The Anthropologist, the Waterfall and the Very Worried Sangoma

By Michelle Montigel

This fantasy adventure is set in the dramatic and moody landscapes of the Drakensberg and rolling hills of the KwaZulu-Natal Midlands, littered with cliffs and mountains, waterfalls, rivers, storms and tornados. The local Zulu-speaker’s myth of the giant snake that rides the storm weaves its way throughout the novel, acting as the main driving mechanism throughout the story. The novel is peopled with creatures and individuals from African legend and history, lending a paranormal element which provides an ethereal backdrop to this tale.

The novel is also a commentary on South African society during the years just after the 1994 elections, when the nation was filled with hope for the future. It focuses upon the interplay of interaction between various ethnic and cultural groups that make-up South African Society. The novel observes this intermingling of beliefs, and world-views set against the southern African façade.

Through the myth of the giant snake, the dual worlds of the mundane and supernatural, modern and traditional, merge and blend, collide and clash. Worlds superimpose one upon the other to blur into a rich tapestry of human experience.

Presented through the eyes of anthropologist, Jeremy Mansfield, and Zulu sangoma, Dr. Baba Zuma, the reader is able to experience this unique world through the eyes of two professionals, worlds apart, who are both professionally trained to understand the intricacies of traditional South African society.
Vaguely reminiscent of the “Ladies Detective Agency” novels by Alexander McCall-Smith, “The Waterfall”, the first in “The Worried Sangoma Series”, is filled with an endearing and gentle humour, which South Africans characteristically employ to laugh at themselves. This national idiosyncrasy is often what binds South African society, and helps us to find common ground within our diversity. This concept of the “Joking Relationship”, is an important cultural tool which facilitates finding a common humanity and national identity, despite South Africans’ often marked cultural differences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michelle Montigel
• Release date: Nov 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005705060

Book preview

Prologue

In the land of KwaZulu exists the legend of a giant and supernatural snake-like creature. It was the familiar and the protector of the tiny Bushmen who lived among the high peaks of the Dragon Mountains, or the Drakensberg, the Dutch name by which it is now more commonly known. He is the storm-brewer, the tornado-twister, and the fear-stirrer in his fury, but to the Bushmen, those magical wizards of the weather, he was always mild and biddable.

When the lowlands and foothills surrounding the Dragon Mountains were invaded by Black tribes, and later, White foreigners, the Bushmen could no longer range among their former hunting grounds of the gold savannah below but hid for their lives, hunted and persecuted among the crags and cliffs of the black basaltic peaks.  From there, they looked down upon the green and rich pastures of the farms and tamed wilderness, their stomachs rumbling in their bellies, and they turned to a life of raiding in order to survive.

These raiders of the highlands would steal down their secret passes under the cover of night. They would round up the fat beasts and the sleek horses of the invaders and drive them up the treacherous paths that wound along the lips of the cliffs thousands of feet, or hundreds of metres, above the tree-lined homesteads that lay far below. So exhausted were some of the beasts that they collapsed along the paths for their incensed owners to find when daylight broke early in this land of sky and clouds.

Sometimes though, the little people played it fine and raided too close to the daylight hours so that their pursuers were almost upon them. Then the little people would summon the help of the rain-snake and call him to their aid, down from the heavens or up from the watery depths. The fury of the creature would be unleashed upon the foreign invaders. From the heights of his lair, the rain-snake would fling himself, twisting his torso into a tornado, and race across the heavens in an angry cloud of black rain and screaming gales, forcing the foreign men to turn back, in a thick and clinging mist, to their homes upon the outer expanses.

With the demise of the Mountain Bushmen, the local Zulu people—who are now themselves partly Bushmen, appropriated the legend of the Great Snake for their own, and so was the monster, inkanyamba, born.  Yet always friend to the Bushmen, this creature has never been anything but foe to the Zulu, even though he is revered as a demi-god.

