Rudy, our guide at Tuli Block, a game preserve on the eastern border of Botswana, took us to Solomon’s wall, a massive outcropping bisected by the Sashe River.

The ominous patch of water below the wall, according to Rudy, is the former home of the local mermaid. According to legend, she periodically captured an unsuspecting man, dragged him to the bottom of the river and had her way with him for three days, after which the spent and lifeless body of the man re-surfaced. Although unproven, the legend still persists – the last victim being an army office in the Botswana Defense Force.

One of, if not the highlight of the trip, was the time spent in Tuli Block. Although getting there was traumatic, Tuli Safari Lodge had spectacular game drives, A+ chef catering, and wonderful caretakers who were assigned to guests to facilitate activities and ensure the safety of guests. Rudy, “the people’s chief”, was our caretaker.

photo credit Meleko Mokgosi

Since Mike was engaged with his painting, I thought it best to commit to the politics of the land by talking with the locals and employees. To my amazement the good humored and humble employees reported that they had been subjected to ill treatment from visitors. Whites from neighboring South Africa were at the head of their complaint list. Many years ago the land, which was once used for farming and cattle grazing, was sold for very little to a South African businessman. And as with many lodges and safari camps in the country, the land is still owned by a contingent of South African and British “shareholders”.

Racial dynamics still plague interactions. According to the people I interviewed, many guests arrive with an assortment of liquor for relaxation, make unfair requests, and occasionally make uncouth statements. One guest, for example, aggressively demanded that his caretaker immediately take him to see the lions and their den. “How do you know there is a lions’ den?’ the caretaker inquired with caution and surprise. “Well”, said the Chinese man, “you live in the bush. Can’t you see, you live with the animals, therefore, you know where they are, so take me to them – I want to see them!” With amazement and equal disappointment, the narrator ended the story. He was obviously still affected by this exchange and could still barely believe what had happened. He capped off, “Such is the ignorance that we see here. I am sure you know what I’m talking about”.

And I did! Upon my arrival in Williams College in 2003 for a solid year , every time I opened my mouth to speak, people were startled with amazement. “Wow, you speak such good English, how come?” And “you don’t look African?” My response, just like that of the Tuli caretaker, was to smile and take it on the chin – instead of correcting these sorry stupidities or giving the speaker a fat lip! I suppose I could have just clarified that I left my loin cloth and spear in the closet that day; and as for the good English – I should have tickled their fancy and told them it only took me a year to learn the language. Before that I was speaking in Uga-Booga. Suffice it to say, I understood all too well what the caretaker had gone through, just like anyone who has been subjected to stereotypes.

A great affinity developed between the staff and me. Wherever we traveled – it was apparent to most parties that I was employed as a guide, an assistant, a translator, facilitator, travel companion etc. At times this was a disadvantage. But most of the time it was a productive advantage because as a native I was given a different price for various things; additionally, I had access to invaluable information unavailable to Mike or any other tourists and I learnt a great deal from these exchanges Although they may have been treated badly by some guests, the employees maintained their dignity and autonomy. And proof of this was exhibited on our penultimate day at Tuli Block. A big cook out, or braai, was arranged for the guests – and the food was great as always. After dinner was served and the guests had finished eating, the staff began singing and dancing to entertain the guests.

It was a bit bizarre yet acceptable. The singing was good; the dancing – not so good. It was 9pm. The employees were probably tired. I could sense, as well, a tinge of embarrassment . I cannot fault them for this because these were not young people in their glory days. They were working people with families to attend. So being the only Motswana in the crowd, and sensing their uneasiness, I politely approached one performer to ask, “Why, why do you do this?” Perhaps it is a cultural difference, but I felt that it was unfair to request a performance from these hard working people. His explanation was short and sweet, “madi ke mathata mister, a fufulelwa”. Which means in not so poetic terms, “one has to work and sweat for money”. But he went on to stress that they did somewhat enjoy performing, and that the proceeds help to pay for private health care. He explained this with such pride that I understood that any discomfort he felt on stage was insignificant compared to the value of having a good private health care plan.

