Branding day

It's always a bit of an adventure when my host dad approaches me on a Sunday afternoon. It typically means we're about to talk Monday-morning cattle ops. This past Sunday, that was the case.

"We have to burn them tomorrow," he said.
"Oh, like brand them?"
"Yebo."

Babe showed me where the brands go. On the back left thigh is our dip tank number, 401. On the left shoulder is the oval with four evenly spaced lines poking out -- the Swazi shield. They use both so that if a cow is stolen and taken into South Africa (or Mozambique, I suppose), they know it's a Swazi cow. Then they know it came from our dip tank, and I think there are records that Babe would be able to use to claim a cow as his own.

Babe and my host brother rounded up the cows and counted out the number that needed branding. They brand each year, but this was the first year the farmers were handling it on their own. Government vets helped the previous two times. The count yielded 55 cows with hides that required the iron touch.

I asked Babe what time we'd need to leave in the morning.

"Four, unless there is no moon. If there is no moon, the cows can't see, and they won't go. Then we would wait."
I looked up at the overcast sky and decided to set my alarm for 4:15.

I heard Babe's pickup start after I hit snooze the second time. I dragged myself up and into my clothes. We loaded the firewood for branding, and Babe sent me out to wait for the cows to leave the kraal. He had his truck, and I, foolishly, decided not to bother with a headlamp.

It had been humid when I awoke, but the morning was growing colder as we stumbled through the bush. Babe kept behind us, headlights on the animals, as I tried to avoid stepping off into an unexpected creek bed.

"Be careful! You will break your legs!" he yelled out the window.

I strained my eyes to make sure no cows were wandering off, but it was as dark as I've seen it here. No town lights permeate this route, from the rural homestead to the even more rural cow-dipping channel.

I stumbled repeatedly, scraping my bare shins against the thorn bushes.

We arrived without my noticing. Babe told me to be careful of the rocks to my right, and I realized the cattle were pressed against the wooden fence near the dip area. Two fires were going nearby -- a big one for the branding and a small one to warm the children who had come to have their goats counted by the government vets.

We stood, waiting silently, while Babe went to go pick up a man to help us. It was clear that I wasn't up to whatever challenges branding might bring.

An hour passed. At about 6:30, the sky lurched into gray light. The chill remained.

We couldn't see anything happening inside the kraal where the men were branding. I could hear an urgent moo every now and again, but no chaos broke out. At about 8 a.m., it was our turn to shuffle in. The cows, sensing what was going on, took the opportunity to make a mad dash. Hundreds of cows were clumped behind us, and my brother Senzo had to bang his way through the crowds, picking out Babe's bunch.

The excitement started after we hustled the cows into the kraal. Branding required four to six men per cow (and one woman). The first man tried to loop a rope over either the thorns or the back legs. Once he caught one side and wrestled the cow down, he and others tied the head to the back legs, tied up the other legs and placed another rope around the cow's midsection. Someone had to hold each of these -- head, two sets of legs, belly. Once they had the cow in place, left side up, they yelled: "inombolo!" (number!) and then "lihawu!" (shield!). The men with the 6-foot branding irons would haul them over from the fire -- on the other side of the kraal fence, for safety -- and press the flesh. The cows would jerk and wail while clouds of smoke rose from their bodies. The smell, at first nauseating, reminded me of a hair salon.

After each brand was finished, a woman with a plastic dish would paint antiseptic goo on top. The cows would get up and go about their business, often unhappily.

At one point, a white cow with red spots and wicked-looking horns charged up after his branding, furious, kicking at people and butting at other cows. I was daydreaming in the kraal entryway at this point.

"HIT HIM! HIT HIM HARD!" Babe yelled at me from across the kraal.
"What?! Which one?" I flung my cow-whacking stick at every nearby animal.
Senzo bolted over and started in on the cow, driving him and the others away across the enclosure.
"Hit him hard next time," Babe said. "Don't try to be friends with him."

I hadn't witnessed the precursor to this moment, but Senzo later told me the cow wanted to kill me.
"If you had black skin like me, he would have killed you. But you are white. He thought you were an animal. He was confused."

The process took nearly three hours. I wasn't doing any of the hard work, of course, just making sure no cows entered or left the pen. Once Babe had burned his 55th cow, we were ready to drive them home. He stuck around to help the men who helped him. I, satisfied with my first (only?) cattle-branding experience, went off in search of warmer clothes and a liter of coffee.