Norman Rush - Mating

From an anthropological standpoint I was very interested in there being female Franciscans, women motivated by yet another embalmed male dream to live out their lives in wilderness like this. I have nothing against St. Francis of Assisi, I don’t think. I know him by image, exclusively. But it was an anthropologically interesting fact to me that the heavy work of this remote mission was being done exclusively by very nice women. And the same is true for Africa generally, for Lutherans and all the rest of them. Even when a woman gets her own order authorized, like Mother Teresa, it’s women who end up doing the cooking and cleaning and nursing and little detachments of men who get to do the fun proselytizing. As I say, I was more interested in the sisters than they were in me. It may be because people who do good, to a self-sacrificial point and on a continuous basis, seem to exist in a kind of light trance a lot of the time. When we were down in the pan I realized I had been waiting for a thing to happen that I’d gotten used to seeing happen among missionary women, id est a brief peeping out of the sin of pride. They are consciously determined not to take pride in the afflictions they endure for the love of Christ, but they tend to slip. My guide asked if I had heard the news that a nun had been trampled to death by an elephant in Zambia. I saw the gleam. And I could hear chagrin when honesty compelled her to mention that it was a sister not of their order. I commiserated appropriately, feeling ashamed of the kind of person I am.

It took me a week to get myself outfitted and provisioned for my expedition, and I could have made it take longer. I was protracting the process. Kang was hard to leave. Apparently I wasn’t alone in feeling that way, because one of the sisters was in rebellion against a command to return to Racine. The time I spent lending a hand in the clinic also slowed me down by inducing internal questioning along the lines of What would be so terrible about public health as a career for you and What is so compelling about the socalled study of man? What did I think was wrong with the idea of doing something for people whose cheeks looked like pegboard, as opposed to spending my life swimming upstream through the shrinking attention spans of the sons and daughters of the American middle class? I knew I was already too old for medical school. I knew a woman three years younger who had been told she was too old for veterinary school. The sisters were doing medicine, in effect. And they seemed happy and were living decently, male absence notwithstanding. They were all a little overweight, but were obviously content construing whatever weight they settled at as what God, in the form of interacting genes, diet, and exercise, wanted. It was not on their minds. In America the dominant female types seem to be gaunt women jogging themselves into amenorrhea or women so fat they’re barely able to force one thigh past the other when it’s time to locomote, like Mom. The problem was that there was no mystery, that I could see, connected with public health. Anthropology, even my rather mundane corner of it, seemed to me to connect with the mystery of everything, by which I think I meant why the world has to be so unpleasant.

What finally stirred me to get moving was the water in Kang. It was cloudy and had an acrid taste. The sisters were aware of it but, I thought, eerily sanguine about it. When I brought it up directly, finally, it was clear they were, it could be said, even rather proud of what they were drinking. It seems the water in Kang is dense with naturally occurring nitrates. The water has been tested by the authorities and found to be spectacularly above the danger level. Everything in the literature suggested that nitrates at this level should cause people to develop a kidney disorder called methemoglobinuria. But there was no sign of the disease among the local people, who had been drinking the water for generations, nor among the nuns. There was no feasible filtering, in any case, nor if there were would it have felt right for them to make use of it when the poor of Kang would not have access to it. It was a medical mystery and a sign that Kang was under divine protection. They said this. So then it was time to bestir myself.

My lie to the sisters as to my destination was that I was only going east about twenty-five miles to rendezvous with a team from the rural income survey, which should have made my undertaking seem unthreatening enough. Still they wanted to talk seriously with me about traveling alone in the bush. It was about sexual danger, although everything was put more than obliquely. First they wanted reassurance that I had notified the proper officials as to my itinerary, namely the district commissioners in Kanye and Maun, which I lied yes to. I had skipped doing that out of hypercaution: I thought Denoon might have some kind of early warning agreement with the Ministry of Local Government and Lands to deflect journalists and supremely cunning doctoral candidates. I let fall gems like Please remember that Batswana think white women have an unattractive odor due to the amount of meat in our diets. Lastly I felt I had to lie that I had a pistol, which, as soon as I had uttered it, seemed like not a bad idea. I hadn’t felt the need of any sort of firearm when I was in the bush near Tswapong, but then that piece of wilderness was closer to town than anyplace I was going, and there were occasional farms and ranches scattered around there. The wildlife in the Tswapong Hills was sparser and smaller by a long chalk than what I might be facing in the central Kalahari. I inquired around offhandedly the next day, but there were no guns for sale in Kang, at least not to me. So I repeated to myself all the reasons I had originally concluded a gun would be superfluous and that was the end of that.

The Hunchbacks

I have to begin to be more synoptic.

I thought it would take me four days, at twenty-five miles a day, to get to Tsau, which it has become emotionally convenient lately for me to refer to inwardly as Pellucidar, after a book in the Tarzan series. It took me six-plus or seven-plus days, one or the other, to get there. Toward the end I was in serious straits. Calling Tsau Pellucidar is partly distancing and partly apposite. Pellucidar sounds like the way Tsau felt to me in one respect: it was like being, for the first time in my existence, in a correctly lighted place. I’ve never read the book, but I assume Pellucidar was one of the numerous lost and weird but still functioning cities Tarzan visited, and it was in Africa, naturally, although possibly it was at the earth’s core, with only the opening leading down to it being in Africa proper. So it all coheres. Nelson was a boyhood fan of the Tarzan series. The first meal he personally prepared for us was a curried dish he called Rice Edgar Burroughs because it had some of Tarzan’s favorite ingredients in it, whatever those might be.

Somewhere I have a list of the authors of Nelson’s favorite boys’ books. Most of them were news to me, like Roy Rockwood and Talbot Mundy. I now think the reason I have so much detail about the boyhood phase of his life is because telling me about it was a form of misdirection it took me forever to identify as such. I wanted details of his marriage and serious attachments generally and instead I got the thousand and one nights of his life as a boy, Denoon again and again taking ingenious revenges on the neighbor pharisee boys, who seemed to love to torment him and keep him from reading without interruption in the treehouses he constructed as reading pavilia. On the other hand, and to be absolutely fair, reading was one of his religions. In fact he gave as an instance of a consummate experience of pleasure reading straight through a collected edition of Sax Rohmer one summer. This was also an example of not knowing you were having a peak experience at the time you were having it and mistakenly assuming that it was the forerunner of many equal experiences waiting for you onward in life. I gathered he wished he had read more savoringly, possibly stopping after each paragraph and going Ah. He seemed to think that the idea that you should know when you’re having fun and concentrate on it passim was original. I tried to suggest that this looked to me a lot like our old Aquarian friend Mindfulness, but he wouldn’t have it. I must be vulgarizing him a little here. In any case it was his reading of Sax Rohmer, in particular a book starring his favorite Sax Rohmer hero, Morris Klaw, the Dream Detective, a prodigy who solves mysteries by inhaling verbena and going to sleep, that redneck neighbor boys disrupted by vandalizing his treehouse. His family owned a summer place in a dank redwood grove near the Russian River. Denoon’s revenge was ingenious, but it escapes me. I did drift off now and then, toward dawn, during the thousand and one nights.