The Unsinkable Mr. Brown

    Anybody who's been fortunate enough to visit Imire will tell you that one of the most unforgettable characters there is the elephant handler Mr. Brown.  Even if he weren't the character he is, he'd be really interesting.  Virtually all the people at Imire are from Zimbabwe's Shona culture.  Imire is smack in the middle of what used to be called Mashonaland, the part of Zimbabwe that has always been predominantly Shona.
    The "other" major culture in Zimbabwe is called Ndebele.  The homeland of Ndebeles (pronounce "en-duh-belly") is further south.  Hailing from Bulawayo, in Ndebeleland, is our own Mr. Brown, so called because his real name is unpronounceable for Shona and English speakers alike.  Shona and Ndebele people used to be enemies, but all that is behind them now.
    The first thing one notices about Mr. Brown is that he is a TERRIBLE liar.  He NEVER tells the truth if a plausible (or sometimes, not so plausible) lie is handy.  You know he's lying.  He knows you know he's lying.  You know he knows you know he's lying.  Et Cetera.  It's all in good fun.  I remember the first time I encountered Mr. Brown's lying was years ago when he and I were riding one of the elephants.  I was complaining about my being so old, and he announced--probably as an instance of one-up-manship--that he was 74 years old.  I believed him for about 15 seconds and then realized the joke was on me.
    The Ndebele language is a CLICK language, and Mr. Brown is more than willing to demonstrate that for you.  There are at least two different clicks--one from the front part of the mouth and one from the rear--that give the language many more ways of expression.  Even in the written language, they are symbolized by an exlamation point and another distinct symbol.  Here is the wonderful Miriam Makeba singing a song in click language.
    But the important thing about Mr. Brown is that he is a wonderfully warm guy who is genuinely friendly and caring and who has so much to share with all of us.  This trip I was lucky enough to meet his daughter Musa, who is as demonstrably embarrassed by her Dad as any teenager anywhere.