Face to face with Stone Age man: The Hadzabe tribe of Tanzania (fwd)

[phil cash cash]

FACE TO FACE WITH STONE AGE MAN: THE HADZABE TRIBE OF TANZANIA

 by ANDREW MALONE -
Last updated at 23:06pm on 20th July 2007 
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/articles/news/news.html?in_article_id=469847&in_page_id=1770

The rocks by the fire were still warm. Old animal bones and feathers were
scattered around the clearing.

   The skin of a wild cat was stretched out to dry in the sun. 

   Startled impala and dik-dik — small deer — darted through the undergrowth;
colourful birds whirred into the sky. 

   "They are near," whispered our tracker, Naftal Petro, as clouds of tsetse
fly swarmed around us in the stifling African bush. "We must wait and see if
they come. They will decide if they want us to know them." 

  Andrew with Gonga, whose ancient tribe could soon perish 

   After a four-day quest covering thousands of miles by light aircraft, Land
Rover and, finally, on foot, we knew we were on the brink of an unforgettable
experience — the chance to reach back in time and meet our living human
ancestors from countless millennia ago. We waited in silence. 

   Suddenly, shadows of human forms started moving around the bush. The noise
of sing-song voices floated towards us. Here, in one of the world's last
untouched wildernesses — the dense bush south of Africa's Rift Valley where
the first humans emerged upright more than two million years ago — a group of
men from the mysterious Stone Age tribe were ready to make their introductions.


   Draped in animal skins and carrying arrows tipped with poison, two slim,
wiry characters walked slowly towards us in the clearing. Time has stood still
for these men — two of an estimated 400 remaining survivors of the Hadzabe
tribe — whose way of life has scarcely changed since human evolution began. 

   These nomadic hunter-gatherers live as all humans once lived: wandering the
plains with the changing seasons, killing game for survival, constantly
avoiding aggressive wild beasts, and, finally, dying as they were born — under
the sun and the stars. 

   They meet other humans only a handful of times in their entire lives. This
was one of those rare occasions. The men shouted greetings to us in clicks and
whistles — their sole form of language, which, although it sounds basic, is
capable of expressing complete thoughts and concepts. 

   They had been out hunting with bows, and rested them alongside their arrows
against a fallen tree. I introduced myself and Naftal translated my words into
clicks and whistles to an older Hadza called Gonga (Good Hunter in Swahili). 

   He smiled warmly, revealing surprisingly well-kept teeth. 

   But his response was startling: "You are welcome here. But please tell your
people how things are for the Hadzabe. Please do not add things and please do
not take things away. Please just tell the world that we are dying." 

   More than wild animals or sleeping sickness, what Gonga fears is that rich
men with guns and helicopters from the 'new world' are about to arrive on his
doorstep, spelling the end for a tribe that, with the exception of headhunters
in remote parts of Papua New Guinea, represent the only bridge between modern
and ancient man. 

  The Hadzabe tribe live a life unchanged for thousands of years 

   It is the modern story — of clashes between people from the first world
eager to exploit Africa, whatever the cost to ancient customs, and the
desperate battle by the world's few remaining indigenous people to survive. 

   Once numbering more than 10,000, the Hadzabe are the last huntergatherers on
the African continent, where 'homo habilis' (the forerunner of modern man) first
emerged more than two million years ago. 

   It is only in the past 12,000 years that man has managed to domesticate
animals and grow crops. Before that, we all lived like the Hadza. 

   To the dismay of anthropologists and champions of the Earth's remaining
tribal people, two wealthy Arab princes, who have made billions from oil and
gas in the United Arab Emirates, are negotiating with the Tanzanian government
to buy the Hadzabe's ancient lands to use as their own private hunting grounds.


   To them, it's just another commercial deal — and a chance to kill wild
animals. But to the Stone Age tribesmen, it would spell the end. 

   In return for the dubious pleasure of shooting lion, leopard, buffalo and
elephant, Crown Prince Hamdan bin Zayed (the UAE's deputy prime minister) and
Crown Prince Mohammed bin Zayed (deputy supreme commander of the air force)
want the Hadza evicted from the area to prevent them competing for game. 

   As bait, they are offering to pay the impoverished East African country a
reported £30million, and have offered to build private homes, hospitals and
schools for the displaced tribe. 

   The Tanzanian government supports the plan and, for years, has considered
the Hadzabe an embarrassment — 'a backward people who should be living
decently in proper houses'. 

   The Dubai princes have also pledged to pay Tanzania a 'tax' of £5,000 for
each animal killed. 

   But apart from removing one of the world's last tribes, the Arabs will
likely bring their ruthless hunting habits to the bush. 