In KwaZulu-Natal today, the inkanyamba manifests itself in rivers and pools where valuable livestock and hapless humans disappear without trace, sometimes in full view of onlookers. This monster of terror still beats the same ancient path, raging along the trails of the old raiders, devastating villages and fields with the fury of his form, mistaking sometimes, the gleaming and glittering of the silver corrugated sheeting of tin roofs for water. Upon realising his error, the monster rips the metallic sheets from their fastenings in an act of vengeance, leaving the cowering dwellers exposed to the full wrath of the roaring tempest.

Chapter 1 - The Disappearance

September 16th, 1995

Fine Weather and Sunny. Above, the Blue Expansive Skies of Africa

Twalaleni Rock stands about three-quarters the way up Kamberg Valley mountain range. It is visible, prominent even, from kilometres away. Some White people say that it looks just like a periscope. Others (most especially local Zulu-speaking people) say that it very closely resembles a spitting cobra, hood up, ready to strike. Indeed, some maintain that there are times when Twalaleni is, in fact, a snake— a giant snake that comes alive during the frenzy of the violent electrical storms for which the Drakensberg is well known. Twalaleni Rock is sacred to the local Zulu people. More than just a curiously shaped rock, it is a lair of the inkanyamba and should always be approached with great respect, with caution, and never without offerings of both black and red chickens or money.

The green hills of KwaZulu-Natal are not yet green in September, and especially so this year which had been most particularly dry. The head of Twalaleni Rock now looked out over, not a sweeping carpet of lush green, but an expansive valley of dry, brittle yellow grass, some five kilometres long and two kilometres wide. It was edged to the north and south by two mountain ranges, whose massive shoulders cast deep shadows over the valley in the late afternoon. To the very west of the valley, where it tapered to a fine point, were the basaltic peaks of the high Berg. To the east, the valley widened out to the Midlands and herein sprawled the scattered huts of Shaya Moya village.

Then, with the approach of summer, and a dry winter behind, the sky was an intense blue – expansive, empty. The warm thermals hissed and whooshed about Twalaleni Rock. Up, up they rose into the vacant blue. The thermals rose high above the sandstone peaks and streamed eastwards, towards Shaya Moya and the actual Ingeleni, or Kamberg Mountain, just beyond. It was from this sacred mass, rising from the flat grassland surrounding it, that the nearby ranges, valley, and general area took its name.

To either side of a rutted dirt road that ran along the valley stretched the daub and thatch huts of the Shaya Moya village. It was a typical southern African village scene. Herd boys watched grazing cattle on the floodplain close to the Little Mooi River, which ran through the valley. Thin, rangy African dogs stretched out in the shade of the huts. The sweet sound of children’s voices singing drifted upon the draughts distantly. Young men loitered along the road, old men sat on wooden stools in the shade of their huts, and women went about collecting wood for the day’s meals. They could be seen carrying water from the river, in great plastic containers, or carefully balancing upon their heads the bulging forms of traditional fired ceramic pots as they picked their way nonchalantly back to their homes chatting and laughing in small companionable groups, or as they passed the homesteads of somebody they know.

A thermal lifted higher, over the communal village fields and grazing cattle near the river, and followed the river’s course, along the alluvial floodplains. Ssshhh, it whispered. Ssshhhh, it breathed. Below, barely audible, was the school bell. Like giant termites from a nest, children spilt out from the primary school buildings. The thermal lifted higher still, pushed up by the conical summit of Ingeleni. It rushed above the tawny African veld, over estates with their whitewashed, or sandstone, thatched mansions, surrounded by lush watered green pastures. Here grazed glossy horses and fat dairy and beef cattle. The thermal sweeps over farm avenues, regimentally lined with London Planes, over rushing streams, and trout dams. There was the barely audible barking of farm dogs. Ssshhh, the thermal sighed. Otherwise, the African sky was quiet.

The balmy thermal rose higher still and now followed the course of the Umgeni River, little and feverish at first, but growing wider and stronger as it tumbled along. Along the way, it widened into an enormous pool in which African children leapt, splashed and romped upon its banks. Here the thermal dropped slightly. Beyond, the Umgeni churned white with rapids, rolling over hidden rocks and swirled about exposed boulders. It rushed past yet another Zulu village close to the banks of the river. Dogs barked frantically, and goats shied, as if sensing something invisible and sinister. Up ahead, far in the distance, hung a curious blanket of mist, rising upwards, ascending some hundreds of feet into vacuity, and then, no further.

