The Kalahari grass swayed gently in the warm breeze, its fair golden colour, brushed against a pastel sky. Set in a small clearing in the heart of this wilderness was the simple grassy, temporary shelters of the san tribe. Often described as “the first people”. This tranquil setting. The origin of humanity. The chief hunter, similar age to me, greeted me with a graceful smile. All he wore was a simple loincloth and a symbolic jackal skin that decorated his head. The rest of the tribe sat grouped together, fourteen of them, their faces similar, thin eyes that accompanied welcoming smiles. The oldest member of the tribe, a great grandmother, sat at the edge of the group her wrinkles, simple creases that deepened into her gentle face like the criss-crossing paths worn out by wandering game. Simple animal hides innocently swathed their beautiful skin and their chatting clicks tapped the air, like a springbok’s hoof clapping against the terrain, gently as it dances across the plain.
