At a neighbour's carol-singing party I cultivated the greyest and most
wrinkled
guests, seeking an old brain in which the name of Mrs Walter, the philanthropic owner of our garden, or of Grazebrooks, her house, might have lodged.
Richard-Dawkins-The-Devil-s-Chaplain
1 Is I
6 Ecology of Genes137
Foreword to Pyramids of Life
by Harvey Croze and John Reader
Africa was my personal cradle. But I left when I was seven, too young to appreciate - indeed the fact was not then known - that Africa is also humanity's cradle. The fossils of our species' formative years are all from Africa, and molecular evidence suggests that the ancestors of all today's peoples stayed there until as recently as the last hundred thousand years or so. We have Africa in our blood and Africa has our bones. We are all Africans.
This alone makes the African ecosystem an object of singular fascination. It is the community that shaped us, the commonwealth of animals and plants in which we served our ecological apprenticeship. But even if it were not our home continent Africa would captivate us, as perhaps the last great refugium of Pleistocene ecologies. If you want a late glimpse of the Garden of Eden, forget Tigris and Euphrates and the dawn of agriculture. Go instead to the Serengeti or the Kalahari. Forget the Arcadia of the Greeks and the dreamtime of the outback, they are so recent. Whatever may have come down the mountain at Olympus or Sinai, or even Ayers Rock, look instead to Kilimanjaro, or down the Rift Valley towards the High Veldt. There is where we were designed to flourish.
The 'design' of all living things and their organs is, of course, an illusion; an exceedingly powerful illusion, fabricated by a suitably power- ful process, Darwinian natural selection. There is a second illusion of design in nature, less compelling but still appealing, and it is in danger of being mistaken for the first. This is the apparent design of ecosystems. Where bodies have parts that intricately harmonize and regulate to keep them alive, ecosystems have species that appear to do something similar at a higher level. There are the primary producers that convert raw solar energy into a form that others can use. There are the herbivores that consume them to use it, and then make a tithe of it available for carnivores and so on up the food chain - pyramid, rather,
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for the laws of thermodynamics rule that only a tenth of each level's energy shall make it to the level above. Finally, there are scavengers that recycle the waste products to make them available again, and in the process clean up the world and stop it becoming a tip. Everything fits with everything else like jigsaw pieces meshing in a huge multi- dimensional puzzle, and - as the cliche goes - we meddle with the parts at the risk of destroying a priceless whole.
The temptation is to think that this second illusion is crafted by the same kind of process as the first: by a version of Darwinian selection, but at a higher level. According to this erroneous view, the ecosystems that survive are the ones whose parts - species - harmonize, just as the organisms that survive in conventional Darwinism are the ones whose parts - organs and cells - work harmoniously for their survival. I believe that this theory is false. Ecosystems, like organisms, do indeed seem harmoniously designed; and the appearance of design is indeed an illusion. But there the resemblance ends. It is a different kind of illusion, brought about by a different process. The best ecologists, such as Croze and Reader, understand this.
Darwinism enters into the process, but it does not jump levels. Genes still survive, or fail to survive, within the gene pools of species, by virtue of their effects upon the survival and reproduction of the individual organisms that contain them. The illusion of harmony at a higher level is an indirect consequence of differential individual reproduction. Within any one species of animals or plants, the individuals that survive best are the ones that can exploit the other animals and plants, bacteria and fungi that are already flourishing in the environment. As Adam Smith understood long ago, an illusion of harmony and real efficiency will emerge in an economy dominated by self-interest at a lower level. A well balanced ecosystem is an economy, not an adaptation.
Plants flourish for their own good, not for the good of herbivores. But because plants flourish, a niche for herbivores opens up, and they fill it. Grasses are said to benefit from being grazed. The truth is more interest- ing. No individual plant benefits from being grazed per se. But a plant that suffers only slightly when it is grazed outcompetes a rival plant that suffers more. So successful grasses have benefited indirectly from the presence of grazers. And of course grazers benefit from the presence of grasses. Grasslands therefore build up as harmonious communities of relatively compatible grasses and grazers. They seem to cooperate. In a sense they do, but it is a modest sense that must be cautiously under- stood and judiciously understated. The same is true of the other African communities expounded by Croze and Reader.
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? I have said that the illusion of harmony at the ecosystem level is its own kind of illusion, different from, and emphatically not to be confused with, the Darwinian illusion that produces each efficiently working body. But a closer look reveals that there is a similarity after all, one that goes deeper than the - admittedly interesting and more commonly stated - observation that an animal can also be seen as a community of symbiotic bacteria. Mainstream Darwinian selection is the differential survival of genes within gene pools. Genes survive if they build bodies that flourish in their normal environment. But the normal environ- ment of a gene importantly includes the other genes (strictly, their consequences) in the gene pool of the species. Natural selection therefore favours those genes that cooperate harmoniously in the joint enterprise of building bodies within the species. I have called the genes 'selfish cooperators'. There turns out to be, after all, an affinity between the harmony of a body and the harmony of an ecosystem. There is an ecology of genes.
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? 6. 2
Out of the Soul of Africa138 Foreword to Red Strangers by Elspeth Huxley
Elspeth Huxley died in 1997 at the age of 90. Best known for her vivid African memoirs, she was also a considerable novelist who, in Red Strangers, achieved a scale that could fairly be called epic. It is the saga of a Kikuyu family spanning four generations, beginning before the coming to Kenya of the British ('red' strangers because sunburned), and ending with the birth of a new baby girl, christened Aeroplane by her father ('His wife, he thought, would never be able to pronounce such a difficult word; but educated people would know, and understand'). Its 400 pages are gripping, moving, historically and anthropologically illuminating, humanistically mind-opening . . . and, lamentably, out of print. *
I had an unrealized youthful ambition to write a science fiction novel. It would follow an expedition to, say, Mars, but seen through the eyes (or whatever passed for eyes) of the native inhabitants. I wanted to manoeuvre my readers into an acceptance of Martian ways so compre- hensive that they would see the invading humans as strange and foreign aliens. It is Elspeth Huxley's extraordinary achievement in the first half of Red Strangers to immerse her readers so thoroughly in Kikuyu ways and thought that, when the British finally appear on the scene, everything about them seems to us alien, occasionally downright ridiculous, though usually to be viewed with indulgent tolerance. It is the same indulgent amusement, indeed, as I remember we bestowed upon Africans during my own colonial childhood.
Mrs Huxley, in effect, skilfully transforms her readers into Kikuyu, opening our eyes to see Europeans, and their customs, as we have never seen them before. We become used to an economy pegged to the Goat Standard, so when coins (first rupees and then shillings) are introduced,
*No longer!
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? we marvel at the absurdity of a currency that does not automatically accrue with each breeding season. We come to accept a world in which every event has a supernatural, magical interpretation, and feel personally swindled when the statement, 'The rupees that I pay you can later be changed into goats', turns out to be literally untrue. When Kichui (all white men are referred to by their Kikuyu nicknames) gives orders that hisfieldsshould be manured, we realize that he is mad. Why else would a man try to lay a curse upon his own cattle? 'Matu could not believe his ears. To bury the dung of a cow was to bring death upon it, just as death, or at any rate severe sickness, would come to a man whose excreta were covered with earth . . . He refused emphatically to obey the order. ' And, such is Elspeth Huxley's skill, even I, despising as I do the fashionable nostrums of 'cultural relativism', find myself endorsing Matu's sturdy good sense.
We are led to marvel at the absurdity of European justice, which seems to care which of two brothers committed a murder:
. . . what does it matter? Are not Muthengi and I brothers? Whichever it was that held the sword, our father Waseru and other members of our clan must still pay the blood-price.
Unaccountably, there is no blood price, and Matu, having cheerfully confessed to Muthengi's crime, goes to prison, where he leads 'a strange, comfortless life whose purpose he could not divine'. Eventually he is released. He has served his time but, since he didn't realize he was doing time, the event is of no significance. On returning to his own village, far from being disgraced, he has gained prestige from his sojourn with the mysterious strangers, who obviously regard him highly enough to invite him to live in their own place.
The novel takes us through episodes that we recognize as if from a great distance; through the First World War and the ravages of the subsequent Spanish flu, through smallpox epidemics and worldwide economic recession; and we never once are told in European terms that this is what is going on. We see all through Kikuyu eyes. The Germans are just another white tribe, and when the war ends we find ourselves wondering where are the plundered cattle that the victors ought to be driving home. What else, after all, is warfare for?