The sprawl of an urban village lay on the horizon. The river cut through. The thermal lost height. The town took shape. Cottages nestled in flowered gardens. Residential roads wound beneath heavily shaded streets. The village was almost entirely forested with leafy London Planes, red ambers, old oaks and the native umbrella thorns, - the paperbark - and mimosa trees.

The last shreds of morning mist hung over the village. Lower and lower the thermal dropped, lower than the curtain of spray which rose from a low thundering at the very edge of town. Riding closer, it became apparent that the Umgeni River surged over a cliff face in a torrent of water some one hundred and ten metres high.

Swooping even lower, the thermal now became no more than a feisty breeze. Warm and pleasant upon the skin, it wound its way between pedestrians on the pavements. It flicked the hats off old gents’ heads, or toppled them just over the eyeswhile it snatched the garish sunhats from ladies, hissing about their ears and ruffling soft strands of loose hair. Snatches of conversation came and went as it wove its way among fluttering dresses and flapping newspapers. Now and again, it halted momentarily as if to listen to something someone said before rushing onwards, gusting into the little shops, and then gliding into the post office where it caught in an eddy. In here, a couple of middle-aged housewives, a farmer dressed in khaki shorts and veldskoens, and a Zulu messenger stood in a queue. They closely watched the screen of a wall-mounted TV. It was screening the headlines of the Queen’s latest engagements far away in Britain.

Swirling out of the stagnant eddy, the breeze dipped to just a few feet above the concrete pavement. It gathered momentum, snaking between the moving figures going about their business and in the direction of the heavy curtain of mist. It gusted over a lorry, across the main road, along a line of tourist and clothes shops, past a thatched African craft bazaar, where it fingered a moody blue coloured woollen Sotho blanket on which was woven a serpentine figure in red wool and skipped down a short flight of concrete steps, before gliding into a type of amphitheatre, railed at the far end, forming a boundary between the escarpment and the sheer drop into a deep valley. The balmy breeze brushed against a solitary figure, a man, and played with the whiskers of his greying moustache before lifting over the rails and diving more than a hundred metres down, racing the angry torrent that crashes into a great agitated pool. Above, the vast fleecy curtain of mist hung, unmoved by the currents.

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A group of Black children played along the banks of a river. The smaller ones sat upon their ample bottoms like swarthy buddhas and traced their tiny plump fingers in the soft, spongy clay, drawing infantile shapes and poking dots in a haphazard pattern that seemed to please them very well. The older children were braver, and here, upstream upon the Umgeni River, where the river was wide and lazy, they ventured out to swimming depth in the mustard-coloured waters. There were others, not quite as bold, who remained within the protective arms of a great limpid pool. They shattered the glassy waters by battering and slashing great gashes of tepid liquid at one another, shrieking and ducking below the glistening and dancing surface. The waters of the pool shivered like a living thing. It seemed almost as if the children’s antics had awoken the spirit of the restless pool by sending out far-reaching ripples and waves.

Feminine laughter was snatched up and carried to the children on a lifting breeze. Their mothers and sisters, five hundred metres or so downstream, rubbed the families’ washing on the rocks at the very edge of the angry rapids, no more than a stone’s throw from the outer huts of Duma Manzi Village. Behind them hung the endlessly rising vaporous curtain of fine spray which drifted perpetually above the great waterfall of KwaNogqaza, about five kilometres downstream in the village of Howick.

A boy of about fifteen years broke away from the lively massed ebony of the childish group. Their wet bodies glistened in the late morning sun. The boy ventured further into the honeyed waters, past where the branches of low-hanging native willows dipped their leaves, like long fingers, below the surface. A Natal Grass Snake glided close to the edge of the far banks and disappeared with a rustle into a thick patch of long green grass. Having swum deep into the pool, the boy now turned and called the others to join him, but some inner sense made them hesitate and keep back. The boy threw his arms out at them in a dismissive and carefree gesture and turned his back to them as he swam clumsily away even deeper into the pool, to where the golden waters darken.

