Chapter 2

Cape Point, 7^th October 2000

Below the lighthouse on the outermost tip of the Cape of Good Hope is a cove of yellow sand. Here the ocean swell that travels unimpeded around the southern latitudes, drives up against the unyielding spur of Africa. Waves lift over the rising beach, suck in their breath, and thunder onto the shore; sand hisses under the rush of the sea. One inhalation follows another in the first song of Africa. A line of footprints marks my passage down to the water's edge disappearing in the foam only to emerge again, unshod, to begin their journey across the land.

Not knowing how to answer the old timer's premonition, I could not settle on a plan, and without a plan, there could be no fixed itinerary. My mind filled with a host of equally alluring alternatives. If I stopped to look for desert elephants in Namibia, would there be time to visit the Luangwa Valley in Zambia with its dense game concentrations? Might chimpanzees provide some clues as our closest living relative, and if so, could I fit in a trip to Gombe Stream on the shores of Lake Tanganyika? What about taking the longer route north by Lake Malawi to see the diverse flocks of cichlid fish? Perhaps if I reached Kenya in time, Isla and her younger brother Torran, could join me on the coast for Christmas. Then, oh what a tempting thought, I could surely find another four weeks to continue the safari into January. After a while I recognised the futility of these mind games. Suppose here and now I doubled the number of days that I had set aside, at a guess it would take me no more than half a minute to sketch out an expanded safari in my mind, and be wondering anew whether I could fit in just one more location. Thinking in this way looked like a never ending recipe for tension. I determined to loosen up. No targets, no deadlines.

When the Bushman ⁽¹⁾ hunter was uncertain about whether to make a journey, he waited for a message that came to him on the wind, travelling from a distant place, bringing a story, perhaps telling of the coming of game or the arrival of rain in a far off quarter. Once he had heard the story, then all became clear. Over a century ago, a Bushman convict named //Kabbo ⁽²⁾ who was released from hard labour on the Table Bay breakwater, explained to his guardian how he was waiting for such a story. "Thou knowest that I sit waiting for the moon to turn back for me, that I may return to my place... for when a man has travelled along a road, and goes and sits down, he waits for a story to travel to him, following him along the same road . . ."

I resolve to listen for stories like //Kabbo and allow them to draw me gradually across the face of the continent. This seems to be the right approach for my other journey too; for the question I am asking - Why are we so destructive of nature? - has not yielded to logical attack, at least not by me. Perhaps the answer is to be found in the preferences and biases that evolved in our remote past, or maybe in the institutions that lie at the heart of modern society. My plan is to feign disinterest in the big question. In that way, I shall be free to follow my nose, to look into any oddities that come my way and to explore new terrain wherever I find it. And once it is off-guard, I shall sneak up on the big question from behind and catch it unawares.

Leaving the ocean's roar behind, I climb a footpath to the top of the cove and make my way towards the lighthouse. Nomad is sitting nearby. I check the odometer - 76,316 kilometres. On the drive back to Cape Town, I watch for any signs of future trouble: odd noises, dropping oil pressure, and so on, but Nomad behaves perfectly the whole day. We are both ready for safari.

Western Cape, 8^th October 2000

At first light Nomad and I slip out of Cape Town, heading north for Africa and the hinterland. Even pinching my arm has yet to convince me this is for real. Soon we are cruising along a small country road in the Western Cape, the new all-terrain tyres humming on the tarred surface. Willow trees massed with yellow flowers trace the line of a stream on the left, contrasting with the monotonous regularity of commercial farmland on the right. The seats behind are packed with clothes, books, my laptop, camera equipment and a rechargeable lamp, all covered in a thick blue blanket. The rear lock-up section is crammed with assorted safari gear: a tent, jerry cans, canvas chair, water containers, tools, spares and three wooden boxes with plates and food - in fact everything from sand ladders to rusks. Not that I have any teething infants to look after, but Geoff assures me they are de rigueur for camping trips in South Africa.

Wheat fields give way to a large orchard where I pull into a garage forecourt with a heavenly scent of orange blossom wafting amongst the pumps. Boxes of fruit and other home produce are stacked up inside the office where I buy some home-made apricot jam. A little further on, I nose Nomad off the highway onto a dirt road that leads to the Cederbergs, a craggy mountainous range some two hundred kilometres to the north of Cape Town. The hills are now shorn of Cedar trees but as we leave the patchwork of farms behind, a fairytale landscape of weathered rocks unfolds; on some of these can be found Bushman paintings.