Ever since borrowing Red Strangers from the library, I have been on a ceaseless quest to acquire a copy of my own. It has been my routine first question on every visit to second-hand book fairs. Finally, I tracked down two old American copies simultaneously on the Internet. After so
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many years of restless searching, I could not resist buying both. So now, if any reputable publisher sincerely wants to look at Red Strangers with a view to bringing out a new edition,* I will gladly make available one of my hard-won copies. Nothing will part me from the other one.
*This was first published in the Financial Times. I am delighted to say that Penguin Books rose to this challenge and published the book, using my Financial Times article, here reproduced again, as the Foreword.
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? 6o ? %9
I Speak of Africa and Golden Joys1
Foreword to The Lion Children
by Angus, Maisie and Travers McNeice
This is an astonishing book, by an even more astonishing trio of children. It's hard to describe: you have to read it, and once you start reading you can't stop. Think of Swallows and Amazons, except that this story is true and it all happens far from the comfort of England. Think
of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, except that the Lion Children need no magic wardrobe to pass through; no fake world of wonder. The real Africa, humanity's cradle, is more magical than anything C. S. Lewis could dream up. And, while they have no witch, these young authors do have a most remarkable mother. More of her in a moment.
Travers, Angus, Maisie and family have lived under canvas for almost as long as their little brother Oakley (think of fust William) can remember. All three of them have been driving Land Rovers ever since their feet could reach the pedals, and changing tyres (frequently) for as long as they've been strong enough to lift them. * They are self-sufficient and trustworthy far beyond their years, yet not in that disagreeable sense of being streetwise and fly. Field Marshall Montgomery once described Mao Tse Tung as the sort of man you could go into the jungle with. Well, I'm not sure I'd go with Mao Tse Tung into Hyde Park, but I would unhesitatingly go into the jungle with Travers, Angus and Maisie, and no adult companions at all. No gun, just quick-witted young people with clear eyes, fast reflexes and most of a lifetime (albeit a short one) of African know-how. I don't know what to do if I meet an elephant. They do. I'm terrified of puff adders, mambas and scorpions. They take them in their stride. At the same time, dependable and strong as they are, they still bubble with the innocence and charm of youth. This is still Swallows and Amazons, still an idyll, the sort of childhood that for most of us exists only in dreams and idealized misrememberings, 'the land of lost content'. Yet it is firmly in the real world. These innocents have seen favourite lions brutally killed, have
*Travers, Angus and Maisie were aged 16, 14 and 12 when they finished the book.
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rapped out reports of such tragedies in the dispassionate argot of the radio link, have assisted at the subsequent postmortems.
This accomplished book is entirely the work of its young authors, but it isn't hard to guess the source of their ability to do it - their imagina- tion, their enterprise, their unorthodoxy, their adventurous spirit. My wife and I first met Kate Nicholls, their mother, in 1992 when she was living in the Cotswolds, pregnant with Oakley, commuting to study in Oxford libraries. A successful actress, she had become disillusioned with the stage and developed, in her late thirties, a passion (passion is the story of her life) for the science of evolution. Kate doesn't do anything by halves and, for her, an interest in evolution meant deep immersion in libraries, digging up the original research literature. With only minimal guidance from me in what became a series of informal tutorials, her reading transformed her into something of a scholarly authority on Darwinian theory. Her eventual decision to pull up roots and head for Botswana, where Darwinism can be daily witnessed in practice, seemed entirely in character: a natural, if unconventional, extension of the same scholarly quest. Her children, one can't help feeling, have a pretty fortunate inheritance, as well as an almost unique environment in which to realize it.
They also have to thank their mother for their education, and this is perhaps the most surprising aspect of their life. Quite soon after arriving in Botswana, Kate decided to teach them herself. A brave decision, I think I would have counselled against it. But I would have been wrong. Although all their schooling is done in camp, they keep proper terms, have challenging homework assignments and work towards inter- nationally accredited exams. Kate gets good results by standard educational certifications, while at the same time tending, indeed enhancing, the natural sense of wonder that normal children too often lose during their teens. I don't think any reader of these pages could fail to judge her unorthodox School in the Bush a brilliant success. * The proof lies in the book, for, to repeat, the children, and they alone, wrote it. All three authors show themselves to be excellent writers: sensitive, literate, articulate, intelligent and creative.
Kate's choice of Botswana rather than anywhere else in Africa was for- tuitous. It eventually led to her meeting Pieter Kat. And of course the lions - wild lions, living and dying in the world for which the natural selection of their ancestors had prepared them. Pieter is the ideal step-
? Further testimony to the success of Kate's bush school is that Travers and Angus have both been accepted by the (first-class) universities of their choice, UC Santa Barbara and Stanford, respectively.
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? father for her children, and these young scientists have in turn become an indispensable part of the lion research and conservation project.
It wasn't till last year that my family and I finally visited the camp. The experience was unforgettable, and I can testify to the picture painted in The Lion Children. It really is just like that: more wonderful than mad, but a bit of both. My daughter Juliet went out ahead, part of a large invasion of young visitors who soon picked up the enthusiasm of the resident family. On Juliet's first full day in Africa, Travers took her out in a Land Rover, tracking radio-collared lions. When we received Juliet's letter home, brimming with excitement at such an initiation, I relayed the story to her grandmother, who interrupted me with panic in her voice: 'Plus, of course, at least two armed African rangers? ' I had to confess that Travers really had been Juliet's only companion, that he had been driving the Land Rover all by himself, and that as far as I knew the camp boasted neither African rangers nor arms. I don't mind admitting that, though I concealed it from my mother, I was pretty anxious about the story myself. But that was before I had seen Travers in the bush. Or, indeed, Angus or Maisie.
We arrived a month after Juliet, and our fears were soon put to rest. I had been to Africa before, indeed was born there. But I have never felt so close to the wild. Or so close to lions or any large wild animals. And there was the marvellous camaraderie of life in camp; laughter and argument in the dining tent, everybody shouting at once. I think of sleeping and waking amid the sounds of the African night, the untiring 'Work harder' of the Cape Turtle Dove, the insolently robust barking of the baboons, the distant - and sometimes not so distant - roaring of the prides. I think of Juliet's sixteenth birthday party timed for the full moon: a surreal scene of candlelit table standing proud and alone on open ground, miles from camp and indeed from anywhere else; of the catch in the throat as we watched the huge moon rising exactly on cue, first reflected in the shallow Jackal Pan and later picking out the spectral shapes of marauding hyenas - which had us hastily bundling the sleeping Oakley into the safety of the Land Rover. I think of our last night and a dozen lions, gnawing and growling on a recently killed zebra only just outside the camp. The atavistic emotions that this primitive night scene aroused - for, whatever our upbringing, our genes are African - haunt me still.
But I can't begin to do justice to this world which has been the setting for such an extraordinary childhood. I was only there for a week, and I am no doubt jaded with maturity. Read the book and experience, through watchful young eyes, all Africa - and her prodigies.
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? 6. 4
Heroes and Ancestors1
Earliest memories can build a private Eden, a lost garden to which there is no return. The name Mbagathi conjured myths in my mind. Early in the war my father was called from the colonial service in Nyasaland (now Malawi) to join the army in Kenya. My mother disobeyed instruc- tions to stay behind in Nyasaland and drove with him, along rutted dust roads and over unmarked and fortunately unpoliced borders, to Kenya, where I was later born and lived till I was two. My earliest memory is of the two whitewashed thatched huts which my parents built for us in a garden, near the small Mbagathi river with its footbridge where I once fell into the water. I have always dreamed of returning to the site of this unwitting baptism, not because there was anything remarkable about the place, but because my memory is void before it.
That garden with the two whitewashed huts was my infant Eden and the Mbagathi my personal river. But on a larger timescale Africa is Eden to us all, the ancestral garden whose Darwinian memories have been carved into our DNA over millions of years until our recent worldwide 'Out of Africa' diaspora. It was at least partly the search for roots, our species' ancestors and my own childhood garden, that took me back to Kenya in December 1994.
My wife Lalla happened to sit next to Richard Leakey at a lunch to
1
launch his The Origin of Humankind" and by the end of the meal he
had invited her (and me) to spend Christmas with his family in Kenya. Could there be a better beginning to a search for roots than a visit to the Leakey family on their home ground? We accepted gratefully. On the way we spent a few days with an old colleague, the economic ecologist Dr Michael Norton-Griffiths, and his wife Annie, in their house at Langata, near Nairobi. This paradise of bougainvillea and lush green gardens was marred only by the evident necessity for the Kenya equivalent of the burglar alarm - the armed askari, hired to patrol the garden at night by every householder who can afford the luxury.
