No.43 - Great White Stories

I thought it wasn’t going to happen. They phoned to say the weather was too bad.  It was: an icy wind was blustering in off the South Atlantic, whipping the sea into opaque soapy breakers, offshore a blistering of whitecaps. I settled for a peek at a huddle of miserable-looking African penguins on the old slipway of the Betty’s Bay whaling station. Plinths carried blurry sepia photos of the historic slaughter. This little group of penguins is also the remnant of a far larger population, drastically reduced because the over-fishing of their food sources. There are few oceanic species that have escaped the depredations of humans – not even the great predators.

The following day another call: the weather looks to improve, perhaps we are on after all; would I like to make myself available? For a mere 1600 clams, why not? I drive down to the coast again; the day is overcast and a little ruffled, not ideal but calm enough for the boats. Sightings are possible though not guaranteed. After a briefing delivered with rough humour, seventeen of us board the rather diminutive boat: an international coterie of hopeful and slightly nervous gawkers: an English accountant, a Spanish couple (she gung-ho, he reticent), a pair of American women, a family group of over-exuberant Mancunians. We churn and bounce out across the green swells, cold spray slashing back across the sides.  Then slow and drift to a stop.  There are several boats out here already, slopping fish oil into the sea and attracting flocks of gulls and skuas.  And, hopefully, great white sharks.

We have been divvied into small groups, the none-too-substantial looking cage winched around to the side and roped tight, and we have wrestled ourselves into the clammy rubber of wetsuits.  Mine has a rent in the shoulder I hope wasn’t the result of a bite.  We wait.  The chum slicks the surface of the sea to the west; a sailor is dunking the head of a tuna on a rope and dragging it back and forth hopefully. (Tuna is also pretty endangered, incidentally.)  The time seems ripe: we don masks and clamber over the side. This is not so much a shark-dive as a human-dunk. I am caged in with the raucous group from Manchester. Perhaps big fish don’t worry about squeaking yells and appalling jokes, but I do wish they’d shut up; it seems disrespectful.

At any event, more or less on cue, a couple of great whites make passes at the tuna head in front of us, two-metre whipping shapes. People yell “Down!” but there’s not too much to be seen under water, visibility poor after the storms of the day before. Still, one shark bangs up against the cage a foot from my nose, a slick of violent grey, the raked gills, the famously indifferent eye, gone in two seconds. I know they must be tough animals, but it can’t be good thrashing into corners of metal.

Indeed, emerging from this mildly exciting encounter, I feel deeply ambivalent about the whole enterprise. There are too many tourist boats out here, greasing the sea with fish-oil and guts and noise. The sharks attracted in expend a good deal of energy for no reward, and with unpredictable effects on their hunting and communal lives, and thus on the ecosystem more generally. I understood we would have a marine biologist on board, underlining putative links between the tourist outings and research; but we have only a professional diver effectively on vac from repairing North Sea oil rigs. I ask him about the allegation that chumming has exacerbated shark attacks on humans; he predictably denies it, claiming that tagged sharks show they only stay in the bay for 4 to 7 weeks, too short to learn any dependency on chumming. The chum is pure fish, no mammal material permitted.  In any event, attacks on humans are minimal to almost vanishing-point: according to posters back at the office, 419 people die annually from faulty toasters, maybe 4 in shark attacks – and up to a hundred million sharks are killed by humans.  Not even our great oceans can sustain that level of slaughter.

The arguments for and against cage-diving are fierce and various (see here). The usual argument ‘for’ is that the experience is uniquely educational – but in fact one learns little from watching a three-metre shark thrash at the tuna head for a few violent seconds. Not that I’m not glad to have seen it, but the situation is shot through with a certain artificial contrivance, a edge of intrusiveness. There’s a certain kind of education best accessed through film and literature, and through just leaving the animals alone.

Of course, being that kind of guy, I started fossicking about for shark literature. There are numerous web sites advertising “shark poems”, most of them for kids and a large number of them very bad. I did find one poem, by Australian Rachel Mead, which captured my own feelings about the shark dive beautifully – we are “human bait”, she says, “exhibiting ourselves to the wild”, ultimately unable to remember much about the vibrant glimpse one is accorded:

It’s difficult to know what to tell you, what I saved

from that oddly geometric world, the hard blue planes

speared with light, the hollow toll of cage on boat,

those plates of cold sliding between wetsuit and skin.

South African writing on sharks seems as sparse as the sharks themselves. Such references as exist are usually more symbols of something else, something in ourselves, not about the sharks themselves. Sydney Clouts’s poem “The Shark”, for example, is about lovers in a forest, the circling shark an image of some unspoken inner fears.  In Henrietta Rose-Innes’ novella Shark’s Egg, we are a little closer, though inevitably land-bound.  On the opening page, the protagonist Joanna recalls beach-combing near Cape Town and finding

a curious black pod, with a spine the length of her little finger at each corner.  When she picks it up it leaves a neat impression in the damp sand.

            Look, look here, what’s this?

            Her mother turns it over carefully with her pale fingers. It’s a shark egg, she says, her voice regretful, handing it back to the child. Some people call them mermaid’s purses.

            ... At home, sceptical, she cuts the object open with a pair of nail-scissors. Inside, the embryo is still alive, a perfect little shark no bigger than a new tadpole. It gapes and thrashes its tail, at last expires. ... Joanna is shaken, and for days feels deeply guilty.

            But also powerful: she has killed a shark.

Later in the novel, Joanna works in an aquarium, and sees real sharks – but always in their entrapment, separated from them by translucent glass.