Before their disastrous contact with the west, the Bushmen enjoyed an intimate, almost symbiotic relationship with wildlife that enabled them to occupy the greater part of southern Africa for several thousand years without causing extinction of any species ⁽³⁾. When Europeans arrived at the Cape, the bluebuck (a close relative of the roan antelope), quagga (a close relative of the mountain zebra), and Cape lion were all wiped out within two hundred years, whilst the bontebok, blesbok, black wildebeest, red hartebeest, Cape buffalo, mountain zebra and elephant only just escaped a similar fate. The contrast intrigues me. How could Bushmen have created a balance between what people need and what their environment can provide, when so many human societies have ravaged their natural resources?

Some would argue that the survival of wildlife in southern Africa was fortuitous: animals were spared because the human population was small, itself a consequence of the harsh landscape, unpredictable climate and want of advanced technology. But this notion is refuted by the findings of an anthropologist who studied the ecology of Bushman bands living in the central Kalahari from 1958-1966. He concluded that the G/wi could easily have overhunted their prey populations but chose not to ⁽⁴⁾. In any event I wish to understand the Bushman's own perspective on his relationship with nature and have decided to begin by looking at rock paintings in the Cape, as these speak of a time prior to any contact with Europeans. Most researchers think that the still visible paintings of the Cederbergs were created within the last six or seven thousand years. This is my starting point, and I shall avert my western eye in the interest of slipping into the mind of the Bushman.

A jingle from my cell phone interrupts my reverie, announcing that a text message has arrived. It is from Isla: "I just wanna make sure u know that im behind u 100% and im so proud of u...". Looking out the window at the strange landscape, it feels as if she is right there beside me. I need to keep these youngsters beside me all the way on this trip. That guy may have been younger but he was so absorbed by science he could only relate to scientists.

*    *    *

Not long after his return to Africa, he discovered a Bushman painting under a rocky overhang in amongst some enormous boulders. There was a line of blood-red hunters carrying bows and quivers: two had paused, arrows at the ready, to face a huge crocodile lying belly up above them. He looked closely at the detail, and wondered about the crocodile - some totem animal perhaps. At the time he was observing impala antelope in their native woodlands and his mind was full of complex ideas. He was analysing the groupings of individual females to find whether they corresponded to levels of kinship; and he was observing rutting males around the clock to see if they obeyed rules predicted by game theory. The Bushman hunters did not speak to him. He found nothing in the painting that connected with the subtle western concepts of animal behaviour. It was animalistic, foreign, arising out of another realm of existence. He thought of it as just one more oddity in his grand African adventure.

*    *    *

Leaving a trail of dust behind us, Nomad and I descend into a wide valley in the heart of the Cederbergs making our way to a farm cottage set in a small ravine that contains many paintings. It is a perfect base for explorations. My first outing is to the kloof at Salmanslaagte, a deeply cut gorge that would have provided permanent water and a place to hide from invading foreigners moving up the coastal plains. Climbing down to the stream that trickles along the floor of the gorge, I discover an overhanging rock shelter that has been carved into the sandstone walls by swiftly flowing waters, fed by mountain storms. It is awash with yellow sunlight reflecting off the rocks below. Beneath the arching roof, a line of women still dance, filling the canyon with energy and joy. Hands wave and breasts swing as the women shuffle along to the throbbing, pulsating rhythms that fill the shelter; it is not hard to imagine that they might return this very evening. The dancing women have large buttocks and fat calves. Perhaps the artist was rejoicing in a bountiful summer in a country where hunger is never far away. They bob along in a human snake. It is an arresting site, full of pathos for a day of merriment and laughter long ago, before the Bushman’s troubles really began.

It is only two minutes drive from the gorge to the start of the Sevilla trail which follows narrow ledges, in amongst flowering bushes and mysterious caverns. Nothing obvious from the outside hints at the open-air art gallery hidden within this rocky valley. Next to an exposed rock face is a painting of an ostrich with two very human legs sticking out below. When stalking the quagga and other game animals, the southern Bushmen are said to have disguised themselves in ostrich skins using a long pliant stick run through the neck to keep the head erect. They were expert in imitating the actions of the living bird, directing the mock ostrich to pick at bushes, preen itself and gaze about, as they crept up on their quarry ⁽⁵⁾.

