Losing my Religion
Clan of the Baboons
From a young age, my father would weave tales of evolution into our long road trips, whether we were rumbling along in the bakkie or the lorry, dust kicking up behind us as we headed out on distant journeys. He’d speak of it with such logical enthusiasm, his voice upbeat and steady, painting pictures of ancient creatures adapting over eons. “It all makes sense,” he’d say, his hands gripping the wheel firmly. But he wasn’t one to dismiss the other side entirely. He’d spend quiet hours poring over the Bible, trying to unravel what drew so many to its pages. “It’s Greek, you see,” he’d explain to me. “Their way of writing was poetic, metaphorical—not meant to be taken word for word.” I’d nod along, absorbing it all, feeling like I was part of some grand intellectual adventure.
That foundation set the stage for one particularly memorable afternoon at my grandparents’ house. We were gathered around the lunch table, the air thick with the smell of German sausage and fresh bread, when a Bible puncher joined us. I’m sure it was the infamous Erlo Stegen, a nephew of my grandmother. He was the type who could turn any conversation into a sermon, and that day was no exception. With a mocking chuckle, he declared that some fools out there actually believed in evolution, as if it were the punchline to a bad joke.
I couldn’t let that slide. At less than ten years old, fueled by my dad’s lessons and invoking my inner Mastelek self, I piped up. “Actually, it is true,” I said, my voice probably a bit too earnest for the room. I was ready for a real discussion, maybe even a debate like the ones my dad and I had on those long drives. But before I could elaborate, the pastor leaned forward, his eyes narrowing with that smug certainty. “Do you believe your grandfather was a baboon?” he asked, crossing his arms as if he’d just checkmated me.
The table went quiet. I looked him straight in the eye and, without missing a beat, replied, “Yes. And me too. I’m a baboon.” His smirk vanished like smoke in the wind. For good measure, I added, “I scored 100% on my last Maths test. What were your marks?” It was my childish way of saying, “I’m right, you’re wrong—and here’s proof of my knowledge.” He stared at me, utterly lost for words, before mumbling something about praying for my soul. The conversation sputtered out after that, and many years later, well after my grandfather passed away my dad mentioned the awkward conversation with his dad about that baboon chirp. He sided with me on that one.
Looking back, that exchange captures how so many discussions on religion or politics unfold: charged, defensive, and rarely productive. Someone lobs a gotcha question, and it devolves from there. But vegetarianism? Oh, that’s a whole other beast—far worse than religion, in my experience. People get downright militant about meat, as if your plate choices are a personal affront. Those debates have left more dinners ruined than any talk of God or Darwin ever did.