- Leonora Ross
- Jul 19
- 3 min read
Years ago, I had the privilege of meeting and spending time with a San family from the Kalahari—a dream-come-true experience.
They were a small band: grandma, two men, two women and three children. Grandma did most of the talking. She was the storyteller with the experience and memories. The world of this little group wasn’t bound by land borders—they were driven by their ancestral calling. Depending on the season, they moved between Namibia, Botswana and South Africa, staying in some places for a few months at a time.
The game lodge where I was staying was situated on one of these ancestral routes, and they were granted permission to come and go. There was a minor financial benefit to them: in exchange for food and selling their crafts to guests, they participated in some cultural tourist activities. The ranger took us out in a Land Rover and we met the San family somewhere in the bush, where the men and the eldest boy of around ten, demonstrated their camouflage skills in the tawny, late winter veld (it was as if they’d literally disappeared into thin air). The young boys also showed their expertise in finding medicinal herbs.
The colours and sounds in Africa permeate one’s being. I sometimes wonder what the experience must be like for a first-time tourist. I was born and raised in Southern Africa; it will always be a part of me. But I will never tire of the soul-piercing beauty of it.
As we drove back to the lodge early evening, a purple band stretched out over the horizon, intensifying the green of the mopanie trees and table tops of the acacias, and underneath them, the deep terracotta earth glowed like embers beneath the surface. It’s magical when it starts cooling down and your senses tune into the enchantment of the nocturnal realm.
We gathered in the boma, and the moon and first stars were already luminous. The San family huddled together on straw mats. It had been a long day and not one of them showed any signs of discomfort or irritability. These people never speak in loud voices—they are as gentle in their demeanour as their souls.
The men quickly made a fire. With the flick of a stone, the spark set the grass alight and a few minutes later, we were gazing into the mesmerising flames while Grandma told her stories. In that intimate family circle, they seemed completely at peace with the universe. The children didn’t fuss. They didn’t complain about being hungry and tired. They asked nothing. Instead, they gave us the unforgettable gift of their presence.
As with most memorable encounters, I’ve often reflected on how truly amazing it was to have met traditional nomadic San. There aren’t many left in Southern Africa, and those who still practise the hunter-gatherer life, are fewer still. But as I grow older and become more aware of life’s fleetingness and the weight of self-imposed burdens, my reflections on that remarkable moment have begun to shift.
The little San family has become clearer to me. My mind lingers longer on a gaze, and the profundity of a few simple words now echoes with deeper resonance. I shift my perspective so that I become not the thoughtless spectator with my camera, eager to rush back and tell. I have become someone who listens with sincere and uninterrupted interest. I am not distracted by my own wants and needs in their presence. Instead, I’m catching the truths that lie between the lines and hold on to them.
Sometimes, on my mental visits, I stare into Grandma’s eyes, and though it’s impossible, try to imagine the enormity of a world without physical and mental boundaries.
What they gave that day was far greater than stories or skills; they gifted a glimpse into the stillness of a life unburdened by borders, noise, or want.
Leonora Ross is an artist and novelist from Western Canada. Her latest literary saga A Life in Frames explores the life of a Namibian photojournalist, Lejf Busher.