A little further along, under a shallow overhang and partially hidden by an ancient olive tree, is a Bushman archer. He is walking briskly forward, bow raised, bowstring pulled back, in readiness to fire. His arrow is of the type still used by Bushmen to inject poison into their prey ⁽⁶⁾. //Kabbo recounted a long and poignant story of a man who was accidentally shot with a poisoned arrow ⁽⁷⁾. The man was with a group of hunters who came across a large herd of springbok, and in the dust and confusion of the hunt he was hit by a friend's arrow. In the account, he feels no anger: "I did not see the arrow. I could have avoided it and prevented our brother's fear . . . The dust was dense because there were many springbok. We did not see that we were shooting at each other because we were shooting in the dust". But the poison soon took effect: "I burn with pain, because the wound swells, it swells greatly. Therefore I am bloated. The swelling throbs. That is why my heart is falling." The hunter died that night.

By now the light is beginning to fade and I move quickly on to another site - a shallow overhang too exposed to be used as a sleeping place, but where nevertheless are many figures. One tableau contains three fantastical monsters. To my eye, it shows the transformation of a semi-human, shamanistic figure into a giant four-legged beast with an enormous clawed head. On the right are two human figures one bent forward, the other crouching, both in postures that living Bushmen associate with the entry into trance. One of the great discoveries of prehistoric art is the symbolic nature of the Bushman's paintings. Rather than being simple portrayals of people, animals and events, they are visual expressions of spiritual beliefs that hold deep meaning for the artists ⁽⁸⁾. In the Bushman's stories, people slip easily from their daily lives into a spiritual realm where humans and animals can converse freely with one-another and even change identify. It is unreal to us in the west. We concentrate on the physical realm downplaying our spiritual connection with nature. Maybe there is an important difference here?

Tragically we cannot ask the Bushman about his art and its meaning. The last known artist was shot in 1866 whilst hiding in amongst the rocks and caves of his mountain fastness in what is now the Witteberg Nature Reserve in Lesotho. We can tell he was an artist from the ten small horn pots hanging from his belt, each with a different coloured paint ⁽⁹⁾, but we know nothing of his paintings. We are ignorant of his name. Even his belt of colours is lost. All that is told by the posse who cornered him is that he successfully rustled some horses. Thus ended the great era of rock painting, smashed against a cultural barrier of ignorance and prejudice.

Cederberg, 9^th October 2000

This morning the owner of the farm, Mrs. Strauss, has agreed to let me see one of the restricted rock art sites in the vicinity of Traveller's Rest, but there is a problem.

'You have to drop down a tiny hole,' she says. 'There's only a narrow ledge to land on. You really need help and I can't spare anyone just now.'

'I'll take care, don't worry.'

'Even if you manage to get down on your own, you might not get out again. There's no step up to the entrance hole.'

'I'll bring a rope. I'll be fine,' I reply with more confidence than I feel.

'I hope so,' she says, only half suppressing an involuntary shudder.

I curse myself for not including an all-purpose rope as well as the heavy towing cable in Nomad's emergency equipment. A few minutes later, as I am scrummaging in the back of Nomad for something that will do, Mrs. Strauss reappears with one of the farmhands.

'I think it will be safer if you take a guide,' she says, smiling at my obvious relief. The farm worker has a crinkled friendly face that is reminiscent of a Bushman, but unfortunately we share no common language. Nevertheless we set off in friendly fashion, picking up a companion on the way.

We drive along the edge of a maize field, through a gate, and across an area of stony scrubland, before reaching the base of some rocky cliffs. My two companions bound up the rocks like a pair of klipspringers and disappear from sight. Panting with the climb and heat, I finally reach the top and walk over to where they were last in view. Near the edge of the cliff, I find a hollow in the rock. It is shaped like a funnel with sides that steepen into a round hole just large enough for a body to squeeze through. The hole leads straight underground. I look about in case my guides are further along the ridge, but they are nowhere to be seen. This must be it. Now I know how Alice must have felt, when poised on the edge of the rabbit hole. I lower myself into the unknown. For a second or two my feet dangle in thin air, then with an inner shrug I let myself go, dropping the final metre onto a rough stone floor. Landing awkwardly, I lurch half a metre to the side. The edge of the cliff drops away from my startled gaze to the veld far below.

