After leaving Fargo-Moorhead, we proceeded southwesterly, riding toward the heart of the great Dakota Preserve. Being so near to civilization, we saw no big game that first morning; so naturally I was quite excited when we stumbled upon a pair of Rabbits, resting in a swale of buck brush--one a dirty gray, the other a faded green.
With a slight shake of his head, Mr. O.K. Jones dismissed both contemptuously. Gesturing over his shoulder to the pack mule, he explained: "Nah, Jack. Them scuffed-up rascals ain't worth the trouble of unpackin' ole Clementine."
Reluctantly I agreed, noticing that both were badly chipped and dented. Still, it might have been nice to have shot one photo of my first contact with North American game ... unsightly objects though they were.
As we continued riding, I glanced at Mr. O.K. Jones, wondering if my judgment had been sound. The Fargo-Moorhead District Office of the North American Park Service had been highly recommended by my most esteemed superior back in Lusaka. Unfortunately, the knowledgeable Deputy Minister had never laid eyes upon this particular guide.
And no indeed, Mr. O.K. Jones was not an impressive figure, even by North American standards. He was short and wirey, his uniform hanging loosely, a shabby disgrace to the NAPS logo on his shoulder. His face matched the weathered, wrinkled condition of his clothes, and, to complete his unkempt appearance, he wore a permanent dark stubble on his chin.
Well, I decided, what was done was done.
We bounced along in silence for the remainder of the day, encountering no more game; and it soon became obvious from the condition of my hindquarters that riding a horse was an extremely tiring and painful experience for the novice. This realization came as somewhat of a shock, as I had viewed many western films at the Histro-Theatre at home, but never had I seen a rider experience my problem. Of course, Mr. O. K. Jones was perfectly content with the mode of travel, and, although he said nothing to me, he hummed a tune to himself, occasionally murmuring a line or two--something about a home on the range--all obviously off-key.
Near dusk we stopped and set up camp in a dry swale, sheltered from the north wind by a break of cottonwoods. They rustled in the breeze, giving off a fresh, clean odor, reminding me of the cool air conditioning of my office in the United Lower Africa Capitol Tower in Lusaka. An absurd association, attributable no doubt to a subconscious homesickness.
Mr. O.K. Jones returned from hobbling and feeding our three animals. After helping him gather wood, I watched him practice his skill as an outdoorsman, and my concerns about his competence began to diminish. In a few moments he had a roaring fire started, which was a comfort as the temperature had dropped with the sun. A few minutes later we were sitting down to the evening meal. Simple fare, but tasty. Pork 'n' beans--a legume smothered in brown sauce, pieces of fatty meat--brown bread, and hot tea.
After supper, as my guide called it, the night was upon us. In the frosty October air, we exhaled plumes of warm steam. Invigorating. Nevertheless, I chose to move closer to the warmth of the campfire. Looking up, I watched stars appear in the clear sky, shining like pieces of blue-white ice. An impressive sight. One I had rarely experienced in my homeland. No, the sky was seldom clear over Zambia or any other place in the ULA--one of the penalties of progress.
"Smoke, Jack--?"
Mr. O.K. Jones was offering me a funny-shaped brown cigarette.
Annoyed, I noticed that he persisted in using the slang appellation. Earlier, in Fargo-Moorhead, I had patiently informed him that I much preferred my own name, Mr. Jomo K. Mbabwe, to Jack. To no avail. He explained that he had no ear for Japanese, Brazilian, or African names; so, in a spirit of democratic fairness, he addressed one and all as Jack. With a humorless expression, he advised me to pretend that it was English for Bwana. The man was incorrigible!
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