   For example, royal big game hunters from Dubai were accused five years ago
of starting fires along ancient migration routes used by animals on their way
into the famous Serengeti wildlife park, in a bid to drive them onto land which
they have already leased in a separate deal and where they could be shot. 

   There have also been allegations — never refuted — that a private airstrip
large enough for cargo planes had been carved out of the bush to let the princes
and their guests airlift vast quantities of skins and trophies out of Africa to
decorate their Gulf state homes. 

   For these men, money is the main weapon. But for tribesman Gonga, hunting in
an area 200 miles from the nearest village, his weapon of choice is a wooden bow
with a string made from giraffe tendons, which he raises to his eye while
crouched behind the twisted roots of an ancient baobab tree. 

   Pulling back the string, he held the 100lb tension for ten seconds, making
sure of his aim before firing. The arrow sped away, striking a bird (a Crested
Francolin — similar to a grouse) 30 yards away. As it twitched and fluttered,
he ran to collect it and cut off its head. 

   A small child emerged from a nearby hut, grabbed the carcass and scampered
off to hand it over to be prepared for supper. 

   Gonga sat back by the fire and told how, with the exception of elephants, he
had killed every species of animal, including lions and leopards. 

   "Only when I am sleeping, I am not a hunter. I am a hunter all the time I am
awake. That is what I am and who I am. I kill animals for meat." 

   For 24 hours, I had the privilege of being one of only a handful of
westerners to have experienced how the original Hadza live, eating with them
and spending the night in their camp as they spoke of the deep meaning of their
lives — one said he had heard from other tribes, whom he encountered only once
a year, that the modern world was falling to pieces. 

   Gonga lives with his family — his two wives, his mother, an aunt, his son
and his wife, and five grandchildren — near Lake Eyasi, south of the Serengeti
and the Ngorongoro Crater parks, where western tourists pay up to $1,000 a day
to view the animals. 

   Accessible only by driving along dried out river beds and through seemingly
impenetrable scrub for hours, the Yaida Valley is home to all manner of game,
ranging from the smallest squirrels to herds of giraffe, elephant and armies of
deadly soldier ants. 

   The Hadza women and children had been nearby when we arrived, collecting
wild vegetables and tubers from surrounding scrubland, and cautiously came up
to introduce themselves. 

   Matayo, the youngest of Gonga's five grandchildren, was particularly
perplexed by my presence. Aged around three (the Hadza don't count years), he
didn't understand why my skin was white. He gently took my little finger in his
hand, then started rubbing it, as if trying to clean it, seemingly baffled that
black skin was not underneath. 

   "He thinks you are hurt," said Philimon, his father. "He thinks you have
scraped away your own skin. He thinks that you must be in pain. He doesn't
understand that you have a different colour of skin." 

   Matayo wandered off. The children tumbled around in the dust, laughing and
playing, while they waited for food the women were cooking on tree branches. 

   The sun was slipping below the horizon; embers from the fire flickered in
the dusk, turning the dancing children into tiny silhouettes. This scene must
have happened unchanged, every day, for centuries. 

   The men eat separately, after a day's hunting. Often disguised under animal
skins as they wait for passing prey, they then leap out and shoot their
poisoned arrows. 

   They sometimes hide under meat, pouncing on vultures when they land. They
are also expert fire-makers, taking less than 30 seconds to light some kindling
by rubbing two pieces of wood together until sparks ignite it. They come and go
as they like, disappearing for days on end during hunting expeditions. 

   Bahatia, Lea, Ngwalu and Rachu — the four women — do all the rest of the
work: preparing the meat, looking after the children, collecting roots and
berries, building the camps, cleaning the huts, skinning animals and doing the
cooking. 

   They must have sex with the men on demand; they cannot refuse. 

   "We are happy as long as we have meat," said Bahatia, prodding the fire. "We
are all equal here — we have as much say in things as the men. They cannot do
anything unless we agree. It is all fair — they are good hunters and we look
after the children." 

   All ages contribute to Hadza life. By the time they were toddlers, Matayo
and his siblings were being taken with the women to learn how to identify roots
and plants. 

   When he is ten, Matayo will have been taught how to shoot small animals such
as birds, squirrels and hares. He will be given a bigger six-foot bow at a
ceremony. "To become a man, he must kill a lion," said Philimon, Gonga's son. 

   In the rainy season, the family retreat to caves in the valley, which have
been used for thousands of years. In the dry season, they move camp every two
or three weeks, leaving behind only animal bones and feathers. 

   James Woodburn, the Cambridge anthropologist who published the definitive
work on the Hadzabe more than 30 years ago, discovered that the men hunt as a
group only in exceptional circumstances. In search of baboon meat, men from
different camps join forces to hunt the fierce primates. 

