The trip to Grootfontein would take a little over four hours, and the plan was to arrive before sunset. In addition to the two passengers and the driver, the old Toyota 4x4 carried countless boxes of supplies and electronic devices, which filled the trunk and part of the back seat where David sat.
While the vehicle left Windhoek via the B1 highway heading north, following the central plateau, David thought about everything he had read about the desert ecosystems, the abundant wildlife, the stunning topographic variety, and the diversity of peoples.
A massive territory with just over two million inhabitants made Namibia one of the least populous, yet paradoxically one of the most ethnographically diverse, countries in the world. The majority of inhabitants were of Bantu origins, such as the Ovambo and Herero. Other ethnic groups included the ancestors of the Khoisan, namely the San and the Nama—whose languages had similar click sounds—and the white populations of Afrikaans, German, British and Portuguese origins. David had read that the coexistence between races seemed democratic and cordial, as result of the harmonization policies implemented after Namibia’s independence from South Africa in 1990, but that it still carried heavy historical stains of tragedy and destruction.
The trip proceeded comfortably on flawless asphalt. Jack fell asleep as soon as they left Windhoek, while David’s attention was once again captured by groups of baboons, the majestic outline of mountains, and the sparse and dry flora—all under a heavenly and infinite blue sky. He could feel the prayer in the air and connected momentarily to the divine.
“So, you’re a priest? Catholic?” asked the driver with the authority of a guard at heaven’s gate demanding identification.
Benjamin was a robust and tall Herero man. His facial features were firm and austere; he rarely smiled. Jack had warned David that the driver was not exactly friendly and did not possess the gift of dealing with people. Considering these attributes, David had decided it would be better to remain quiet and enjoy the picture-perfect images parading outside his window. However, Benjamin’s tone of voice, thick and intrusive, could not be ignored.
“Catholic and a priest… but it doesn’t need to be in that order,” answered David.
“You won’t find many like you here. First time in Namibia? Do you intend to stay long? You haven’t come at the right time. Everything around here is very dry.”
“David, Benjamin is Herero,” said Jack, who had been woken by the low timbre of the driver’s voice and just in time to interrupt his questioning.
“Herero? How interesting! Yesterday, I learned a little about your people’s history,” said David.
“I don’t know what you heard, Father, but it must have been rather ugly,” said Benjamin.
“It was indeed. A nice lady told me about the war of your people against the Germans,” David continued, relieved that Jack was awake and part of the conversation.
“I don’t know if Mrs. Schwartz told you, but there’s a diplomatic struggle nowadays to recognize the Herero genocide as the first holocaust of the twentieth century,” Jack said.
“I don’t know why there’s so much fuss about that since it’s pure mathematics,” interrupted Benjamin, raising his tone above a level considered polite. “At the beginning of the German occupation, there were eighty thousand of us. By the end of the war… Well, it wasn’t much of a war if you consider the disparity of weapons between the two sides… Anyway, we were only fifteen thousand at the end. Do the calculations!”
“There were also concentration camps, expropriation of lands…” continued Jack.
“And of cattle, too,” added Benjamin.
“Ah, of course. You see, David, the Herero people are traditionally cattle farmers.”
“So, it’s true that the Germans almost exterminated your people,” said David.
“That’s why the Ovambo are the majority today,” explained Jack. “I think you might not have noticed yet, David, but it’s quite easy to spot a Herero on the streets, am I right Benjamin? Especially the Herero women.”
“Why is that?” asked David.
“The women wear a headpiece shaped like the horns of a cow, a clear reference to their traditional economy,” said Jack. “And what’s most interesting is that they wear dresses inspired by the Victorian fashion of the old settlers.”
“Is that so? But why?” asked David, his eyes burning with curiosity.
“They adopted that way of dressing after the defeat of the Germans as a way of demonstrating who the new lords were,” replied Jack.
The hours flew by, with the travelers making only a quick strategic stop in Otjiwarango—“the place where the fat cattle graze.” The small town, the most important urban area in the northern part of Namibia, was home to the largest cattle ranches in the country, as suggested by its Herero name. Jack told David that on long journeys to the north, it was not wise to ignore its shops and conveniences.
Stretching his legs in the town’s commercial center near a gas station, David remembered the fate that had befallen Benjamin’s people whenever he saw a Herero woman walking by. He was also amazed by the frequency with which he heard the German language. It seemed logical that the independent Namibia had chosen English as the country’s official idiom, thought David. It’s practically a neutral language.
During the second part of the trip, Father Callaghan spoke of his interest in the San people. The Herero holocaust seemed like a distant tragedy, while the destiny of Earth’s oldest people felt like a personal and present calling. He felt a deep and direct kinship to the San, seeing clearly the genealogical line that linked the Kalahari to Ireland. At least that was what he wanted to see; a web that connected all humans, where individual dramas would quickly dissolve into a much more impersonal and universal misery.
Just before dusk, the Toyota arrived in Grootfontein—a small miracle in light of failures in the electronic injection and loss of power. Grootfontein, in the country’s northeast region, was an even smaller town than Otjiwarongo. It had been founded by a hundred families of South African settlers who had planned to reach Angola but gave up when the territory fell under Portuguese rule. Although very green in summer due to above average rainfall, the town’s public areas were now quite dead. David lamented the lifeless jacaranda and other trees completely stripped of leaves, courtesy of the cold winter months.
