The Doctrine of Presence. Benjamin Vance
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.”
* * *
Early the next morning Fredo informed Gimp and I that, “Okey, Toto, and Stretch” as he called the three, “are having a pretty serious argument and you guys need to get out there and help!” When Gimp rolled out toward the vehicles the verbal bickering stopped. I think they believed Gimp had some sort of special “juju” due to his position. Anyway, Gimp and Fredo finally deferred to me and I asked, “Gentlemen, what seems to be the problem”?
N’tolo answered first, “This man say he not … will not go with us to Tsavo if we go.”
I asked politely, “Who the hell said we were going to Tsavo?” I waved my right hand vaguely to the east, “Tsavo is hundreds of kilometers to the east of us.”
“Mr. Stretch say he … does not hab safari card for Tsavo and he say-es that he is boss of us dark skin men.”
“Do not refer to yourselves as dark skins, damn it! I am boss! Remember who is paying you! Mr. Sankaw, you are great for our safari, but I say where we go and we no go to Tsavo (while murmuring to myself---at least not yet). You three need to get along or I will ask Warden Alden for three other good men.”
Surprisingly, they as much as beamed when I called them good men; snapped to a whimsical position of attention with Koinet in the middle, looking like a crevasse between two mountains. I beamed back at them and asked, “Are we ready to go Fredo?”
“You bet Daiwee, just as soon as I get these three working again.”
Michaele understood, said something receptive, and repetitive to the other two and soon we were off for the middle of frikkin’ nowhere.
12
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,