beside him, glaring, but that doesn’t matter. At least I left the tattered red rags that one of them had left out to dry in the late afternoon sun—I’ve not been reduced to stealing a man’s clothing!
The point of this story comes from the fact that I was accompanied by my friend Alyette de Munck, who has known Africa since birth. Because of this continent shehas lost her son and nephew, and yet nothing can discourage her love of the land—and love is a trite word to describe such an affinity. So because of this poacher’s camp, a harmless afternoon’s stroll, which had previously been filled with the beauty of an isolated river flowing deep within the jungle fastness of wild orchids and liana and senna, turned into a heated argument between the two of us.
As I stood there breaking bamboo snares one by one, she stood apart and in a very firm way asked what right I had, an American here in Africa for only a few months, to invade the rights of the Africans whose country this was. I kept on breaking traps, though I couldn’t help but agree with her-Africa belongs to Africans.
My friend continued to plead her case.
“These men have a right to hunt. It’s their country! You have no right to destroy their efforts.”
Maybe she is right, for the country African living on the fringes of a park area has little alternative but to turn to poaching for his livelihood. But at the same time, why should one condone a man if he openly breaks the law-why shouldn’t you take whatever action you can against him. The man who kills the animals today is the man who kills the people who get in his way tomorrow. He recognizes the fact that there is a law saying he mustn’t do this or that, but without the enforcement of this law he is free to do as he chooses. If I can enforce the written rules of a supposedly protected park against the slaughter of animals, then I must do it. And so I continued to break bamboo, the reliable and flexible trap of the last game in Africa.
In a manner as unpredictable as their relationship had always been, Dian and Alexie maintained contact by mail—she in desultory fashion, while he wrote increasingly often and with supreme confidence that she would follow where he chose to lead.
Alexie’s recent letters are mainly about leaving NotreDame and transferring to the Chicago School of Divinity to major in comparative religion for his Ph.D. I am now expected to hurry back to the States and live with him in Chicago in a blissfully married state until he gets his degree, then his field work will take us to South America or northern Africa, where we will be happy ever after. Unfortunately I can’t seem to find my rose-colored glasses anymore, though he still seems to have his.
Seeking allies, Alexie kept in touch with the Prices, and the news of Dian’s and the de Muncks’ chilling experiences in the Congo spurred the three of them into action.
In the last days of September Alexie met the Prices in New York. An engagement ring was purchased, a flight booked, and Alexie dispatched on a rescue mission to bring Dian back to civilization. He boarded his plane confident that when offered the take-it-or-leave-it choice between marriage and continuing her studies, she would choose marriage.
When he came face to face with her in her mountain camp, he was horrified. Dressed in torn jeans and faded windbreaker, her long hair matted with the rain, her eyes bemused, she seemed like some barbaric creature of the jungle.
Alexie delivered his ultimatum—me or the gorillas—and was stunned when Dian turned him down. He persisted.
“Marry me,” he pleaded, “and I’ll give up university. We’ll go to Rhodesia and take up farming. I don’t want us ever to be separated again.”
Dian would not be moved. “Not possible, darling. You’d be giving up too much. We’ve both got a lot of things to do.”
“Then we can do them together. If you
must
stay here, how would it be if I stayed on too …
for a
The point of this story comes from the fact that I was accompanied by my friend Alyette de Munck, who has known Africa since birth. Because of this continent shehas lost her son and nephew, and yet nothing can discourage her love of the land—and love is a trite word to describe such an affinity. So because of this poacher’s camp, a harmless afternoon’s stroll, which had previously been filled with the beauty of an isolated river flowing deep within the jungle fastness of wild orchids and liana and senna, turned into a heated argument between the two of us.
As I stood there breaking bamboo snares one by one, she stood apart and in a very firm way asked what right I had, an American here in Africa for only a few months, to invade the rights of the Africans whose country this was. I kept on breaking traps, though I couldn’t help but agree with her-Africa belongs to Africans.
My friend continued to plead her case.
“These men have a right to hunt. It’s their country! You have no right to destroy their efforts.”
Maybe she is right, for the country African living on the fringes of a park area has little alternative but to turn to poaching for his livelihood. But at the same time, why should one condone a man if he openly breaks the law-why shouldn’t you take whatever action you can against him. The man who kills the animals today is the man who kills the people who get in his way tomorrow. He recognizes the fact that there is a law saying he mustn’t do this or that, but without the enforcement of this law he is free to do as he chooses. If I can enforce the written rules of a supposedly protected park against the slaughter of animals, then I must do it. And so I continued to break bamboo, the reliable and flexible trap of the last game in Africa.
In a manner as unpredictable as their relationship had always been, Dian and Alexie maintained contact by mail—she in desultory fashion, while he wrote increasingly often and with supreme confidence that she would follow where he chose to lead.
Alexie’s recent letters are mainly about leaving NotreDame and transferring to the Chicago School of Divinity to major in comparative religion for his Ph.D. I am now expected to hurry back to the States and live with him in Chicago in a blissfully married state until he gets his degree, then his field work will take us to South America or northern Africa, where we will be happy ever after. Unfortunately I can’t seem to find my rose-colored glasses anymore, though he still seems to have his.
Seeking allies, Alexie kept in touch with the Prices, and the news of Dian’s and the de Muncks’ chilling experiences in the Congo spurred the three of them into action.
In the last days of September Alexie met the Prices in New York. An engagement ring was purchased, a flight booked, and Alexie dispatched on a rescue mission to bring Dian back to civilization. He boarded his plane confident that when offered the take-it-or-leave-it choice between marriage and continuing her studies, she would choose marriage.
When he came face to face with her in her mountain camp, he was horrified. Dressed in torn jeans and faded windbreaker, her long hair matted with the rain, her eyes bemused, she seemed like some barbaric creature of the jungle.
Alexie delivered his ultimatum—me or the gorillas—and was stunned when Dian turned him down. He persisted.
“Marry me,” he pleaded, “and I’ll give up university. We’ll go to Rhodesia and take up farming. I don’t want us ever to be separated again.”
Dian would not be moved. “Not possible, darling. You’d be giving up too much. We’ve both got a lot of things to do.”
“Then we can do them together. If you
must
stay here, how would it be if I stayed on too …
for a
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