Minimum 2 page critical reflections on the articles, exploring what you have learned and how your perceptions and ideas have changed after the reading. Some possible questions to address:
What are the key concepts of the reading? What evidence or specific cases does the author present to explore these concepts? What does the reading make you think about? What are you having trouble understanding? What would you like to discuss further?
Shakespeare in the Bush
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Published on Natural History Magazine (http://www.naturalhistorymag.com)
Shakespeare in the Bush
Just before I left Oxford for the Tiv in West Africa, conversation turned to the season at Stratford.
“You Americans,” said a friend, “often have difficulty with Shakespeare. He was, after all, a very
English poet, and one can easily misinterpret the universal by misunderstanding the particular.”
I protested that human nature is pretty much the same the whole world over; at least the general
plot and motivation of the greater tragedies would always be clear—everywhere—although some
details of custom might have to be explained and difficulties of translation might produce other
slight changes. To end an argument we could not conclude, my friend gave me a copy of Hamlet
to study in the African bush: it would, he hoped, lift my mind above its primitive surroundings, and
possibly I might, by prolonged meditation, achieve the grace of correct interpretation.
It was my second field trip to that African tribe, and I thought myself ready to live in one of its
remote sections—an area difficult to cross even on foot. I eventually settled on the hillock of a
very knowledgeable old man, the head of a homestead of some hundred and forty people, all of
whom were either his close relatives or their wives and children. Like the other elders of the
vicinity, the old man spent most of his time performing ceremonies seldom seen these days in
the more accessible parts of the tribe. I was delighted. Soon there would be three months of
enforced isolation and leisure, between the harvest that takes place just before the rising of the
swamps and the clearing of new farms when the water goes down. Then, I thought, they would
have even more time to perform ceremonies and explain them to me.
I was quite mistaken. Most of the ceremonies demanded the presence of elders from several
homesteads. As the swamps rose, the old men found it too difficult to walk from one homestead
to the next, and the ceremonies gradually ceased. As the swamps rose even higher, all activities
but one came to an end. The women brewed beer from maize and millet. Men, women, and
children sat on their hillocks and drank it.
People began to drink at dawn. By midmorning the whole homestead was singing, dancing, and
drumming. When it rained, people had to sit inside their huts: there they drank and sang or they
drank and told stories. In any case, by noon or before, I either had to join the party or retire to my
own hut and my books. “One does not discuss serious matters when there is beer. Come, drink
with us.” Since I lacked their capacity for the thick native beer, I spent more and more time with
Hamlet. Before the end of the second month, grace descended on me. I was quite sure that
Hamlet had only one possible interpretation, and that one universally obvious.
Early every morning, in the hope of having some serious talk before the beer party, I used to call
on the old man at his reception hut—a circle of posts supporting a thatched roof above a low
mud wall to keep out wind and rain. One day I crawled through the low doorway and found most
of the men of the homestead sitting huddled in their ragged cloths on stools, low plank beds, and
reclining chairs, warming themselves against the chill of the rain around a smoky fire. In the
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center were three pots of beer. The party had started.
The old man greeted me cordially. “Sit down and drink.” I accepted a large calabash full of beer,
poured some into a small drinking gourd, and tossed it down. Then I poured some more into the
same gourd for the man second in seniority to my host before I handed my calabash over to a
young man for further distribution. Important people shouldn’t ladle beer themselves.
“It is better like this,” the old man said, looking at me approvingly and plucking at the thatch that
had caught in my hair. “You should sit and drink with us more often. Your servants tell me that
when you are not with us, you sit inside your hut looking at a paper.”
The old man was acquainted with four kinds of “papers”: tax receipts, bride price receipts, court
fee receipts, and letters. The messenger who brought him letters from the chief used them
mainly as a badge of office, for he always knew what was in them and told the old man. Personal
letters for the few who had relatives in the government or mission stations were kept until
someone went to a large market where there was a letter writer and reader. Since my arrival,
letters were brought to me to be read. A few men also brought me bride price receipts, privately,
with requests to change the figures to a higher sum. I found moral arguments were of no avail,
since in-laws are fair game, and the technical hazards of forgery difficult to explain to an illiterate
people. I did not wish them to think me silly enough to look at any such papers for days on end,
and I hastily explained that my “paper” was one of the “things of long ago” of my country.
