The Doctrine of Presence. Benjamin Vance

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СКАЧАТЬ and our guide’s gory and heart rending tales of never-ending slaughter; not much more.

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      Two days and several briefings by local game officials and hard sells by travel agencies later, we picked up Fredo at the airport. It was immediately obvious he was very sick. I believe he had the flu, he claimed a simple cold. We drove directly to a hospital emergency where they quickly admitted him. He stayed four days.

      Yeah, he had a cold all right. He looked like death warmed over on the second day. He had tubes coming out of almost every orifice. When we finally transferred him to our hotel on the fifth day after his appearance in Kenya, he was still as pale as an Anglo and as weak as a kitten.

      Of course he assured us he would be fine in the hotel room with a telephone handy, so we reluctantly went about our daily business of picking up N’tolo and Michaele and interviewing potential guides and “travel agencies” about touring Amboseli and Tsavo National Parks. Michaele and N’tolo were helpful with the overall planning and search for a good Park Guide, but they were staying in a hostel about seven miles from our hotel. It took time and traffic frustration every day to pick them up, hunt down their daily recommendations in some out of the way slum or bar and “talk” about ability, experience, pay and overall real, feigned or outright reluctance to work in many cases.

      While it was necessary to leave Fredo alone in the hotel room I sensed we would regret it in some primitive way. It only took one day. Gimp and I arrived “home” the evening of his sixth day and found Fredo had a pretty maid, or nurse, waiting on him hand and foot. He greeted us cordially from his bed, which was piled high with pillows and strewn with magazines and a daily English-Language paper. He was sitting up, looked perkier and browner than the day before. He said, “Gentlemen, I would like you to meet my nurse, Aija. She came from the hospital to help me recover.” She smiled beautifully at Gimp, tentatively at me and sort of curtsied with her hands at her sides.

      Aija was a mostly smooth-skinned tribal girl, who looked to be about twenty six and had a frequent, gleaming smile that matched her very, very short, starched white uniform dress which was trimmed with about two inches of sheer white lace which concealed almost nothing. She spoke English and had two short lines of symmetrical keloid scarification on each cheek. It fit her well and added to her exotic charm, according to Fredo.

      Just to be consistent, I had hotel security check out “Nurse Betty”. They reported that she was a registered nurse and was actually thirty two; a perfect fit for a sixty year old Mexican; also according to Fredo. She was too up-beat and nosy for me, and Gimp wanted her out of the place promptly at 6:00 p.m. every evening so he could think straight. She and Fredo reluctantly complied. I suspected Gimp was getting a bit tired of the city, if not Aija. Frankly, I was getting tired of both. When I finally assumed Fredo was skating, I asked him if we could pay Aija and set her free. He inferred he would, if we could develop a plan to get the hell out of Nairobi. At that point I realized we were all a bit restless.

      Our two native bearers, as Fredo called Mr. Owusu and Mr. Okeke, were called out of semi-retirement where they had been for nearly ten days while being paid, and were assigned to secure additional transportation, permits, safari cards and necessary rations and equipment to tour Amboseli and/or Tsavo. They were to secure supplies for three weeks. They explained supportively, that we needed another vehicle for that much gear, so another was rented. Unstated, was the plan to add weapons, ammunition and sophisticated detection equipment to our stash once in the boonies. I suspected the two gentlemen suspected.

      Fredo and Gimp took one vehicle; Mr. Owusu and Mr. Okeke and I rode in the second vehicle. Cameras galore were obvious; our agenda was not. We met up with a guide who Mr. Owusu swore was acquainted with many important park rangers and knew more about the area than even the residents. He was a haughty little man with keloid scars galore, and I initially thought he was simply … not my kind of guy. Mr. Owusu was not fond of him either, but vouched for his knowledge. The little man called himself Koinet Sankaw. When he told us his first name Mr. Okeke put his hand over his smile and began to laugh silently and politely.

      The little guy got pissed. There was much dialectic discussion between Messrs.’ Owusu and Okeke. When I asked the nature of their discussion Mr. Owusu told me that Mr. Sankaw was certainly not Maasai, but his given-name in Maasai meant “the tall one”. I grinned a little; couldn’t help it. Even I knew the Maasai were unusually tall. There were nomadic tribes in the area though, and I postulated perhaps he hailed from Samburu or Rendille lineage. Mr. Okeke thought more likely from a jungle pigmy tribe. The veins were prominent on his face as he tried to shield it and his barely controlled mirth from Mr. Sankaw.

      After we settled on accepting Mr. “tall one” as Michaele referred to him initially, we started the boring, left side of the road, 150 plus mile trip southeast to “Namanga Gate”. Our goal was to get lost after we arrived, and we would depend on Koinet to help us do just that. We also needed his safari card to get around in the park system; through official check points that is. In the meantime we were just another bunch of tourists and guides.

      Our first stop, recommended by Mr. Sankaw, was not one of the nice hotels but one of the bandas, where we found ourselves over populated by two. However, the Chief Warden took pity on us, apparently due to Gimp’s physical challenge, and let us sleep three to a room. The rooms were protective, if not luxurious. Fredo put his covers under his mattress after he found a dead scorpion in the bathroom’s metal shower basin. Otherwise we did okay, and rested for a day, reconnoitered the area, leaving our employees behind, and picked the brain of Chief Warden Donald Alden.

      Warden Alden knew we were new to the country and took pity on us because of Gimp, I guessed. He was quite a talkative and friendly guy, interested in how Gimp was wounded. He got the full story from Gimp, with embellishment from Fredo. Alden told us he served in the South African Army for seven years before getting the call from Amboseli. He hunted the territory for years and acted as a guide before things changed in Kenya. He was a hunter no more, but enjoyed his life as Warden, except for the poaching problems. He had actually been shot at twice in the south area of the park where several elephants had been killed, and his wife was continually worried about him. His story sounded a bit too contrived for my consumption.

      He waxed eloquent about his life, the beauty of Amboseli and Tsavo, and the varied geological epics. He considered himself a fortunate man; understood the plight of the native tribes and their encounters with large game animals, which usually ended with the animal losing. He could not understand the poaching for ivory and rhino horn since there were fine synthetic replacements, and he said he truly loved the country as home. I did get the sense that he totally respected the natives; human and animal.

      He reckoned there were too many corporate associations worldwide that wanted a finger in the popular rescue pie, until it came down to ridding the countries of poachers. He confided to us like-minds that all poachers should be killed, or jailed without trials. While we agreed superficially, we hadn’t yet been bathed in the absolute disgusting reality.

      We understood more or less, but it was hard for us to completely wrap ourselves around his problem and the real reason we were there (if any), especially when two of our group were missing. As we lay in our rooms the second night talking and contemplating the area around Lake Amboseli for our photo shoot, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Alden was sending us on a different mission; one he may have personally desired and planned for. He never said exactly; the area where he was shot at. As far as I was concerned, we would play right into his hands and his agenda.

      Just before we dozed off that night, Fredo asked, “Where the hell are we going tomorrow Daiwee?”

      I said, “I have no idea Fredo, but I believe we’ll be led in the right direction and we’ll know our duty when we get there.”

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      Early СКАЧАТЬ