walked a year ago. Only this time, I wasn’t lost and in search of something to make me feel alive. I was leaving, with hope in my heart, and with that
someone
by my side.

As the buildings came into view, Damu got quiet. And as the buildings got closer and their height and size became apparent, his steps became slower.

“It’s a double storey building,” I explained. Then I realised that would have meant nothing to him. “That means there’s one level of house, then another level of house on top. But it’s not really a house. This is a hotel, a big hotel. Where people pay money to stay in a room with a bed and a bathroom.”

Damu looked at me like I’d spoken in tongues.

“A bathroom is a room with a shower and a toilet.”

He stared at me, unblinking.

I smiled and put my hand on his arm. “I’ll explain it all when we get there.”

* * * *

The Ngorongoro National Park was a large white building with a thatched looking roof. After seeing nothing but loaf shaped huts, no taller than four feet, this building, and those surrounding it, were monstrous.

The building fronted the road, but the view was at the back, the side facing the Serengeti. Which was the side we walked in from. There were buses and safari trucks and people.

People who literally stopped and stared.

Damu ground to a halt and grabbed my arm with his left hand. “Heath Crowley,” he mumbled.

I stopped and turned to face him. I took a deep breath and smiled. “I know you’re scared, but it’s okay. No one here will hurt you.” I looked around at the tourists, who were watching Damu, with wide smiles and fascinated eyes. “In fact, I think they’re very happy to see you.”

He glanced around and saw that people were staring at him. He took a step back and shook his head.

I turned to the small crowd and raised my hand. “He is not used to such attention.”

An African man wearing a National Park uniform walked around the corner and stopped when he saw us. I smiled at him and waved. It was ridiculous how nervous and excited I was to see other people. “Hello.”

He came toward us, and the second he saw Damu’s spear and rungu, he stopped. “Can I help you?” he asked cautiously. Then he looked me up and down. “Are you injured?”

“I’m not, but my friend here has hurt his hand. I think it’s broken. Is there a doctor? And possibly some food and water?”

He took another step forward. “How long have you been out there?” he asked quietly.

“What month is it?”

“January.”

I’d thought as much, but still, hearing it made my head swim. “A year.”

The guide’s eyes went wide. “A year?”

“Yes, but my friend has broken his hand. Is there a doctor?”

“Come, come,” the guide said, ushering Damu and I over to a bench seat in the shade of the wall. I fell onto the wooden seat like my bones were made of lead. I leaned against the wall and let my head rest. Whereas Damu sat beside me, still holding his spear, his back ramrod straight, his eyes taking everything in. He looked like a rabbit in headlights. “Wait here,” the guide said before he raced away.

I put my hand on Damu’s arm. “Everything’s fine, Damu. This man will get help. Relax, you’re safe here.”

The tourists hadn’t moved an inch. In fact, there were now more of them, all standing there, watching. I lifted my hand and waved at them. “Hi.”

A man stepped forward. He was about fifty, with greying hair and ruddy cheeks. He wore long cargo pants and sandals, and even though it was a pleasant day and he was in the shade, he was sweating. And he was staring at Damu. “Is he a Maasai warrior?” the man asked, his accent American.

“
He
speaks English,” I said, not meaning to sound rude, but I was exhausted and he spoke to me like Damu wasn’t even there. “His name is Damu, and yes, he is Maasai.” I wanted to add on that yes, the six foot black man wearing a red shuka and holding a spear on the Serengeti was probably a bit of a clue that he was Maasai, but I refrained. I was defensive of Damu. I couldn’t help it.

“Oh,” the man said, blushing. “Of course.”

Still resting my head on the wall, I turned to look at Damu. I deliberately spoke in Maa. “He is curious and excited to see you.”

Damu blanched. “Why?”

I smiled at him. He really had no idea. “Because you’re incredible.”

