Jackal's Dance (10 page)

Chester was a Herero tribesman of the semi-nomadic Himba people. He came from that sparsely populated northern area of Namibia known as Kaokoland. The Himbas, mainly cattle herders, regarded as deeply rural by other black tribes, were considered suitable for nothing other than the most menial tasks by the majority of white employers. On learning of Chester's Himba background, Billy was no exception.

‘Can you read?'

‘Yes.'

‘Write?'

‘Yes.'

‘Wonders will never cease.'

That was it. Categorised, with no opportunity to speak further, Chester, as a result, avoided Billy as much as possible. If the man wanted to write him off, so be it. No doubt, he'd find out sooner or later that Chester had actually received an excellent education. He passed his matriculation with flying colours, was fluent in Herero, Afrikaans, German and English, with a smattering of Portuguese thrown in, and held a journalism degree from Windhoek Academy, the only higher education institute in Namibia offering degree-level courses. Billy did check the staff files, but perhaps
out of embarrassment or, more likely, from a deep-rooted prejudice, he never apologised and rarely ever acknowledged the black ranger. In fact, Billy went out of his way to treat Chester as one of the ground staff, relaying orders he had no right to give through an embarrassed Thea.

Chester couldn't understand what had attracted Thea to her hatchet-faced husband. That she loved him was in no doubt – she clearly worshipped the ground he walked on. But no matter what, Billy always found something to criticise or be sarcastic about.

Thea disappeared inside a bungalow and Chester's thoughts shifted from the Abbott pair. As he did regularly, Chester was weighing up the pros and cons of a career move.

Chester Erasmus clung to a lifelong dream which, at the age now of thirty-one, seemed as far away as it did when he entered the Academy to study journalism some thirteen years ago. He knew that if he didn't make a move soon he'd be too old. Maybe he already was. Chances were that no-one would take on a cadet of his age. He had no contacts he could call on, no friends in the business. Contemplating how best to pursue his intended career, Chester was well aware that he was considered one of the lucky ones. Not many of his tribe earned a good salary. Those who did manage to leave the barren mountains of Kaokoland with its sand dunes, rock-strewn plains and withered vegetation were invariably unskilled and illiterate. If they found work at all it was to perform badly paid
domestic or labouring tasks which left them no better off than if they'd stayed at home.

A string of incredible coincidences meant that Chester and his family had been spared the hardships most Himba endured. It was all because of one man, Helmut Weiderman, a wealthy businessman from Windhoek who had taken his wife, young son and mother-in-law camping in the wilds of Kaokoland. Helmut was, at least until that trip, an armchair camper. He had all the gear: a long wheel base Land Rover specially fitted out and equipped for desert conditions; a tool kit that was the envy of many a motor mechanic; state-of-the-art camping equipment; and more maps than he could ever need. The only thing lacking was experience. Oh, and a radio. But who'd have thought he'd ever need one? Helmut's enthusiasm, and that of his family, more than made up for any little oversight. Or so they thought.

Instead of starting slowly and learning as he went, Helmut dived head-first into a trip that would have caused even the old hands to think twice. He had a workshop manual, watched television programs and listened to others. Kaokoland promised once-in-a-lifetime adventure. That the area was declared off-limits to tourists did not deter Helmut one iota. Once in, he was unlikely to be discovered. That there were no marked roads, just a few dusty tracks, no water, no fuel, in fact no modern infrastructure whatsoever, fazed Helmut not at all. He was self-sufficient.

The family set off in high spirits. They carried
sixty litres of fresh water, the long-range fuel tanks were full to the brim with extra fuel in jerry cans, two spare wheels, replacement parts which left nothing to chance, enough food to feed an army and a medical kit which could cope with most mishaps. Helmut was prepared. What could possibly go wrong?

The mind of a three-year-old boy is a place filled with wonder. Three-year-old boys feel morally obliged to take things apart, find out what makes them tick. A further must is to thoroughly explore the contents of any container to which access has previously been denied. The only trouble is, three-year-old boys don't know how to put things back together again, nor do they necessarily remember where they put all the bits. Helmut's son was an angelic-faced, blond, blue-eyed, three year old.