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? I didn't know where to start in quest of my lost Mbagathi. I knew only that it was somewhere near greater Nairobi. That the city had expanded since 1943 was only too obvious. For all I could tell, my childhood garden might languish under a car park or an international hotel.
At a neighbour's carol-singing party I cultivated the greyest and most wrinkled guests, seeking an old brain in which the name of Mrs Walter, the philanthropic owner of our garden, or of Grazebrooks, her house, might have lodged. Though intrigued at my quest, none could help. Then I discovered that the stream below the Norton-Griffiths' garden was named the Mbagathi River. There was a steep red soil track down the hill and I made a ritual pilgrimage. At the foot of the hill, not 200 yards from where we were living, was a small footbridge and I stood and sentimentally watched the villagers returning home from work over the Mbagathi River.
I don't know, and probably never shall, if this was 'my' bridge, but it probably was my Jordan, for rivers outlive human works. I never discovered my garden and I doubt if it survives. Human memory is frail, our traditions as erratic as Chinese whispers and largely false, written records crumble and in any case writing is only millennia old. If we want to follow our roots back through the millions of years we need more persistent race memories. Two exist, fossils and DNA - hardware and software. The fact that our species now has a hard history is partly to the credit of one family, the Leakeys: the late Louis Leakey, his wife Mary, their son Richard and his wife Meave. It was to Richard and Meave's holiday house at Lamu that we were going for Christmas.
The engagingly filthy town of Lamu, one of the strongholds of Islam bordering the Indian Ocean, lies on a sandy island close to the mangrove fringes of the coast. The imposing waterfront recalls Evelyn Waugh's Matodi in the first chapter of Black Mischief. Open stone drains, grey with suds, line streets too narrow for wheeled traffic, and heavily laden donkeys purposefully trot their unsupervised errands across the town. Skeletal cats sleep in patches of sun. Black-veiled women like crows walk obsequiously past men seated on doorsteps, talking the heat and the flies away. Every four hours the muezzins (nowadays they are recorded on cassette tapes concealed in the minarets) caterwaul for custom. Nothing disturbs the Marabou storks at their one-legged vigil round the abattoir.
The Leakeys are white Kenyans, not English, and they built their house in the Swahili style (this is native Swahili country, unlike most of
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Kenya, where the Swahili language is an introduced lingua franca spread by the Arab slave trade). It is a large, white, thankfully cool cathedral of a house, with an arched veranda, tiles and rush matting on the floor, no glass in the windows, no hot water in the pipes and no need for either. The whole upstairs floor, reached by irregularly cut out- side steps, is a single flat area furnished only with rush mats, cushions and mattresses, completely open to the warm night winds and the bats diving past Orion. Above this airy space, raised high on stilts, is the unique Swahili roof, thatched with reeds on a lofty superstructure of palm logs, intricately lashed together with thongs.
Richard Leakey is a robust hero of a man, who actually lives up to the cliche, 'a big man in every sense of the word'. Like other big men he is loved by many, feared by some, and not over-preoccupied with the judgements of any. He lost both legs in a near fatal air crash in 1993, at the end of his rampantly successful years crusading against poachers. As Director of the Kenya Wildlife Service he transformed the previously demoralized rangers into a crack fighting army with modern weapons to match those of the poachers and, more importantly, with an esprit de corps and a will to hit back at them. In 1989 he persuaded President Moi to light a bonfire of more than 2000 seized tusks, a uniquely Leakeyan masterstroke of public relations which did much to destroy the ivory trade and save the elephant. But jealousies were aroused by his international prestige which helped raise funds for his department, money which other officials coveted. Hardest to forgive, he conspic- uously proved it possible to run a big department in Kenya efficiently and without corruption. Leakey had to go, and he did. Coincidentally, his plane had unexplained engine failure, and now he swings along on two artificial legs (with a spare pair specially made for swimming with flippers). He again races his sailing boat with his wife and daughters for crew, he lost no time in regaining his pilot's licence, and his spirit will not be crushed.
If Richard Leakey is a hero, he is matched in elephant lore by that legendary and redoubtable couple Iain and Oria Douglas-Hamilton. Iain and I had been students of the great naturalist, Niko Tinbergen, at Oxford, as had Mike Norton-Griffiths. It was a long time since we had met, and the Douglas-Hamiltons invited Lalla and me to Lake Naivasha for the final part of our holiday. Son of a dynasty of warlike Scottish lairds and more recently ace aviators, daughter of equally swashbuckling Italian-French adventurers in Africa, Iain and Oria met romantically, lived dangerously,
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? raised their baby daughters to play fearlessly among wild elephants, fought the ivory trade with words and the poachers with guns.
Oria's parents, explorers and elephant hunters in the 1930s, built Sirocco, the 'pink palace', a stunning monument to art deco stylishness on the shores of Lake Naivasha, where they settled to farm 3000 acres. They are now buried side by side in the garden, near the avenue of cypresses that they planted to remind themselves of Naples, framing Longonot in place of Vesuvius. When they died the place fell into disrepair for ten years until a determined Oria, against all economic advice, returned. The farm now thrives again, though no longer 3000 acres, and Sirocco itself is restored, and is as it must have been. Iain flies his tiny plane home every weekend from Nairobi, where he runs his newly formed charity, 'Save the Elephants'. The family were all at Sirocco for Christmas and we were to join them for New Year.
Our arrival was unforgettable. Music thumped through the open
doors (Vangelis's score for the film 1492 - 1 later chose it for Desert Island
Discs). After a characteristic Italian and African lunch for 20 guests, we
looked out over the terrace at the small paddock where, 25 years before,
uninvited and unexpected, Iain had landed his plane to the terrified
incredulity of Oria's parents and their guests at a similarly grand
luncheon party. At dawn the morning after this sensational entrance
into her life, Oria had without hesitation taken off with Iain for the
shores of Lake Manyara, where the young man had begun his now
famous study of wild elephants, and they have been together ever since.
Their story is told in their two books, the Arcadian Among the Elephants 142
and the more sombre Battle for the Elephants.
On the veranda, staring towards Mount Longonot, is the skull of
Boadicea, giant matriarch of Manyara, mother or grandmother of so
many of Iain's elephants, victim of the poaching holocaust, her skull
devotedly strapped into the back seat of Iain's plane and flown to its
final rest overlooking a peaceful garden. There are no elephants in the
Naivasha area, so we were spared the notorious Douglas-Hamilton treat-
ment whereby guests are taken out and scared witless. The following
43
passage, from the book The Tree where Man was Born,' by the American
travel writer Peter Matthiessen, is entirely typical:
'I don't think she's going to charge us', lain whispered. But the moment the herd was safely past, Ophelia swung up onto the bank, and she had dispensed with threat display. There were no flared ears, no blaring, only an oncoming cow elephant, trunk held high, less than twenty yards away.
As I started to run, I recall cursing myself for having been there in the first 237
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place; my one chance was that the elephant would seize my friend instead of me. In hopelessness, or perhaps some instinct not to turn my back on a charging animal, I faced around again almost before I had set out, and was rewarded with one of the great sights of a lifetime. Douglas-Hamilton, unwilling to drop his apparatus, and knowing that flight was useless anyway, and doubtless cross that Ophelia had failed to act as he predicted, was making a last stand. As the elephant loomed over us, filling the coarse heat of noon with her dusty bulk, he flared his arms and waved his glittering contraption in her face, at the same time bellowing, 'Bugger off! ' Taken aback, the dazzled Ophelia flared her ears and blared, but she had sidestepped, losing the initiative, and now, thrown off course, she swung away toward the river, trumpeting angrily over her shoulder.
From high on the bank came a great peal of laughter from Oria. lain and I trudged up to lunch; there was very damned little to say.
The only flaw in our Naivasha holiday was an ugly rumour that a leopard had been snared on a neighbouring farm and was painfully dragging the snare somewhere in the area. Grown quiet with anger, Iain took down his gun (for a wounded leopard can be dangerous), called for the best Masai tracker on the farm, and we set off in an ancient Land Rover.
