It looks like a paradise, but it is in fact the most treacherous desert in the world. The Kalahari. After the depressingly short rainy season, there are many water holes, and even rivers- long, winding rivers that cut scars through the land. Unfortunately, though, as is a well-known fact, all good things must come to an end, whether that end be sooner or later (sooner, in this case). After a few weeks of luxury, the water sinks away into the deep Kalahari sand; the water holes dry up, and the rivers stop flowing. The previously easily accessible water is soon replaced by easily accessible grass, faded to a beautiful blond color that offers excellent grazing for the animals that are unfortunate enough to live there. However, despite the niceties of deliciously toned grass within a moment's reach, most of the animals move away, leaving the beautiful grass uneaten; for the next nine months, there will be no water to drink in the Kalahari.
Humans avoid the Kalahari like the plague, because man must have water to live (another well-known, and (for the most part) globally acknowledged fact).
Consequently, the beautiful landscapes are devoid of people…
Which is, in truth, not true at all.
The Kalahari, in all of its deadly vastness, is devoid of all people barring one little, insignificant group that lie, unawares to the rest of the civilized world, in the very heart of this desert.
They are the little people of the Kalahari…
Pretty, dainty, small and graceful; they are the Bushmen.
These Bushmen must be the most contented people in all the world. They have no crime, no punishment, no violence, no laws, no police, judges, rulers, or bosses- anarchists in their own right, except for the fact that they cannot dislike government, as they've never been subject to it.
They believe that the gods in which they base their faith put only good and useful things on the Earth for them to use. In this closed off world of theirs, nothing is bad or evil. (Even a poisonous snake is not bad- you just have to keep away from the sharp end.)
They live in the vastness of the Kalahari in small familial groups, where everyone knows everyone else and their mother, as well as everything they may or may not have done that day- a bit like Facebook in the lack of privacy and near constant updates (not that there's all that much to update about when you live in the middle of a desert).
A single family of Bushmen might meet up with another family once in a few years, but for the most part they live in complete isolation, quite unaware that there are other people in the world. In the deepest parts of the Kalahari, there are Bushmen that have never seen or heard of civilized man- never driven in or even laid eyes on an automobile of any sort, nor watched high definition football games on a plasma TV while drinking a can of condensed energy.
Occasionally they will hear a thundering sound in the sky, but as they don't know about civilization, or the fact that civilization can fly, they aren't, in fact, aware that it is a jet. Instead they assume that the gods have eaten too much again, and their tummies are rumbling up there. Sometimes they can even see evidence of the Gods' flatulence flying through the sky.
They are a very gentle people. They'll never punish a child or speak harshly to it, so of course their kids are very well behaved. Their games are cute and inventive; simply dancing around in a circle with a single foot placed in the crook of another's leg can offer hours of entertainment, unlike our youth whom require earsplitting music or a flashing screen (like the very one you are liking at right now, for instance)).
Despite all this though, the one characteristic which really makes the Bushmen different from all the other races on Earth is the fact that they have no sense of ownership at all. Where they live there really is nothing you can own. Only trees, and grass, and animals. In fact, these Bushmen have never seen a stone or a rock in their lives; the hardest things they know are wood and bone. They live in a gentle world, where nothing is as hard as rock or steel or concrete.
Rather than surrounded by technology, they live a quiet life in the middle of a desert with nothing more than a few sparse patches of trees and miles upon miles of dirt stretching out on either side- no winding city streets or buildings that scrape the clouds even within reach. Or… so they think.
As the bushmen have no means of transportation other than their own two feet, and would have no need to walk a long ways from their home anyway, they would not know that only 600 miles to the south there's a vast city.
Enter civilized man.
Civilized man refused to adapt himself to his environment, unlike the Bushmen of the Kalahari who live in harmony with it. Instead he adapted his environment to suit him. So he built cities; roads, vehicles, machinery, and he put up power lines to run these labor saving devices. But somehow he didn't know when to stop. The more he improved his surroundings to make his life easier, the more complicated it became. So now his children are sentenced to 10 to 15 years of school just to learn how to survive in this complex and hazardous habitat they were born into. And civilized man who refused to adapt himself to his natural surroundings now finds that he has to adapt and readapt himself every day and every hour of the day to his self created environment.
For instance: if the day is called Monday, and the number seven three zero comes up, you have to dis-adapt yourself from your domestic surroundings, and readapt yourself to an entirely different environment.
Francis backed quickly out of his drive and sped off down the street, not bothering to watch for other cars, as he should, and accidentally cutting off some poor soul that was trying to pull into the same street he was currently occupying. He simply swerved into the opposite lane and continued on, humming happily to himself. He was never one to be deterred.
Eight-double-zero means that everyone has to look busy.