Willem loved car-rides. He flourished in the vast sandpit that was Kaokoland. Day three into the trip saw the family camped well off any track, somewhere south of the Steilrang Mountains. They might have been the only people on earth, such was their isolation.

Helmut had been pleased with the way Willem had adapted to the bush. The boy was able to amuse himself for hours on end. He seemed particularly content this evening, absorbed, Helmut thought, with his colouring-in book. But young Willem had actually discovered that his normally prudent daddy had left the lid of his toolbox open. The interior was an Aladdin's cave of spanners,
screwdrivers, pliers, hammers, and a myriad of mysteries which Willem simply
had
to investigate.

Probably aware that he was doing something he shouldn't, Willem methodically buried any evidence in soft sand just outside the tent. Willem's grandmother, who doted on the boy and was not particularly fond of her son-in-law, discovered the child elbow deep in his new-found fun. Aware that Helmut would not be amused, she picked up and replaced the few obvious bits and pieces before closing and latching the lid. She said nothing about it. When Helmut put his toolbox back into the Land Rover next morning, Willem begged to be picked up too. Distracted, Helmut did not notice that it was considerably lighter than it should have been.

It was later that very same day that a problem, in the form of a fuel blockage, reared its ugly head. Finding not one single screwdriver in the toolkit, Helmut discovered what must have happened. There was no going back. They were in deep trouble. It was a good one hundred and fifty kilometres to Opuwo, the administrative capital of Kaokoland. They'd been travelling on tracks which only concession holders – tour guides mainly – were supposed to use. Having seen no-one else in the last four days, the chances of another vehicle appearing out of the blue seemed remote. They had enough food and water for ten more days, which was six days after they were supposed to be back in Windhoek. Their only problem was that nobody knew where they were. Helmut, to hide
the fact that they were heading for Kaokoland, had told friends they intended camping in the Namib. If panic buttons were pushed, any search would be conducted some eight-hundred kilometres south of where they might be found.

Helmut knew he'd never reach Opuwo on foot, even assuming he didn't get lost. Their only chance was to stay with the vehicle and hope somebody came along.

Nobody did. In fact, nothing stirred out there. The silence became deafening. To make matters worse, Willem developed a high temperature and diarrhoea. Very quickly he began to dehydrate. At the end of his wits, Helmut had just made the desperate decision to try and reach Opuwo on foot when salvation, in the form of an eight-year-old Himba cattleherd called Chester Erasmus, appeared from nowhere. Chester did not speak English, German, Afrikaans, nor the African dialect commonly used in Windhoek. Helmut could not understand Herero. But Chester had seen that these strangers were in trouble. He led them to where his people had their camp, some six kilometres away. Several of the men spoke a mixture of German and Afrikaans, so Helmut was able to explain his plight.

The Himba, using tribal methods, cured Willem's illness within twenty-four hours. Two men set off on foot to alert the police at Opuwo and summon assistance. Five days later, the grateful, though thoroughly reprimanded group of intrepid explorers was back home. With them was one Chester Erasmus, who Helmut had promised to
educate, house, feed and generally treat as his own son.

He'd been as good as his word. Chester grew up as one of the Weiderman family. His future looked assured. Exceptionally bright, he sailed through school and was then accepted into a journalism course at the Academy.

At first, Chester did not appreciate how unusual his circumstances were. Several times he'd seen young boys from his tribe sold off to help alleviate a family's poverty. He had no idea what became of them – simply watched the terror and betrayal in their eyes as they were taken away. He had been no different, even though his father had tried to explain that it was for his own benefit, not that of his family, that he was being sent away. Chester had gone back to Windhoek with the Weidermans convinced he had been, at best, sold into slavery.

It took incredible patience to first convince the boy he was safe and then train him to acceptable standards of behaviour. The cultural differences were many. Some things, like the importance of cleaning his teeth, wearing his shirt buttoned up and tucked in, keeping his hands clean at all times and the necessity of daily showers, Chester picked up and quickly accepted because they were enjoyable and he could see how his compliance pleased the Weidermans.

