Diamonds, Tourism and Cultural Genocide in Botswana

Bushmen of the Khoisan

I will always remember the day I saw the Bushmen. It was late afternoon; the sun was already sinking in the sky. We were jogging along a dirt road, our runners covered in dust. From time to time we stopped to watch black dung beetles roll their huge dung balls along. The bush was alive around us, we heard a donkey bray far away, scores of birds flew about and whistled their songs. There was the odd rustling in the grass. Occasionally, a bakkie would drive past and seeing us, would slow, so as not to cover us in dust. As we jogged along, I imagined what animals would come out in the bush at night. Predators and prey, I knew they were both there. Africa was still wild, and nature lived. I hoped we wouldn’t come across any ostriches on our little jog. A few weeks back I had been sitting in the back of our bakkie and an irate ostrich had chased us down the road. If you have ever been chased by an angry ostrich, you will know it is a most nerve racking experience. This dirt road we jogged on, ran parallel to a railway line; there was a mine here, and trains took the ore away. As I looked over to my left, I saw them in the distance, on the other side of the railway line. There, in the bush and slowly moving in the opposite direction, they were. My heart skipped a beat, I stopped to watch them. I knew about the Bushmen, the…