“Ah,” said the old man. “Tell us.” I protested that I was not a storyteller. Storytelling is a skilled art
among them; their standards are high, and the audiences critical—and vocal in their criticism. I
protested in vain. This morning they wanted to hear a story while they drank. They threatened to
tell me no more stories until I told them one of mine. Finally, the old man promised that no one
would criticize my style, “for we know you are struggling with our language.” “But,” put in one of
the elders, “you must explain what we do not understand, as we do when we tell you our stories.”
Realizing that here was my chance to prove Hamlet universally intelligible, I agreed.
The old man handed me some more beer to help me on with my storytelling. Men filled their long
wooden pipes and knocked coals from the fire to place in the pipe bowls; then, puffing
contentedly, they sat back to listen. I began in the proper style, “Not yesterday, not yesterday, but
long ago, a thing occurred. One night three men were keeping watch outside the homestead of
the great chief, when suddenly they saw the former chief approach them.”
“Why was he no longer their chief?”
“He was dead,” I explained. “That is why they were troubled and afraid when they saw him.”
“Impossible,” began one of the elders, handing his pipe on to his neighbor, who interrupted, “Of
course it wasn’t the dead chief. It was an omen sent by a witch. Go on.”
[pagebreak]
Slightly shaken, I continued. “One of these three was a man who knew things”—the closest
translation for scholar, but unfortunately it also meant witch. The second elder looked
triumphantly at the first. “So he spoke to the dead chief saying, ‘Tell us what we must do so you
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may rest in your grave,’ but the dead chief did not answer. He vanished, and they could see him
no more. Then the man who knew things—his name was Horatio—said this event was the affair
of the dead chief’s son, Hamlet.”
There was a general shaking of heads round the circle. “Had the dead chief no living brothers?
Or was this son the chief?”
“No,” I replied. “That is, he had one living brother who became the chief when the elder brother
died.”
The old men muttered: such omens were matters for chiefs and elders, not for youngsters; no
good could come of going behind a chief’s back; clearly Horatio was not a man who knew things.
“Yes, he was,” I insisted, shooing a chicken away from my beer. “In our country the son is next to
the father. The dead chief’s younger brother had become the great chief. He had also married his
elder brother’s widow only about a month after the funeral.”
“He did well,” the old man beamed and announced to the others, “I told you that if we knew more
about Europeans, we would find they really were very like us. In our country also,” he added to
me, “the younger brother marries the elder brother’s widow and becomes the father of his
children. Now, if your uncle, who married your widowed mother, is your father’s full brother, then
he will be a real father to you. Did Hamlet’s father and uncle have one mother?”
His question barely penetrated my mind; I was too upset and thrown too far off-balance by
having one of the most important elements of Hamlet knocked straight out of the picture. Rather
uncertainly I said that I thought they had the same mother, but I wasn’t sure—the story didn’t say.
The old man told me severely that these genealogical details made all the difference and that
when I got home I must ask the elders about it. He shouted out the door to one of his younger
wives to bring his goatskin bag.
Determined to save what I could of the mother motif, I took a deep breath and began again. “The
son Hamlet was very sad because his mother had married again so quickly. There was no need
for her to do so, and it is our custom for a widow not to go to her next husband until she has
mourned for two years.”
“Two years is too long,” objected the wife, who had appeared with the old man’s battered
goatskin bag. “Who will hoe your farms for you while you have no husband?”
“Hamlet,” I retorted, without thinking, “was old enough to hoe his mother’s farms himself. There
was no need for her to remarry.” No one looked convinced. I gave up. “His mother and the great
chief told Hamlet not to be sad, for the great chief himself would be a father to Hamlet.
Furthermore, Hamlet would be the next chief: therefore he must stay to learn the things of a
chief. Hamlet agreed to remain, and all the rest went off to drink beer.”
While I paused, perplexed at how to render Hamlet’s disgusted soliloquy to an audience
convinced that Claudius and Gertrude had behaved in the best possible manner, one of the
younger men asked me who had married the other wives of the dead chief.
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“He had no other wives,” I told him.
“But a chief must have many wives! How else can he brew beer and prepare food for all his
guests?”
I said firmly that in our country even chiefs had only one wife, that they had servants to do their
work, and that they paid them from tax money.
It was better, they returned, for a chief to have many wives and sons who would help him hoe his
farms and feed his people; then everyone loved the chief who gave much and took nothing—
taxes were a bad thing.
I agreed with the last comment, but for the rest fell back on their favorite way of fobbing off my
questions: “That is the way it is done, so that is how we do it.”
