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V1N5

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Everywhere these men looked they saw meat. They saw hide, feather and fang in the hieroglyph of tracks below their feet, in the distant rustle of parched leaves, by the flash of move­ ment across a hillside clearing, and within the droppings that peppered the stratified banks of a dry riverbed. The five Hadza hunters faced each other. pointed in several directions, and-tongues Clicking-talked strategy among themselves. Following a cue that I missed, they set off. All were bare-chested in the equatorial sun. Two wore shorts, the others loin cloths. Their leather sandals were soled with tire treads. Each held half a dozen arrows and a long bow in his left hand as they weaved through a maze of thorn bushes. When they reached the edge of a dry riverbed, the men sprinted and fanned apart. The Hadza are gifted runners. They shoot poison­ tipped arrows and often pursue wounded game for hours while the toxin takes effect. The hunters left me behind after the first 10 paces, but I ran after them anyway. The Hadza, who live in Tanzania's interior, are among the last nomadic hunters in Africa. But their way of life-as ancient as human history-is under siege. Perhaps 750 Hadza still live as their ancestors did for millenia. The number is hard to estimate because their ways defy the very notion of a census. They sleep on zebra or kudu hides placed on the ground under trees. Their possessions are lim­ ited to what can be carried as they follow game. Easier to count are the forces that conspire against them: farming, cattle ranching, aggressive neighbors and a government hell-bent on modernization. Of course, this is all in the name of progress, if for no other reason than progress is measured in such things. And in developing African nations, progress-a deity clad in a European suit clutching a cell phone-reigns above all else. Caught in the sweep of progress, the Hadza cling with one last handhold to the tree of man. Several minutes after the hunters bolted, I found them under a tree, launching arrows at a francolin, a guinea fowl-like bird. When it stopped moving, the smallest of the men climbed the tree to pull it down. He snapped its neck and secured it under a cord at his waist. The men asked for a cigarette. They passed it around, took epic drags, coughed elaborately, and finished the Marlboro in one round. They set off again, walking fast and silently. I crashed behind them, alarming meat in all directions. Another wordless cue and the men spread in a choreographed sprint. Red dust flew like psychedelic tracers from their sandals and shimmered in the broiling sun. Well off pace, I finally caught them. They had surrounded a small primate called a bush baby at the top of a tree. After a volley of missed shots, one hunter drew his bow, relaxed his shoulders and released. Bull's-eye. Straight through the chest. Skewered by the arrow, the bush baby struggled to escape across the top of the tree. One hunter found a long branch, and another fashioned a bark noose at its end. They snared the animal and pulled it toward the ground. The prey was held against a bush and shot again through the chest. In that fatal moment the bush baby grabbed the arrow shaft with its delicate hands. We hiked back to the riverbed. The hunters gathered leaves and sticks for a fire. They placed the unplucked bird and the unskinned bush baby on the flames. The primate was placed face up, arms spread, head thrown back. Its childlike eyes stared at me. Fur and feathers sent up thick white smoke. The Hadza pulled apart the animals with their hands and ate the cooked parts, draping the rest on the fire until medium-rare. They ate everything-feet, tail, skin, heads, innards.

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