Same, but Different

Beneath the sapphire sky of a scorching October morning, two troops of baboons would stumble into battle. The inevitability of the day's events has been much debated in the circles that it has been discussed. Tensions had been rising since May with the departure of the rains and preliminary skirmishes were of the ordinary kind: border clashes, nothing more, but they were the seeds of eventual strife. As the dry season persisted, and resources grew scarce, the rains to germinate the sown seeds of wrath had fallen heavily. The two sides in this sorry tale: the troop of the Big Baobab- the gnarly bloated form of which dominated the scenery between the dust road and the mighty Zambezi river, on the one side; and on the other: the troop of the cathedral mopane, sheltered beneath their sprawling boughs in the dark and luxurious shade of the deep forests across the road to the South. Each troop was governed, most ably it must be said- as far as this can be said of the affairs of baboons, by a most venerable Parliament, and it was from this oligarchy that they vested their Statehood. These states laid claim to expanses of African bush from which they drew their taxes of beetles, bugs, fruits, roots, shoots, and grubs to sustain a steady economy of feeding, fucking, and fighting. The Heads of State, Baobab and Mopane, were not troubled by the incoherence of a public will, but were vested with the affairs of State by the fortuitous fibres of their fathers loins which had, in a single roll of the genetic dice, twined together to form the immaculate specimens that now lorded over all. For both sides such a gaze had not been set in living memory (of the baboons) upon them, as that now levelled at them magnificently by their Chiefs and leaders: the Big Baboons. Seated upon an ant hill, bare backside to baked brown earth, the leader of the Baobabs yawned impressively, revealing ivory the envy of the elephants. His troop grunted appreciatively and flicked their eyelids in acclaim. A similar scene was playing out across the dust road to the South in the mopane forests. Though the Big Baboon of the Mopanes sat instead on a log: bare backside to baked brown bark and scratched his nuts in the shade. Soon it would be time to water for the morning, as the slowly rising sun was bringing the heat of the October month down in loads. For the Mopanes, this was more of a trek, for they had to cross the Dust Road to reach the Zambezi to the north as their usual pans were dried up. This route passed very close to the borders of the Baobabs which reached their limit along the banks of a dry riverbed that ran down to the river's edge. The land beyond was contested between the Baobabs and another troop to the east, but the Baobabs held the majority and allowed the Mopanes passage on the far bank without much incident until the dry season had necessitated tighter restrictions. This march had been the site of those border skirmishes mentioned earlier, but nothing more, and the Big Baboon of the Mopanes was soon to lead his people that way again to the river. He should expect no different at worst, but conceivably better than usual, at best. For the Baobabs had been scarce along their eastern border recently, leaving the road to the river relatively clear. His troop had even begun feeling rather comfortable in the area, and there was talk among the grooming pairs of an annexation in the footing. Such a timesaver it would turn out to be, to be that much closer to the river! Slowly, steadily, the citizens of the Mopanes gave up their morning grooming and foraging and started heading inexorably northwards, taking a leisurely pace as they drew toward the dust road. But unbeknownst to them, the security situation around the riverbed had deteriorated rapidly.

In the distance, ringing in the heated air rang the light squeaky tones of a youngling: “Hah-wu!” That was it. A young sentry, posted by his commander to a treetop. No cause for concern. Nearby the sentry however, the Big Baboon of the Baobabs sat up off his ant heap and gave a low grunt. That was the signal- the enemy was on the move. With no further orders needed, the troop set off, silently, grim faced with the task before them. There was a debt to be paid, the wages of the insolence of the Mopanes were soon to be collected in full. Such insults had been served to the Baobabs demanding an accounting for, and the account of the Mopanes was now due. It had happened two nights ago and was the primary reason why the Baobabs had steered clear of their eastern marches and the dry riverbed. That day they had watered, barked at the passing Mopanes and then roosted in one of their favourite spots, just fifty metres from the edge of the riverbed in a great big fig tree with beautiful billowing branches. Night fell swiftly, the stars sprang out, and the moon was hidden. The Baobab baboons had slept soundly, safely ensconced in the comfort of the sprawling fig and in the peaceful quiet. But then, a Presence was felt among them. What awoke them, it could not be said. Perhaps the survival instincts of millennia had been activated presciently. A sentry barked, a baby screamed, and the whole tree erupted into chaos. Shadowy figures darted imperceptibly on the ground below, vanishing from trunk to trunk in the woodland and vanished. Shit fell from the fig tree in buckets as panic gripped the roused troop and a cacophony rose above the stench to set the night air ringing for miles. The next morning, as soon as it was light enough to spot a leopard, the disheveled and red-eyed troop vacated the fig, retreating back to their Baobab. The chatter that morning was all about the “Audacity”. They had been night-raided by the Mopanes! No harm was done admittedly, but sleep and certainty had been disturbed, and these preciously scarce resources were inviolate in the bush! Too shaken to return as yet, they had abandoned their outpost, and the Mopanes had reached their own conclusions. They were soon to be relieved of it.

