Loxodonta
An aged bull was rubbing his back lazily against the truck of a broad acacia tree. Beneath its prickly branches, shards of deep shadow were welcome in the heat of midday. The red sandy earth beneath his feet was bright and baking, hot enough to cook a body. From the lone male, a breath escaped in long, laboured sighs of several minutes. His ribs, clearly visible through his skin, lifted and fell gently. Eyes seemingly vacant, he scanned the horizon and counted.
One, two, three men and a jeep found him as he was slumbering, rocking quietly to stay on his feet. He was such a venerable age that his long tusks swept forward in long, low arches that almost touched at the fore, and which emphasised the thinness of the head beneath. The approaching men, who smelled bad from walking and hunting in the heat, surrounded the bull without a word, creeping in slowly and peacefully.
“He’s an old fellow. Makes our job easier, doesn’t it?”
“Sure. At least he’s had a life. How old?”
“Dunno. Probably near ninety, from the look of his feet and his tusks. Check out the tears on his ears, too. Looks like we’re doing him a favour.”
One bullet was enough. The shot was louder in the shade and the report shocked dazed birds out of the trees. Their weapon was meant for much tougher prey than this animal, who slipped down, sank and keeled over almost without a sound. There was no hurry and they waited, lighting cigarettes. Five minutes later they figured he was dead. Ten minutes after that, two great tusks were lying covered in the jeep, the body of the last elephant left to decay where it lay.
This band of men was not to blame for extinguishing the flame. All slow-moving guardians of the savannah had been shifted out of the way with the advance of suburban Africa. The savage yielded to the tame. Wild creatures incapable of domestication were judged pests and routinely cleared off land needed for agriculture, away from fish ponds. Precious wet patches and shimmering marshes were reclaimed for growing food and the forests harvested for wood. Bulky elephants made easy targets for Russian-style semi-automatic machine guns. Picked off singly, or butchered in families as they grazed, washed or licked salt from secret deposits, they gradually disappeared.
Their ivory was shipped to the east to make aphrodisiacs and potions that sold for thousands of dollars in the Asian markets. The West, too, with its hunting parties and exclusive safari deals had a hand in the demise of Loxodonta. Skeletons were scavenged and scoured to make talismans and powders. With the demise of the elephants – though no-one cared enough to notice at first – native trees, matured to hardiness over thousands of years gradually thinned out and disappeared, like the hair on an old man’s head. Gradually, the savannah became a bare expanse of sand, with rocky outcrops and low-lying shrubs clinging to the edges of housing developments. Losses were gradual, unseen until dust kicked up everywhere because the trees were not there to hold it down. With their vast, extending root systems, trees were like the tap in the sink, keeping the water in the soil. Without them, and without the elephants to partner them, the stuff of life gradually disappeared, leaving a giant dustbowl on the World’s largest continent.
Acacia became endangered, and although it was monitored for growth and germination success, lab results were stunted and inconclusive….not enough could be done, quickly, to save the species, so scientists, who had been flown from Zurich and Amsterdam and America to help with the problem, worried. From their purpose- built labs they sent out distress signals around the planet, hoping to find a cure.
On the fringes, other watchers waited, just as they always had. Men and boys at the gates – the gardener who clipped the bushes into shape and kept down the termites with creosote and sprays of sparkling water from a coiling hose; the houseboy who swept aside the dust every morning and afternoon and straightened the mats – knew that the world flattened up here would soon crumble into powder. The glass would shatter and the bricks would bake.
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June 6, 2014
Lopsided (2)
Fran Macilvey acceptance, allowing, change, choices, conditions and diseases, disability, learning, letting go, pain management 'Trapped: My Life with Cerebral Palsy', cerebral palsy, Fran's School of Hard Knocks 8 Comments
This is meant to be a faintly amusing post. Unlike the last ‘Lopsided’ though it hobbles along on much the same theme.
I have started journeying to the Commonwealth Pool – rebranded “The Commie” since I last used to go regularly – an Olympic-sized space, ideal for floating, stretching and generally larking about. At last I can swim in peace, without feeling in the way, without needing to excuse those who do not yet have the nautical equivalent of a driver’s licence. Learning to drive has taught me all about navigating aquatically, but lots of other swimmers don’t seem to think about this need, so in smaller pools, there is much battling for position, and many apologies. Here, in this vast space, there is room for everyone.
The “Commie” is two metres deep, and there are warning signs on the tiles: No non or weak swimmers beyond this point. What is a non? I wonder, flippantly. Getting in, therefore, suggests I am on my own, entering swirling eddies, deeps with danger. But there are places to hang at the side, ledges to rest the feet. It is fun, though I am sure that in a moment, I will discover a catch (apart from the underwater cameras). At the end of the swim, here it comes – getting out is harder than it used to be, when I happily lifted myself out at the side with my arms. These steps are deep, and the height I can lift a foot on any morning tends to vary, depending on several factors. Five years ago, I wouldn’t have given a second thought to the relative virtues of whichever foot or hand to use. Nowadays a chronically sore left shoulder, sore left hip, a sore right knee and a sore right foot give me pause: Once of each, blithely layering themselves over my ease, in their own, special way. That’s okay, but to have to stop so that I may weigh up which pain or lopsided jolt I would prefer is occasionally disconcerting.
There is bad news that depresses – this isn’t it! – and there is bad news that makes me do something. If I have to go swimming to keep myself moving, to keep warm and flexible, I will do that most willingly. I wish I could persuade my daughter to share my enthusiasm. Maybe today….it is a lovely day. Have a great weekend, and thanks for following, reading, commenting and enjoying.
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