The Place by The River
Stories from an exotic childhood
Growing up on a small farm in Kenya my brother and I wandered freely through the bush, and down along a stream where there were taro fields. The forest on the other side of the stream was full of animal trails. The Africans set snares for bushmeat. Monkeys raced through the forest canopy, and tree hyraxes screamed at night. I could hear them from my bedroom as the old Grevillea trees outside the house cast shadows into my room. When my family bought the farm, my father agreed to keep the foreman on. He had a round mud wattle house with a reed roof, blackened on the inside from his cooking fire. I recall sitting with Babu, as the old man was called, in his house, as he fed the geese small balls of maize meal posho in the rain. Memories feed my stories.
Many years ago, far from here, in a small African village, there was a very old man. He would sit in front of his mud hut with its thatched roof, and drink beer for hours on end, as old men do, and he would think of the days when he was younger. He would scratch his old grey head and nod, and hold quiet conversation with himself as he thought. And the young children of the village would sit with him, and beg him to tell them stories.
His head was full of stories, the children knew, and he relived them as he told them, for they were his most precious possessions.
“Tell us a story, Grandfather! The one about the river!”
“Ah, yes, the river. Well, it wasn’t a river, really, more like a creek, but when I was a boy it seemed as big as the Nile, and as full of dreams.”
The old man always started like this. He would pause for effect, and take another sip of the sweet native beer, as he settled himself more comfortably on his haunches. The children gathered and started to scratch in the dust like the chickens that clucked around the hut, and their eyes became glassy as they waited, listening.
“The river was down at the edge of the forest, across from the taro fields, and was just a little too wide to jump, and too deep to wade in most places. It ran past the big fields below the hotel where they grew vegetables, and the women sang in the gardens as they worked. It flowed under the big trees where the women rested in the shade at noon when it was too hot to work. If you knew where to look there were guava trees with fruit so sweet they made your whole face sticky. Beyond the gardens, the river disappeared into a swamp with Papyrus plants taller than a man. There were places in there where you could sink up to your waist in mud … so thick they would never pull you out!”
The old man grinned wickedly at them, and the children shuddered at the thought.
“Much further down the river was a dirt road, crossing at a ford, and a muddy watering hole where the cattle herders brought their beasts to drink. There was dry scrub all around there, and grazing land for the cows. But my favourite part of the river was in the middle, where the taro fields lay on one side, and the forest on the other. That forest was a mysterious place of long shadows, where the only way to move was along the animal trails. You had to bend over and crouch like a bush buck, and we used to run through the tunnels like the small animals we were. There were times when monkeys would come close, and we could hear them moving towards us with a noise like rushing wind, as they leapt from branch to branch, thrashing the boughs and rustling the leaves as they went. We would crouch still and wait to catch sight of them running in groups of three or four along the branches, then leaping with tails streaming behind them, only to catch another branch and run on, faster than anyone on the ground. Sometimes we followed them, to see where they might lead us, but we could never keep up, and soon we would be alone in the quiet of the forest again.”
“We would always return to the river to drink, and to cool our weary feet. There were birds nests in the trees by the river, shaped like gourds but woven as baskets. Some branches were thick with nests, and the whole tree was alive with bright yellow weaver birds with their black heads, making nests and feeding their nestlings. We peered into the nests to glimpse the pale blue eggs inside. The river water was cold on the feet, and full of darting little fishes in schools, which we would try to catch with a bent pin on a string.”
“But not all of the river was bright and sunny with darting fishes. In the deepest pools of the river, underneath the overhanging trees of the forest, there were River People who were very secretive. I only saw them once, and I can tell you that it made my hair stand on end. They lived in the shady pools, and in the day occupied the bodies of large eels. They came out in the evening as the shadows grew longer, and once, when I delayed leaving the river to go back to the village, I saw one”.
“It was a very warm evening and I had caught quite a few minnows in the sun dappled stream. I was resting under the biggest tree, wondering what to eat with my fish when I got home, and my thoughts were far away. It was then that I caught a movement in the corner of my eye, in the shallows of a deep pool. A very big eel edged its way out from under the bank, and as I watched, it slowly moved into shallow water and began to change. I felt the goosebumps rising on my flesh, and the hair on the back of my neck began to stand up.”
The old man looked at the children, as they stared at him in the gathering dusk, and the smoke of cooking fires began to rise from the huts. A cool evening wind was rising, and they drew closer for warmth and comfort.
“As I watched, the fish changed shape beneath the rippling waters, its outline obscured by shadows. The eel assumed the form of a very old woman leaning on her staff, as she slowly emerged from the water. She gave a long shivering gasp as she rose and shook the water from her clothes. A shower of drops cascaded from her with each halting step. She mounted the path leading up the riverbank, and I sat as still as I could, too afraid to move. The old River Woman struggled up the slippery bank, and edged out into the taro field. Expanding rings of ripples broke the water surface behind her as more and more eels emerged from the shadows.”
“At last the River woman reached the centre of the field. She began to chant quietly, raising her staff to the fading sun. As she chanted, the taro plants began to move, their huge elephant-ear leaves swaying in a rhythmic motion, as if they were singing to her spell. The last rays of the sun shone through their leaves, brilliant green. Fearing for my life, I made my escape. I began to creep away slowly, and as I backed away, I saw her do a strange thing. She dug into the ground at the base of a big plant and cut off part of the root. With the root clutched in her gnarled hand, she painfully made her way back to the river. I watched, entranced, as she lowered her body into the shallows where it quickened into the sleek body of a big eel, as before.”
“I started to run, gasping and stumbling in my haste. When I felt safe enough, I turned to look back. To my astonishment, there were many River People in the field, and the taro plants were singing. In a strange ritual, each River Man and Woman would dig up a taro root, break off a piece to eat, and replant the rest. The River People were feasting. They say the River People are there most nights, but I … I have never had the courage to return.”
“And that, children, is why the taro grow so thick by the river. Because the River People are always replanting them, and making them sing.”
Somewhere in the distance, a dog was barking in the evening stillness, and the smell of cooking and wood smoke rose from the huts. The old man rose to his feet slowly, and waved his arm in the direction of the children.
“Now be off with you! Home to your huts and eat your taro for dinner, and leave an old man in peace.”