The children’s play resumed next to the shoreline until one of the girls in the group noticed a shiny piece of debris, like a half-submerged piece of tin, bobbing on the pool as the ripples caused by the frolicking boy bumped against its surface. It became a target for them as they threw large clods of earth and stones at it. Every now and then, as they hit their mark, there sounded an unexpected peculiar dull thud. After a couple of minutes, the shape submerged and disappeared from view beneath the shifting surface, and a silence fell upon the spirited noisy group.

Just then, a single dark cloud, which had been building directly above the pool in the empty sky, crossed the sun and darkened the waters of the pool to an ominous molten lead, heavy and syrupy. The older boy now looked nervously into the sky and then turned abruptly, swimming hurriedly back towards shore, to the group of children whose eyes were also directed skywards. After only a few metres of his clumsy strokes, he struggled and screamed, his arms flailed and arched above his bobbing head, and he then disappeared simply and without trace. Soon there was no movement in the eerie stillness of the enormous pool.

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Mack MacClusky leaned over the iron railing of the viewing platform. The last tatters of mist still drifted above the Umgeni Valley and sat more thickly just above the immense pool -- a small lake -- that lay hundreds of feet below at the foot of the great waterfall. It hid from his view the turbulence of the waters as the great waterfall, magnificent even during the drought, and itself only just visible between the shreds of low-lying cloud, splintered upon the broken shards of the cliff face before crashing into the hidden lake.

The thick forest in the gorge thrusted through the soft down of the mist. It clung to the sharp edges of the rock face where the rushing waters could not reach and all along the surrounding cliffs. For a moment, MacClusky caught his breath. He leant further over the railing; his knuckles bleached white as he gripped it tightly. He then turned and walked the short distance to his vehicle. Behind him, KwaNogqaza - the tall one - roared like a hungry lion.

Chapter 2 - An Unusual Request

Fine Weather and Blue Skies

(18th September. Two Days after the Disappearance)

The white and bare walls of the Hall of Mammals in the Zulu Culture History Museum rang rather emptily as Jeremy Mansfield clutched the podium with one hand. The other fingered the crumpled sides of his khaki trousers. He addressed a group of no more than fifteen elderly ladies of the Natal Ladies History Society. There were also two uniformed men seated in the lofty Victorian Hall.

… and so, ladies and gentlemen, the San (or Bushmen as they are more commonly known and prefer to be called) of the Drakensberg Mountains - or the Dragon Mountains - had a pantheon of mysterious and mythic creatures - demi-gods - including the therianthropic water sprites, and the metamorphic rain animals. These rain animals could take the form of a bull, an antelope, or even a hippo, or serpent.

Jeremy ran a hand through his ruffled sandy hair. "It is unfortunate that these people - the Drakensberg Bushmen - have now been driven to extinction through genocide and miscegenation (the interbreeding of an indigenous population with invader groups), but their belief in the water-creatures persists to this day in the form of a terrifying monster, (the inkanyamba), of Zulu belief. Thank you for coming."

One of the elderly ladies stood up, the immaculate white of her gloves contrasting starkly with the shiny ebony of her handbag as she placed it carefully on the chair behind her. It was quiet and still in the hall as all eyes turned upon her. Only the faint purple fizz of her hair waved softly in the currents agitated by the rotating ceiling fan above.

Thank you for a most fascinating talk, Dr Mansfield, her tremulous voice echoed about the four aseptic walls and ricocheted off the ornate pillars that held the high ceiling aloft. It bounced off the hump and rump of the bright green camel that formed part of the taxidermy mammal display. Most fascinating. It held us all spellbound. Her voice hit the high notes, and she threw her arms about in an effusive, all-encompassing gesture, To think that these poor little yellow people are no longer with us. It comforts us to learn that at least part of their heritage and beliefs still persist out there, she again waved her arm in a sweeping gesture, …in the tribal areas. Now… she clapped her hands together causing a deaf old dame to give a little jump in her seat. Dr Mansfield will give us some time for questions. Several hands shot up. After which will be tea and scones, she added.

At this, a lady rose from her seat and reached for her cane.

Ah, no, said Rose, the chairlady, Noni… she raised her voice, Noni, not now. Sit down.

