Mbatha / Pitt Black Lion

Alive in the Wilderness
1. Auflage 2021
ISBN: 978-1-77619-129-1
Verlag: Jonathan Ball
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 288 Seiten

My name is Sicelo Cabangani Mbatha. My wilderness name is Black Lion. I am the black lion who helps people discover the wild animal within. I am the black lion who roars for peace and harmony on Great Mother Earth. I am the black lion, alive in the wilderness. Wilderness guide Sicelo Mbatha shares the wisdom he has gained from a lifetime's intimate association with Africa's wildest nature. The story begins with a traumatic childhood experience that should have turned Sicelo against the surrounding wilderness. Instead, he was irresistibly drawn to it. As a volunteer at Hluhluwe-iMfolozi Park, close encounters with buffalo, lion, elephant and other animals taught him to see with his heart and set him on a lifelong journey of spiritual awakening. Drawing from his Zulu culture and his own yearning to better understand humanity's relationship with itself and with nature, Sicelo has forged a new path, disrupting the conventional approach to nature with an immersive, respectful and transformative way of being in the wilderness. Both memoir and philosophical reflection, Black Lion - co-written with author and environmentalist Bridget Pitt - is a reminder of how much we need the wilderness for our emotional and spiritual survival. 'A remarkable story ... poetic and beautifully written. It goes to the heart of the meaning of ecological literacy.' - DR IAN McCALLUM, SPECIALIST WILDERNESS GUIDE

SICELO MBATHA is a facilitator of spiritual experiences of the wilderness. He has devoted his life to fostering deep connections between humans and nature, and in enabling members of his own community to experience the wilderness. He grew up alongside the Hluhluwe/Imfolozi nature reserve, and nature has always been his medicine, his teacher and his spiritual home.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Mbatha, Sicelo

Pitt, Bridget

Leseproben

MY NAME IS SICELO CABANGANI MBATHA. MY WILDERNESS NAME IS BHUBESELIMNYAMA – BLACK LION. I AM THE YOUNGEST son of Mtukayise Thunduzela Mbatha, who is the one and only child of Phondolwendlovu Mbatha. My grandfather had three wives – my grandmother died when she gave birth to my father. I come from the Zulu tribe under the Mbatha clan.

The Mbatha are Nguni people who originated from Mageba, the son of Zulu, through his grandson Sontshikazi. Mageba was twin brother to Phunga, who became a chief of the Zulu clan. Phunga and Mageba were separated during infancy because they were twins and it was taboo to the Nguni people of the time for twins to grow up in the same household. Mageba grew up at his maternal home at Nkandla so that he wouldn’t be a threat to Phunga, who was the heir to the Zulu throne.

I was born and raised in the deeply rural area of kwaHlabisa, on the doorstep of what was then called the Hluhluwe Game Reserve, now the Hluhluwe–iMfolozi Park. I grew up steeped in nature. From my earliest days I was thirsty for all the wisdom that the wild plants and animals, the rolling hills and wide skies, could bring to me. I have been lucky to receive teachings from more living beings that I can count – from the fragile butterfly to the great, ponderous elephant. But before we wander further down the winding paths of my life’s journey, I would like to tell you the story of the crocodiles’ cruel but healing gift to me, for this story shows us just how deeply and profoundly nature can bring healing and wisdom to the troubled soul.

It was always my ambition to study nature conservation, but my parents lacked the means to pay for my studies. I therefore decided to work as a volunteer at the Hluhluwe–iMfolozi Park. On a winter’s day, I was walking with Baba Thabethe and Dumisane Khumalo on patrol along the banks of the great iMfolozi River. We walked along a river parched by the dry season – a snaking ribbon of white sand, scattered with a few small pools, packed with water insects and desperate tilapias. Hovering kingfishers swooped down, feasting on the trapped fish and insects.

The winter wind spun into a whirlwind, sending dry leaves swirling into the sky. I sneezed as it enveloped us and the dust penetrated my nostrils. My colleagues laughed when I tried to escape it, calling, ‘Sokugwinya isikhwishikazane’ – the whirlwind will swallow you. A zebra stallion shied away in alarm, before galloping off with his family through the leafless bushes, their hooves pounding the earth.

A lonely waterbuck stood silently watching us as we scanned the reeds to assess whether it was safe to enter – patrols through the reeds can be lethal, as predators are camouflaged and it is easy to stumble upon them.

The warning calls of vervet monkeys and banded mongoose alerted us to a possible threat deep in the reeds. The chorus swelled as birds joined the cacophony. We entered and, walking in single file, cautiously approached the source of the noise. As we drew closer the sounds died down, for now the birds and mongooses were frightened by our presence. Soon, the only sound was the soft sighing of the reeds, the suck and slosh of mud, and the laboured breathing of a heavy animal.

Then we heard a deep hissing, and jaws snapping against a soft body. As we came through the reeds, a shocking sight confronted us. A big male buffalo was sunk up to his belly in a mud pool, while crocodiles feasted on his flesh. He was still alive, but helpless.