I decided to skip the soliloquy. Even if Claudius was here thought quite right to marry his
brother’s widow, there remained the poison motif, and I knew they would disapprove of fratricide.
More hopefully I resumed, “That night Hamlet kept watch with the three who had seen his dead
father. The dead chief again appeared, and although the others were afraid, Hamlet followed his
dead father off to one side. When they were alone, Hamlet’s dead father spoke.”
“Omens can’t talk!” The old man was emphatic.
“Hamlet’s dead father wasn’t an omen. Seeing him might have been an omen, but he was not.”
My audience looked as confused as I sounded. “It was Hamlet’s dead father. It was a thing we
call a ‘ghost.’” I had to use the English word, for unlike many of the neighboring tribes, these
people didn’t believe in the survival after death of any individuating part of the personality.
“What is a ‘ghost?’ An omen?”
“No, a ‘ghost’ is someone who is dead but who walks around and can talk, and people can hear
him and see him but not touch him.”
They objected. “One can touch zombis.”
“No, no! It was not a dead body the witches had animated to sacrifice and eat. No one else made
Hamlet’s dead father walk. He did it himself.”
“Dead men can’t walk,” protested my audience as one man.
I was quite willing to compromise.
“A ‘ghost’ is the dead man’s shadow.”
But again they objected. “Dead men cast no shadows.”
“They do in my country,” I snapped.
[pagebreak]
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The old man quelled the babble of disbelief that arose immediately and told me with that
insincere, but courteous, agreement one extends to the fancies of the young, ignorant, and
superstitious, “No doubt in your country the dead can also walk without being zombis.” From the
depths of his bag he produced a withered fragment of kola nut, bit off one end to show it wasn’t
poisoned, and handed me the rest as a peace offering.
“Anyhow,” I resumed, “Hamlet’s dead father said that his own brother, the one who became chief,
had poisoned him. He wanted Hamlet to avenge him. Hamlet believed this in his heart, for he did
not like his father’s brother.” I took another swallow of beer. “In the country of the great chief,
living in the same homestead, for it was a very large one, was an important elder who was often
with the chief to advise and help him. His name was Polonius. Hamlet was courting his daughter,
but her father and her brother . . . [I cast hastily about for some tribal analogy] warned her not to
let Hamlet visit her when she was alone on her farm, for he would be a great chief and so could
not marry her.”
“Why not?” asked the wife, who had settled down on the edge of the old man’s chair. He frowned
at her for asking stupid questions and growled, “They lived in the same homestead.”
“That was not the reason,” I informed them. “Polonius was a stranger who lived in the homestead
because he helped the chief, not because he was a relative.”
“Then why couldn’t Hamlet marry her?”
“He could have,” I explained, “but Polonius didn’t think he would. After all, Hamlet was a man of
great importance who ought to marry a chief’s daughter, for in his country a man could have only
one wife. Polonius was afraid that if Hamlet made love to his daughter, then no one else would
give a high price for her.”
“That might be true,” remarked one of the shrewder elders, “but a chief’s son would give his
mistress’s father enough presents and patronage to more than make up the difference. Polonius
sounds like a fool to me.”
“Many people think he was,” I agreed. “Meanwhile Polonius sent his son Laertes off to Paris to
learn the things of that country, for it was the homestead of a very great chief indeed. Because
he was afraid that Laertes might waste a lot of money on beer and women and gambling, or get
into trouble by fighting, he sent one of his servants to Paris secretly, to spy out what Laertes was
doing. One day Hamlet came upon Polonius’s daughter Ophelia. He behaved so oddly he
frightened her. Indeed”—I was fumbling for words to express the dubious quality of Hamlet’s
madness—“the chief and many others had also noticed that when Hamlet talked one could
understand the words but not what they meant. Many people thought that he had become mad.”
My audience suddenly became much more attentive. “The great chief wanted to know what was
wrong with Hamlet, so he sent for two of Hamlet’s age mates [school friends would have taken a
long explanation] to talk to Hamlet and find out what troubled his heart. Hamlet, seeing that they
had been bribed by the chief to betray him, told them nothing. Polonius, however, insisted that
Hamlet was mad because he had been forbidden to see Ophelia, whom he loved.”
“Why,” inquired a bewildered voice, “should anyone bewitch Hamlet on that account?”
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“Bewitch him?”