   The Hadza are opportunist hunters. Operating solo, they eat most animals,
except reptiles, and they are lovers of honey, braving huge swarms of bees to
steal combs from high up in baobab trees. 

   "The bees get our blood — we get their honey," laughed Philimon. "It is
fair exchange." 

   Gonga, whose sole contact with the 'white' world has been a handful of
encounters with anthropologists, priests and explorers, looked up at the night
sky. "Is it true you have lost men in the stars?" he asked. 

   While the Hadzabe like to live alone, they periodically come across other
tribes and travellers in the bush, who tell them what is happening in the world
and trade tobacco in return for animal skins. 

   Told that a craft had exploded on a space mission, Gonga was puzzled about
why anyone would want to go there. "You would fall off the moon and the stars
if you got there," he said. 

   "They are too small to stand on. We have lived a pure life since creation,"
said Gonga. 

   "But we hear bad things about the modern world. The people there are
confused, they want more and more. But that's not happiness. We, the Hadza on
this earth, believe the life we have is enough for us. We are always happy —
as long as we have meat and honey." 

   But what of their souls? Missionaries have made attempts over the past
century to bring Christianity to the Hadza. But they all failed. 

   The tribe worship their own God — Hine, whose skin is black and who the
Hadzabe believe is responsible for all creation. "Our God is miraculous," said
Philimon. 

   "Our people don't die. They come back somewhere else — far away in distant
lands. But the Hadza must not start misbehaving, or Hine will be angry." 

   The plan by the Arabs to buy their land is all the more ironic: the Hadza
have no concept of private property, roaming unchecked for thousands of years
alongside the animals they hunt. 

   Nevertheless, the Tanzanian government has repeatedly tried to 'tame' the
Hadza, building houses and trying to teach them to grow crops. One attempt to
resettle them ended when a dozen perished when they were forced into modern
homes. 

   "They just rotted inside and died," said Charles Ngereza, a tribal expert. 

   After another bid to clear them off the land, ten Hadza died in police
custody. 

   Naftal, our translator, who was educated at a church school after being
'liberated' from the bush by missionaries, is campaigning to raise awareness of
the tribe's plight, but faces a five-year jail sentence for allegedly 'causing a
disturbance' during one protest. 

   "I will never stop because this is my motherland," he says. "I am the only
educated person in this society. The Arabs will just come and kill all the
animals. And that means the Hadza will die." 

   The tribe is already perishing. Numbers have declined rapidly in recent
years. As the new threat looms, Tatoga herders are moving in, pushing the Hadza
farther back into their 4,500-square-mile - territory. 

   Some tour companies have been criticised for offering tourist trips to visit
the Hadzas, who have moved into settlements after giving up their hunting ways
to live off holidaymakers' dollars. 

   As a result, alcoholism and drug abuse has become rife among them. 

   Such a life is not for Gonga. "Look at the happiness we have," he said after
dinner, lighting the wild tobacco in his tubular stone pipe with a twig from the
fire. "All we want to do is live in peace and hunt for meat. We don't want to
fight anyone. We just want to be left alone on our land." 

   While the UAE Embassy in London refused to comment on the princes' hunting
plans, groups fighting for indigenous people condemned their safari scheme. 

   "We owe the Hadzabe the chance to perpetuate their way of life,' says Oxfam.
'In their ancient simplicity, they have a huge amount to teach us in our
allconsuming age." 

   As I said farewell, I knew that the memory of my time with Gonga and his
family would stay with me. 

   Who could fail to be moved by sitting around a fire on a starlit night in
the African bush, chatting to members of an ancient tribe who take us to the
very roots of our past. 

   Yet there is no place for sentiment in the natural world. As Gonga
instinctively knows, the weak seldom survive in Africa. 

   "If any one species does not become modified and improved in a corresponding
degree with its competitors, it will soon be exterminated," wrote Charles Darwin
in The Origin Of Species, under the heading Natural Selection. 

   Whether they are driven off their land by the petro-dollars of Arab princes,
forced into 'modern' homes by the Tanzanian government, or corrupted with cash
and alcohol as a result of performing for tourists, you sense that time is
running out for the Hadzabe. 

   "Our voices will never be heard," said Gonga. "Tell the world we are dying.
Tell the world we want to live." 

   Without help, there will be no shadows in the bush for much longer. Matayo
and his brother and sisters may be the last Hadza children to dance round the
fire in the deep of the African night. 

   Soon, there may be only ghosts in the Yaida Valley, and a unique way of life
will be replaced for ever by the sound of guns bought with Arab gold.  
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