The plan was to find the leopard by tracking and by questioning witnesses, lure it into a trap, nurse it back to health and release it again on the farm. Knowing no Swahili, I could gauge the progress of Iain's cross-examinations only by facial expressions, tones of voice and Iain's occasional summaries for my benefit. We eventually found a young man who had seen the leopard, though he denied it at first. Iain whispered to me that such initial denials - baffling to my naive straight- forwardness - were ritual and normal. Eventually, without for a moment acknowledging that he had changed his story, the youth would lead us to the scene. Sure enough he did, and there the Masai tracker spotted leopard hairs and a possible spoor. He bounded, doubled up, through the papyrus reeds, followed by Iain and me. Just when I thought we were hopelessly lost, we re-emerged at our starting point. The trail had gone cold.
By similarly roundabout verbal skirmishings we tracked down a more recent witness who led us to another clearing in the papyrus, and Iain decided that here was the best site for a trap. He telephoned the Kenya Wildlife Service and they came, within the day, with a large iron cage filling the back of a Land Rover. Its door was designed to clang shut when the bait of meat was tugged. At dead of night we lurched and bumped through the papyrus and hippo dung, camouflaged the trap
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? with foliage, laid a trail of raw meat to its entrance, baited it with half a sheep and went to bed.
The next day, Lalla and I were due to return to Nairobi and we left with the trap still baited, having attracted nothing more substantial than a marsh mongoose. Iain flew us in his little plane, hopping over steaming volcanic hills and down lake-filled valleys, over zebras and (almost) under giraffes, scattering the dust and the goats of the Masai villages, skirting the Ngong hills to Nairobi. At Wilson Airport, we chanced to run into Meave Leakey. She has now largely taken over the running of the fossil-hunting work from Richard, and she offered to introduce us to our ancestors in the vaults of the Kenya National Museum. This rare privilege was arranged for next day, the morning of our departure for London.
The great archaeologist Schliemann 'gazed upon the face of Agamemnon'. Well, good, the mask of a Bronze Age chieftain is a fine thing to behold. But as Meave Leakey's guest I have gazed upon the face of KNM-ER 1470 (Homo habilis), who lived and died 20,000 centuries before the Bronze Age began . . .
Each fossil is accompanied by a meticulously accurate cast which you are allowed to hold and turn over as you look at the priceless original. The Leakeys told us that their team was opening up a new site at Lake Turkana, with fossils 4 million years old, older than any hominids so far discovered. In the week that I write this, Meave and her colleagues have published in Nature the first harvest of this ancient stratum: a newly discovered species, Australopithecus anamensis, represented by a lower jaw and various other fragments. The newfindssuggest that our ancestors were already walking upright 4 million years ago, surprisingly (to some) close to our split from the lineage of chimpanzees. *
The leopard, Iain later told us, never came to the trap. He had feared that it would not, for the evidence of the second witness suggested that, fatally hobbled by the snare, it was already near death from starvation. For me, the most memorable part of that leopard-tracking day was my conversation with the two black rangers from the Kenya Wildlife Service who brought the trap. I was deeply impressed by the efficiency, humanity and dedication of these men. They were not allowed to let me photograph
? Even older fossils have been discovered since this was first written.
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their operation, and they seemed a little reserved until I mentioned the name of Dr Leakey, their former leader, now in the political wilderness. Their eyes immediately lit up. 'Oh, you know Richard Leakey? What a wonderful man, a magnificent man! ' I asked them how the Kenya Wildlife Service was faring nowadays. 'Oh well, we soldier on. We do our best. But it is not the same. What a magnificent man! '
We went to Africa to find the past. We found heroes and inspiration for the future, too.
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? A PRAYER FOR MY DAUGHTER
This last section, its title borrowed from W. B. Yeats, has a single item: an open letter to my daughter, written when she was ten. For most of her childhood, I unhappily saw her only for short periods at a time, and it was not easy to talk about the important things of life. I had always been scrupulously careful to avoid the smallest suggestion of infant indoctrination, which I think is ultimately responsible for much of the evil in the world. Others, less close to her, showed no such scruples, which upset me, as I very much wanted her, as I want all children, to make up her own mind freely when she became old enough to do so. I would encourage her to think, without telling her what to think. When she reached the age of ten, I thought about writing her a long letter. But to send it out of the blue seemed oddly formal and forbidding.
Then an opportunity fortuitously arose. My literary agent John Brockman, with his wife and partner Katinka Matson, conceived the idea of editing a book of essays as a rite-of-passage gift for their son Max. They invited clients and friends to contribute essays of advice or inspiration for a young person starting life. The invitation spurred me into writing, as an open letter, the advice to my daughter which I had previously been shy to give. The book itself, How Things Are, changed its mission halfway through its compilation. It remained dedicated to Max, but the subtitle became A Science Tool-kit for the Mind and later contributors were not asked to write specifically for a young person.
Eight years down the road, the legal onset of Juliet's adulthood happened to fall during the preparation of this collection, and the book is dedicated to her as an eighteenth birthday present, with a father's love.
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? Dear Juliet
Good and Bad Reasons for Believing144
Now that you are ten, I want to write to you about something that is important to me. Have you ever wondered how we know the things that we know? How do we know, for instance, that the stars, which look like tiny pinpricks in the sky, are really huge balls of fire like the Sun and very far away? And how do we know that the Earth is a smaller ball whirling round one of those stars, the Sun?
The answer to these questions is 'evidence'. Sometimes evidence means actually seeing (or hearing, feeling, smelling . . . ) that something is true. Astronauts have travelled far enough from the Earth to see with their own eyes that it is round. Sometimes our eyes need help. The 'evening star' looks like a bright twinkle in the sky but with a telescope you can see that it is a beautiful ball - the planet we call Venus. Something that you learn by direct seeing (or hearing or feeling . . . ) is called an observation.
Often evidence isn't just observation on its own, but observation always lies at the back of it. If there's been a murder, often nobody (except the murderer and the dead person! ) actually observed it. But detectives can gather together lots of other observations which may all point towards a particular suspect. If a person's fingerprints match those found on a dagger, this is evidence that he touched it. It doesn't prove that he did the murder, but it can help when it's joined up with lots of other evidence. Sometimes a detective can think about a whole lot of observations and suddenly realize that they all fall into place and make sense if so-and-so did the murder.
Scientists - the specialists in discovering what is true about the world and the universe - often work like detectives. They make a guess (called a hypothesis) about what might be true. They then say to themselves: if that were really true, we ought to see so-and-so. This is called a prediction. For example, if the world is really round, we can predict that a traveller, going on and on in the same direction, should eventually find himself back where he started. When a doctor says that you have
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measles he doesn't take one look at you and see measles. His first look gives him a hypothesis that you may have measles. Then he says to himself: if she really has measles, I ought to see . . . Then he runs through his list of predictions and tests them with his eyes (have you got spots? ), his hands (is your forehead hot? ), and his ears (does your chest wheeze in a measly way? ). Only then does he make his decision and say, 'I diagnose that the child has measles. ' Sometimes doctors need to do other tests like blood tests or X-rays, which help their eyes, hands and ears to make observations.
The way scientists use evidence to learn about the world is much cleverer and more complicated than I can say in a short letter. But now I want to move on from evidence, which is a good reason for believing something, and warn you against three bad reasons for believing anything. They are called 'tradition', 'authority' and 'revelation'.
First, tradition. A few months ago, I went on television to have a discussion with about 50 children. These children were invited because they'd been brought up in lots of different religions. Some had been brought up as Christians, others as Jews, Muslims, Hindus or Sikhs. The man with the microphone went from child to child, asking them what they believed. What they said shows up exactly what I mean by 'tradition'. Their beliefs turned out to have no connection with evidence. They just trotted out the beliefs of their parents and grandparents, which, in turn, were not based upon evidence either. They said things like, 'We Hindus believe so and so. ' 'We Muslims believe such and such. ' 'We Christians believe something else. '
Of course, since they all believed different things, they couldn't all be right. The man with the microphone seemed to think this quite proper, and he didn't even try to get them to argue out their differences with each other. But that isn't the point I want to make. I simply want to ask where their beliefs came from. They came from tradition. Tradition means beliefs handed down from grandparent to parent to child, and so on. Or from books handed down through the centuries. Traditional beliefs often start from almost nothing; perhaps somebody just makes them up originally, like the stories about Thor and Zeus. But after they've been handed down over some centuries, the mere fact that they are so old makes them seem special. People believe things simply because people have believed the same thing over centuries. That's tradition.
The trouble with tradition is that, no matter how long ago a story was made up, it is still exactly as true or untrue as the original story was. If you make up a story that isn't true, handing it down over any number of centuries doesn't make it any truer!