South African-born writer Basil du Toit has a poem about a shark.  It, too, is dead: the poem is entitled “Unravelling a Shark”, depicting a post-mortem in which the shark is reduced to the mechanical:

Slabs of plumbing run the length of its body

like the dust bag in a vacuum cleaner;

its works are as plain and practical

as the rubber windpipes in a car’s engine.

And then the shark becomes symbolic of humans once again:

...sometimes we use the mauling ethics

of the shark: betraying, and moving on,

leaving behind us the shocked and shattered meat

of marriages, girlfriends, daughters.  (Older Women, Snailpress, 1996)

Not much justice accorded the deceased shark.  In 1987, Etienne de la Harpe wrote “Shark”, in which the speaker descends in a dive through a rainbow of watery lights towards a vision of death itself,

And meeting the true host of this

dark ocean sky:

all long-lethal lethargy, of tapered steel-grey,

and blunt with a deadness of eye. (25/25, 1989)

I haven’t searched much further – but isn’t there a work out there that honours the shark, for the shark’s sake?

*****

No 42 - Animal victims in Zimbabwean literature

I’m probably always pursuing too many ideas at once, too many interests. Occasionally two independent strains of enthusiasm will intersect and spark something intriguing. I try, for example, to keep something of an eye on the literature coming out of my homeland, Zimbabwe. At the same time, colleagues here at Rhodes University and at the University of Stellenbosch have cooked up a conference, with hopefully a book of edited essays to follow, on dogs in southern African literature. We hope to fill an obvious gap in local animal-studies scholarship; I’ve alluded in previous blogs to how pervasive the presence of dogs is, yet there’s been little sustained study. The conference, taking place at Stellenbosch next fortnight, will begin to address the neglect.

So I decided to address the two interests at once, and present a paper on the presence of dogs in some recent Zimbabwean fiction which deals with the post-2000 ‘land reform’ process. Two novels in particular – Graham Lang’s Place of Birth and Ian Holding’s Unfeeling – incorporate a strong canine presence. Dogs are, in the first instance, guards and companions, especially to the white farmers’ youngsters who are protagonists in these stories. Some dogs accompany these youths as they hunt little game across their farms; other packs of dogs accompany black youths doing much the same. Above all, though, the dogs are victims of political processes and associated violence in which they have no agency. In both novels, the white farmers’ dogs are slaughtered as violent land take-overs unfold: they become ciphers, stand-ins, symbols, for all the land dispossession and racist abuse local peoples feel to be the driving dynamic of their recent history. The animals generally are also soft targets, both in the sense of being unable to defend themselves and as a vector for emotional vulnerability: killing them can strike at the heart of whites’ affection and psychological well-being. In fact, I have entitled my conference paper, “Auntie Marsha, they’ve killed the dogs” – the first post-attack cry from Holding’s traumatised young protagonist.

These novels are far from the first to include a canine element in the Rhodesia-Zimbabwe land story. In the 1970s, Laurens van der Post wrote a somewhat prescient novel of black military take-over and white flight, A Far-Off Place, and then its sequel, A Story like the Wind. The fleeing young farmer-boy protagonist, Francois, is importantly accompanied by a super-supportive dog Hintza (named after the Xhosa chieftain). Hintza is, perhaps inevitably, a Rhodesian Ridgeback.

Someone mentioned that an even earlier writer, Doris Lessing, had written a dog-related story. I’m not sure I’ve discovered the story in question, but I’ve been struck, in re-reading Lessing’s 1951 collection, This was the Old Chief’s Country, of the frequency of animal victims in them.  Several are related in some detail: animal presences were seen as important to a fluid and fragmentary white community searching for an ethical centre. The examples I find illustrate perhaps three fundamental, and intricately interlocking, facets of white belonging on the land: the defended homestead; agriculture; and the wilderness.

In the first aspect, dogs feature regularly as guardians of the rural farmhouse – and suffer for it. Lessing’s story “Little Tembi” foreshadows much later white Rhodesian fiction, including the fate of the dogs in Lang and Holding. Tembi is a Shona orphan partly supported by a farming family; but the subtle abuses he suffers he avenges by stooping to theft. So the family buys two large fierce dogs. The wife, Jane, resents being

greeted on her way from house to storerooms  by the growling of hostile dogs who treated everyone, black and white, as an enemy .... They bit everyone who came near the house, and Jane was afraid for her children. However, it was not more than three weeks after they were bought that they were found lying stretched in the sun, quite dead, foam at their mouths and their eyes glazing. They had been poisoned ...

Such are the hazards, Jane’s husband Willie grumbles, of living in “this damned country”. Of course, many whites continued to live there, sometimes bound by an undeniable love.

Part of that love seemed to be for the activity of agriculture itself – the second aspect. Here too Lessing was both unsparing in her depictions of grimy and fractious white domestic lives, and generously adventurous in her portrayals of black characters. Some of her Rhodesian contemporaries vilified her for it.  Her portrait of a cattle driver, ‘The Long One’, in her story “The Nuisance”, is a subtle concoction of admiration and ethical doubts:

In his own line he was an artist – his line being cattle. He handled oxen with a delicate brutality that was fascinating and horrifying to watch. ...It was like watching a circus act; there was the same suspense in it: it was a matter of pride to him that he did not need to use the whip. This did not by any means imply that he wished to spare the beasts pain, not at all; he liked to feed his pride on his own skill. Alongside the double line of ponderous cattle that strained across acres of heavy clods, danced, raved and screamed the Long One, with his twelve-foot-long lash circling in black patterns over their backs; and though his threatening yells were the yells of an inspired madman, and the heavy whip could be heard clear across the farm, so that on a moonlight night when they were ploughing late it sounded like the crack and whine of a rifle, never did the dangerous metal-tipped lash so much as touch a hair of their hides. If you examined the oxen as they were outspanned, they might be exhausted, driven to staggering-point, so that my father had to remonstrate, but there was never a mark on them.