“Can we have photograph?” the tourist asked, but before I could answer, the guide and another man came around the corner of the building. The man with him was about sixty, with wiry grey hair and glasses. He was a little pudgy, but he had a friendly smile.

“This is Doctor Tungu,” the guide said. “Tanzanian doctor. He very good. He help you.”

I got to my feet wearily. “Thank you.” Damu quickly stood behind me, and I gave the doctor the friendliest smile I could manage. “My friend has injured his hand. I think it could be broken.”

Doctor Tungu tried to look around me at Damu, but then he studied me for a long moment instead. I gathered that Damu and I were a bit unkempt, but seriously, these people just stared. “You been living out in the manyattas for a year?” he asked. He spoke perfect English.

“Yes.”

“I can tell,” he replied, with a nod and a smile. Then he pointed his chin toward Damu. “Come on then. I’ll need a closer look at that hand.”

We followed the doctor along the footpath around the front of the hotel. There were signs to the administration office, but Doctor Tungu walked straight to the door with a red cross, and a sign with a dozen different ways to say doctor. Once inside, it wasn’t the furniture, or even the overhead lighting that struck me. The first thing I noticed was the air conditioning. I’d gotten so used to the heat that the controlled climate made me shiver.

“Come take a seat in here,” Doctor Tungu said, opening another door to a small examination room.

I knew this had to be all so foreign for Damu, so I took his arm and gave him a smile. “It’s okay.”

I sat with him on the examination table, knowing he’d find my proximity reassuring. “Damu has never left his manyatta before,” I explained. “This is all very new to him.”

Doctor Tungu’s gaze shot to mine. “Oh.”

Damu was staring at the ceiling light, and I couldn’t help but smile. “Damu, the doctor is going to need to touch your hand and feel along where it hurts.”

Damu nodded, so while the doctor felt the back of his right hand, I held his left. If the doctor thought it was odd, he never let on.

“Tell me,” Doctor Tungu said. “How did you find yourself here?”

I almost laughed. “It’s a long story, but I left Australia last January and literally walked into their manyatta. Damu was like my guide.”

“You’ve had no contact with the outside world for twelve months?” he furthered.

I shook my head. “I wouldn’t know if World War III broke out.” I thought about that and what it meant. And how being oblivious wasn’t a bad thing. “And to be honest, I don’t want to know.”

The doctor smiled as he continued to inspect Damu’s hand. “Can I ask how this happened?”

Damu swallowed hard. “My brother…”

Doctor Tungu nodded slowly. “And the eye?” Damu nodded, and the doctor sighed. “Brothers. There’s nothing quite like them.”

Just then there was a knock on the door, and the guide from before appeared, holding a bowl of fruits. Apples, bananas, grapes, and cut watermelon had never looked so good.

He walked in and handed the bowl to me and said, “For you.”

I almost cried. “Thank you,” I choked out, surprised by the sudden emotions to overcome me.

The guide then handed over two bottles of water, and with a smile, he disappeared through the door.

“Are these for us?” I asked the doctor, trying to blink back tears.

He frowned. “Yes, eat, please.”

Damu was staring at me, concerned. “Are you sad, Heath Crowley?”

I wiped at my eyes, smearing stupid tears across my cheeks. “No, very happy. I don’t know why I’m crying.”

The doctor put his hand on my knee. “Exhaustion, malnutrition.”

“Malnutrition?” I asked.

“Eat first, we’ll talk after.”

He walked over to a cupboard to get something, and I picked up a piece of watermelon and groaned when I bit into it. The sweet and juicy fruit was the best thing I’d ever eaten. I picked up the second piece, and knowing Damu still couldn’t use his hand, I put it to Damu’s mouth. “Try this watermelon. It’s really good.”

Damu took a small bite, and his eyes lit up with delight before he took another bigger bite. “I like this,” he said with his mouth half full.

I laughed and popped a grape into my mouth. Man, fresh fruit was heaven on a plate. “Here, try this. It’s a grape.”

