Milestones of Skull Valley

(The following post was originally written on July 28th, 2008)

Damn; more news of another Dahalo attack. I hung up and rolled over, thinking about the trip I had to make through Skull Valley the next day. I got up, put some shorts on over my boxers, and wandered to my neighbor’s house.

“You hear they hit Bekroba last night?” I inquired groggily, rubbing my eyes. My neighbor sighed, his smile fading as he spoke.

“Yeah, I heard. Made off with thirty cows and supposedly killed a woman,” the last part catching me off guard.

“Whoa, what? They actually shot someone?”

“That’s what they’re saying. A mother too, no less. It’s really too bad… When do you think this drought will end?” We’d been going on three months with no rain. It’s a good thing they had harvested the rice when they did. Even so a lot of good folks were taking some hard hits on their crops, wallets, and stomachs.

“I really couldn’t say, man. Maybe two weeks, maybe two months. I’ll see ya,” as I walked back to my house I shook my head, lost in concentration over the menacing Dahalo. Like any good guerillas, or insurgents, they were using their environment to their advantage, sticking to the vast desert and making base in the highlands or the sprawling foothills. I considered all this as I prepared my bucket shower.

* * * * *

Coming back from work that night I contemplated some advice a coworker had given me earlier. Apparently word had it that the Dahalo were moving due south, and would likely be passing through Skull Valley the next day looking for trouble around Beraketa, my would-be destination. He reckoned I was better off postponing my trip if I couldn’t find someone to go with. Well, half the allure of my countryside bike trips was the time for introspections on the old bike. I thought about looking for someone to go with, especially since I knew my coworker was right. Even if the rumor had turned out to be false about them heading south, I knew how many networks of secret little paths and trails there were, and I knew the Dahalo were already dug in like ticks through that valley. But I also knew that the chief and folks in Beraketa were good eggs and that they would take care of me once I got there.

I got home to find Jacko sitting on my front steps, shoulders slumped and looking bored. He’s a neighborhood kid who likes to visit me a little too often, but good company nonetheless.

“Hey I heard you’re going to Beraketa tomorrow morning. What time you heading out,” he asked.

“Oh, I’m not sure yet, bro…” Did he want to go? I was still potentially looking for someone… But this kid’s only thirteen. If anything happened it would be on me. No, no that wouldn’t do. Plus why did he ask me “what time” I was going, as if I’d already told him it was okay for him to go with me? The balls on this kid!

“Naw man, no, I’ve got to go alone. It’s too far for you to come with, and you know the Dahalo have been acting up,” I explained.

“I would have asked you if you’d given me a chance,” he grumbled while walking away, as if reading my thoughts. I wandered over to the western railing of my porch to watch the brilliant oranges and pinks drain down the mountains. I didn’t even own any cows, what did I have to be afraid of? Then again the Dahalo are known to run with common bandits also, who would undoubtedly be happy enough to relieve me of my bike. Usually whenever I had a meeting in Beraketa I would give myself 99 percent chance out of a hundred that I’d make it back okay. This time I gave myself 50/50.

* * * * *

“Whozit…” I garbled out, still half asleep. I looked at the Coleman digital watch on my bedside table. It was ten to six in the morning.

“It’s me,” called out the baritone pitch of a recently changed voice. It was Jacko. What could he want this early? The sun had barely begun to rise. I parted my mosquito net and stumbled through the darkness, groping for walls and stubbing my toes while cursing.

“Good God, boy! Do you know time it is? Well, what in the hell is it!” I blurted out. I like to think I had adapted the ways of a morning person since I got here, but even I was struggling with this.

“Justin man, the Dahalo nailed Benonoky early this morning. They made off with the cows and got out quick,” he sputtered out, as if out of breath.

“So? What’s all this got to do with me?” I was awaiting an explanation for his “courtesy” wakeup call.

“Word is they made like a beeline for Skull Valley. Isn’t that where you wanted to go today?” His words sunk in deep. Maybe I should cancel my trip after all. But could I let the Dahalo run the parameters of my life? What message would that send to my friends and neighbors who strive for a free way of life in their village community? I was lost in thought.