In this situation, the lines between cultural norms and compassion, between cruelty and mere utilisation, are blurry.

And thirdly, the wilderness, as threat or refuge, always looms on the edge of the domesticated fields and gardens.  It can be full of its own, independent violence: in “A Sunrise on the Veld” the boy-focaliser comes upon a buck being consumed alive by ants. He doesn’t bring himself to shoot the dying animal, since “this is how life goes on, by living things dying in anguish”, and he is overwhelmed by a “swelling feeling of rage and misery and protest”. So some characters seem to express that protest by exercising a countervailing compassion upon wild animal life; others respond by being indifferent to it. This is the difference between Major Carruthers, ethical English landowner, and Van Heerden, rough Afrikaner potential employee, in the story “The Second Hut”. The shabby quarters Carruthers offers Van Heerden have been colonised by a spider, “vast and glittering, shaking gently, glaring at them with small red eyes, from the centre of the web. Van Heerden did what Major Carruthers would have died rather than do: he tore the web across with his bare hands, crushed the spider between his fingers ... ‘It will do fine’ he announced.”

The ethical split starkly represented here, symbolic of a certain racism, is captured within a single character in the story “Leopard George”. The young farmer George finds himself having to hunt down a man-eating leopard.  The build-up is related with incremental delicacy, the outcome with wrenching ambivalence:

Image by Cindy Dardagan Britz

The low, ground-creeping thing showed a green glitter of eyes, and a sheen of moonlight shifted with the moving muscles in the flank. When the shape stilled and flattened itself for a spring, George lifted his rifle and fired. There was a coughing noise, and the shape stayed still. George lowered the rifle and looked at it, almost puzzled, and stood still. There lay the enemy, dead, not a couple of paces from him. Sprawled almost at his feet was the leopard, its body still tensing and convulsing in death. Anger sprang up again in George: it had all been so easy, so easy! Again he looked in wonder at his rifle; then he kicked the unresisting flesh of the leopard, first with a kind of curiosity, then brutally. Finally he smashed the butt of the rifle, again and again, in hard, thudding blows, against the head. There was no resistance, no sound, nothing.

Such killing is, in the end, utterly empty. Inflicting death on the animal, in the end, reveals nothing but the emptiness within ourselves.

******

No 41 - Animals in the (post)apocalypse

A recent issue of Africa Geographic highlighted what it called an “Elephant Apocalypse” – meaning that elephants are (yet again) coming under intense pressure from ivory hunters.  The word “apocalypse” has become so loose that it more or less equates with “disaster”, or “severe damage”, rather than the complete cleaning-of-the-slate envisaged in the original Apocalypse relayed by John in the Book of Revelation.

Not that it’s easy to discern just how much destruction there is in that phantasmagoric prophecy, as it unfolds through its various bizarre and terrifying stages.  Just what is unveiled – apocalypse derives from the Greek for an unveiling or uncovering – is weirdly obscure.  My own question, though, is this: while the fate of sinful and repentant humans is obviously the central concern in Revelation – what is said of the fate of other species?

The short answer is: not much.  In one of the early stages of God’s ravaging of earth, one third of the earth, its forests and animals, are slated for termination.  Well, we humans are close to achieving that rate of extinction all by ourselves.  Thereafter, a number of nightmarish symbolic animal hybrids appear on both good and evil sides of the equation: four great “creatures” with animal features worship the Lord; four vari-hued horses bear the forbidding horsemen; locusts bear scorpion-like stings; a woman sprouts eagle’s wings; Jesus is the raging Lamb and Satan a “beast” with ten horns and seven heads or a vomiting serpent.  But these are obviously all metamorphic symbols of a distraught imagination; and until the last chapter, when John dismisses dogs, along with various human miscreants, “outside”, there is no sign of real animals at all, and certainly no concern for their moral or ecological well-being.

This sort of existential neglect still affects the views of many Christians today, though thankfully it’s being countered by movements within various churches advocating – instead of a Genesis-based “we command the earth” attitude – forms of ecological stewardship, sometimes including animal rights.  One can find arguments, drawing on a very different selection of Biblical quotations, placing animals firmly within God’s glorious creative ambit.

Meanwhile, humankind, with no apparent intervention from the divine, is visiting its own apocalypse upon the animal kingdom: nearly half of all non-human species destroyed just within the last 40 years.  Another form of literature – science-fiction or speculative literature – has for a long time been projecting this man-made catastrophe into our imagined future.  In these fictional apocalypses, there are almost always survivors left on earth to muddle through the aftermath, often in the company of animals.

Back when nuclear holocaust seemed imminent, Edwin Muir wrote his famous poem “The Horses”, in which horses re-emerge to save humans from their post-technology plight.  In the more misanthropic treatments, animals outlive the humans.  This is the case with American poet Anne Sexton’s 1962 poem “Venus and the Ark”.  In this slightly tongue-in-cheek updating of the Biblical Noah’s Ark story, a rocket mission is launched, bearing various odd animal species and two human PhDs, to colonise Venus – at which point Earth itself is obliterated in a nuclear war. Stranded on Venus, the captive animals get restless, and the two scientists release them:

  Trees sprang

            from lichen, the rock became a park ...

            it grew quick and noisy with

            a kind of wonder in the lonely air...

            and the waters grew, green came

            taller and the happy rats sped

            through the integrated forest...

Rather unwisely, the mission had neglected to include a breeding pair of humans!  A non-human ecosystem begins it all again: on their dying day they perceive “two fish creatures stop/ on spangled legs and crawl/ from the belly of the sea.”