It was a horrifying scene. But for me, a greater horror lay in the images that exploded from my memory, to match the terror and agony of the buffalo before me. As the buffalo’s blood filled the mud hole, turning the grey water to red, one word filled my mind.

Sanele.

Sanele was my godfather’s child, two years older than me – a bright, lively boy, always laughing, my soul mate and my hero. Sanele knew everything about tracking birds and animals, about where to find the sweetest wild summer fruits, the bushman plums and sour plums and water berries, which sustained us on our daily fourteen-kilometre journey to school and fourteen back. A childhood spent herding goats and running wild in the veld had made us all lithe, fit and strong. But Sanele was the strongest of all.

Sanele was the best swimmer among us, and we relied heavily on his help to get across the rivers. There were three between my home and school. In winter, they were little more than streams. But the summer storms could quickly turn them into raging torrents. When the teachers saw the rain coming down, they would let the younger children out early to get home before the waters rose. But this act of mercy could also put us in danger, for we needed the older children to help us across.

When the older children weren’t there, Sanele was the one to guide us through the water and would rescue our ‘plastics’ – the plastic supermarket bags that we used to carry our school books – when we lost our grip on them and they floated away.

One December day, just after I turned seven, the rain was coming down hard in our part of Zululand, and the teachers sent us young ones home early as usual. We crossed the first two rivers with some difficulty. The water was flowing fast and up to our waists, much higher than usual, and the rocks were slippery underfoot. We knew that it would be tough to cross the last river, as this one was the deepest.

We stood on its banks, contemplating the muddy water racing past. Some wanted to wait for the older children. But they would not come for some hours, it was raining hard, and we were wet and freezing cold. We tried to find a better place to cross, but our minds were numbed by cold and exhaustion. At length we decided to cross at the usual spot, holding one another’s hands in a line. Before we ventured in, we scrutinised the water for crocodiles. We knew that they might be around, for they occasionally caught a dog or a goat. If you see a log floating upstream, it’s a crocodile, the adults warned us.

We could see no logs floating upstream, nor could we see any debris floating down that might knock us off our feet, so we stepped reluctantly into the cold, turbid water. Sanele was walking in front, holding my left hand, then me, then two or three girls. About halfway across, a log knocked against us as it swept past, breaking the line and causing one girl to stumble and drop her plastic. She lunged for it, and fell again, and we told her to leave it.

Just before we reached the far bank, the girl at the back of the line cried, ‘Crocodile!’ As I turned to see where she was pointing, a powerful jolt came from Sanele’s hand, and it was wrenched from my grasp. I swung back to him, but he had disappeared under the water – only his hand was above the surface, clutching at the air. The water was churning, and I could see the crocodile’s back, thrashing in the foam. I grabbed Sanele’s hand again, and tried to pull him towards the side. One of the girls was also trying to pull him; the other was standing crying on the bank. Numb with terror, I clung to my friend’s hand. But it was slipping through my cold, wet fingers. Then I saw a bloom of blood, turning the muddy brown river red. A fountain of blood spurted out of the water, shooting up and spraying my white shirt. I felt Sanele’s hand grow limp in mine, as if his spirit had left his body. I knew then that he had lost the battle with the crocodile, yet still I gripped his hand harder, as hard as I could, as hard as if it were my own life that I was clinging to.

But his fingers slipped from my grasp.

Sanele was gone.

We scrambled out of the water, and ran down the bank, hoping that the crocodile would leave him. But he was nowhere. All we could see was his plastic, spinning away with the current. Then that, too, was gone.

The elders came with spears to find the crocodile, but there was no sign. All they ever found was Sanele’s T-shirt, two weeks later, caught on a branch downstream.

I had to go to school the next day. I had to cross the same river, in the same place. I was consumed by terror, for I was so sure the crocodile would take another one of us. When I got to school, I had to write a mental arithmetic test to pass into Grade 2. In what world can a child who has lost a friend like this be expected to get up the next day and do mental arithmetic? For a while the adults took it in turns to cross the rivers with us. But the rainy season is the busy season in rural Zululand. Fields must be ploughed; crops must be planted or harvested so that empty stomachs can be filled. Within a few days, their work took them back to the fields, and we were left to cross the rivers as best we could.

No one counselled me. No one cosseted me, or helped me to grieve. I felt like an iron, burnt red-hot in a fire, then hammered into shape and plunged into icy water. Losing Sanele to the crocodile was horrific. But every day that I had to endure without him was worse. I felt as if I’d lost a limb, as if my heart had been torn from my body.

For weeks I was lost in a dark thicket of grief and fear. I could not sleep, I could not eat. How would I ever cross the rivers without Sanele by my side? How could I walk up the long, steep hills, or eat our favourite food of imifino (spinach) leaves and steamed cornbread, or track the guineafowl and eagles, without Sanele by my side? How was even one day of my life imaginable without Sanele by my side? I almost walked into the valley of suicide, so devastated was I by the depression and fear that I endured. The shadow of his death haunted every breath I took.

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