It occurred to me while looking at Solomon’s wall why the legend of the Mermaid is resonant for the local people. As workers in the tourist industry the citizens of Tuli dive daily into the pool of necessity in which they may encounter a soul-killer, racism.

The following pencil and gouache studies were made in the Okavango Delta of Botswana.

(all drawings are gouache on paper, 9″x12″)

Well above the water African Fish Eagles in white feathered hoods watch from the trees, Green Pigeons with breasts as chartreuse as a spring shoot get fat on.. sycamore figs and… Saddle-billed Storks sail on wide wings that audibly push the air aside. Both birds have a view of water lilies, deceptive flowers which define the tranquility of the surface and deny the presence of hippopotami. Tons of ill -tempered meat which levitate just below the lily pads, the hippos rise and make calls that Paul Theroux aptly describes as blasts on a tuba played under water. But these comic calls are deadly serious warnings. Male hippos are extremely aggressive about territory and will kill any male hippo, including babies that come too near. As a result female hippos that give birth to males must leave the pod and raise the young male in isolation, hiding under the floating grass and living on the edges for three years. If the baby is a girl, the mother stays with her pod. Back on the quiet surface the lily pads are deep green and they fill with water and silvery light. The bloom of the Lily is white or violet, a strange shade that seems to be from the invisible part of the spectrum. Surprisingly, the reverse side of the pads are deep vermillion. Looking up through the water from the hippos point of view, the pads look like deoxygenated blood cells floating in sky blue plasma. From the bow of a mokoro, a hand hewn boat that is poled through the shallows, the Okavango looks like a doubled world. Gliding silently in the Okavango is like drifting between parallel mirrors that touch at the horizon… confusing up with down delightfully. I spent a few days riding in a mokoro, sketch book in lap, drawing the Delta as it passed by.
“August 11, 2009: Botswana, Okavango Delta, Crane and Waterbug.” Pencil on Paper, 9″x12″.“August 9, 2009: Botswana, Okavango Delta, Grass Snake and Skull.” Pencil on Paper, 9″x12″. “August 11, 2009: Botswana, Okavango Delta, Water Lily.” Pencil on Paper, 9″x12″.“August 7, 2009: Botswana, Okavango Delta, Vervet Monkey.” Pencil on Paper, 9″x12″. “August 9, 2009: Botswana, Okavango Delta, Red Lechwe.” Pencil on Paper, 12″x16″. Sometimes Matsaudi Noga, my guide and companion while in the Okavango, would pole us through the grass to one of the protected islands of the Moremi Game Preserve to take a walk. On the soft sandy shore the islands are green and shady. But only a few steps in, the island becomes open savannah fit for grazing wart hogs. Dry conditions, sandy soil and…marauding elephants, which trample and tear at the plants, favor grasses and keep larger trees well spaced. As a result, the gestures of trees are often silhouetted against a simple ground. Line and flat shape are more pronounced than volume and shading. And rhythm is more apparent than equilibrium.One wonders what role the landscape played in forming the visual traditions of African people, whose art is distinguished by clear contour, strong shape and rhythm. The Delta is wild and to visit it is to travel back in time to the world before human ascendance. But the primacy of the landscape is an illusion. This is a national park, managed well by the government of Botswana. It is tempting to think of this place as a primal landscape—a cauldron of life that bubbles and boils on its own, assuring renewal. But it’s not. Its wildness and isolation only emphasize the fact that humankind now manages the entire surface of the earth. Every scrap. There are no redemptive Edens left. There are only parcels of wild space that are dependent on managers for upkeep. But maybe it’s incorrect to think of ourselves as the managers of landscape, since this suggests some sort of hierarchy in which people live separately, somehow above it all. Instead, maybe our actions within the land have become so critical to the maintenance of the ecosystem, that it is more correct to say that we are intertwined with landscape as never before in human history. And our fate and the fate of the Okavango are one and the same.