As for fiction, many of us will have read Margaret Atwood’s futurist trilogy, especially the first, Oryx and Crake. The sequels – The Year of the Flood and MaddAdam (2014)– don’t quite match up, in my view, and there is always something just a bit obvious about Atwood.  She has insisted – not to everyone’s satisfaction – on a distinction between science-fiction, involving the technology-obsessed realms of time travel or other-planetary improbabilities, and speculative fiction, which takes current real-world trends and extrapolates them into a plausible future.  Most of the animals in the MaddAdam trilogy are clones and hybrids of various sorts – pigoons and the like – created by biotechnology which already exists.  Nevertheless, it still feels a little overblown and improbable, delivered with a certain teenage-y jocularity that doesn’t convince me of Atwood’s seriousness.

Much closer to a conventional and almost over-serious realism is another speculative trilogy: Kim Stanley Robinson’s “Science in the Capital” series, set in a near-future Washington DC.  Government agencies, politicians and scientists grapple with abrupt and massive climate change.  In the first volume, Forty Signs of Rain (2004) the city is flooded by deluges of near-biblical scale.  Animals don’t appear much, but Robinson is thoroughly informed on current climate science.

Animals feature more strongly in the second volume, Fifty Degrees Below (2005), in which the polar ice-cap melts, causing a catastrophic shift in the offshore Gulf Stream (this is already happening).  The central character of the novel kind of goes feral: temporarily homeless, he builds a treehouse in a well-wooded park, which he shares with various animals.  Many of these have escaped from zoos and are having to adapt to changing climate – though many of them are having trouble with the rapid onset of unprecedentedly savage winter (again, this has already been happening).  Robinson conceives of a kind of multinational microcosm of the world’s animals: tapirs and okapi, jaguars and zebras.  The protagonist is especially fond of a group of gibbons, with whom he communicates after a fashion:

Other days he woke and could only struggle to escape the knot his stomach had been tied into during the night. Then it took the gibbons to free him. If they were within earshot, and he heard them lift their voices, then all was immediately well within him ... It was another gift. Sometimes he just listened, but usually he sang with them, if singing was the right word.  He hooted, whooped, called...

If Robinson here hints that animals presences are, if not actually vital to our lives, at least of therapeutic value, he is later in the novel both more scientific and less optimistic.  He notes that because of acidification of the oceans and temperature changes, the tiniest, almost invisible animalcules of the ocean – phytoplankton – the base of the pyramid upon which all other life rests, not excluding helping govern the oxygen-CO2 balance – are also threatened with extinction.  And at this point of the novel – set only marginally in the future – Robinson’s characters, scientists and policy-makers alike, are forced to realise that certain climate-change effects are now “unmitigable”: there is simply nothing that humans can do to halt the catastrophic processes that they themselves have induced.

Animals feature in at least two other perhaps less well-known post-apocalyptic novels.  One is John Updike’s Toward the End of Time (1997), which is as much a complaint about the ravages of old age as about a vaguely “post-war” future America – an unusual foray for the usually thoroughly realistic Updike.  The feisty essayist David Foster Wallace, despite being an Updike fan, gave this work a thorough mauling, claiming there was far too much introspection about the protagonist’s waning sexuality.  At any rate, it opens with a chapter entitled “The Deer”: some environmental awareness and animal issues are encapsulated in the main couple’s conflict over a deer.  It eats the wife’s roses, so she badgers her octogenarian husband to go out and shoot it with a shotgun – but by the time he totters out there it has always vanished...

Far more wacky is a final novel by the now unfairly-neglected Bernard Malamud, God’s Grace (1982).  Here the protagonist just happens to be alone at the bottom of the Marianas Trench in a submersible when nuclear holocaust overtakes the world.  He surfaces to find himself alone on the ocean with only one companion – a chimpanzee who has survived on board the mother ship, once subject to horrible experiments.  The chimp has learned to speak in human language, in fact (another in a long literary tradition of speaking apes, from Franz Kafka to Jeannette Winterson).  As the title indicates, there is quite a bit of discussion about what role God has played in this weird apocalypse (God converses, too).  When the pair eventually wash up on a remote island, they find other chimps, who also begin to learn human speech independently...

Few writers – Cormac McCarthy in The Road excepted, perhaps – seem willing to envisage a future without animals.  But with Donald Trump and Co apparently quite happy to make (nuclear-) warlike noises as well as to ignore environmental degradation, the fate of animals, including human animals, is looking as bleak as it has ever done. And one wonders, in our Trumpish ‘post-truth’ world, what is the role of fiction in affecting human consciousness.  Updike’s narrator in Toward the End of the Time ironically comments: “I never read fiction; after all its little hurly-burly what does it amount to but more proof that we are of all animals the most miserable?”  Yet this very outpouring of future scenario-building evidences our unquenchable – dare one say animal? – capacity for hope.

*****

No.40 - Forests and the imagination

Most of my life I have been a forest boy.  On my mother’s wildlife sanctuary in eastern Zimbabwe I ran barefoot through squishy bogs sheltered by massive albizias and cussonias and figs; every year I return there to climb my favourite strangler-fig bridge.  I was early made aware of the complex ecosystem that prevailed there – from the moths to the bats, from the somango monkeys to the mongooses, from the snails to the eagles.  I learned to evaluate these interconnections for their place in the system, not for their human use.  My mother would point out a fallen Rhoicissus fruit, bitten once by a monkey and discarded.