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Most people in England have been baptized into the Church of England, but this is only one of many branches of the Christian religion. There are other branches such as the Russian Orthodox, the Roman Catholic and the Methodist churches. They all believe different things. The Jewish religion and the Muslim religion are a bit more different still; and there are different kinds of Jews and of Muslims.
6 Ecology of Genes137
Foreword to Pyramids of Life
by Harvey Croze and John Reader
Africa was my personal cradle. But I left when I was seven, too young to appreciate - indeed the fact was not then known - that Africa is also humanity's cradle. The fossils of our species' formative years are all from Africa, and molecular evidence suggests that the ancestors of all today's peoples stayed there until as recently as the last hundred thousand years or so. We have Africa in our blood and Africa has our bones. We are all Africans.
This alone makes the African ecosystem an object of singular fascination. It is the community that shaped us, the commonwealth of animals and plants in which we served our ecological apprenticeship. But even if it were not our home continent Africa would captivate us, as perhaps the last great refugium of Pleistocene ecologies. If you want a late glimpse of the Garden of Eden, forget Tigris and Euphrates and the dawn of agriculture. Go instead to the Serengeti or the Kalahari. Forget the Arcadia of the Greeks and the dreamtime of the outback, they are so recent. Whatever may have come down the mountain at Olympus or Sinai, or even Ayers Rock, look instead to Kilimanjaro, or down the Rift Valley towards the High Veldt. There is where we were designed to flourish.
The 'design' of all living things and their organs is, of course, an illusion; an exceedingly powerful illusion, fabricated by a suitably power- ful process, Darwinian natural selection. There is a second illusion of design in nature, less compelling but still appealing, and it is in danger of being mistaken for the first. This is the apparent design of ecosystems. Where bodies have parts that intricately harmonize and regulate to keep them alive, ecosystems have species that appear to do something similar at a higher level. There are the primary producers that convert raw solar energy into a form that others can use. There are the herbivores that consume them to use it, and then make a tithe of it available for carnivores and so on up the food chain - pyramid, rather,
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for the laws of thermodynamics rule that only a tenth of each level's energy shall make it to the level above. Finally, there are scavengers that recycle the waste products to make them available again, and in the process clean up the world and stop it becoming a tip. Everything fits with everything else like jigsaw pieces meshing in a huge multi- dimensional puzzle, and - as the cliche goes - we meddle with the parts at the risk of destroying a priceless whole.
The temptation is to think that this second illusion is crafted by the same kind of process as the first: by a version of Darwinian selection, but at a higher level. According to this erroneous view, the ecosystems that survive are the ones whose parts - species - harmonize, just as the organisms that survive in conventional Darwinism are the ones whose parts - organs and cells - work harmoniously for their survival. I believe that this theory is false. Ecosystems, like organisms, do indeed seem harmoniously designed; and the appearance of design is indeed an illusion. But there the resemblance ends. It is a different kind of illusion, brought about by a different process. The best ecologists, such as Croze and Reader, understand this.
Darwinism enters into the process, but it does not jump levels. Genes still survive, or fail to survive, within the gene pools of species, by virtue of their effects upon the survival and reproduction of the individual organisms that contain them. The illusion of harmony at a higher level is an indirect consequence of differential individual reproduction. Within any one species of animals or plants, the individuals that survive best are the ones that can exploit the other animals and plants, bacteria and fungi that are already flourishing in the environment. As Adam Smith understood long ago, an illusion of harmony and real efficiency will emerge in an economy dominated by self-interest at a lower level. A well balanced ecosystem is an economy, not an adaptation.
Plants flourish for their own good, not for the good of herbivores. But because plants flourish, a niche for herbivores opens up, and they fill it. Grasses are said to benefit from being grazed. The truth is more interest- ing. No individual plant benefits from being grazed per se. But a plant that suffers only slightly when it is grazed outcompetes a rival plant that suffers more. So successful grasses have benefited indirectly from the presence of grazers. And of course grazers benefit from the presence of grasses. Grasslands therefore build up as harmonious communities of relatively compatible grasses and grazers. They seem to cooperate. In a sense they do, but it is a modest sense that must be cautiously under- stood and judiciously understated. The same is true of the other African communities expounded by Croze and Reader.
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? I have said that the illusion of harmony at the ecosystem level is its own kind of illusion, different from, and emphatically not to be confused with, the Darwinian illusion that produces each efficiently working body. But a closer look reveals that there is a similarity after all, one that goes deeper than the - admittedly interesting and more commonly stated - observation that an animal can also be seen as a community of symbiotic bacteria. Mainstream Darwinian selection is the differential survival of genes within gene pools. Genes survive if they build bodies that flourish in their normal environment. But the normal environ- ment of a gene importantly includes the other genes (strictly, their consequences) in the gene pool of the species. Natural selection therefore favours those genes that cooperate harmoniously in the joint enterprise of building bodies within the species. I have called the genes 'selfish cooperators'. There turns out to be, after all, an affinity between the harmony of a body and the harmony of an ecosystem. There is an ecology of genes.
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? 6. 2
Out of the Soul of Africa138 Foreword to Red Strangers by Elspeth Huxley
Elspeth Huxley died in 1997 at the age of 90. Best known for her vivid African memoirs, she was also a considerable novelist who, in Red Strangers, achieved a scale that could fairly be called epic. It is the saga of a Kikuyu family spanning four generations, beginning before the coming to Kenya of the British ('red' strangers because sunburned), and ending with the birth of a new baby girl, christened Aeroplane by her father ('His wife, he thought, would never be able to pronounce such a difficult word; but educated people would know, and understand'). Its 400 pages are gripping, moving, historically and anthropologically illuminating, humanistically mind-opening . . . and, lamentably, out of print. *
I had an unrealized youthful ambition to write a science fiction novel. It would follow an expedition to, say, Mars, but seen through the eyes (or whatever passed for eyes) of the native inhabitants. I wanted to manoeuvre my readers into an acceptance of Martian ways so compre- hensive that they would see the invading humans as strange and foreign aliens. It is Elspeth Huxley's extraordinary achievement in the first half of Red Strangers to immerse her readers so thoroughly in Kikuyu ways and thought that, when the British finally appear on the scene, everything about them seems to us alien, occasionally downright ridiculous, though usually to be viewed with indulgent tolerance. It is the same indulgent amusement, indeed, as I remember we bestowed upon Africans during my own colonial childhood.
Mrs Huxley, in effect, skilfully transforms her readers into Kikuyu, opening our eyes to see Europeans, and their customs, as we have never seen them before. We become used to an economy pegged to the Goat Standard, so when coins (first rupees and then shillings) are introduced,
*No longer!
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? we marvel at the absurdity of a currency that does not automatically accrue with each breeding season. We come to accept a world in which every event has a supernatural, magical interpretation, and feel personally swindled when the statement, 'The rupees that I pay you can later be changed into goats', turns out to be literally untrue. When Kichui (all white men are referred to by their Kikuyu nicknames) gives orders that hisfieldsshould be manured, we realize that he is mad. Why else would a man try to lay a curse upon his own cattle? 'Matu could not believe his ears. To bury the dung of a cow was to bring death upon it, just as death, or at any rate severe sickness, would come to a man whose excreta were covered with earth . . . He refused emphatically to obey the order. ' And, such is Elspeth Huxley's skill, even I, despising as I do the fashionable nostrums of 'cultural relativism', find myself endorsing Matu's sturdy good sense.
We are led to marvel at the absurdity of European justice, which seems to care which of two brothers committed a murder:
. . . what does it matter? Are not Muthengi and I brothers? Whichever it was that held the sword, our father Waseru and other members of our clan must still pay the blood-price.
Unaccountably, there is no blood price, and Matu, having cheerfully confessed to Muthengi's crime, goes to prison, where he leads 'a strange, comfortless life whose purpose he could not divine'. Eventually he is released. He has served his time but, since he didn't realize he was doing time, the event is of no significance. On returning to his own village, far from being disgraced, he has gained prestige from his sojourn with the mysterious strangers, who obviously regard him highly enough to invite him to live in their own place.
The novel takes us through episodes that we recognize as if from a great distance; through the First World War and the ravages of the subsequent Spanish flu, through smallpox epidemics and worldwide economic recession; and we never once are told in European terms that this is what is going on. We see all through Kikuyu eyes. The Germans are just another white tribe, and when the war ends we find ourselves wondering where are the plundered cattle that the victors ought to be driving home. What else, after all, is warfare for?
