Having arrived in Windhoek the previous night, Jack had been awake for a long time, even before the sun had come up. He waited, however, for a more civilized hour before going to the guesthouse. On his way, and to kill some time, he decided to stop at the iconic Lutheran Christ Church—fondly called the Gingerbread Church by locals—and pray for the success of the Irish priest’s visit.
Yet on this particular morning, the thoughts of the old practitioner of meditation were too erratic. The necessary spiritual introspection refused to settle in, so prayer did not keep Jack’s knees on the ground for too long. Thus, he stepped into the reception of The Flower of Kalahari Guesthouse sooner than planned and made himself comfortable in an armchair to read the front-page of the local newspaper while waiting for Father Callaghan. The main article was about the government’s new policy for combating rhino horn trafficking. There was also a story about female victims of domestic violence, which did not grab his attention for such stories were almost a daily occurrence.
“John Paul?” interrupted David.
“Jack. You can call me Jack.”
“Jack?” David asked.
“My formal name has more to do with the choice I made, or perhaps the one I didn’t make. It doesn’t matter. Jack is a nickname resurrected from childhood.”
“So be it!”
“My family still calls me John Paul. It was a tribute to the pope, you know, but it was more suited to a priestly career which didn’t happen.”
“And you can call me David. I didn’t bring my cassock,” he smiled, as he gestured for the former seminarian to follow him to the dining room.
Jack was as thin as a Kalahari meerkat. He was also short, with a slim face and a sharp voice, a stark contrast to the image evoked by his written words. David, who had been particularly touched by the many messages exchanged within a few days, somehow recognized him immediately.
“Forgive me for being so quiet lately. There were some setbacks and delays, and we also didn’t have access to the Internet for the past days,” Jack explained.
The men sat down at a table already set for the first meal of the day. As David breathed in the scent of the coffee, sharp and fresh, he realized how hungry he was. He ordered scrambled eggs from Brigitte and helped himself to a piece of home-baked bread with a generous amount of cheese, inviting Jack to do the same.
“No, thanks, I’m not hungry.”
With his mouth unoccupied, Jack realized he would have to be the first to speak. He scratched his knees and shifted in his chair.
“So, as I said in the emails, we are a small team: three professional researchers and me.”
“What do you mean by...”
“Professional? They are all academic anthropologists, with PhDs and stuff. My education is far less orthodox. I’d rather call it holistic. And so, it doesn’t conflict with my faith.”
“Oh, I see. And it also sounds much more interesting,” David smiled. “So you’re still a Catholic?”
“It’s difficult to define myself within Judeo-Christian parameters, Father…I mean, David. Certainly, I’m no longer a Catholic, though Jesus is still a great master to me. And having incorporated the animist belief into my thinking, I like to define myself as an animist Christian,” Jack said, noticing David’s eyes staring at the ceiling. “Anyway, David, you must know by now that the San people have already been studied a great deal, but our experiment is unique. We’ll re-create an ‘original community.’ The idea is to help some semi-westernized families completely revert to a hunter-gatherer lifestyle. We don’t know what might happen. Many have already assimilated our worst vices, such as drinking and the notion of possession. The children already have a desire for things that other people have and the fear of not being unique or special...”
“It sounds like it could be a huge challenge,” said David, dropping his gaze to the ground. “It’s like trying to turn back time.”
“Exactly.”
“And these families, how do they feel about the experiment?”
“If they were aware of the project, they wouldn’t act naturally, you know. These people have lost all their possessions, and we are giving them a second chance. But the return to their cultural origins must be voluntary and spontaneous, even unconscious. Our influence must then be very subtle. And most importantly, the authorities know nothing about this core intention.”
“I understand...”
This implied request for secrecy came as a surprise and was not in line with Jack’s previous communications, always plain, transparent and forward. And yet, the more he heard the excitement in Jack’s voice, the more his ears capitulated. After all, Jack had written the messages that had been instrumental to David’s departure from Newcastle West and to his belief that somehow his inner torment—fueled by the death of his mother and Father Duane, and plunged into greater depths by the brutal murder of Karen—could be softened through an unusual adventure.
Brigitte, who had been standing in the doorway attracted by the synergy in their conversation, finally brought the scrambled eggs.