I fed him that, then realised the doctor was watching us. “Maasai will only eat with their right hand,” I explained. “And he can’t use his. He looked after me for a year, it’s the least I can do for him.”

Doctor Tungu nodded again and shut the cupboard door. Whether he read more into my protective tone, I wasn’t sure. I was too tired to care.

“I don’t have x-ray machines here,” he went on to say. “But from the swelling and bruising and from what I can feel, I’d say these two metacarpal,” he showed us on his own hand just below his index and middle fingers, “are broken, or have hairline fractures at least. He has some movement but not without pain.” He held up what looked like a plastic splint with straps. “This will keep the hand stable. He’ll need to keep it on for a few weeks at least and limit the use as much as possible.”

As the doctor fitted the splint and fastened it, he asked Damu, “Are you going back to the manyatta?”

Damu shook his head. “No.”

Doctor Tungu didn’t press the issue, thankfully. “If you’re going to Arusha, I can write a letter to the hospital for x-rays. Just to be sure.”

I gave him a genuine smile. “Thank you. We really appreciate it.”

Then the doctor turned his attention to Damu’s cut eyebrow and lip and said they looked almost healed.

“He has a scrape on his ribs too,” I added. “That was from a wildebeest stampede where we saved two small boys.”

The doctor stared at me, then blinked. “You’re serious?”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Yes.”

I broke off some banana and fed it to Damu, and after that he put his hand up and patted his belly. “Too much.”

The doctor now focused on me, shining his light into my eyes. I expected him to mention my heterochromia, but he didn’t. Instead, he asked, “Tell me, how long have you been tired for?”

“Since we saved Momboa and Jaali in the stampede. We must have run a kilometre at full speed, and I have been lethargic since.”

“Hmm,” the doc hummed thoughtfully, then patted my knee. “I want to show you something.” He walked to the door and nodded for us to follow. Putting the bowl on the seat, I took the bottled water and Damu grabbed his spear, and we followed the doctor into another examination room. The doctor opened a cupboard door to reveal a full length mirror. “Come take a look.”

I couldn’t believe what I saw.

Staring back at me was not the man that left Australia a year ago. I was filthy dirty, my hair was sticking up in dusty clumps, my shirt was threadbare with holes, and I could see my toes through my joggers. But it wasn’t that… it was my body.

My face was gaunt, my teeth looked too big for my head. I could see my collarbones, my shoulder bones. My elbows were knobbly, as were my knees. I didn’t need to lift my shirt up to see my ribs: I could see them through the thin material of my shirt.

I leaned in to the mirror. If it weren’t for my different coloured eyes, I would have sworn it wasn’t me. I put my hand to my mouth and couldn’t stop the tears. “Holy shit.”

Doctor Tungu nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

Damu was alarmed. He put his hand up, as if to touch me, but stopped himself. “What is it?”

I shook my head. “I just look so different. I’m fine.”

“You look malnourished,” the doctor said. “The Maasai people are used to such restrictive caloric intake. You, are not.”

“I’ve been fine for a year,” I reasoned. “It’s just been these last few weeks that I’ve struggled.”

“It’s probably just as well you left when you did,” Doctor Tungu said, softer this time. “I need to ask. What are your plans from here? Where are you going?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. We hadn’t really decided.”

“I’d like you to stay here tonight,” the doctor said. “I can’t make you, but I’d like to see you eat a proper meal. I can give you electrolytes and a dozen different shots and pills, but how about we start with a hot shower and a clean, soft bed.”

I had to fight back tears and could barely manage a nod. Once the floodgates were open, I didn’t think I’d be able to stop. “Sounds great.”

The doctor clapped my shoulder. “I’ll see the staff about organising a room and some new clothes.”

“I have money,” I said. I pulled my backpack off and rummaged to find my clip seal bag with my passport and travel documents. I found my credit card and showed him. “I know it’s been a year, but I assume these still work.”

He grinned. “Not that much has changed. Come on. Follow me.”