Arthur worked his way to his desk, conveniently situated smack-dab in the middle of the usual morning hustle and bustle that was the beginning of his day at the small publishing firm. As soon as he [finally] made it to his desk, the phone rang. He reached over the multitudes of papers and snatched it, placing it over his ear.
"Hullo? Ah, yes sir, I-" he listened to his boss, Francis, on the other end of the line before replying.
"Well, yes, I have a very good story here about handicapped children, actually-"
He grimaced as his boss shouted into the receiver, instinctively pulling the phone a few feet back. After a few moments of continued shouting had passed he placed it gingerly back against his ear, speaking quickly so as to stop the unnecessary flow of horribly French-sounding English.
"… Yes, look I'm sor-" he waited again, growing more and more impatient. "Yes, well I understand that, but-" the man on the other line continued to speak. After a while he couldn't help but huff angrily and rub at his temples. If only his boss wasn't so terribly, horrifically French, and if only he didn't absolutely detest the French so very, very much, he was absolutely positive that he wouldn't be forced to drop his gentlemanly behavior and lose his temper like he so often did. But he was, and he did, and so he felt absolutely no guilt for yelling back through the phone. "For the love of the blooming Queen. Fine, yes, I'm so very, very sorry. You have no bleeding idea just how sorry I am. From now on I'll only print sweetness and light, even if it bores the fucking trousers off them." And he hung up the phone.
Ten three zero means that you can stop looking busy for 10 to 15 minutes.
Francis sat wondering when his usual morning cup of tea would arrive, courtesy of his receptionist. He found his thoughts turning to her rather than the tea, and decided that she wasn't all that bad in the looks department, if he did say so himself (which he did). In fact… she might just be worth a shot. He quickly scribbled his name and number on a sheet of paper, finishing the last loopy 'y" right as she entered. She walked over, a smile plastered on her face, and handed him the saucer. When their hands brushed he slipped the paper slyly into her palm. She looked down at her hand and then back up at him, surprise evident on her face. He brought the teacup to his lips, winked at her over the rim, and took a sip. He stared at her retreating back triumphantly… and gaped when she casually threw the paper (and his plans for the night) in the trash.
And then you have to look busy again.
"Hi Arthur!"
"Hullo Ludwig."
"Do you think you can use this?" Ludwig handed him a couple sheets of paper, which he skimmed through swiftly. "It's about the shortage of teachers in Botswana."
He glanced up. "Good story?"
"Ja. They'll take just about anybody that can read and write."
Arthur flipped through them once more before handing them back regretfully. "I don't know. I got bawled out for writing a story on mugging only a few weeks ago. He says my page should "only have sweetness and light", like Liberace and Jackie Onassis." Arthur made a face of disgust. "Bloody load of bollocks is what it is. I'm sorry." He looked at Ludwig apologetically before turning back to his computer.
And so your day is chopped up into little pieces, and in each segment of time you have to adapt to a new set of circumstances. No wonder some people go off the rails a bit.
After fruitlessly searching the little diner for an empty seat, Arthur made his way over to a table only half-occupied by a stout blond woman.
"May I share a table?" he asked, already setting his tray down. The woman (whom, he noted, didn't look completely… there) moved her purse aside so as to allow him some room. After looking around for a moment, she turned to him, eyes wide in a creepy sort of way.
"Does the noise in my head bother you?" she questioned, looking for all the world like she was actually worried about his discomfort.
"Ehmmm… no." He replied at length, slowly turning his head back to face his orange juice, face blank.
Arthur walked towards Ludwig resolutely, allowing himself no room for hesitation. When he was close enough, he began speaking.
"Hey Ludwig, do you still have that story about the teacher shortage in Botswana?"
"Ja, I do. Are you going to use it?"
"No." he replied, taking the papers once more. "But perhaps… perhaps they can use me."
Disclaimer; ForeverTheHero doesn't own Hetalia Axis Powers or The God's Must Be Crazy. (What, did you expect something witty?)
Aha! Chapter; complete! So this is the prologue to a parody of The God's Must Be Crazy, an absolutely hilarious movie. I was watching it a few weeks ago, and was immediately reminded of Arthur and Alfred and their oh so funny shenanigans. So… yeah, I decided to write this. It will get funnier as it goes (as that is the way the movie is) so I can't really help that. Thus the reason this is a prologue. Also, the very beginning is JUST like the movie with a few minor additions on my part. I am not stealing this; I simply could find no way to get around it, as the movie starts out with a narrator who does the part a writer would normally do. Anywho, here's the beginning. If you would like me to continue, just leave a review or follow the story or summat along those lines. We'll see how this goes… If you see any mistakes, please tell me!
Also; if you haven't seen The God's Must Be Crazy, do! It is amazing.
Can you guys guess who Alfred is going to be? XDD