Ever since borrowing Red Strangers from the library, I have been on a ceaseless quest to acquire a copy of my own. It has been my routine first question on every visit to second-hand book fairs. Finally, I tracked down two old American copies simultaneously on the Internet. After so
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many years of restless searching, I could not resist buying both. So now, if any reputable publisher sincerely wants to look at Red Strangers with a view to bringing out a new edition,* I will gladly make available one of my hard-won copies. Nothing will part me from the other one.
*This was first published in the Financial Times. I am delighted to say that Penguin Books rose to this challenge and published the book, using my Financial Times article, here reproduced again, as the Foreword.
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I Speak of Africa and Golden Joys1
Foreword to The Lion Children
by Angus, Maisie and Travers McNeice
This is an astonishing book, by an even more astonishing trio of children. It's hard to describe: you have to read it, and once you start reading you can't stop. Think of Swallows and Amazons, except that this story is true and it all happens far from the comfort of England. Think
of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, except that the Lion Children need no magic wardrobe to pass through; no fake world of wonder. The real Africa, humanity's cradle, is more magical than anything C. S. Lewis could dream up. And, while they have no witch, these young authors do have a most remarkable mother. More of her in a moment.
Travers, Angus, Maisie and family have lived under canvas for almost as long as their little brother Oakley (think of fust William) can remember. All three of them have been driving Land Rovers ever since their feet could reach the pedals, and changing tyres (frequently) for as long as they've been strong enough to lift them. * They are self-sufficient and trustworthy far beyond their years, yet not in that disagreeable sense of being streetwise and fly. Field Marshall Montgomery once described Mao Tse Tung as the sort of man you could go into the jungle with. Well, I'm not sure I'd go with Mao Tse Tung into Hyde Park, but I would unhesitatingly go into the jungle with Travers, Angus and Maisie, and no adult companions at all. No gun, just quick-witted young people with clear eyes, fast reflexes and most of a lifetime (albeit a short one) of African know-how. I don't know what to do if I meet an elephant. They do. I'm terrified of puff adders, mambas and scorpions. They take them in their stride. At the same time, dependable and strong as they are, they still bubble with the innocence and charm of youth. This is still Swallows and Amazons, still an idyll, the sort of childhood that for most of us exists only in dreams and idealized misrememberings, 'the land of lost content'. Yet it is firmly in the real world. These innocents have seen favourite lions brutally killed, have
*Travers, Angus and Maisie were aged 16, 14 and 12 when they finished the book.
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rapped out reports of such tragedies in the dispassionate argot of the radio link, have assisted at the subsequent postmortems.
This accomplished book is entirely the work of its young authors, but it isn't hard to guess the source of their ability to do it - their imagina- tion, their enterprise, their unorthodoxy, their adventurous spirit. My wife and I first met Kate Nicholls, their mother, in 1992 when she was living in the Cotswolds, pregnant with Oakley, commuting to study in Oxford libraries. A successful actress, she had become disillusioned with the stage and developed, in her late thirties, a passion (passion is the story of her life) for the science of evolution. Kate doesn't do anything by halves and, for her, an interest in evolution meant deep immersion in libraries, digging up the original research literature. With only minimal guidance from me in what became a series of informal tutorials, her reading transformed her into something of a scholarly authority on Darwinian theory. Her eventual decision to pull up roots and head for Botswana, where Darwinism can be daily witnessed in practice, seemed entirely in character: a natural, if unconventional, extension of the same scholarly quest. Her children, one can't help feeling, have a pretty fortunate inheritance, as well as an almost unique environment in which to realize it.
They also have to thank their mother for their education, and this is perhaps the most surprising aspect of their life. Quite soon after arriving in Botswana, Kate decided to teach them herself. A brave decision, I think I would have counselled against it. But I would have been wrong. Although all their schooling is done in camp, they keep proper terms, have challenging homework assignments and work towards inter- nationally accredited exams. Kate gets good results by standard educational certifications, while at the same time tending, indeed enhancing, the natural sense of wonder that normal children too often lose during their teens. I don't think any reader of these pages could fail to judge her unorthodox School in the Bush a brilliant success. * The proof lies in the book, for, to repeat, the children, and they alone, wrote it. All three authors show themselves to be excellent writers: sensitive, literate, articulate, intelligent and creative.
Kate's choice of Botswana rather than anywhere else in Africa was for- tuitous. It eventually led to her meeting Pieter Kat. And of course the lions - wild lions, living and dying in the world for which the natural selection of their ancestors had prepared them. Pieter is the ideal step-
? Further testimony to the success of Kate's bush school is that Travers and Angus have both been accepted by the (first-class) universities of their choice, UC Santa Barbara and Stanford, respectively.
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? father for her children, and these young scientists have in turn become an indispensable part of the lion research and conservation project.
It wasn't till last year that my family and I finally visited the camp. The experience was unforgettable, and I can testify to the picture painted in The Lion Children. It really is just like that: more wonderful than mad, but a bit of both. My daughter Juliet went out ahead, part of a large invasion of young visitors who soon picked up the enthusiasm of the resident family. On Juliet's first full day in Africa, Travers took her out in a Land Rover, tracking radio-collared lions. When we received Juliet's letter home, brimming with excitement at such an initiation, I relayed the story to her grandmother, who interrupted me with panic in her voice: 'Plus, of course, at least two armed African rangers? ' I had to confess that Travers really had been Juliet's only companion, that he had been driving the Land Rover all by himself, and that as far as I knew the camp boasted neither African rangers nor arms. I don't mind admitting that, though I concealed it from my mother, I was pretty anxious about the story myself. But that was before I had seen Travers in the bush. Or, indeed, Angus or Maisie.
We arrived a month after Juliet, and our fears were soon put to rest. I had been to Africa before, indeed was born there. But I have never felt so close to the wild. Or so close to lions or any large wild animals. And there was the marvellous camaraderie of life in camp; laughter and argument in the dining tent, everybody shouting at once. I think of sleeping and waking amid the sounds of the African night, the untiring 'Work harder' of the Cape Turtle Dove, the insolently robust barking of the baboons, the distant - and sometimes not so distant - roaring of the prides. I think of Juliet's sixteenth birthday party timed for the full moon: a surreal scene of candlelit table standing proud and alone on open ground, miles from camp and indeed from anywhere else; of the catch in the throat as we watched the huge moon rising exactly on cue, first reflected in the shallow Jackal Pan and later picking out the spectral shapes of marauding hyenas - which had us hastily bundling the sleeping Oakley into the safety of the Land Rover. I think of our last night and a dozen lions, gnawing and growling on a recently killed zebra only just outside the camp. The atavistic emotions that this primitive night scene aroused - for, whatever our upbringing, our genes are African - haunt me still.
But I can't begin to do justice to this world which has been the setting for such an extraordinary childhood. I was only there for a week, and I am no doubt jaded with maturity. Read the book and experience, through watchful young eyes, all Africa - and her prodigies.
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? 6. 4
Heroes and Ancestors1
Earliest memories can build a private Eden, a lost garden to which there is no return. The name Mbagathi conjured myths in my mind. Early in the war my father was called from the colonial service in Nyasaland (now Malawi) to join the army in Kenya. My mother disobeyed instruc- tions to stay behind in Nyasaland and drove with him, along rutted dust roads and over unmarked and fortunately unpoliced borders, to Kenya, where I was later born and lived till I was two. My earliest memory is of the two whitewashed thatched huts which my parents built for us in a garden, near the small Mbagathi river with its footbridge where I once fell into the water. I have always dreamed of returning to the site of this unwitting baptism, not because there was anything remarkable about the place, but because my memory is void before it.
That garden with the two whitewashed huts was my infant Eden and the Mbagathi my personal river. But on a larger timescale Africa is Eden to us all, the ancestral garden whose Darwinian memories have been carved into our DNA over millions of years until our recent worldwide 'Out of Africa' diaspora. It was at least partly the search for roots, our species' ancestors and my own childhood garden, that took me back to Kenya in December 1994.
My wife Lalla happened to sit next to Richard Leakey at a lunch to
1
launch his The Origin of Humankind" and by the end of the meal he
had invited her (and me) to spend Christmas with his family in Kenya. Could there be a better beginning to a search for roots than a visit to the Leakey family on their home ground? We accepted gratefully. On the way we spent a few days with an old colleague, the economic ecologist Dr Michael Norton-Griffiths, and his wife Annie, in their house at Langata, near Nairobi. This paradise of bougainvillea and lush green gardens was marred only by the evident necessity for the Kenya equivalent of the burglar alarm - the armed askari, hired to patrol the garden at night by every householder who can afford the luxury.