“You seem more positively disposed to me this morning, Father Callaghan. I think I don’t need to ask you how your first night in our country was.”
“I wouldn’t know how to answer your question, Brigitte, since I was completely knocked out last night.” With the morning sunlight and a soft breeze behind her, a hint of the young woman’s contours was visible through her casual, loose dress—which was classic, but not conservative. With the hem slightly above the knees, it had suggestive slits on each side and a neckline David did not dare to glance at. Instead, he looked at the symmetry of her facial features and believed he saw a Renaissance angel as only Raphael could have imagined. His mind returned to earth when Gretha rushed toward her granddaughter, carrying a thermos.
“More coffee, Father? Mr. Elliot?”
“Good morning, ma’am! I think you have met my friend John Paul Elliot, or just Jack. From now on, he will be responsible for my misdeeds,” said David, with a smile. “And I was about to tell him what I learned from you last night about the people of Etosha.”
“Oh, we’re actually working with them,” Jack exclaimed.
“With who is left of them,” added the old lady.
“Exactly,” said Jack.
Gretha dragged a chair to the table and sat down.
“I told Father Callaghan that my father was involved with the San people of that region for decades. I just don’t know how much the priest was able to pay attention; he was so tired from the trip, poor thing. You know, Mr. Elliot…”
“Please, ma’am, call me Jack.”
“Well, Jack... at that time, they were considered second-class citizens, a sub-race, and all other ethnic groups heavily discriminated against them in their homeland…,” she said with gestures as expansive as those of the previous night, sending a teapot tumbling to the floor. The men were ready to spring into action to clean the mess, but Gretha said, “Don’t worry about it,” before shouting, “Brigitte, please help us.”
“Jack is part of a foreign mission working to preserve the San culture,” David explained, glossing over the awkwardness of the incident.
“Preservation?” Gretha asked, one eye on the table and one on the floor.
“It’s more than that. They will try to re-create the original San way of life,” David continued.
“Like in a lab?” Gretha asked.
David remembered that the subject was classified, and, feeling like a student who had failed his first exam of the year, avoided Jack’s eyes. Instead, he gave his exaggerated attention to helping Brigitte clean the liquid and shards of porcelain spread across the floor.
“I think it’s an extraordinary fact that a number of these people have maintained their language and culture,” continued Gretha. “There was always a lot of pressure on them to abandon the practice of foraging and collecting from the land, and to start planting their food instead.”
“More than hunting?” David asked.
“Oh, much more, Father!” replied Gretha. “Hunting was a game, an honored activity. The protein they needed came mainly from what they gathered.”
“The San name is in fact representative of this prejudice that you... I’m sorry... Mrs....?”
“Schwartz... Gretha Schwartz!”
“Mrs. Schwartz, the San name is derogatory; it means ‘scavengers,’ those who crawl on the ground,” continued Jack, “but as for their culture, madam, our greatest focus is to support the preservation of their widely endangered languages. With the extinction of their language, we will lose all knowledge dating back to prehistoric times. So, we have developed a project to perpetuate the language of the Hai//om people, whom you know very well.”
“How wonderful!” said Gretha, clasping her palms together and getting up from her chair, “I’ll be right back.”
Gretha returned moments later with a small chest filled with keepsakes of her father’s expeditions. Between photographs of indigenous leaders and members of local authorities, newspaper articles, personal letters and notes, the old lady removed an artifact and placed it in David’s hand, closing his fingers tightly around it. “This is a pipe from the Hai//om tribe. My father used it during the evocation ceremonies of the spirits. Take this with you, David, and may the peace my father felt be present in your heart too.”
The offer was sincere and sealed with a stare that implied a command rather than a request, although a smile softened Gretha’s expression. David quickly tried to think of several polite ways to refuse the honor, but nothing came to his mind. It was too awkward to accept something so precious from someone he barely knew. Yet at that moment, he remembered that he had entrusted the relic of the Irish saint to Elizabeth, so he kissed Mrs. Schwartz’s scented face as a gesture of acceptance.
Soon afterward, Brigitte came to announce the arrival of the driver. David went upstairs and returned with his sole piece of luggage and a handbag. In less than an hour, he and Jack had left the guesthouse.