My guides are sitting on the floor nearby, happily chatting together and quite unaware of my rapidly beating heart. Beyond them, the rock shelter stretches for a further ten metres. I edge past the pair to examine the far end which has a smooth wall of white alabaster. Three tiny figures in deep chocolate red are in motion on this massive rock canvas. In the centre is a Bushman hunter, racing forward across the plains, right arm stretched back and ready to launch a heavy throwing stick; the left arm is carried low, thrusting a small spear forward. Every detail can be seen down to the bangle on his right thigh. Nearly a metre in front is the tiny rhebok ⁽¹¹⁾ lamb, fleeing for its life, the little scut of a tail lifted and ears pricked, as if hearing the alarm cry of its mother. She is behind the hunter, staring at the unfolding scene but unable to respond because of a broken hind leg.

The whole scene is as fresh today as it must have been when fashioned on a spring day in the lambing season, many years ago. Perhaps it records the first successful hunt of a young man who had followed the mother to where her infant was hiding, awaiting its next feed. If her leg had not been broken, the pair might have fled together and escaped. Would he regret killing these animals, I wonder.

Sitting down, I look out over the rugged valley, dotted with olive green bushes. I would regret killing this pair today, but then my survival is not in question. I am not concerned about finding my next meal. Bushmen on the other hand depend on wild animals for their food and seldom harbour sentimental attitudes. In her studies of mobile Bushman bands living in the northern Kalahari, Lorna Marshall mentions that they show no concern for wounded creatures and no remorse for the pain they might be causing them ⁽¹²⁾. Children are not prevented from pulling legs off live grasshoppers ⁽¹³⁾ and on one occasion a group of them were permitted to play with a baby hare until they had killed it. But a hundred years earlier, another Bushman child, the son-in-law of //Kabbo the dreamer, also played with a baby hare, and did not want to kill it. "I was not willing to kill the leveret, because I felt that nothing acted as prettily as it did, when it was gently running, gently running along. It did in this manner (showing the motion of its ears), while it was gently running along, nothing acted as prettily as it did; and it went to sit down. . . And I went to fetch water; then, they killed my leveret for me, while I was at the water. They killed my leveret for me; and then I came and cried about the leveret . . . which I had meant to let alone, so that it might live on in peace" ⁽¹⁴⁾.

Lorna Marshall's daughter recalls how the Bushmen laughed and joked when a partly eviscerated springbok jumped and kicked before it died ⁽¹⁵⁾. She also tells how one father gutted and cooked a still-living tortoise for his infant son. But after describing what many in the west would consider as cruelty, she recounts one of the old Bushman stories of the early race, set at a time when humans and animals had not yet diverged. In this story Pishiboro, the trickster-god of the G/wi Bushmen, and his younger brother are sleeping alongside Pishiboro's elephant wife who is making the two men uncomfortable by rolling them between her thighs. They decide to get up and slip away whilst it is still dark. Next morning, the younger brother sees the elephant wife coming after them and urges Pishiboro to run on whilst he stays behind to divert her attention. He talks to her in a friendly way, winning her confidence, only to pierce her in the heart with a long thorn. In a show of complete indifference, he cuts off her breast and roasts it, then climbs onto her back and eats the meat, whilst enjoying the splendid view. And that is where Pishiboro finds his brother when he returns. "Ah, can it be that my younger brother has killed my wife and is sitting on her body?" Pishiboro is wildly angry. But his younger brother hands him some of the roasted meat, and says in a voice filled with scorn: "Oh, you fool. You lazy man. You were married to meat and you thought it was a wife." Pishiboro sees that this is true and helps his brother to get on with the skinning.

The story surely reinforces the point that animals should be considered primarily as a source of meat. This is what the Bushman's God has decided: that they must brush aside any sentimentality getting between them and a square meal. On the other hand, the very existence of such a fable indicates that they, like us, recognise the conflict existing between their love of animals and their need for food. It is just that in living closer to nature, their pragmatism has to be brought to the forefront.

Nomad cruises on all afternoon through the mountain landscapes of the northern Cape now gloriously decked out in spring flowers. On one ridge top, I stop to walk through a meadow of daisies that are bathing in the sun, sporting lemon yellow, burnt orange and mauve costumes. Further north, the countryside becomes noticeably drier, eventually turning into a desert landscape in Namaqualand. Even here, feathered flowers thrust through the sand in white and yellow clumps.