Benjamin parked the vehicle close to a surprisingly modern shopping mall. Not far from the spot, but inaccessible to the Toyota, a two-story house served as a logistical base for the team of scientists. The unloading of cargo began slowly and was a time-consuming and laborious task that fell to Benjamin and two other helpers. Meanwhile, inside the house, Jack introduced the Irish priest to his colleagues.
“This is Father Callaghan, or simply David, as he prefers to be called.”
“Nice to meet you, David,” said Dr. Ecklund, smiling with the lower part of his face only—a mere formality.
The scientific project, authored by the Swedish anthropologist Andreas Ecklund, had been developed in partnership with Dr. Marie Steensen, his former Norwegian student at Lund University. Together, they had convinced a large Danish pharmaceutical company to allocate the necessary funds to a Nordic foundation for which they both worked. It had been no easy task, despite the intellectual brilliance and seductive charm of the young female doctor. The businessmen gave in to humanitarian pleas only when the duo committed to broadening the focus of the project to include the study of Hai//om medicinal plants and herbs, instead of just the preservation of their language. Dr. Andreas Ecklund and Dr. Marie Steensen agreed because the most important motive behind the research was neither one; their true intention never reached the negotiation table.
To achieve the proposed goals, they secured the services of the North American linguistic anthropologist, Edward Freeman. Ed, as called by the team of researchers, was a man of noticeable presence, a Clark Gable of looks and moves. Contrary to the “King of Hollywood,” however, Dr. Freeman’s charm was not innate and needed a bit of push to work out, as well as a generous amount of resilience on the part of his pray.
It fell to Jack, who defined himself as a holistic and self-taught anthropologist, to fill the gaps and, in particular, to satisfy the immediate interests of the sponsors. In short, he was the one in charge of researching the tribe’s traditional medicinal knowledge. He knew that the study of herbs and plants—the written records of which dated back to 5,000 years to the ancient Sumerians—was currently quite trendy due to the growing disenchantment with the synthetic and biomedical products of Western society.
The task suited Jack well. He had as much difficulty explaining his unique concept of anthropology as limiting his field of activity, which often included metaphysical reasoning. Far beyond the knowledge of herbs and medicinal roots, Jack longed to broaden his study of Hai//om healing to its spiritual belief systems and traditions.
What the team did not yet know was how and where David—with his religious background—would fit in. Dr. Ecklund, who turned irony into a supreme life philosophy, had promptly remarked, “God writes crooked in crooked lines.”
As the senior member of the expedition, Andreas was also in charge of finances and logistics. After the crew unloaded the equipment, he took careful inventory of the expensive imported tools. Marie, whose bare fingers begged for a cigarette, sequestered David for a chat and a cup of coffee on the balcony.
“Enjoy this starry sky, David,” said Marie, blowing a puff of smoke into the clear atmosphere. “Soon, it won’t be so stunning to you anymore. Beauty ends when we get accustomed to it—call it a curse.”
“I don’t know if I will be here long enough to get accustomed to it, or to be cursed,” he laughed.
Marie took another puff, liberating the smoke slowly this time, while surreptitiously observing David from head to toe. “It seems completely pointless for a Catholic priest to be in this environment,” she said. “But you can relax; we’re used to Jack and his ideas.”
“And I’m grateful to you for having me.”
“Cigarette?”
“I quit a long time ago.”
“Your intention, Father Callaghan, from Jack’s words, is what is confusing to us… He talked about your admiration for the San people, but also about your need to understand what humanity has become. To me, it seems like an idealistic purpose. I suggest that you don’t ask questions that are too ambitious. I mean…. frustration is an inseparable part of our work.”
“Right now, I don’t even know if I have a single question to make,” said David, looking up at the seemingly infinite sky.
“It’s probably better that way,” she smiled as the smoke escaped from the corners of her mouth. “But since your motivation seems to be so deep, and your ground so feeble, don’t you think you are easy prey to unconscious wishes?”
“If they’re unconscious, then I can’t speak for them, but I believe the reason for my presence here is quite simple: to be useful.”
“How was your trip?” asked Marie after a long pause.
“Well, the flight was a bit exhausting. My legs felt like noodles after hours in that cramped space and wouldn’t quite communicate with my head. But the car journey has been great so far.”
“Really? Did you talk to Benjamin? What did you think?”
“The driver? Well… A confident, but nice young man. A bit too serious for his age, perhaps. That’s all I can really say for now.”
“So he treated you well, Father,” she said, laughing.
“Please, doctor, call me David. ‘Father’ makes me feel like I’m in the wrong place.”
“You can bet that you are. And please, call me Marie. Your cassock, and I suppose my title, won’t be needed here anyway.”
“I actually learned quite a lot of things from Benjamin, mostly the story of his people,” David said, smiling to assure her of his leniency towards sarcasm.
“Ah, all right. And you didn’t notice anything unusual about him?” she asked, staring at David. “As a priest, I mean, didn’t you notice something on a spiritual level during your conversation?”
David searched his memory for an unprecedented fact in the dialogue with the Herero driver but found nothing.
“He’s an Omuroi, David!” she muttered after a few seconds. “That’s how they treat him in his tribe.”
“What’s an Omuroi?”
“It’s a warlock! People say he flies through the sky like a ghost at night, and they light candles and fires to scare him away. They believe that the Omuroi fears or hates the light. I don’t know... Sometimes they call a spiritual doctor, like a priest, to try and catch him.”