The Descent

Ali  glanced  up,  then  finished  closing  the  suitcase.  'Peter's  bakkie? ' she  asked.  Peter was a Boer widower who liked to do favors  for her. It  was  always  he  who  drove  her  to town in his tiny van, what locals called a bakkie.

'No, mum.' Her voice got very  small. 'Casper's comin'.'

Ali joined  Kokie  at  the  window.  It  was  indeed  an  armored  troop  carrier  at  the  head of  a  long  rooster  tail  of  red  dust.  Casspirs  were  feared  by  the  black  populace  as juggernauts  that  brought  destruction.  She  had  no  idea  why  they  had  sent  military transport to fetch her, and  chalked  it  up  to  more  mindless  intimidation.  'Never  mind,' she said to the frightened girl.

The  Casspir churned across the plain.  It  was  still  miles  away  and  the  road  got  more corrugated on this side of the dry  lakebed.  Ali  guessed  there  were  still  ten  minutes  or so before it got here.

'Is everyone  ready?'  she asked Kokie.

'They  ready,  mum.'

'Let's see about our picture, then.'

Ali lifted her small camera from the cot, praying the  winter  heat  had  not  spoiled  her one  roll  of  Fuji  Velvia.  Kokie  eyed  the  camera   with  delight.  She'd  never   seen   a photograph of herself.

Despite  her  sadness  about  leaving,  there  were  reasons  to  be  thankful   she   was getting  transferred.  It  made  her  feel  selfish,  but  Ali  was  not  going  to  miss  the  tick fever  and poison snakes and walls of mud mixed with dung.  She  was  not  going  to  miss the   crushing  ignorance  of  these   dying   peasants,   or  the   pig-eyed   hatreds   of  the Afrikaaners   with   their   fire-engine-red   Nazi   flag   and   their   brutal,   man-eating Calvinism. And she was not going to miss the heat.

Ali ducked through the low doorway into the morning  light.  The  scent  surged  across to  her  even  before  the  colors.  She  drew  the  air  deep  into  her  lungs,  tasting  the  wild riot of blue hues on her tongue.

She raised her eyes.

Acres of bluebonnets spread in a blanket around the village.

This  was  her  doing.  Maybe  she  was  no  priest.  But  here  was  a  sacrament  she  could give.  Shortly   after   the   camp  well  was   drilled,  Ali  had  ordered   a  special  mix   of

wild-flower seed and  planted  it  herself.  The  fields  had  bloomed.  The  harvest  was  joy. And  pride,  rare  among  these  outcasts.  The  bluebonnets  had  become  a  small  legend. Farmers  –  Boer  and  English  both  –  had  driven  with  their  families  for  hundreds  of kilometers to see this sea of flowers. A tiny band of primeval Bushmen had visited  and reacted  with  shock  and  whispers,  wondering  if  a  piece  of  sky  had  landed  here.  A minister with the Zionist Christian  Church  had  conducted  an  outdoor  ceremony.  Soon enough,  the  flowers  would  die  off.  The  legend  was  fixed,  though.  In  a  way,  Ali  had exorcised what was grotesque  and established these  lepers' claim to humanity.

The  refugees  were  waiting  for  her  at  the  irrigation  ditch  that  led  from  the  well  and watered  their crop of maize  and  vegetables.  When  she  first  mentioned  a  group  photo, they  immediately  agreed  that  this  was  where  it  should  be  taken.  Here  was  their garden, their food, their future.

'Good morning,' Ali greeted  them.

'Goot  morgan,  Fundi,'  a  woman  solemnly  returned.  Fundi  was  an  abbreviation  of umfundisi. It  meant 'teacher' and was, for Ali's tastes,  the highest compliment. Sticklike  children  raced  out  from  the  group  and  Ali  knelt  to  embrace  them.  They smelled good to her, particularly this morning, fresh, washed by  their mothers.

'Look  at  you,'  she  said  to  them,  'so  pretty.  So  handsome.  Now  who  wants  to  help me?'

'Me, me. I am, mum.'

Ali  employed  all  the  children  in  putting  a  few  rocks  together  and  tying  some  sticks into a crude tripod. 'Now step  back or it will fall,' she said.

She worked quickly now. The  Casspir's approach  was  beginning  to  alarm  the  adults, and  she  wanted  the  picture  to  show  them  happy.  She  balanced  the  camera  atop  her tripod and looked through the viewfinder.

'Closer,' she gestured  to them, 'get closer together.'

The  light  was  just  right,  angling  sidelong  and  slightly  diffuse.  It  would  be  a  kind picture.  There  was  no  way  to  hide  the  ravages  of  disease  and  ostracism,  but  this would highlight their smiles and eyes  at least.

As she focused, she counted. Then recounted. They  were  missing someone.