One thing I have noticed is the multitude of fences; they have run alongside the road with hardly a break since Cape Town. Another thing is the complete absence of wildlife. There are no Bushman hunters either, and that is no coincidence. Writing a century ago, the historian, George Stow ⁽¹⁶⁾ recounted how Bushmen "were driven out of their own country, the vast herds of game which once afforded them abundance of food ruthlessly destroyed, their children seized and carried into slavery...". Some of my countrymen were amongst the worst offenders. The oppression of Bushmen by other races did not stop with the publication of Stow's book: to this day Bushmen remain without legal rights to any part of their traditional lands, except for a small parcel in South Africa and another in northern Botswana, where they have limited hunting rights ⁽¹⁷⁾. The last refuges where Bushmen might continue their traditional way of life are under pressing threat. The story of their systematic persecution has been likened to over three hundred years of persistent genocide ⁽¹⁸⁾.

I decide to travel on fast up to Windhoek to see Torran. I can also arrange to rendezvous there with Stu, my journalist friend. As an arch pragmatist he would not regret the passing of the Bushman’s nomadic lifestyle, nor for that matter would he shed tears over the old timer’s bleak vision.

Mariental, 10^th October 2000

Well I am sorry to see this. Whilst driving northwards on Namibia's main highway, my eye was caught by a field of black rags on the other side of the railway line. On second glance I thought it might be remnants of meat from a slaughterhouse, hung up to dry. Now I realise that it is a huge ostrich farm with hundreds, no thousands, of hen ostriches. Fenced into paddocks and devoid of vegetation, shade or water, they are drifting about listlessly in crowds like so many inmates of a POW camp. Looking at the nearest birds through my binoculars, I can see that they are panting in the sun, mouths gaping, feathers dishevelled and lacklustre.

*    *    *

He loved to watch the wild ostriches. Sometimes he stumbled upon gangs of ten or twenty chicks scuttling about under the feet of their gigantic parents, looking like fluffy grey puffballs on stilts. As they grew older, the young ostriches joined other broods of similar age and struck out on their own. Alert, handsome and fleet footed, they roamed huge distances. On one occasion, he came across a group of fifty teenagers out on their own in the vast Serengeti plains miles from anywhere; the forest of ostrich heads followed his every move. It was a magnificent sight. He had seen the males dance, necks and feet flushed coconut-pink offsetting their glossy black backs and fluffy white hips. They swayed and bowed and fanned each other with wings of jet, and boomed warnings from their throats. And he had watched the females brooding their clutches, protecting the eggs from jackals, mottled grey feathers blending with the patchy savannah grasses.

*    *    *

That younger self would not have appreciated the economic motivation behind farming ostriches for he considered wild creatures to have a higher intrinsic value. His holy grail was to understand animal behaviour and the ecology of wild places; he saw this as the one true antidote against the old timer's fatalism. So he ignored the farms and ranches that were spreading across the land. They were an irrelevance. It was his blind spot.

So what does one person, or company, want with five thousand penned ostriches? Presumably the profit that comes from selling feathers and satisfying the demand for low cholesterol meat in the diet-conscious markets of the west. Fine. I also like to earn a profit and enjoy a bit of luxury. But there is precious little care apparent in this ostrich ghetto, and that concerns me. For that matter, how do any of us strike the right balance between making a profit and caring for wild creatures?

Starting at Cape Point, I have traversed the whole of South Africa and half of Namibia, travelling 1700 kilometres across what would have been prime game country not so long ago. In all this distance I have come across one wild animal, a dik-dik spotted yesterday near Fish River canyon. I have encountered five thousand ostriches but no wildlife.

*******

1. I have chosen the widely used 'Bushman' appellation for the click-speaking hunter-gatherers of southern Africa. In the areas I visited this appeared to be the preference of the Bushman people, despite the negative connotations from former times. Many scholars use the term 'San' although it also has pejorative connotations. Bushmen perceive their many different groups as distinct and different and do not have a collective term for themselves. In this respect they are no different than the distinctive peoples of, say, Europe or Mesoamerica who are only just beginning to think of themselves collectively.

2. //Kabbo means 'dream', and the name was given him by his own people, it seems, because he often spoke about his dream experiences.

