A Guide to the Beasts of East Africa (11 page)

‘I say,' said Mr Patel.

‘Golly-gosh,' said Mr Gopez.

Mr Malik entered the tent first. He slid
open a shallow drawer at the side of the table to reveal a pair of five-foot wooden
cues. From a smaller, deeper drawer he removed a set of three billiard balls. He placed
the red one on a mark near the end of the table.

‘So, A.B. – plain ball or
spot?'

Mr Gopez realized that his mouth was still
open.

‘Er … plain, thanks,'
he said, closing it.

Mr Malik passed him one of the two white
balls. In the time-honoured fashion of billiard players the world over, each man placed
his cue ball on the baulk line and hit it towards the top of the table. The one whose
ball ended up closest to the bottom cushion would decide who should take first stroke in
the match.

‘Damn and blast!'

Mr Gopez, having won the string, attempted
the classic safety shot of sending his cue ball up the table to hit the red at half-ball
and bring them both down behind
the baulk line. As you are not allowed
to play backwards from the baulk line when your ball is in hand, this meant that Mr
Malik would be forced to try an indirect shot off one of the cushions. But Mr Gopez
misjudged his angles. Though his own ball ended up behind baulk, the red ball rolled to
a stop only inches below the middle pocket.

‘This table of yours is all very
fancy, but are you sure it's level?'

After bringing his opponent's
attention to the four built-in spirit levels with which the table came equipped, Mr
Malik was able to sink his cue ball off the red into the middle pocket with little
difficulty. And he judged the strength of the shot well. The red ball came to rest
nicely positioned for a straight pot into the left-hand top pocket.

‘Seems pretty level to me,
A.B.'

Mr Malik took the red ball from the pocket
and put it back on its spot. Another pot, perhaps?

It took a full forty minutes for the first
player to reach 101 and so take the game – that player being, in this case, Mr Malik. He
felt he had never played so well. By the time he had made the winning stroke, quite a
crowd had gathered round the table and many comments and congratulations were being
given to him.

‘Well done, Malik,' said Mr
Gopez, shaking him by the hand. ‘You certainly seem to be on form tonight. Those
spirit levels, though – are you
sure
they're all right?'

The dinner gong sounded.

‘Yes, A.B.,' said Mr Malik.
‘Positive. Benjamin, would you mind turning down the lights? Now, let's see
if Ally's food tastes as good as it smells, shall we?'

By any gastronomic measure the first camp
dinner was a triumph. From his eight-burner gas range and an assortment of pots and pans
Ally Dass had coaxed great bowls of spicy beef pasanda and fragrant dahi wala, tender
rogan josh gosht and lamb bhuna. His undui featured vegetables all the colours of the
rainbow, while the perfume that wafted from the alu chole and tarka dhal and mountains
of steaming basmati rice made mouths water and lips smile in anticipation of each and
every mouthful. From the clay tandoori half buried in the river sand and fired up with
wood from the nearby fever trees the master chef pulled kebabs sizzling by the score –
prawn, fish, meatballs – then whole chickens on long spits, including his famous murgh
hariyali (which had been marinating in its sauce all the way from Nairobi). And still he
found room in that oven for more nan breads than fifty hungry people could eat.

‘Delicious, quite delicious,'
said Mr Gopez, adding the last kebab stick to the pile beside his plate. ‘That
chicken was – well, words fail me.'

‘Ah,' said Mr Patel, wiping his
hands on a napkin, ‘the simple life. It's a pity the Tiger isn't here
– you know how he likes a good undui. Damned shame … that legal case of his
must have taken longer than he expected.'

Mr Gopez sighed and agreed how good it was
to get away from the old hustle and bustle – to which Mr Patel replied that was no way
to refer to one's wife. Mr Malik put down his napkin and pushed back his
chair.

‘Well, chaps, might I suggest we see
if the billiard table is free? As A.B. said earlier, I may well be on form. Yes,
I'm sorry the Tiger isn't here yet – tonight I think
I
might give even our club champion a run for his money.'

The game between Harry Khan and Tiger Singh
at the Asadi Club was soon over.

‘How about the best of three?'
said Harry. ‘One game just doesn't seem fair.'

The best of three turned into the best of
five. By the time they were finished, the club was empty. Harry insisted on dropping his
opponent home before driving back to the Hilton. They made their way out of the front
door towards the car park to find the manager outside, admiring the red Mercedes.

‘Beauty, isn't she?' said
Harry. ‘Want to go for a spin?'

The manager nodded.

Harry patted his pockets.

‘Whoops, looks like I left my keys
inside somewhere. Hey, I remember – they're in my briefcase. I must have left it
in the bar. Wouldn't want to forget that.' It took him only minutes to
retrieve his case and keys and reappear at the front door. Closing it behind him, he
skipped back down the steps. ‘OK. Who wants a ride round the block?'