“Yes, only witchcraft can make anyone mad, unless, of course, one sees the beings that lurk in
the forest.”
I stopped being a storyteller and took out my notebook and demanded to be told more about
these two causes of madness. Even while they spoke and I jotted notes, I tried to calculate the
effect of this new factor on the plot. Hamlet had not been exposed to the beings that lurk in the
forests. Only his relatives in the male line could bewitch him. Barring relatives not mentioned by
Shakespeare, it had to be Claudius who was attempting to harm him. And, of course, it was.
For the moment I staved off questions by saying that the great chief also refused to believe that
Hamlet was mad for the love of Ophelia and nothing else. “He was sure that something much
more important was troubling Hamlet’s heart.”
“Now Hamlet’s age mates,” I continued, “had brought with them a famous storyteller. Hamlet
decided to have this man tell the chief and all his homestead a story about a man who had
poisoned his brother because he desired his brother’s wife and wished to be chief himself.
Hamlet was sure the great chief could not hear the story without making a sign if he was indeed
guilty, and then he would discover whether his dead father had told him the truth.”
The old man interrupted, with deep cunning, “Why should a father lie to his son?” he asked.
I hedged: “Hamlet wasn’t sure that it really was his dead father.” It was impossible to say
anything, in that language, about devil-inspired visions.
“You mean,” he said, “it actually was an omen, and he knew witches sometimes send false ones.
Hamlet was a fool not to go to one skilled in reading omens and divining the truth in the first
place. A man-who-sees-the-truth could have told him how his father died, if he really had been
poisoned, and if there was witchcraft in it; then Hamlet could have called the elders to settle the
matter.”
The shrewd elder ventured to disagree. “Because his father’s brother was a great chief, onewho-sees-the-truth
might therefore have been afraid to tell it. I think it was for that reason that a
friend of Hamlet’s father—a witch and an elder—sent an omen so his friend’s son would know.
Was the omen true?”
“Yes,” I said, abandoning ghosts and the devil; a witch-sent omen it would have to be. “It was
true, for when the storyteller was telling his tale before all the homestead, the great chief rose in
fear. Afraid that Hamlet knew his secret he planned to have him killed.”
The stage set of the next bit presented some difficulties of translation. I began cautiously. “The
great chief told Hamlet’s mother to find out from her son what he knew. But because a woman’s
children are always first in her heart, he had the important elder Polonius hide behind a cloth that
hung against the wall of Hamlet’s mother’s sleeping hut. Hamlet started to scold his mother for
what she had done.”
There was a shocked murmur from everyone. A man should never scold his mother.
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“She called out in fear, and Polonius moved behind the cloth. Shouting, ‘A rat!’ Hamlet took his
machete and slashed through the cloth.” I paused for dramatic effect. “He had killed Polonius.”
[pagebreak]
The old men looked at each other in supreme disgust. “That Polonius truly was a fool and a man
who knew nothing! What child would not know enough to shout, ‘It’s me!’” With a pang, I
remembered that these people are ardent hunters, always armed with bow, arrow, and machete;
at the first rustle in the grass an arrow is aimed and ready, and the hunter shouts “Game!” If no
human voice answers immediately, the arrow speeds on its way. Like a good hunter, Hamlet had
shouted, “A rat!”
I rushed in to save Polonius’s reputation. “Polonius did speak. Hamlet heard him. But he thought
it was the chief and wished to kill him to avenge his father. He had meant to kill him earlier that
evening….” I broke down, unable to describe to these pagans, who had no belief in individual
afterlife, the difference between dying at one’s prayers and dying “unhousell’d, disappointed,
unaneled.”
This time I had shocked my audience seriously. “For a man to raise his hand against his father’s
brother and the one who has become his father—that is a terrible thing. The elders ought to let
such a man be bewitched.”
I nibbled at my kola nut in some perplexity, then pointed out that after all the man had killed
Hamlet’s father.
“No,” pronounced the old man, speaking less to me than to the young men sitting behind the
elders. “If your father’s brother has killed your father, you must appeal to your father’s age mates:
they may avenge him. No man may use violence against his senior relatives.” Another thought
struck him. “But if his father’s brother had indeed been wicked enough to bewitch Hamlet and
make him mad that would be a good story indeed, for it would be his fault that Hamlet, being
mad, no longer had any sense and thus was ready to kill his father’s brother.”