Most Bushman words and names have clicks in them. To provide something of a flavour for these lovely languages I have occasionally included some of the clicks, symbolised as follows:

// making a sound similar to that used to urge on a horse [// //], (Lateral);

/ 'tsk', as in the English expression of irritation, 'tsk-tsk', or gentle reproof (Dental);

! a loud pop as the tongue is pulled sharply off the front of the palate, as in the sound used by English-speakers to imitate the sound of horses hooves (Palatal);

¬ produced by releasing air between the lips, often as in a kiss and hence 'kiss-click'. Found only in southern Bushman languages (Bilabial);

¹ produced by pulling the blade of the tongue sharply away from the alveolar ridge immediately behind the upper front teeth (Alveolar).

3. Stone Age peoples with anatomical features like the Bushmen of today have lived in southern, central and eastern Africa for thousands of years, possibly from as early as 120,000 years ago. A number of large African mammals that shared the landscape with these peoples have become extinct; the giant forms of buffalo and zebra as recently as ten thousand years ago. Since then and until historical times, Bushmen apparently coexisted with a rich fauna of large mammals.

4. George B. Silberbauer, Hunter and habitat in the central Kalahari Desert, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press,1981, p. 271.

5. George W. Stow, The Native Races of South Africa, MacMillan Co., London, 1905, p84. However Stow's interpretation has been challenged by: Tobias, P., Dowson, T. and Lewis-Williams, J . 1992. 'Blue ostriches' captured. Nature. 358:185.

6. Several kinds of poison are concocted by the Bushmen, derived variously from beetle grubs, snake venoms and certain pods and roots: all are highly toxic and fast acting.

7. J.D. Lewis-Williams (ed.), Stories that Float from Afar, David Philip, 2000.

8. David Lewis-Williams and Geoffrey Blundell, Fragile Heritage - A Rock Art Fieldguide, Witwatersrand University Press, 1998.

9. Recounted by George W. Stow (The Native Races of South Africa, MacMillan Co., London, 1905, p230). The pigments used by the artists come from sandstone rocks. The different oxides of iron give shades of red, brown and yellow; white comes from zinc oxide and black from manganese oxide. Eyewitness accounts describe how this ochre was prepared by heating it over a fire until it was red hot, whence it was ground between stones and made ready for mixing and binding with animal fat, egg yolk and fresh blood (Willcox, A.R. Rock Paintings of the Drakensberg. London, Max Parrish, 1956, p. 46). Preparing ochre was a ceremonial occasion, sometimes undertaken at night under a full moon. The result was a durable paint, especially the red, which bonds well with the rock surface as is evident from some of the older paintings. The paints were applied with brushes made from the stiff tail or mane hairs of gnu (black wildebeest), neatly tied with tendon to a thin reed. Quills or pointed bone fragments may have been used for the finest work.

10. To the delight of many, the anthropologist, Frans Prins, has recently been able to track down some descendents of Bushmen who once lived in the Maloti-Drakensberg Mountains, including one who was able to shed light on the meaning of paintings made by his father and grandfather (Frans Prins, pers. comm.; see article by Sue Derwent in African Geographic, February 2005).

11. The rhebok (Palea capreolus) is a long-necked mountain antelope, about the size of a small reedbuck or roe deer, with upstanding ears, spiked horns and short rabbit-like fur. It is only found in South Africa.

12. Lorna Marshall, The !Kung of Nyae Nyae, Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press, 1976.

13. Amongst the G/wi Bushmen of the central Kalahari, George Silberbauer observes in his book, Hunter and Habitat in the Central Kalahari Desert, that children are allowed to kill dung beetles and other defenceless creatures which they fantasize as prey animals. But if a child should kill too many, he is chastised as a greedy hunter because of a concern that such behaviour will anger their supreme God, N!adima.

14. W.H.I. Bleek and L.C. Lloyd, Specimens of Bushman Folklore, London, George Allen & Co., 1911.

15. Elizabeth Marshall Thomas, The Harmless People, New York, Alfred A. Knopf, 1959.

16. George W. Stow, The Native Races of South Africa, MacMillan Co., London, 1905, p35.

17. Rupert Isaacson, The Healing Land - A Kalahari Journey, Fourth Estate, London, 2001.

18. Sandy Gall, The Bushmen of Southern Africa - Slaughter of the Innocent, London, Chatto & Windus, 2001.


Copyright 2007 by Martyn G. Murray

... to top of page