Noni, in pale floral, turned to face Rose. A lady in an extraordinarily large cream hat sitting next to Noni pulled her gently to her seat.

Rose says, sit down, she hissed.

Noni seated herself, and the audience once again gave their full attention to the podium.

Over to you, Dr Mansfield. Rose addressed Jeremy graciously.

Hands shot up once again.

Jeremy pointed to a petite woman who stood out from the others, dressed as she was in a pale green long-sleeved shirt and walking boots. Yes, Madam?

The lady stood up to address Jeremy. I’m Anthia Shaw. Her voice was controlled and refined. My husband and I have a farm in the ‘Berg’, quite close to Kamberg Valley, in fact. I have always been entranced by this story of the giant snake that our Zulu labourers talk about. Frankly, they are terrified of it.

Jeremy nodded, and Anthia, thus encouraged, continued, But I would like to know how the Zulu came to pick up the myth and… and how did the Bushmen come to have this belief in the first place? Having said this, Anthia promptly took her seat and folded her arms across her chest.

Well, as you probably know, the Bushmen were the original inhabitants of South Africa, said Jeremy, "in this area, when the Bantu-speaking groups invaded around two thousand years ago, the Bushmen were pushed high up into the mountains. There was some contact with the invading groups, perhaps some trade, perhaps some intermarriage. Definitely, there was conflict. Perhaps the Bushmen fed the story of the snake to the Zulu to frighten them from the Bushmen caves and mountain paths. Perhaps women who married into Black groups told it to their children. But one thing is for certain, the Zulu see the inkanyamba as a monster. The Bushmen regard it as a deity."

But, how did the Bushmen come to have the belief? persisted Anthia.

"Oh, yes. Well, as hunter-gatherers – as people who lived close to nature – for them, the world was one in which the landscape was alive, and people and animals were brothers and sisters. It was a mystical world in which mythical creatures were as real as... um… let’s say, the eland and the jackals. It was a landscape filled with spirits and dotted with sacred features such as strange-shaped rocks, painted caves, sacred mountains – such as Ingeleni mountain at Kamberg – and waterfalls. Above all of this arched the great vault of the sky, which also formed part of this ‘living landscape’."

I see, Anthia nodded.

Yes, but there’s more, said Jeremy leaning forward and patting the podium, the Drakensberg is the major watershed in South Africa. It has the highest number of lightning strikes in the whole of the country. Jeremy paused and looked at the audience for effect. It is subject to incredible thunderstorms, and it regularly experiences category two and three, even category four tornadoes, he said, giving the podium another resounding pat. "These are tornadoes that kill livestock and people. They have even been known to lift cars with people inside up onto the high peaks – in Kamberg, mind."

Jeremy listened appreciatively to the Ooh’s and Aah’s, which issued from his female audience. And all of this in a continent in which violent tornadoes are almost unknown, Jeremy’s cheeks were quite pink. "So the weather anomalies had to be explained – accounted for – and the inkanyamba did this beautifully – as a giant celestial snake that twists itself into a tornado, to snake its way across the vault of the angry sky, and to wreak absolute havoc across the landscape. Yes, Madam," Jeremy pointed to another raised hand.

Daisy Wilkinson, without rising from her seat in the front row, asked, My husband and I have always been hikers of the Drakensberg, she gave a soft chuckle, we’re both such nature lovers. We used to walk almost every weekend, and we still do go off on long hikes. We often visit caves decorated with Bushmen rock art, and we have seen snake images in the art. The curved snake at Giant’s Castle is just glorious. It’s so sad that we have lost the Bushmen. How are we protecting the rock art?

With a lift of his chin, Jeremy looked down his long straight nose at the elderly dame before taking a deep breath. It’s well-protected. The Drakensberg is being considered as a World Heritage Site by UNESCO. It is also a Mixed Heritage Site, which is really rare, with there being only a few others in the world. Most Heritage Sites fall into one, or other category.

What’s a Mixed Heritage Site? Anthia called out.

Ah… well, the Drakensberg, for instance, has four categories including the spectacular scenery and biodiversity features which are of global significance, as there is a very high percentage of endemism—

English, please, interrupted Rose in a singsong voice.