 “People say, ‘Look how wasteful they are’, and hate monkeys for it.  But look at what’s happening to the fruit.  Some of the seeds have been ingested by the somango, to be defecated – planted – further off.  A bushbuck has come along and nibbled a bit more of it; they’d never get this food without the monkeys.  Nor would these tiny fruit-flies, which are food for someone else; nor would these chongololos.  As it rots, it adds unique nutrition to this forest soil.  What’s wasted?? Nothing!”

And we’d lift handfuls of that clean, black, fragrant, light, leafy soil to our nostrils: there is no other smell quite like it. It’s very light, almost airy; even the biggest trees that come down are mostly light, rotting quickly, recycling into new growth quickly.  Cut away that growth, remove the perpetual leaf-fall and the perennial mist that aids decay, or the bushpig- and hornbill-droppings that enrich, and this soil runs out of nutrients in two seasons.

Humans have been confronted with this lesson for thousands of years, but have apparently not learned it.

The hillsides enclosing the Mediterranean were once heavily forested – but as Pliny described the environs of Athens in the Critias in the fourth century BC:

In comparison of what then was, there are remaining only the bones of the wasted body ... all the richer and softer parts of the soil having fallen away, and the mere skeleton of the land being left.  But in the primitive state of the country, its high mountains were high hills covered with soil ... and there was abundance of wood in the mountains.

Where did the wood all go?  To make ships for Athenian navies.  This did not change down the centuries.  In his wonderful book, The Cabaret of Plants: Botany and the imagination (2016), British nature-writer Richard Mabey notes how English oak forests were decimated to make English warships.  Similarly, in Landscape & Memory (1995), Simon Schama, whose Polish-Jewish great-grandfather was a lumberman, chronicles how, as Poland was successively occupied by German and Russian invaders in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the Bialowieza forests were plundered on a massive scale: in the years of the First World War alone, 5 percent vanished, 5 million cubic metres of wood shipped to Germany, and no small proportion reduced to “walls of fire” by heavy artillery.

Manufacturing massed weapons of war is a long way from cutting clearings in forests for early human settlements, as Robert Pogue Harrison has related in my favourite of all forest-y books, Forests: The shadow of civilisation (1992).  For millennia, Harrison shows, forest was what people carved civilisation out of, and therefore began to distance themselves from it.  It was seen as dark, threatening, dangerous.  But that’s only one side of it: forests have always simultaneously been resources, not just for wood, but for fruits, clothing materials, a pharmacopeia of balms, as well as the richest imaginable source of cultural imaginings: forest is epic and fecund with mystery, always has been, from Gilgamesh to the Brothers Grimm and beyond.

Having explored swathes of this extraordinary cultural landscape, Harrison concludes:

As the order of [human] institutions follows its course, or as huts give way to villages and then to cities and finally to cosmopolitan academies, the forests move further and further away from the centre of the clearings.  At the centre one eventually forgets that one is dwelling in a clearing.  The wider the circle of the clearing, the more the centre is nowhere ...  The global problem of deforestation provokes unlikely reactions of concern these days among city dwellers, not only because of the enormity of the scale but also because in the depths of cultural memory forests remain the correlate of human transcendence.  We call it the loss of nature, or the loss of wildlife habitat, or the loss of biodiversity, but underlying the ecological concern is perhaps a much deeper apprehension about the disappearance of boundaries...

In other words, the ecological crisis of deforestation – one of the major drivers of global climate change – a form of change without boundaries – is also a profound crisis of the human ‘imagination of belonging’.

‘Climate change’, precisely because it is so nebulous, is easily derided and even denied by ignoramuses like Donald Trump.  Better to confront them with less ambiguous evidence from lower orders of change, where things are visible and measurable.  Such people often seem to think that natural bounties will somehow last forever, when all the evidence is to the contrary.  Ask the passenger pigeon – or, in our own time, the bluefin tuna, which is almost gone.  It is now estimated that the planet has lost half its non-human species in just the last 40 years.  Sixty percent of simians, our closest relatives, are now critically endangered. A large portion of that loss is due to the destruction of tropical forests, the last land repositories of great biodiversity.

There is little sign of the trend slowing.  Don’t believe that the Congolese or the Indonesian forests are somehow endless: one of the most heart-breaking things I have seen recently is footage of desolate orang-outans clinging to single trees, all that’s left of their great rich forest habitats, ploughed down and burned out for the sake of palm-oil plantations.  Don’t believe that the Amazon jungle is somehow immune to depredation: a fifth of it is already gone to cattle-ranchers and miners and subsistence settlers and unnatural fire.  The Brazilian government plans no less than fifty dams on Amazonian rivers to supply humans with electricity.  As if dams have not been proven again and again to be short-lived and ecologically catastrophic – they will, if they go ahead, very likely precipitate the demise of the Amazonian climatic ‘lung’.

European invaders of North America believed that the timber resources of that vast continent were essentially infinite.  One of America’s finest novelists, Annie Proulx, has chronicled the progression of American lumbering in her latest magisterial novel, Barkskins (2016).  It is an epic, fascinating and depressing story – and not only because of Proulx’s genius for polishing off her characters in ever more imaginative ways.  She describes the appalling conditions and perils of woodcutters in Quebec and Maine in the seventeenth century, the retreat of the forests before new swathes of white settlers and ever-more efficient machineries, as demand for timber for warships, then railway ties, then housing, then paper, mushroomed.  The forest wasn’t inexhaustible after all; the ecological damage was profound and irreversible.  Even in the nineteenth century, as one of Proulx’s characters comes in from Germany with ideas of replanting and sustainability, he is derided.  One of her last, twentieth-century characters, in contrast, studies both forest ecologies and the indigenous knowledges of the Mi’qmak peoples who were all but obliterated along with the rich matrix of their habitat.