Ceopede Baitsile is a student at Cape Town University studying Ecology and Environmental Management

The irony of this image was fabulous, even more so since visual art in Botswana is very sincere, which is not a bad thing, but sincerity can accommodate humor and that element is often lacking. For example, the art work in the National Invitational Art Exhibition currently on view at the museum in the capitol, Gaborone, is damned by good intentions.
There are proficient paintings of history as collage.
Dramatizations of traditional culture…

and virtueless abstract paintings which give truth to the cliché, “painting is dead.” The fashion, however, was good.
There are a few moments of beauty,and one comic assemblage of a goat transformed into a traffic light. Goats are prolific in Botswana and freely roam the roads, making highway driving a contact sport, a fact of life that provides the back story for this bit of sculptural humor. Some of the art works are comic, but unintentionally so. A favorite with tourists and locals alike, celebratory images of the wild animals of Southern Africa are ubiquitous, which makes sense since the animals are a source of national pride, cultural identity and income. This hyperbolic painting of an ostrich on amphetamines is typical of the genre, and it prompts one to ask, “what do people want from pictures of wild animals?” This question has been on my mind a lot, since I’ve been trekking through game parks for a couple of weeks and I find it impossible to see the animals without being reminded of professional photographs and videos that I have seen on the subject. Is it possible that African animal pictures are the third most popular photographic subject after fashion and disaster? To understand the desire for animal pictures, I thought it might be useful to review the criteria I would use to edit photographs if I wanted them to be mainstream.Nxai Pan in north central Botswana was the first game reserve on the itinerary and ostriches were plentiful. The following four photos are of one bird as it pecked and strutted across the grassy stage. Moving clockwise from the upper left, the first ostrich picture is the worst. The legs and neck are straight and the body is strictly aligned on the axis of the spine. As a result the image is static, which would be fine in a portrait of a hod carrier by August Sander, but not for a wild animal. Picture two has more potential, since the neck is curved and the balance has shifted to one leg. But the loose skin under the neck is disturbing for older viewers. A better choice is image three, in which the neck flap is hidden, the weight turns on a single, balletic point and the turn of the head suggests that the bird is enjoying a commanding view. But that scrawny bird neck is not in proportion to the body. The problems of the first three images are resolved in ostrich four and its “quality” reveals my prejudice for a certain type of picture. Loose skin obscured, the neck in this image is pulled close to the body and tensed into a graceful S, ready to strike at prey. Like number three, the body is poised for action and the gaze is intensely focused. This is a bird of purpose. This “best” image emphasizes action, poise, physical beauty and self confidence. These virtues are not only attributes of health but also of vigorous agency. I seem to want an ostrich that is authoritative. Although dialed down a notch, my preference for the dynamic is disturbingly similar to the ostrich on amphetamine painting I ridiculed. I wonder if I want the same from giraffes? At Nxai Pan there were also a pair of giraffes. The male was enormous and he followed the smaller female closely, seeming to hurry her along. Trotting away from my approaching truck, they came in and out of view, sometimes only heads visible, bobbing above the bush. They descended into a dry river bed which was significantly lower then the road, providing an aerial perspective on their escape. Although they covered ground quickly, they seemed to be moving in slow motion like an astronaut who gives a little leap to sail across the moon.