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? I didn't know where to start in quest of my lost Mbagathi. I knew only that it was somewhere near greater Nairobi. That the city had expanded since 1943 was only too obvious. For all I could tell, my childhood garden might languish under a car park or an international hotel.
At a neighbour's carol-singing party I cultivated the greyest and most wrinkled guests, seeking an old brain in which the name of Mrs Walter, the philanthropic owner of our garden, or of Grazebrooks, her house, might have lodged. Though intrigued at my quest, none could help. Then I discovered that the stream below the Norton-Griffiths' garden was named the Mbagathi River. There was a steep red soil track down the hill and I made a ritual pilgrimage. At the foot of the hill, not 200 yards from where we were living, was a small footbridge and I stood and sentimentally watched the villagers returning home from work over the Mbagathi River.
I don't know, and probably never shall, if this was 'my' bridge, but it probably was my Jordan, for rivers outlive human works. I never discovered my garden and I doubt if it survives. Human memory is frail, our traditions as erratic as Chinese whispers and largely false, written records crumble and in any case writing is only millennia old. If we want to follow our roots back through the millions of years we need more persistent race memories. Two exist, fossils and DNA - hardware and software. The fact that our species now has a hard history is partly to the credit of one family, the Leakeys: the late Louis Leakey, his wife Mary, their son Richard and his wife Meave. It was to Richard and Meave's holiday house at Lamu that we were going for Christmas.
The engagingly filthy town of Lamu, one of the strongholds of Islam bordering the Indian Ocean, lies on a sandy island close to the mangrove fringes of the coast. The imposing waterfront recalls Evelyn Waugh's Matodi in the first chapter of Black Mischief. Open stone drains, grey with suds, line streets too narrow for wheeled traffic, and heavily laden donkeys purposefully trot their unsupervised errands across the town. Skeletal cats sleep in patches of sun. Black-veiled women like crows walk obsequiously past men seated on doorsteps, talking the heat and the flies away. Every four hours the muezzins (nowadays they are recorded on cassette tapes concealed in the minarets) caterwaul for custom. Nothing disturbs the Marabou storks at their one-legged vigil round the abattoir.
The Leakeys are white Kenyans, not English, and they built their house in the Swahili style (this is native Swahili country, unlike most of
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Kenya, where the Swahili language is an introduced lingua franca spread by the Arab slave trade). It is a large, white, thankfully cool cathedral of a house, with an arched veranda, tiles and rush matting on the floor, no glass in the windows, no hot water in the pipes and no need for either. The whole upstairs floor, reached by irregularly cut out- side steps, is a single flat area furnished only with rush mats, cushions and mattresses, completely open to the warm night winds and the bats diving past Orion. Above this airy space, raised high on stilts, is the unique Swahili roof, thatched with reeds on a lofty superstructure of palm logs, intricately lashed together with thongs.
Richard Leakey is a robust hero of a man, who actually lives up to the cliche, 'a big man in every sense of the word'. Like other big men he is loved by many, feared by some, and not over-preoccupied with the judgements of any. He lost both legs in a near fatal air crash in 1993, at the end of his rampantly successful years crusading against poachers. As Director of the Kenya Wildlife Service he transformed the previously demoralized rangers into a crack fighting army with modern weapons to match those of the poachers and, more importantly, with an esprit de corps and a will to hit back at them. In 1989 he persuaded President Moi to light a bonfire of more than 2000 seized tusks, a uniquely Leakeyan masterstroke of public relations which did much to destroy the ivory trade and save the elephant. But jealousies were aroused by his international prestige which helped raise funds for his department, money which other officials coveted. Hardest to forgive, he conspic- uously proved it possible to run a big department in Kenya efficiently and without corruption. Leakey had to go, and he did. Coincidentally, his plane had unexplained engine failure, and now he swings along on two artificial legs (with a spare pair specially made for swimming with flippers). He again races his sailing boat with his wife and daughters for crew, he lost no time in regaining his pilot's licence, and his spirit will not be crushed.
If Richard Leakey is a hero, he is matched in elephant lore by that legendary and redoubtable couple Iain and Oria Douglas-Hamilton. Iain and I had been students of the great naturalist, Niko Tinbergen, at Oxford, as had Mike Norton-Griffiths. It was a long time since we had met, and the Douglas-Hamiltons invited Lalla and me to Lake Naivasha for the final part of our holiday. Son of a dynasty of warlike Scottish lairds and more recently ace aviators, daughter of equally swashbuckling Italian-French adventurers in Africa, Iain and Oria met romantically, lived dangerously,
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? raised their baby daughters to play fearlessly among wild elephants, fought the ivory trade with words and the poachers with guns.
Oria's parents, explorers and elephant hunters in the 1930s, built Sirocco, the 'pink palace', a stunning monument to art deco stylishness on the shores of Lake Naivasha, where they settled to farm 3000 acres. They are now buried side by side in the garden, near the avenue of cypresses that they planted to remind themselves of Naples, framing Longonot in place of Vesuvius. When they died the place fell into disrepair for ten years until a determined Oria, against all economic advice, returned. The farm now thrives again, though no longer 3000 acres, and Sirocco itself is restored, and is as it must have been. Iain flies his tiny plane home every weekend from Nairobi, where he runs his newly formed charity, 'Save the Elephants'. The family were all at Sirocco for Christmas and we were to join them for New Year.
Our arrival was unforgettable. Music thumped through the open
doors (Vangelis's score for the film 1492 - 1 later chose it for Desert Island
Discs). After a characteristic Italian and African lunch for 20 guests, we
looked out over the terrace at the small paddock where, 25 years before,
uninvited and unexpected, Iain had landed his plane to the terrified
incredulity of Oria's parents and their guests at a similarly grand
luncheon party. At dawn the morning after this sensational entrance
into her life, Oria had without hesitation taken off with Iain for the
shores of Lake Manyara, where the young man had begun his now
famous study of wild elephants, and they have been together ever since.
Their story is told in their two books, the Arcadian Among the Elephants 142
and the more sombre Battle for the Elephants.
On the veranda, staring towards Mount Longonot, is the skull of
Boadicea, giant matriarch of Manyara, mother or grandmother of so
many of Iain's elephants, victim of the poaching holocaust, her skull
devotedly strapped into the back seat of Iain's plane and flown to its
final rest overlooking a peaceful garden. There are no elephants in the
Naivasha area, so we were spared the notorious Douglas-Hamilton treat-
ment whereby guests are taken out and scared witless. The following
43
passage, from the book The Tree where Man was Born,' by the American
travel writer Peter Matthiessen, is entirely typical:
'I don't think she's going to charge us', lain whispered. But the moment the herd was safely past, Ophelia swung up onto the bank, and she had dispensed with threat display. There were no flared ears, no blaring, only an oncoming cow elephant, trunk held high, less than twenty yards away.
As I started to run, I recall cursing myself for having been there in the first 237
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place; my one chance was that the elephant would seize my friend instead of me. In hopelessness, or perhaps some instinct not to turn my back on a charging animal, I faced around again almost before I had set out, and was rewarded with one of the great sights of a lifetime. Douglas-Hamilton, unwilling to drop his apparatus, and knowing that flight was useless anyway, and doubtless cross that Ophelia had failed to act as he predicted, was making a last stand. As the elephant loomed over us, filling the coarse heat of noon with her dusty bulk, he flared his arms and waved his glittering contraption in her face, at the same time bellowing, 'Bugger off! ' Taken aback, the dazzled Ophelia flared her ears and blared, but she had sidestepped, losing the initiative, and now, thrown off course, she swung away toward the river, trumpeting angrily over her shoulder.
From high on the bank came a great peal of laughter from Oria. lain and I trudged up to lunch; there was very damned little to say.
The only flaw in our Naivasha holiday was an ugly rumour that a leopard had been snared on a neighbouring farm and was painfully dragging the snare somewhere in the area. Grown quiet with anger, Iain took down his gun (for a wounded leopard can be dangerous), called for the best Masai tracker on the farm, and we set off in an ancient Land Rover.
The plan was to find the leopard by tracking and by questioning witnesses, lure it into a trap, nurse it back to health and release it again on the farm. Knowing no Swahili, I could gauge the progress of Iain's cross-examinations only by facial expressions, tones of voice and Iain's occasional summaries for my benefit. We eventually found a young man who had seen the leopard, though he denied it at first. Iain whispered to me that such initial denials - baffling to my naive straight- forwardness - were ritual and normal. Eventually, without for a moment acknowledging that he had changed his story, the youth would lead us to the scene. Sure enough he did, and there the Masai tracker spotted leopard hairs and a possible spoor. He bounded, doubled up, through the papyrus reeds, followed by Iain and me. Just when I thought we were hopelessly lost, we re-emerged at our starting point. The trail had gone cold.