The advent of the ecological sciences, little more than a century old, seems as helpless as Romantic poetry to stem the tsunami of commercial exploitation, driven by myopic profiteers who simply couldn’t give a shit.  Indeed, Robert Harrison regards the academies with disdain, as iconic of our furthest imaginative remove from the realities of forest-dwelling.  More subtly, people’s aesthetics can shift: George Monbiot, in his defiantly forward-looking book Feral: Rewilding the land, sea and human life (2013), laments how the open spaciousness of his native Welsh Cambrian Mountains are today defended as a great last “wilderness”, even though in fact they have long been comprehensively denuded of forest and biodiversity by woodcutters and sheep-farmers: “Whenever I venture into the Cambrian Desert I almost lose the will to live.  It is like a land in perpetual winter.”

As I drove through the dustbowl of the Free State in December, I thought about how we in South Africa have also denuded vast territories for agriculture.  Instead of living in clearings in forests, we now fight to preserve tiny patches of forest – a mere 7 percent of what we had a century ago – in the midst of species-poor modified countryside that we too often have come to accept, even aesthetically admire, as ‘natural’.  We have, in short, become numb to loss.

In a thousand different ways, as all these wonderful books suggest, reforestation is one vital component of a restoration of our own humanity, our human sense of belonging.

As for me, it’s the first necessary step just to go down the hill to my local forest fragment, climb a wild plum with the cat, and breathe in through every pore the canopy’s colours and smells and infinitude of sounds...

*******

No 39 - Zimbabwe despatch: A walk through town

Pic: @kpczim

“I’ll walk home from here,” I say to my hostess.  She cocks her head at great steaming thunderheads looming over  Cecil Kop, rubs her throat in the morning humidity.  But okay.

            We’re in the middle of town, in one of the cul-de-sacs off the main street, which has lately been commandeered by a particular group of street- sellers – those who are making a few hard-won dollars from second-hand clothing.  Not the ultra-trashy, ‘zhing-zhong’ Chinese goods that have flooded most markets and destroyed Zimbabwe’s once-flourishing clothing industry, but clothes donated to charities in Mozambique, sold on in huge bales at US$250 a pop, smuggled across, or rather ‘negotiated’ through the nearby border post.  Now they lie in semi-chaotic piles on the sun-crazed tarmac, the vendors bawling their specialties and hoping the summer rain will hold off.  Here a heap of handbags and backpacks, there tiny-tots’ T-shirts, here packs of brand-new socks, there rows of sometimes slightly bent-looking shoes (one of each so you can’t run off with a pair). 

            My elegantly-built hostess likes rummaging through skeins of gossamery dresses and shifts and tops whose relevance to Africa has to be seriously questioned – but with a cry of triumph she comes up with a vivid Ralph Lauren dress, probably worn once by some Parisian deb and discarded: it fits her perfectly.  $4.  For my part, I score a couple of cool cotton shirts, one Malaysian, one English-made, and a pair of comfy Australian bush shorts with lots of pockets, just the way I like ‘em.  All in near-perfect condition: $2 apiece.  The insane profligacy of the developed nations meets the ingenuities of local economy.

            Not that these vendors are quite the impoverished who might benefit most.  My hostess chats amiably with some she knows well, not from the market but from her educational projects: these are teachers boosting their meagre government salaries during the school holidays, working ‘under’ another tier of entrepreneurs who actually get the bulk deliveries into the country, making middle-man (or often woman) profits that way.  We exchange our increasingly grubby and worn US dollar notes, getting a bit of change in the new so-called “bond notes”.  I ask some of the sales people what they think of them, and get that characteristic Shona clicking expression of doubt, if not disgust, “N-tskh-aahh”.  The notes are ostensibly backed by dollar reserves in the Reserve Bank, but if so how come there’s a shortage – or gold, but mining has died or been colonised by the Chinese and the Russians, so no one believes that.  The startlingly crisp bond notes  are ostensibly equivalent to the dollar, but within two days of their issue a fortnight ago they were being traded at alternative rates: they too are short in supply.

            In the main street, as I walk back across town, queues have built up at the ATMs: the amount of money one can draw at a time has been abruptly raised, possibly with Christmas in mind, but it’s still pretty meagre.  And the banks – some totally new, this year’s mushrooms and probably about as reliable as the sundry quasi-religious “prophets of profit” gulling the gullible everywhere – quickly run out of ready cash.  I go in to Barclays to see if I can draw some cash on my Visa card: No, that is no longer allowed.  So how am I supposed to get cash and spend my lovely tourist dollars?  Shrug: “You can swipe.”  That’s all very well at certain petrol stations and South African-based supermarkets, but most of the economy is cash-based – and the word is, or the fear is, that the “swipe” will soon not be allowed either.  Then what?  People are steeling themselves glumly for a repeat of the hyperinflationary madness of 2008, and all its ghastly consequences.

           

Pic: @kpczim

I am struck by how shabby this once-neat little town has become: the same tottering traffic-lights, sometimes on, sometimes blank, more potholes, fewer buildings being repainted.  Many firms and shops have closed up (more than 260 businesses have died this year): what used to be a gift shop is now Western Union (also backed up with queues of unusually quiet people hoping for money sent in from relatives outside the country); a long-standing restaurant is boarded up; a pharmacy next door briefly opened and then closed again.  What used to be my favourite bookshop now sells hair extensions, adorned with big flashy photographic panels of shiny grinning models.  The only shop in town selling books now is a narrow gloomy nook with a few dozen school text books (the same ones I taught from in the late 1980s) and some battered black-spined Penguin classics.  This government has comprehensively destroyed the public’s access to reading matter other than newspapers, whose literary quality is negligible.

