The Doctrine of Presence. Benjamin Vance

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      It’s not my idea of fun, riding in a stiff-sprung safari vehicle packed with people and gear and rolling about ten miles per hour, if lucky. I mean, I don’t think it’s comfortable for a twenty year old, let alone for a sixty year old who questions his motives with every bump. That was me, not Fredo. Gimp never complained; just hung on with one hand or the other to take weight off his hips. I worried about him. Actually, I worried about him, Fredo, the guides, the vehicles and any damn thing else I could think of. That’s what I do; worry. It’s like a disease.

      The first night, Fredo wanted to pitch camp next to a depleted stream, where there seemed to be plenty of cover and where we could also see for about a kilometer in every direction. We agreed to keep the fire to a minimum, and fifteen minutes later Michaele had a six foot bonfire roaring. When I questioned his motives, he told me that we must have it to keep predators away. The other Africans agreed. Fredo’s eyes got big and he said, “What predators?”

      N’tolo proudly responded, “Cat and dog predators, sir.”

      “What the fuck you mean Toto? You mean like lions and stuff, and maybe … what are they … Hyenas?”

      “Yes, Frodo. Many stuffs here along river where animals get killed. We should have good fire all night.”

      Fredo said, “I’m sleeping in the fuckin’ truck; don’t give a shit how hard the floor is.”

      We pitched a tent for each group of three, but Fredo slept in his vehicle. About three in the morning I heard him screaming like a girl and thrashing and banging around in the SUV. Then I heard our guides running like a herd for his vehicle. By the time I got my boots on and out the tent flap, the three rescuers were laughing like they’d heard the funniest joke in recorded history. Fredo had inadvertently shared his bed with a scorpion. It hadn’t stung him, but it had tried. He beat it into black jam with his boot and would not stay in the SUV any more. N’tolo made him a fire-sharpened pole and he sat by the fire with it until the sun came up. He said he had never liked scorpions or spiders. That night he added “dog and cat predators” to his list.

      The next morning we were sleepy on the trail, only about a kilometer from our disastrous first-night, when a helicopter flew low overhead. Instinctively, I thought it was monitoring us, but it flew straight down the trail we were taking, and off into the distance. After about another five miles, we came to a large grassy plain upon which the helicopter had landed and a film crew was loading equipment into one of three six-wheeled, articulated axle Unimog trucks. The trucks were bigger, higher and smoother riding than our vehicles were. I coveted them immediately and incalculably. We were hailed by a couple of the camera crew with smiles galore, and I smelled money.

      The crew was filming wildlife for a new German film about commercialization of nomad tribes in Tanzania and Kenya. Most of the crew was French, but several were British and Italian. The Italians spoke English as well. The French preferred not to condescend to speak English, however. I asked if we could watch from a distance. There was no problem with watching, and a few of the over-staffed group came over to stand and bullshit around our vehicles. I asked Michaele to go over to a small huddled group of African men and see if he could make friends. He knew the drill and he and Stretch went over to talk. After ten minutes or so, Koinet came back to our spot with a disgusted look on his face. I could imagine what had prompted his return. N’tolo did not choose to go over and talk even though I approved it; his choice.

      We observed the interesting machinations of the filming crew until after noon. It was generally dry and cool that time of year and we had to be nowhere special. The crew was paying close attention to a small herd of impala and an even smaller group of bushbuck grazing and cavorting around a small drying stream bed. The animals seemed accustomed to the people and were not the least bit spooky. The morning had been consumed with varying camera angles, boom heights and camera station moves. Meanwhile, the small cluster of umbrellas, chairs and tables which apparently concealed and protected the director and his intimate crew, never moved.

      A distant cacophony of sounds and a gunshot prequeled the unorganized, panicked running of animals. One of our new friends laughed and told us that the running was supposed to be because of a pride of lions sneaking up on the grazers. The lions would be filmed at a different location where an animal would be shot and baited to facilitate close filming of a pride. The grazers were gone in a few seconds after the shots were fired. I hoped they could find none to bait the lions. I decided we were novices at this and wished for an accurate and high capacity sidearm.

      We moved back to the west toward Lake Amboseli, since south and east of Lake Amboseli held the greatest elephant populations. If we had to flirt with the international boundary and head farther south once we got there, so be it. Trails and roads were difficult if one wanted to stay semi-anonymous. East and south of Lake Amboseli is where the greatest number of elephant carcasses were to be found as well, according to Donald Alden. South of the Amboseli National Park, still called Amboseli and near the Tanzania border, there was another large concentration of elephants. Seemingly, the elephants would be more susceptible to poaching outside the park. However, the higher human population south of the park may have stymied some degree of poaching.

      Early afternoon found us under some large trees with a map laid out on the hood of one SUV. We hadn’t come far in half a day, but learned something; even innocent cinematographers use animals to their advantage at times. How much of a step would it be from scaring to orphaning, for movie viewer empathy?

      I don’t know how I had service, but my cell rang and startled us all. It sounded like a 140 decibel jet out there where few ambient sounds persisted. I hurried to answer and got a deep, “Hey Daiwee, how’s it hangin’?”

      I said, “Well it sure is unusual to hear from you Leo. Where the hell are you right now? In a nice air-conditioned bedroom, no doubt?”

      “Look up, Daiwee.”

      Just then a blue-bottomed Beechcraft Ute buzzed our СКАЧАТЬ