Aron Rothstein

First There Is a Fountain

The morning’s cool enough that I’ve pulled a sheet over myself in my sleep, but there’s that touch of warmth presaging a hot day; a “stinker,” as my father used to call it.

Kauroorhua and his friend Mbawe are already up. They’d brought us here yesterday, running in front of the Land Cruiser to find the way over the trackless, rocky plain, around and over small mopane trees, in and out of sand rivers. Our plan is to walk to the top of Omavanda, the high plateau of Namibia’s Baynes Mountains, three kilometers west and nine hundred meters above our camp. We are surveying the area as part of our black-faced impala study, and Kauroorhua has heard there are impala up there.

For ages, to be human was to walk. I grew up in New York; a city walker. I’d eschew public transport, and took pride in being the fastest walker on the street.

sidewalk
block after block
mind floating...
the world spins beneath my soles
and I find myself there

It wasn’t until I’d walked in Kaokoland with Himba and Tjimba trackers that I understood what a piker I was. My natural pace, honed on level concrete, was faster than Kauroorhua’s. But his never varied; up hill, down mountain—it didn’t matter.

The kilometers, level but rocky, to the base of Omavanda go quickly, even in the growing heat. Kauroorhua shows me a small opening in the base of the escarpment, with lush vegetation. Pushing through the brush, we enter a large notch in the slope, like the tab of a puzzle piece. Tall trees surround a pool filled with seepage from the heights. No impala sign, but day-old leopard tracks.

barroom bully
we opt to drink
elsewhere

We take a break, splashing water on our faces and cooling our feet. The two men look at me. For three years I’ve worked with Kauroorhua, telling him where I wanted to go and then following as he looked for spoor. Only now do I fully realize that this is my expedition, and it’s up to me whether or not we climb the mountain.

In my youth an occasional darkness would overtake me, leaving me trapped within myself, unable to deal with the outside world. Decisions loomed frighteningly and I deferred them to others or a later time.

morning rain
no ambition
under the quilt

Blanketed by the cool, I search for the energy to make the decision to move on. It’s lovely here, but the years have taught me that inaction is itself a choice. And life is lived, and fortune found, out there.

among shade trees
of a dry-season fountain
lovebirds flit
beyond this pool
the blinding bush

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About the Author

Aron Rothstein is a retired biologist, now living in a meadow on the Oregon coast. He has been writing haiku, tanka, haibun, and tanka prose for about fifteen years. His work has appeared in numerous online and print journals.

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