            As always, street-corner vendors sell those papers, government mouthpieces alongside ‘opposition’ rags whose persistent vilification of Mugabe and ZANU-PF is tolerated as a sham of free speech: the government clearly doesn’t give a toss.  Though there is much trumpeting of the apparent in-fighting, the so-called G40 group against Lacoste (because its leader Emmerson Mnangagwa is known as ‘The Crocodile’).  It seems no less a mess than the equally split and hapless opposition. 

            As I walk on up the main street, the sultriness grows beneath the vividly clashing scarlet blossoms of the flame trees and the mauve jacarandas that line many streets – many of these trees must be older than I am.  When I lived here I didn’t think of the place as “tropical”, but after the thorny thickets of the Eastern Cape and the dust-storms of the drought-stricken Free State, it feels incredibly lush and steamy, uncut grass billowing into the edges of the minor side-roads, the hills dark blue-grey with shadows of approaching storm-clouds, promising the sudden warm runnels of drain-water I used to splash along as a barefoot child.

            I do not see another white person walking, just one or two passing in cars.  Being white here, whatever the luxury in which some continue to exist, is to be an irrelevance.  Rather like the old-age home in which my mother now lives, the community seems no less culturally closeted than it was in the 1970s: you relate to Shona folk largely in the form of aides, nurses, gate guards, gardeners, shop assistants, bureaucrats.  My hosts are seen as unusual in that they actually socialise with Shonas as parents and colleagues, and send their son to a school in which he is the solitary white boy in his year– with no ill effects whatever, so far as one can tell.  The alternative is – as many families do, white and black – to board the kid out to one of the ferociously expensive elite schools, whose obsession with sport is a constant topic of conversation.

           

From the old-age home I cut through a back street now all but impassable for potholes, even for my bakkie: only a skeleton of main thoroughfares is ever attended to nowadays.  I keep my eye open for a marvellous perky little caterpillar I’d seen earlier in the day: black hooped with yellow with two rear ‘antennae’ which bobbled along in charmingly comical fashion.  I’d debated briefly whether to lift it into the grass, but few people and almost no vehicles passed here; now, to my utter dismay, I find it half squashed.  I touch it; those little antennae quiver upwards.  Sick at heart, I kill it off.  A tiny thing, but it seems to me iconic of the whole mindless destructiveness of the natural world being carried out by humans everywhere: in Zimbabwe, the unchecked denudation of woodland to supply the drying-sheds of ‘emergent’ tobacco farmers, or the poisoning of a herd of cattle by arsenic leakage from an unregulated gold mine.

            I take a short-cut across the golf-course, which is obsessively maintained in the face of all economic challenges, the fairways fringed by dark dense alluring belts of indigenous forest harbouring melodious birds – Whyte’s barbets and Gorgeous bush-shrikes and clicking Puffbacks – and also an offputting ground-covering of human litter.

            At a street corner, shaded by jacarandas and figs, sits Tinashe at his little mobile stall, selling eggs and chips and single cigarettes that he gets wholesale and sells on for a small profit.  Friendly and chatty, he’s been installed here for a couple of years now.  He too is suspicious of the bond notes, and is hoarding dollars as much as he can: no use putting them in the bank.  Most people agree with him.  He is unconvinced the elections of 2018 are going to produce any benefits, but there is always that Shona laugh and little shrug that expresses hope: Well, maybe...

            I walk on, past a garden-plant nursery that seems still to flourish, a huge rain-puddle that no longer drains off the street, an ancient blue bus that has been broken down on an awkward corner for five days now, a man who in the absence of municipal attention has taken it on himself to fill some potholes with earth in the hope of a handout from motorists.  There does seem a surprising number of pristine 4x4s and double-cabs on the streets, in between the ageing smoking skedonks; I wonder if they care, shuttered like all suburbanites behind their rumbling automatic gates, their lawn-mowers and their outraged dogs.

            I am not far from my lodgings; I am drenched in summer sweat; a wind picks up; thunder humbles the hills; big lovely fat drops of rain spatter through the jacarandas; clutching their babies to their bellies, vervet monkeys run, and so do I...

           

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IMITHI: Grahamstown's Tree Memory Project

 If water is our life-blood, 
plants are our very flesh.

Over millions of years plants have created the atmosphere we breathe; the soils from which we harvest food; and the fossil fuels on which our present economy runs.  Without plants, without trees, we are dead.  It’s that simple, and no exaggeration.  Yet fossil fuels and arable soils and water-generating ecosystems are all under huge stress from human activity.  Trees are being cut down at terrifying rates globally, un-homing orang-utans and gorillas and butterflies, lemurs and wolves and owls, as well as age-old human communities from the Amazon to Myanmar.

We may feel we can’t do much about the destruction of forests in New Guinea or Brazil, but we can do something in Grahamstown.  We can write about, document, record the memories of local trees that once graced our streets or hills or gardens.  We can try to preserve the trees we still possess.  And we can try to take the long view and try to plant new trees that in a hundred or two hundred years will be places in which ecosystems can thrive and great-grandchildren can play and new cultural meanings can be forged.

Makana's Kop: Impression (c) Dan Wylie

Trees carry meanings and memories. 

Trees are havens in which we hid or cried or shared secrets or companionship.  They housed other mammals or intriguing birds or threatening insects.  They heaved up our houses’ foundations or suffused our mornings with beauty or yielded sweet or bitter fruits that became who we are.  They are scented with seasonal weathers and ghosts.  Our town is dominated at one end by the grove on Makana’s Kop, with all the cultural weight of those who are buried there; and at the other by the Botanical Gardens, with its quilt of foreign trees at once imperial and beautiful, both alien and educative.

