We sat beneath Mapanie trees, cicadas screeching in blistering heat. The morning had been very cold, the hunt had gone well; meat was drying in strips on the up turned hides, pegged and stretched out. It had been my first ‘hunt’, I was fourteen years old, still stunned at the savagery I’d seen.

The tribesmen, sitting by the cold ashes, of the early morning fire, had stepped out of the stone age; our guides, courtesy of the gnarled old, village chief. They were tall, wiry powerful people, used to surviving a harsh land, they smelled of wood smoke. I wondered where they got the iron to make their axes, small triangular slivers of steel. burned through the bole of a club curved to hook over the shoulder, when carried.

Hours passed inexorably, shade shifted with the sun; my dog lay stretched under the battered Land Rover, resigned. I yearned for the cool evening; I’d would go up the dried river bed, there was bound to be interesting rocks; agate, carnelian; washed, worn and shaped by the vagaries of rushing water. This river bed had seen many a flash flood.

My mind was meandering; I loved the smell of the wood smoke, there was a ting of tobacco, pungent, aromatic. The smell of engine oil, worn metal creaking in the heat. If that Landy quit on us, it would be a long walk out, I mused. Everything was still. Nothing wanted to move in this heat.

What a thrill to be away from the city, swallowed up in this timeless landscape. A place where the lion prowled; so eternal, how many eons had passed, how many ancients had roamed through this spot, humans who had left strange paintings on the distant rock escarpment; they must have been my ancestors, I liked making pictures. What would I give for a cold coke! Whilst I felt relaxed, there was something irritating me, I couldn’t quite define what it was, something interrupting the comfort, of my subconscious musings.

Then, a strange thing happened, movement. The tallest tribesman stood up! gathered his axe and stalked, with purpose, into the bush. Stranger still, the distant thunk of an axe biting into wood, green wood! Now I was wide awake! Something was amiss! I approached the prospector, my friends father, squatting at the fire place. He was conversing with the remaining villager. If I closed my eyes, I could not have told who was talking, he spoke their language fluently; I could understand enough to avoid trouble and make my way, but the prospector was part of the very fabric of this land. ‘Mr Horden’, He looked up at me, an amused, gap toothed smile on his sun blackened face. I liked this man, he had an answer for everything, and always had time to talk to me. He liked his liquor, becoming jovial when drunk. ‘Where did that chap go’? my question was answered with a question, ‘Didn’t you see the little bird’ ? ‘No’ I replied warily, ‘what bird’? Mr Horden, was not averse to pulling my leg. I didn’t mind, I always seemed to learn something new. I just had to do play along, there was something to discover here. ‘Man, you must be blind as a bat! That little birds been flying around the camp for about an hour’! I was annoyed with myself, how could I have missed something that obvious I headed towards the chopping noise in haste; a little bird, a man hacking away at green wood. This was a mystery I had to solve! I heard the creak of a tree trunk buckling; the rush of foliage, felt the ground shudder under foot. I arrived in time, to discover a scene swathed in wood smoke, stranger still! There was a fierce, angry buzzing. Out of the smoke the tall man stood up, he was covered in bees! I stood staring, horrified. He smiled at me, beckoned for me to approach. I shook my head, no! He then raised a large, dripping honey cone, to his mouth and bit into it; honey ran down his chin.

After many days in the bush, it was the best treat I can recall! I will forever cherish the experience of sweet, wild honey filling my mouth, trickling down my throat. What pleasure, ecstasy; better than any cold Coke! Although covered in bees I was not stung once! and soon got used to their sharp little feet clinging to my skin.

The hive had been half way up the tree; by making a small fire, smothering it with green leaves, a smoldering smudge was caused. Placed so the hive would fall, with the tree into it. The bees being torn, between rushing to save their honey, and befuddled by the smoke, loose any inclination to sting.

Together we gathered the honey cones to one side, on some green leaves; placing the waxy, caped cones, housing bee grubs, in a separate pile. A payment to the bird. I learnt from the native hunter;’ if you don’t leave payment, the next time ‘the bird’ will lead you to a venomous snake or leopard’! I had no trouble believing this; a bird that smart was capable of anything, including vengeance.

I never did see that ‘little bird’. Returning to the camp the treasure was shared out. ‘You didn’t suck the honey out of the cone did you’? asked Mr Horden, a serious, dead pan expression on his face. ‘sure, that chap did! ’ I said, a shadow of doubt loomed. ‘You shouldn’t have done that! Swallow a bee grub, they hatch out, sting you in the gut, kill you! These fellas can scoff anything, tough as nails, man!’ Wondering off, I worried awhile, till I figured my stomach acid would kill anything! Besides that honey was so sweet. It was worth the risk.

I found out later, there is a bird, that has for ages, had a symbiotic relationship with the African ‘Honey Badger.’ A beast with an insatiable desire for honey, and the tenacity of a maniacal demon, once directed to a cause. These birds, lacking a Badger, to achieve their design. Have learnt to recruit a human; perhaps over the countless millennia; these little creatures have had cause to teach mankind not to ‘go back on a deal’. Fact is always stranger than fiction. I resolved, always to leave a reward for the little feathered genius, if ever I was ‘recruited’. Fair play is a survival requirement, only a fool would ignore.
Africa the land of my birth, so full of mystery. For all it’s magnificent vastness, it’s real beauty is in the small details, the seemingly, insignificant little bird flitting about a hunting camp; that bird must have figured me to be unusually dense, even for a human.

Small faded red pictures, on a smoke stained rock face, long forgotten. Easily missed by one in haste. What lessons were learned at that ancient fire place. By people long lost in the haze of history. They must have been artists in many ways to survive, their genes infused in modern man, they live on.