Oh, sorry, Jeremy chuckled, it means species that occur in one place and nowhere else. And then there is the rock art. It’s so unique, so exquisite… Jeremy faltered as Daisy put her hand over her heart. A few soft, crooning noises came from the audience. He continued, …that the Drakensberg as a whole is regarded as one of the greatest outdoor ancient art galleries in the world, housing some of the finest rock art in the world, and some with the most complex symbolism.

More hands shot up, but Rose stood up abruptly. That’s all that we have time for, ladies. All hands dropped defeatedly, and Rose continued, As Chairwoman of the Natal Ladies History Society, I would like to thank Dr Mansfield, on behalf of all of us… She waved her arm widely over the seated audience …for sharing both his time and knowledge with us here today. Rose’s lips pulled back from the remarkably regular plastic of her teeth. I would like to present to him this token of our appreciation. Rose approached the lectern with an air of pomp and ceremony and handed over to Jeremy a neatly tied parcel. She turned back to the audience, Now off we go, ladies, to a glorious cream tea on the lawn outside."

With this, the ladies gathered up their purses and paraphernalia and left the hall in an animated group.

Jeremy was packing up his slides when he noticed that two uniformed men remained in their chairs. Can I help you gentlemen? Jeremy asked, straightening up.

"Ja Meneer, one of the officers answered, standing up politely. I am Corporal Potgieter, and this is Sergeant Khumalo," he said, indicating a Black officer who now also rose to his feet. Corporal Potgieter continued, ‘You must have read in the Daily Ndaba that there has been a cattle sacrifice that has taken place near the rapids at Duma Manzi Village?"

Yes? Jeremy said.

"We have a difficult situation developing among the local communities, and we thought you might be able to help us Meneer… ag… eskuus (pardon me)… Doctor," Potgieter replied.

How would I do that? Jeremy was puzzled.

We understand you are researching a book on Bushman and Zulu superstitions… Here Potgieter put on a pair of glasses and referred to a notebook, … and their animal gods.

Bushman and Zulu beliefs associated with animal deities and mythic creatures, Jeremy corrected.

"Ja, now good. Nou goed. Then you must help us," said Potgieter, removing his glasses and fixing Jeremy with a direct stare.

Yes, you must help us, Khumalo cut in, "you must speak to the communities and to the sangomas (the Zulu witchdoctors)… before there is big trouble. Everybody is verry unhappy, Khumalo almost whined, tomorrow the sangomas are called to conduct a ritual at the big water pool at KwaNogqaza waterfall – The Tall One – and the people are threatening to storm the Howick Police Station if we do not apprehend the snake."

Jeremy stared. What snake?

Chapter 3 - The Sowing of the Kernel of an Idea

Early Morning. Fine Weather and Blue Skies.

A Prolonged Drought and Heatwave Continues

(19th September. Three Days after the Disappearance)

Irishman Mack MacClusky, owner of The Leprechaun Coffee Shop and Chairman of the Howick Tourist Association, was busy serving a family group of five German tourists with a hearty South African breakfast of boerewors, bacon, fried tomato, fried banana, mushrooms, brown toast and a choice of coffee, tea, or Rooibos tea. Even though the shop was air-conditioned, and it was early morning (no later than eight a.m.), a blast of steaming air filled the shop each time a customer opened the door.

Only September, and it’s boiling already. Most unusual, MacClusky thought to himself, if it’s like this now, then what’s it going to be like later today? He wiped his brow with a handkerchief.

These dry heatwave conditions which the KwaZulu-Natal Midlands had been experiencing were indeed very unusual for the typically wet, cool and humid conditions of the province during springtime. These generally mild conditions result from the Midlands being placed as it is on the escarpment, above Pietermaritzburg, and extending into the southern and central Drakensberg.

MacClusky looked through the glass of his shop door, across the main road (once the Old Great North Road which ran all the way to Cairo in Egypt), to the tourist area (or Tourist Trap, as the locals called it) beyond. Wisps of mist rose from the Umgeni Valley, with stray wisps drifting to droop over the viewing platform like stray strands of ghostly hair. MacClusky could hear the falls thundering, even behind the shut door, and even though it was much reduced in size during this seemingly endless drought.