There was a murmur of applause. Hamlet was again a good story to them, but it no longer
seemed quite the same story to me. As I thought over the coming complications of plot and
motive, I lost courage and decided to skim over dangerous ground quickly.
“The great chief,” I went on, “was not sorry that Hamlet had killed Polonius. It gave him a reason
to send Hamlet away, with his two treacherous age mates, with letters to a chief of a far country,
saying that Hamlet should be killed. But Hamlet changed the writing on their papers, so that the
chief killed his age mates instead.” I encountered a reproachful glare from one of the men whom
I had told undetectable forgery was not merely immoral but beyond human skill. I looked the
other way.
“Before Hamlet could return, Laertes came back for his father’s funeral. The great chief told him
Hamlet had killed Polonius. Laertes swore to kill Hamlet because of this, and because his sister
Ophelia, hearing her father had been killed by the man she loved, went mad and drowned in the
river.”
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“Have you already forgotten what we told you?” The old man was reproachful. “One cannot take
vengeance on a madman; Hamlet killed Polonius in his madness. As for the girl, she not only
went mad, she was drowned. Only witches can make people drown. Water itself can’t hurt
anything. It is merely something one drinks and bathes in.”
I began to get cross. “If you don’t like the story, I’ll stop.”
The old man made soothing noises and himself poured me some more beer. “You tell the story
well, and we are listening. But it is clear that the elders of your country have never told you what
the story really means. No, don’t interrupt! We believe you when you say your marriage customs
are different, or your clothes and weapons. But people are the same everywhere; therefore, there
are always witches and it is we, the elders, who know how witches work. We told you it was the
great chief who wished to kill Hamlet, and now your own words have proved us right. Who were
Ophelia’s male relatives?”
“There were only her father and her brother.” Hamlet was clearly out of my hands.
“There must have been many more; this also you must ask of your elders when you get back to
your country. From what you tell us, since Polonius was dead, it must have been Laertes who
killed Ophelia, although I do not see the reason for it.”
We had emptied one pot of beer, and the old men argued the point with slightly tipsy interest.
Finally one of them demanded of me, “What did the servant of Polonius say on his return?”
With difficulty I recollected Reynaldo and his mission. “I don’t think he did return before Polonius
was killed.”
“Listen,” said the elder, “and I will tell you how it was and how your story will go, then you may tell
me if I am right. Polonius knew his son would get into trouble, and so he did. He had many fines
to pay for fighting, and debts from gambling. But he had only two ways of getting money quickly.
One was to marry off his sister at once, but it is difficult to find a man who will marry a woman
desired by the son of a chief. For if the chief’s heir commits adultery with your wife, what can you
do? Only a fool calls a case against a man who will someday be his judge. Therefore Laertes
had to take the second way: he killed his sister by witchcraft, drowning her so he could secretly
sell her body to the witches.”
I raised an objection. “They found her body and buried it. Indeed Laertes jumped into the grave
to see his sister once more—so, you see, the body was truly there. Hamlet, who had just come
back, jumped in after him.”
“What did I tell you?” The elder appealed to the others. “Laertes was up to no good with his
sister’s body. Hamlet prevented him, because the chief’s heir, like a chief, does not wish any
other man to grow rich and powerful. Laertes would be angry, because he would have killed his
sister without benefit to himself. In our country he would try to kill Hamlet for that reason. Is this
not what happened?”
“More or less,” I admitted. “When the great chief found Hamlet was still alive, he encouraged
Laertes to try to kill Hamlet and arranged a fight with machetes between them. In the fight both
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the young men were wounded to death. Hamlet’s mother drank the poisoned beer that the chief
meant for Hamlet in case he won the fight. When he saw his mother die of poison, Hamlet, dying,
managed to kill his father’s brother with his machete.”
“You see, I was right!” exclaimed the elder.
“That was a very good story,” added the old man, “and you told it with very few mistakes.” There
was just one more error, at the very end. The poison Hamlet’s mother drank was obviously
meant for the survivor of the fight, whichever it was. If Laertes had won, the great chief would
have poisoned him, for no one would know that he arranged Hamlet’s death. Then, too, he need
not fear Laertes’ witchcraft; it takes a strong heart to kill one’s only sister by witchcraft.
“Sometime,” concluded the old man, gathering his ragged toga about him, “you must tell us some
more stories of your country. We, who are elders, will instruct you in their true meaning, so that
when you return to your own land your elders will see that you have not been sitting in the bush,
but among those who know things and who have taught you wisdom.”
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