A few days later on a game drive in Tuli, a wonderful park on the border of South Africa and Zimbabwe, I saw zebras grazing with giraffes. Zebras like to hang with giraffes to take advantage or their superior point of view which provides early warning of advancing predators. I grabbed my camera as we approached the group, snapping a shot every second. Later, when I reviewed the sequence, the animals seemed to pose as we got closer. Compare the following pictures, which are the first and last in the sequence. It’s as if I said, “OK, time for the group portrait. Short ones in the front. You, the tall fella, stop eating and get in the back. Turn toward the camera, please. Stand up straight. Everyone ready? Smile!”Of course the zebras and giraffe are not posing for the camera, but only orienting themselves to assess the nature of something new in their environment. It’s clear, however, that the presence of a photographer effects the animals movement in a very particular way, a fact that challenges the assumption that wild life photos are by nature candid. Still, when judging the worth of the four giraffe photos above, I prefer that the subject seem to be unaware of me. Since I wish to portray the giraffe as wild, the animal must appear innocent of my presence. At first it seems counterintuitive to link innocence and wildness, but access to the original wilderness, Eden, depended on innocence and was lost with knowledge. The fantasy of finding Eden is strong in people and can be capitalized upon when choosing an image for popular consumption. The first and second images are decidedly not Edenic, since the giraffe stares quizzically out of the picture. So these images can be eliminated. The third picture has potential. The animal is walking and looking away from the camera, so it seems uncontrived. It also has the advantage of illustrating the effectiveness of protective coloration and pattern in shadow. But popular pictures are not educational; popular pictures are entertaining. Muted color harmony is no match for the vividness of strong contrast, so number three is out. Which leaves picture number four, which is a good one, but for the unfortunate placement of the thorn tree under the chin of the giraffe. But Photoshop can remove the tree to create the perfect silhouette. This pose reminds me of a pretty woman who, interested in someone across the room, turns her back to the love object but flirtatiously sets her head and neck in profile. Like the winning ostrich, I’ve chosen a giraffe picture that highlights poise and beauty. But unlike the ostrich image which emphasizes agency, the giraffe selection promotes the fantasy of original innocence. But maybe a formal portrait of the giraffe would be more winning. Like a Baroque painting of a king on horse back, the giraffe in this photo looks down from above. The body is turned sideways to give full effect to the heroic torso, finely turned legs and richly patterned coat. The horizontal format sets the subject in its estate, like a landowner painted by Gainsborough. But there is yet another option from which to choose.The “portrait” format uses the visual liveliness of a vertical rectangle to reiterate the vitality of the living subject. At twenty feet tall, the giraffe is a natural for the vertical. Both of these pictures successfully ennoble the giraffe and I find this appealing, but I wonder why? Having watched giraffes a bit in the last few weeks I can testify to the fact that they are awkward as often as they are composed. I think it might have to do with making myself feel better. Maybe the reverential image is a way of making amends for taking the majority of the giraffe’s habitat. Too bad the apology is lost on the giraffe.

What at first seemed like simple choices of color, light and composition now seem complicated. Is a picture of an animal more about the person who selected it then it is about the animal? And do people look at pictures of wildlife to be reassured that a robust Eden is still possible? If I want to represent the wild animal free of human interference, maybe I should choose a bad picture.

Any better?

As the sun rises over the winter savannah, the trees turn white-pepper pink, a hue that Chanel would have chosen for women’s business attire. The color is subtle, which is good since the trees rise out of a fringe of grass the tint of bottle-blonde hair that has turned vaguely green from spending too much time in a chlorinated pool.

For evening the trees dress in navy and gold. The unusual chromatic variety seems to be a result of the color and angle of sunlight interacting with multi-layered bark, the living part of which is dark red overlaid with a reflective veil of dead gray scale.

But it takes more than prismatic panache to make a legend. The secret of Baobab style is proportion.

A single tree can reach a height of 98 feet and grow a waist that measures between 23 and 36 feet in diameter. More than just “big boned”, the Baobab holds massive amounts of water, up to 32,000 gallons. And from this sloshing gut shoot flabby arms that taper quickly to delicate wrists and tiny fingers which semaphore dramatically at the horizon.

Unlike other families of trees in which the uniqueness of individuals is hard to discern, each member of the Baobab family has character. What makes each one so unique? Each must have a very long history that accounts for its surface and its form.