Our relationship to trees is not always just beauty and benefit.  They break walls and harbour venomous snakes.  Some alien species are astoundingly lovely, but others are ecologically damaging and have to be rooted out.  But overall, remember – without trees, we’re dead, and so are a zillion other species, upon every one of which a functioning ecosystem may depend.  Dead simple.

So here is the call.  Send in your memories of trees.

You may know of and direct us to photographs or paintings of Grahamstown’s now-forgotten and vanished trees of the past.  You may know of old travelogues, or letters, poems or stories.  You may have photos or paintings or drawings of trees you once played in, or planted, or cut down, or that still exist, on your street or in your back yard.  Certain trees may commemorate or recall specific individuals or events.  Write down what you know and remember, and send it in.  Anything.  It doesn’t have to be literary or polished.  Be sentimental, or scientific, or angry. The more specific your information – the precise location, the species, the exact time or age – the more useful it may be.  Take more photos.  Get your kids and students doing projects.  Let’s think afresh about our trees.  Let’s think about what we can leave behind, not just for tomorrow, or next year, but for fifty, a hundred, a thousand years.

We don’t know what we’ll do with it yet.  The Facebook page is just a start.  In time we can start compiling and correlating and mapping and sifting it all into something that will find its own shape.  It’s for everyone to participate in.  Just keep it to Grahamstown-Rhini and its immediate surrounds for now!

Send what you have to the
              Imithi facebook page

or to Dan Wylie at d.wylie@ru.ac.za, 

or mail to Dan Wylie, Department of English, Rhodes University, Grahamstown.

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No.37 - Mike Skinner: Elegy for a friend

Mike has crossed the border
from which there is no return

Mike Skinner and I were the same age, both originally from Bulawayo, both incorrigible bachelors, and of similar build.  We shared for some years a passion for the slightly mad activity of rock-climbing, until for some reason he more or less abandoned that for the slightly madder activity of para-sailing.  For both of us Rhodes and Grahamstown had become our second home.

Mike loved the desert, drawn repeatedly to the Kalahari.  I never got to join him there; but we did climb many local crags, and the Compassberg, and Mary near Tarkastad; and we 4x4’d with John McKinnell through mountainous Lesotho.   He and I shared one particularly memorable desert adventure – a trip to Namibia, with our friend Nikki.  We visited Ais-Ais and Sossusvlei and Windhoek, then headed north for even drier regions.  We camped one night in the lee of the massif of the Brandberg, and Mikey decided to bake some bread, from scratch.  This poem relates what happened:

BREAD OF LIFE

The night of the Brandberg closes about us,

warm as fur.  Our fire, fading on the sand, feels

like the centre of life.  Mike rakes away the coals

and unearths the pot beneath them

where the bread’s been invisibly baking.

He lifts the heavy lid, shines the torch in.

There is no bread.  Nothing.  A black iron hole

swallowing our astonishment.

We do find it after some seconds –

so puffed up with exuberant yeasty life

it was stuck to the lid itself.

But now there really is no loaf:

death has lifted its lid on a hollow

black as an impenetrable hunger.

Whatever else we might cherish and taste,

that is a loaf from which we cannot eat again.

Mikey has the best view of all now.

We went on then to climb the famous Spitzkoppe, spectacularly shaped in yellowing colours but made of ghastly decomposing granite chutes that skinned our knees.  Then it was on to the petroglyph galleries of Twyfelfontein, and the strangely pristine coastal town of Swakopmund – where we found that the police were looking for us.  Or, specifically, looking for Mike: his father had been shot in a house break-in in Bulawayo.  We raced him back to Windhoek to catch a plane home – then Nikki and I continued the holiday in Mike’s white Toyota 4x4.  We felt weird, vaguely guilty, and bereft of Mike’s robust pragmatism, mechanical acumen, and genial quietness.  But it was what Mike wanted us to do.

Mike at Twyfelfontein

He was always so: unfailingly selfless, gently uncomplicated, keeping any distress close to himself.  He could express robust criticism of the world’s miscreants, including whoever killed his father, but there wasn’t a mean fibre in his body.  He was a man of parts – he could play the piano, cook, build stuff with meticulous care, run his pharmaceutical unit – but was not one for introspection, or saying much about his inner self, or imposing on one for help.

I saw relatively little of him these last couple of years, though most recently I think he was grateful that he and I could share some illness stories – rather as we had periodically commiserated over our expanding middle-aged bellies.  He would shrug and monosyllabically profess his positivity and hand it all over to God, blinking his eyes like a slightly nervous raccoon and grinning shyly with his small teeth.  I told him to call me, any time, for anything, but he did not – and suddenly it was too late. 

I am so grateful for having known him, knowing I could do no better than to judge my own life-decisions by the single criterion: would Mikey Skinner have approved?

ELEGY FOR MIKEY

I am cutting out alien trees

halfway down the hill

when the phone call comes.

A knot in my stomach has been waiting.

Our lovely Mike is gone.

So blessed in his modesty and quiet

almost none of us even knew he was ill.

Our lovely Mikey is gone.

The cellphone sits like a hollow in my hand.

The sun is a hollow in the low sky.

I think of the world that Mike has left:

our campuses afire, Somalia starving,

Syria ruined, etcetera, etcetera.

Spitzkoppe

Sometimes it seems it’s not Death

that is so intractable and opaque

but Life itself.  I should have

spent more time with him.  I should,

I should... But Mikey is gone.

And now we can only

leave the lopped branches of guilt

to lie where they fall, and try to love

whoever we can, when we can,

as much as we can, for as long

as time is running in our veins.

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