“Justin?” Jacko asked.

“Huh? No. No, you run along now, Jacko. Thank you,” I gently shut the door in his face, and I heard him trudge off, hands in pockets no doubt. This *was* disturbing news. But I just couldn’t imagine holing up in my house, peaking out from closed shutters as any way of life. The rising sun over the eastern foothills promised a hot day and would likely show little mercy on the villagers’ drought. I turned over the prospect of going over and over in my mind as I prepared my bucket shower. What were the pros of going? Of not going? By the time my pot of water had boiled I resolved to get going right after I showered and ate my morning regiments of rice n’greens with Madame Lolola.

It was five of eight by the time I hit the trail. The path to Skull Valley started out through a cavernous passage made out exclusively of cactus so tall they nearly formed a canopy over my head. Many yielded beautiful flowers despite the desert heat. Once through that passage I was officially out of the village and into savannah territory. I had left the last of the villagers some ways back, bypassed most the savannah, and skidded to a halt at the bosom of Skull Valley. There was a soft breeze. I gazed across the vast, silent valley, taking in thousands of acres of seemingly empty land. Not too empty, though. I remembered after this point, if I continued on I would encounter a plethora of small trails, most of which leading to Beraketa. A virtual labyrinth of meandering paths that snaked onwards. I didn’t see any signs of Dahalo, so I shoved off.

About a half hour into the trek I stopped for water under the shade of some tall shrubbery. I still hadn’t seen anyone and was satisfied I was already halfway there. I was about to shove off again when something caught my eye. I saw a big, steaming pile of cow dung on the side of the road. Cockeyed, I walked over to it, taking my time. I squatted near it to discover it was still quite pungent. Fresh. I looked beyond the edge of the path onto the gravely sand patches and noticed another pile. It looked like someone had recently herded cows across the path at this point. Why would someone be herding cattle away from the path, from one side of the rugged terrain to the other, with no use for the beaten trail? This far out, no less… Something was up and I didn’t like it. There was sweat on my forehead and back, but I got a chill down my spine just the same. I started backing away from the desolate scene towards the direction of my bike. When I got there I peeled out as fast as I could.

By the time I reached the ¾ distance marker I was parched again. God, why was it so hot? How did people live out here with no water pumps? I was crushed to find my water bottle empty. I felt as if I was caked in dirt and dust, which was constantly blown around. I carried my bike on my back across the dried up, boulder-ridden riverbed and back up the trail. Sailing down the trail, then with dry reeds up to my chest on either side, I encountered the final leg before Beraketa. Dried up, abandoned rice paddies. The only marking indicators of which way the path went was by the eroding dirt clumps that were once carefully-crafted, elevated grass land-bridges that navigated the paddies. I slung the bike over my back one final time and started forward. Halfway through I heard the crackle of gunfire near the mountains to the south. It had to be someone mixed up with the Dahalo. I picked up the pace and raced the short distance remaining to Beraketa.

* * * * *

“Justin! My God, boy! We didn’t know… we thought if you still came they might try to… come in! Come in, my boy…” The village chief was worried sick. He explained that word had just come into Beraketa that the gendarme was shooting it out with some Dahalo about 12 k southeast.

“Whoa, wait a minute,” I exclaimed. “About half an hour ago I was still some 8 k south of here on the trail. I… I saw the cow dung,” the wheels were starting to turn.

“Why, Justin, that’s precisely what time the Dahalo would have been crossing that area, probably fleeing the gendarme,” the chief said wistfully. “If you had ridden by there only a short time earlier… In any case, cheers to your safe arrival.” As he was wishing my good health we heard a low rumble far off. At first I thought it was the gendarme, maybe using a grenade. Miraculously, it was no such thing. We trotted outside to find that dark clouds had just blown in on the western horizon from the direction of the Mozambique Channel. Those were rain clouds, moving quickly too. Within a half hour it was thundering and pouring down rain outside. The chief and I celebrated the fresh, much-needed rainfall with cups of hot rice-water.