By similarly roundabout verbal skirmishings we tracked down a more recent witness who led us to another clearing in the papyrus, and Iain decided that here was the best site for a trap. He telephoned the Kenya Wildlife Service and they came, within the day, with a large iron cage filling the back of a Land Rover. Its door was designed to clang shut when the bait of meat was tugged. At dead of night we lurched and bumped through the papyrus and hippo dung, camouflaged the trap
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? with foliage, laid a trail of raw meat to its entrance, baited it with half a sheep and went to bed.
The next day, Lalla and I were due to return to Nairobi and we left with the trap still baited, having attracted nothing more substantial than a marsh mongoose. Iain flew us in his little plane, hopping over steaming volcanic hills and down lake-filled valleys, over zebras and (almost) under giraffes, scattering the dust and the goats of the Masai villages, skirting the Ngong hills to Nairobi. At Wilson Airport, we chanced to run into Meave Leakey. She has now largely taken over the running of the fossil-hunting work from Richard, and she offered to introduce us to our ancestors in the vaults of the Kenya National Museum. This rare privilege was arranged for next day, the morning of our departure for London.
The great archaeologist Schliemann 'gazed upon the face of Agamemnon'. Well, good, the mask of a Bronze Age chieftain is a fine thing to behold. But as Meave Leakey's guest I have gazed upon the face of KNM-ER 1470 (Homo habilis), who lived and died 20,000 centuries before the Bronze Age began . . .
Each fossil is accompanied by a meticulously accurate cast which you are allowed to hold and turn over as you look at the priceless original. The Leakeys told us that their team was opening up a new site at Lake Turkana, with fossils 4 million years old, older than any hominids so far discovered. In the week that I write this, Meave and her colleagues have published in Nature the first harvest of this ancient stratum: a newly discovered species, Australopithecus anamensis, represented by a lower jaw and various other fragments. The newfindssuggest that our ancestors were already walking upright 4 million years ago, surprisingly (to some) close to our split from the lineage of chimpanzees. *
The leopard, Iain later told us, never came to the trap. He had feared that it would not, for the evidence of the second witness suggested that, fatally hobbled by the snare, it was already near death from starvation. For me, the most memorable part of that leopard-tracking day was my conversation with the two black rangers from the Kenya Wildlife Service who brought the trap. I was deeply impressed by the efficiency, humanity and dedication of these men. They were not allowed to let me photograph
? Even older fossils have been discovered since this was first written.
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their operation, and they seemed a little reserved until I mentioned the name of Dr Leakey, their former leader, now in the political wilderness. Their eyes immediately lit up. 'Oh, you know Richard Leakey? What a wonderful man, a magnificent man! ' I asked them how the Kenya Wildlife Service was faring nowadays. 'Oh well, we soldier on. We do our best. But it is not the same. What a magnificent man! '
We went to Africa to find the past. We found heroes and inspiration for the future, too.
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? A PRAYER FOR MY DAUGHTER
This last section, its title borrowed from W. B. Yeats, has a single item: an open letter to my daughter, written when she was ten. For most of her childhood, I unhappily saw her only for short periods at a time, and it was not easy to talk about the important things of life. I had always been scrupulously careful to avoid the smallest suggestion of infant indoctrination, which I think is ultimately responsible for much of the evil in the world. Others, less close to her, showed no such scruples, which upset me, as I very much wanted her, as I want all children, to make up her own mind freely when she became old enough to do so. I would encourage her to think, without telling her what to think. When she reached the age of ten, I thought about writing her a long letter. But to send it out of the blue seemed oddly formal and forbidding.
Then an opportunity fortuitously arose. My literary agent John Brockman, with his wife and partner Katinka Matson, conceived the idea of editing a book of essays as a rite-of-passage gift for their son Max. They invited clients and friends to contribute essays of advice or inspiration for a young person starting life. The invitation spurred me into writing, as an open letter, the advice to my daughter which I had previously been shy to give. The book itself, How Things Are, changed its mission halfway through its compilation. It remained dedicated to Max, but the subtitle became A Science Tool-kit for the Mind and later contributors were not asked to write specifically for a young person.
Eight years down the road, the legal onset of Juliet's adulthood happened to fall during the preparation of this collection, and the book is dedicated to her as an eighteenth birthday present, with a father's love.
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? Dear Juliet
Good and Bad Reasons for Believing144
Now that you are ten, I want to write to you about something that is important to me. Have you ever wondered how we know the things that we know? How do we know, for instance, that the stars, which look like tiny pinpricks in the sky, are really huge balls of fire like the Sun and very far away? And how do we know that the Earth is a smaller ball whirling round one of those stars, the Sun?
The answer to these questions is 'evidence'. Sometimes evidence means actually seeing (or hearing, feeling, smelling . . . ) that something is true. Astronauts have travelled far enough from the Earth to see with their own eyes that it is round. Sometimes our eyes need help. The 'evening star' looks like a bright twinkle in the sky but with a telescope you can see that it is a beautiful ball - the planet we call Venus. Something that you learn by direct seeing (or hearing or feeling . . . ) is called an observation.
Often evidence isn't just observation on its own, but observation always lies at the back of it. If there's been a murder, often nobody (except the murderer and the dead person! ) actually observed it. But detectives can gather together lots of other observations which may all point towards a particular suspect. If a person's fingerprints match those found on a dagger, this is evidence that he touched it. It doesn't prove that he did the murder, but it can help when it's joined up with lots of other evidence. Sometimes a detective can think about a whole lot of observations and suddenly realize that they all fall into place and make sense if so-and-so did the murder.
Scientists - the specialists in discovering what is true about the world and the universe - often work like detectives. They make a guess (called a hypothesis) about what might be true. They then say to themselves: if that were really true, we ought to see so-and-so. This is called a prediction. For example, if the world is really round, we can predict that a traveller, going on and on in the same direction, should eventually find himself back where he started. When a doctor says that you have
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measles he doesn't take one look at you and see measles. His first look gives him a hypothesis that you may have measles. Then he says to himself: if she really has measles, I ought to see . . . Then he runs through his list of predictions and tests them with his eyes (have you got spots? ), his hands (is your forehead hot? ), and his ears (does your chest wheeze in a measly way? ). Only then does he make his decision and say, 'I diagnose that the child has measles. ' Sometimes doctors need to do other tests like blood tests or X-rays, which help their eyes, hands and ears to make observations.
The way scientists use evidence to learn about the world is much cleverer and more complicated than I can say in a short letter. But now I want to move on from evidence, which is a good reason for believing something, and warn you against three bad reasons for believing anything. They are called 'tradition', 'authority' and 'revelation'.
First, tradition. A few months ago, I went on television to have a discussion with about 50 children. These children were invited because they'd been brought up in lots of different religions. Some had been brought up as Christians, others as Jews, Muslims, Hindus or Sikhs. The man with the microphone went from child to child, asking them what they believed. What they said shows up exactly what I mean by 'tradition'. Their beliefs turned out to have no connection with evidence. They just trotted out the beliefs of their parents and grandparents, which, in turn, were not based upon evidence either. They said things like, 'We Hindus believe so and so. ' 'We Muslims believe such and such. ' 'We Christians believe something else. '
Of course, since they all believed different things, they couldn't all be right. The man with the microphone seemed to think this quite proper, and he didn't even try to get them to argue out their differences with each other. But that isn't the point I want to make. I simply want to ask where their beliefs came from. They came from tradition. Tradition means beliefs handed down from grandparent to parent to child, and so on. Or from books handed down through the centuries. Traditional beliefs often start from almost nothing; perhaps somebody just makes them up originally, like the stories about Thor and Zeus. But after they've been handed down over some centuries, the mere fact that they are so old makes them seem special. People believe things simply because people have believed the same thing over centuries. That's tradition.
The trouble with tradition is that, no matter how long ago a story was made up, it is still exactly as true or untrue as the original story was. If you make up a story that isn't true, handing it down over any number of centuries doesn't make it any truer!
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Most people in England have been baptized into the Church of England, but this is only one of many branches of the Christian religion. There are other branches such as the Russian Orthodox, the Roman Catholic and the Methodist churches. They all believe different things. The Jewish religion and the Muslim religion are a bit more different still; and there are different kinds of Jews and of Muslims.