While a fashionable lady of ancient Rome applied lead white to smooth her complexion and malachite to enhance her eyes, did an elephant use the tree for dermabrasion?.

When the Crusades brought silk production to Western Europe, did a weaver bird build a nest so heavy that the trajectory of a branch was altered?

And as the waistlines of British women fell in synchrony with the decline of the Empire, did a bonfire which consecrated the meeting of Chiefs, the original governors of Africa, scorch a limb?

No one knows all that fashioned the surface and shape of a Baobab tree, but the product of this lost history has star power.

Near where the women once slapped and wrung the laundry, lives a Python. I heard of her at a picnic, days before I set up on Woman’s rock to paint. She comes out of her home under the rock during these winter months to sunbathe. Although innocent of eating babies and livestock, she provokes stories of deadly Python encounters like the story of the missing truck driver who stopped to pee. A policemen found his truck idling on the roadside and went to investigate. The feet of the truck driver were found protruding from the mouth of an enormous snake. The moral, said the story teller is not to pee under low hanging branches.I set up my easel on a crest of barren rock. The air was clear and bright and one could see the gentle curve of the horizon as if standing on the deck of a ship looking out to sea. From here I could see the Python should she come. In a moment of distraction, I would miss the first glimpse of her behind a rock. Silently she slid to me, condemned by god to make tracks like a river in the sand. She bit me over the kidney and threw her first coil over my shoulder to trap my arms. I fell from her weight and as we rolled she wrapped me up like cable on a spool. Her coils trapped my arms before I could reach for my pocket knife to saw at her side. She tightened her grip each time I exhaled. Her mouth opened, her jaw unhinged to put me inside her, the course lubricated with hideous quantities of mucous.
I never saw the snake, but fear of her fired my imagination like kerosene. I began to paint in earnest, wondering how I could use the willies to make a good picture. The distant horizon was placed high on the panel with a stroke of turquoise tempered by ochre. For thorn trees a few green dots were scattered across the plane and a knife on edge made blades of dry grass. I imagined the Python below my feet, huge and turning. Woman’s Rock was drawn like her side pushing up through the flat plane. To my right a man appeared on a rise of rock a hundred feet away and he called and waved as if I knew him. I returned the wave and continued to work. He paused and watched and looked around. Soon, two young men came up on my left. The older man also advanced. I was alarmed by being approached from two sides. My adrenal glands gave a squirt and I imagined a knife. They spoke to me in Setswana and I said that I only spoke English. To this, the older man said through broken teeth, “Five Pula, drink”. Pula are the local currency, so either he was asking me to give him money for a drink or he was offering to buy my water. Optimistically, I offered the water. Wrong, he wanted the money. The other men were still and watched with interest. I patted my pockets and said “no Pula”. He did not look happy and he did not back away, but continued the negotiation and brought the price down to “two Pula”. One of the younger men kept a heavy pair of pruning sheers on his shoulder. I saw the bludgeoning. The other held his body obliquely to mine and kept one hand in his wind breaker. A memory of being mugged on the Brooklyn Bridge came to mind. Something was needed to keep this engagement positive. I had a very showy new camera hanging from the easel, a big red back pack at my feet and I’d just been to the cash machine, so I offered them my lunch. They took all but one cookie, which I made a show of keeping to maintain the pretense that we were sharing and having a spontaneous picnic. The men sat to eat and I squatted with them. I was scared but also angry at losing my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. If only they’d asked nicely! Slightly amused by the vehemence with which I defend good manners, I kept the tone light and told them of my friendship with Rre Motsewabeng, the farmer who owns Woman’s Rock. With this information the tone seemed to change. Was it that they could not rob and injure me because I was no longer alone and anonymous? Or were they relieved, no longer apprehensive of me, a stranger, since I had proven a local connection? Fear of the unknown, the Python, made it difficult to understand.