The Big Baobab Baboon deployed his forces, making for an interdiction at the dirt road where the Mopanes were soon to reach. They arrived at nearly the same time. A north westerly wind had incidentally blown the smell of the Baobabs towards the Mopanes, and so it was that the Big Mopane Baboon had taken point of his troop and arrived at the dirt road first. His first sight, across the road, was that of his opposite number, seemingly spoiling for a fight. The two baboons stared at each other, neither moving, while the troops of both sides arrayed themselves along the roadside. Grunts turned to yakking, then barks and shrieks as each side strove against the other in a cacophonous chorus of Chacma insults. They leapt and danced, bounced, and pranced, but ever kept the road between them, unwilling to commit to the fight beyond that point without the guidance of their leader. The Baobab Baboon raised his head and spread his chest, demanding respect. The Mopane Baboon, turned to the side and glanced sideways, why should he give it? Baobab feinted, mocking a charge, flicking his eyelids and lips in aggravated frustration. Mopane turned his back, urinated, and made to walk away. This insult ignited an ecstasy of indignation from the Baobabs and a cry of triumph from the Mopanes. Baobab Baboon could not take it, battle was what he had come for and battle he would have. He leapt into the air over the road towards his hated enemy. It was a wide dust road, carved by the wheels of passing heavy vehicles into two sandy ruts, with a high verge in the middle. Such was the leap of the Baobab Baboon that he cleared one rutted side and passed over the verge in a single bound, the voices of his allies rose with his arc, crescendoing, whilst the howls of his enemies bayed in dismay as he came down hard into the rut of the further side. Then he vanished. In a massive cloud of dust, dirt, and indescribable noise, he vanished. Clouds of baked earth and choking dust flew into the air in a column that reached higher than even the baobab or the mopane. It rained down steadily then, rattling the heat curled leaves of the scrub with a sound like falling bones. The baboons scattered. Silence and dust blanketed. Not a sound could be heard for a long while, besides the far-off barking of a single baboon, beseeching the return of a lost member.

The sun rose higher towards noon and then passed its zenith, and it was much later that a vehicle came down the road towards the explosion, leaving a comb of dust in its wake. With a squeal of brakes and crunching gravel the heavy, lumbering armoured vehicle pulled to a stop before a massive crater in the road. Two men, one white, the other black, both dressed in fatigues stepped out. They approached cautiously, weapons in their hands, but not at the ready. Whoever had laid the landmine would be long gone by now, and the only danger lay in further mines. Satisfied, they approached the crater. The two soldiers took in the scene and investigated the debris around their feet.

“What do you reckon sergeant?” the white officer asked after a time. Squatting he lifted a shattered piece of white bone in his hand.

“Aaagh,” the sergeant answered, returning from a shufti along the edge of the road. “Baboons, must be the troop we heard from Base making all that noise.”

“You think one hit the mine?”

The sergeant shrugged. Years of soldiering in this tough land had taught him one thing: anything could happen out here.

“Must’ve been that gang of gooks the boys picked up yesterday,” the officer observed, gesturing to the crater. “Crossed the river the night before last, near the dry river mouth, and laid this mine. They must nearly be by the escarpment out of the valley by now. Well, we can add a poor bloody baboon to their account if our trackers catch up to them.” standing up he tossed the bone into the dust.

The sergeant nodded his head, taking stock of the bits and pieces of mutilated baboon scattered all around them, a look of disgust on his face. As often as he’d seen it, he could never feel anything less than disgust at the indiscriminate nature of these horrific weapons. Skirting the crater the officer approached a nearby tree on the northern side of the road. “Can’t be anything bigger than that back leg left of the poor bugger,” he said, pointing into the lower branches. “Shame. But rather him than us.”

“Shuwa ishe- for sure boss,” replied the sergeant, “better a baboon, than a man. These vakomana have had a bad day, but for us it has been good.”

“Let’s hope it's just the beginning of their misfortune,” returned the officer, “When we get back to base, we can get an update on the follow up, no point following these tracks, they lead to the same guys.

“What a mess… I just wonder what the bugger was doing crossing the road? Can’t have been anything sensible, there’s nothing on that side for him and his ilk, the river and food is that way?” he said pointing northwards, “Well, we aren’t calling for a casevac, so let's get on the radio, report back that it was just a baboon. Let’s hope our boys catch up to those bastards who laid it.” The two men climbed back into their armoured vehicle and drove off with the rumbling of the big diesel engine back the way they came. The setting sun lit their raised dust and quiet descended on all the land as they drew away. It was another day on the ill-defined frontline of insurgency warfare on the edge of collapsing Empire in Africa. As the sun descended, small popping sounds from far off could be distantly heard from the direction of the rising escarpment which dominated the southern horizon. Two tiny pieces of a greater conflict contacted each other in a desolate and unmemorable corner of the bush, uncertain of how they got there and uncertain of how to muddle their way out beyond the basic facts of combat. Men would die alone tonight, and the great wheels of the world would keep on turning. The baboons barked at the setting of the sun.