Other matters took longer. Chester could not understand how the family could go to the toilet and foul such clean water. He persisted in squatting in the garden for several months before he could
bring himself to do the same as them. Blowing his nose, African style, one nostril blocked by a finger while the other was free to eject mucus onto the ground, was repugnant to Helmut and his wife. The trouble was, blowing into a piece of cloth and then, horror of horrors, putting the handkerchief back into his pocket, was equally disgusting to Chester.

Compromise in some areas was needed. Table manners were an issue which took time. Chester had always eaten with his hands. Knives and forks did not immediately respond to his clumsy attempts to copy the family. Much to young Willem's outrage that he was not allowed to do the same, the Weidermans turned a blind eye to Chester using his fingers provided he demonstrated a willingness to at least try utensils. He mastered the spoon quite quickly, but it was a long time before he was considered to be socially acceptable at the table.

Then there were difficulties over which neither his host family nor Chester had any control. Diet caused problems. His digestive system could not process spicy sausages and many of the vegetables and salads he was given to eat. Anything containing sugar brought Chester out in a rash. The trouble was, having been introduced to sweet food, he developed such a love for it that his skin was perpetually peppered with spots. That problem lasted several years but Chester didn't care. Cakes, biscuits and chocolate became his passion. Fortunately, his system eventually accepted the unfamiliar and the
irritating skin condition went away.

Chester didn't win many contentious issues but there was one he steadfastly persisted with. Sleeping in a bed instead of on a mat on the floor became a battle of wills. He'd be neatly tucked up for the night but, inevitably, each morning he'd be found on the floor. The Weidermans gave in eventually. Chester only accepted a bed when the family dog was allowed in it with him. As a result, the animal became thoroughly spoiled and Chester had fleas. But as Helmut said, ‘At least he doesn't insist on a goat too.'

With gradual understanding of the German spoken in the Weiderman home came acceptance of their ways. He was not a slave. They did not plan to eat him. Their customs were strange but he could live with that. And school, once he started to understand the language, was an absolute joy.

After a full year with them, he was taken back to Kaokoland to see his family. Chester was overjoyed at the prospect. Within half a day he wanted to leave. They seemed like strangers. His father cuffed him when he voiced an opinion during the meal, something he was encouraged to do in Windhoek. He felt awkward eating with his hands. The family shelter was lice-ridden and uncomfortable. Chester could not understand how Uncle Helmut, as he had been told to address his benefactor, who had taken him there and was staying as an honoured guest, could calmly accept his family's ways when all Chester felt was shame.

He continued to return home, once a year, at
Helmut's insistence. The longer he lived with the Weidermans the more alien his real family felt. Aware of this, Helmut would never allow Chester to forget his origins, telling him many times, ‘You are a Himba. You must remain proud of your traditions.'

‘But, Uncle Helmut, I am more German than Himba.'

‘No, son. You are a member of my family and we love you, but your true parents are in Kaokoland and they sacrificed their own happiness by losing you so that you could have a future. Never forget them.'

At sixteen, Chester went through a reverse rebellion and began to resent being taken from his family. The Weidermans treated this eight-month crisis with the same patience they'd shown when he first lived with them. By the time he was seventeen, Chester had come to accept that while he could never be a traditional Himba, he could at least be true to the values his earlier upbringing instilled in him. It was the best he could do.

Helmut was as proud as any father when Chester won a place at the Academy, making plans to fetch the boy's parents so that they too could share in the glory of his first day. By then, Chester had so little feelings left for his family that he begged Helmut not to do it. ‘Please, Helmut,' – he'd been asked to drop the ‘uncle' on his eighteenth birthday – ‘they will hate it. They have never been out of Kaokoland. I know you mean well but believe me, they would feel only fear.'

Helmut saw the shame on Chester's face. ‘Oh,
my son, what have we done to you?' The German had tears in his eyes.