The great misty curtain hung motionlessly above the Falls. The rickshaw men were already out there, all kilted out in their Zulu warrior uniforms, and trotting steadily towards the first tourist bus of the day. The rickshaws were MacClusky’s brainchild—one of his marvellous, but eccentric ideas to enhance the local tourist experience, most especially for international tourists who held such a fascination for Zulu culture. From out of the bus came a steady stream of very pale people in shorts and casual summer wear. It seemed to MacClusky that many of the women’s shorts were very short indeed.

The Pink People have come to town, he mused. This was his very own private name for visitors from the continent and from the British Isles, whose skin hardly ever seemed to have seen the sun. There are some good-looking women among them, he thought, raising one bushy eyebrow. What are they? Dutch? Danish? Swedish? Perhaps they were Norwegian?

As he was contemplating the nationality of Howick’s newest visitors, a rugged and suntanned figure in khaki crossed the Old Cairo Road and blustered into the shop together with a torrent of hot air.

Breakfast? asked the Irishman.

Ja, Mack. The full works, Graham Patterson said, scowling, and a Coke with ice. He wiped the perspiration from his face with the arm of his sleeve. He crashed down into an armchair and looked up at the opposite wall upon which there was a poster depicting an idyllic scene of a stone castle set upon the shore of an Irish lake. Behind, a molten sunset dipped below blackened mountains.

Returning from the kitchen, Mack took a seat opposite Graham. What’s eating you, my man? he asked.

Man, I’ve just had it with my workforce, said Graham, there’s always some problem. Farming isn’t easy in this country. If it’s not the weather, then it’s labour problems, and I have both right now. Graham rubbed the back of his neck. My crops are finished. They’ve had it… dead! He shook a fist in an angry gesture at the dry heat outside. It’s this drought. How many months has it been now? Eight months of no rain? Not a drop. The streams on the farm have all dried up, and my borehole is down to almost nothing.

That’s tough, that is, commiserated MacClusky.

Ja, that’s for sure, agreed Graham, I’m now worried about my cattle, not to mention my polo ponies… and the wildlife. If it doesn’t ease up soon, we’ll have to come to town with containers and cart water back to the farm for the animals. Graham took a deep breath. He looked defeated.

Ay, it’s bad alright, said MacClusky looking out the windows at the fierce sun in the pale-blue African sky.

And as if that isn’t enough, now my entire labour force insisted that I bring them into town in the truck this morning so they could make a beeline for that ritual, Graham went on in annoyance.

Oh, and what ritual is this? MacClusky’s bushy brows arched over his round brown eyes in surprise.

You haven’t heard? Graham asked, astonished.

Noo, Mack pursed his lips.

Right here, man, said Graham a little irritably. He tossed his head in the direction of the falls. Down at the falls pool… right now.

What?! It was now Mack’s turn to be astonished.

Ja, said Graham, remember that Zulu kid who drowned in the river near Duma Manzi Village three days ago?

Disappeared, corrected Mack, we don’t know for sure that he drowned.

Well, the locals have a story that some monster snake took him, and they also believe that the snake hides out in the pool below the falls. They have already had one ritual at Duma Manzi, at the Umgeni River there, just above the rapids where the child disappeared. This ritual at the falls pool is to feed the snake, to make it happy, or something like that. My staff got wind of it two days ago and now today is a complete write-off for me. Today I’m a taxi, not a farmer.

A snake in the pool at the bottom of the falls? Mack’s eyes narrowed, and they took on a distant look.

That’s right, said Graham, a snake.

MacClusky raised his gaze from Graham and fixed it upon one of the many colourful posters of Ireland and Scotland which he had requested from the Celtic Colour Tourist Association, and which he had framed and hung on the walls of the coffee shop to enhance the ‘Celtic Feel of the Place’. This particular one that hung just above Graham’s head was of Loch Ness. Silhouetted on a hill above the Loch was Urquhart Castle, and rising above the inky surface of the water – tiny beneath the moody winter sky – was a dark snake-like head and neck, like that of