‘Excuse me, sir,' said the
manager. ‘Did you just close the door?'

Harry looked behind him.

‘Close it? Sure, I think
so.'

‘Ah,' said the manager.
‘Then there is a problem, sir. My keys, my door keys, they are inside.'

‘You mean you can't get in? But
what about the back door?'

‘The kitchen staff are gone, sir. The
door will be locked.'

‘Don't worry,' said Tiger
Singh. ‘The club president always has a spare set and it just happens I'm
club president. I'll just pop home and –'

The Tiger was about to say that he'd
bring the keys back when he realized that he was without a car.

‘Hey,' said Harry Khan,
‘no problem.'

He was able to persuade both men that it
would be a simple matter for him to take Tiger Singh home, pick up the keys and bring
them to the manager at the club. Within half an hour, having delivered the keys and
declined the manager's offer of a nightcap before he left, he was back at the
Hilton. On his way to his room Harry thought he might take a quick look in the Jockey
Bar. Perhaps that woman would be there again. Perhaps this time she'd be
alone.

Rose Mbikwa awoke to see the early sunshine
streaming in through the bedroom window. Outside a bird was singing a familiar song. An
olive thrush? A Cape robin? Or was it a bulbul? Silly, she just couldn't remember.
Never mind. Surely what was important was to hear the song and enjoy it, not to know
what kind of bird was making it. There had been a time, early on in her birdwatching
days, when the most important thing to her by far was seeing a new kind of bird – the
rarer the better. These days she found herself taking as much pleasure in watching a
sparrow as a Prince Ruspoli's turaco. For several minutes she lay awake,
luxuriating in the sweet sound of the unknown bird and the feeling of being back home in
her own bed. But there were things to do. She got up and pulled on her dressing gown.
Breakfast – and after breakfast she might even try to set up her new computer.

‘Good morning, Mother. Will you join
me?'

She had forgotten Angus had said he might
drop in for breakfast. He gestured to the second seat at the table on the veranda and
continued attending to his toast.

‘Thank you, dear,' said Rose,
sitting down opposite him. ‘I see you found the honey.'

Since childhood Angus had always been fond
of the dark Ogiek honey from the Mau Forest, and as soon as Rose had told Elizabeth that
he was coming back to Kenya she had gone out to the market to buy a brand new jar.

‘Mmm.' He took a bite from his
toast. ‘And it's great to have proper Kenyan coffee again. Can I pour you
some?'

As she watched him fill the second cup, she
could hear the song of that bird again from the jacaranda tree behind her.

‘How did it go at the new office
yesterday?'

‘OK,' said Angus through another
mouthful of toast. ‘Still trying to get the phone lines and internet sorted out –
though I don't suppose I've got much hope of getting anything done on a
Saturday. I'd forgotten how long these things take in Kenya.'

‘Yes, I was lucky the phone
line's still on here. I thought I'd try and hook up my new computer this
morning – goodness knows what the connection speed will be like.'

‘Need a hand?'

‘No, thank you, dear. I've been
getting quite good at this computer business recently, you know.'

Which was true. Before she left Kenya to
look after her father, Rose had never owned a computer. But life was quiet back at the
old house in Edinburgh with mostly just the two of them there. Why not try connecting
with the world through the internet? Rose bought herself a desktop machine and was
surprised to find that she took to the whole thing like a duck to water. She soon
mastered the
software, and within days she knew her ethernet from her
wi-fi and her USBs from her scuzzies and could defrag a disk in a matter of moments.
She'd even added extra RAM to her computer all by herself. It was all rather
fun.

‘Are you sure you won't come
with me to the Thanandu this afternoon?' said Angus. ‘I'm sure
there'll be room, and I know Uncle Dickie would love to see you.'

‘No, no, I expect I'll make it
another time. Besides, I've already got a date tonight with a friend. I
don't think you've met Harry, have you – Harry Khan?'

At the campsite of the annual Asadi Club
safari, day did not dawn so bright.

‘Where's the bloody mountain
gone?'

Mr Malik poked a sleepy head out of the
tent. The view to the west was not, he had to admit, promising. Where yesterday Mount
Kenya had loomed on the horizon like the head of a white-haired giant, he could now see
only a thick bank of cloud, dark as dusk.

No one is quite sure how Mount Kenya
acquired its name. Was it from the Kikuyu word
Kirinyaga
– shining mountain?
Did it come from the Embu word
Kirenia
– mountain of white? But soon after Dr
Johann Ludwig Krapf clapped his missionary eyes on the mountain in 1849 and recorded its
name in writing, it became generally known as Mount Kenya (pronounced Keen-ya) and in
1920 the surrounding part of the British East African Protectorate was christened the
Kenya Settlement. The mountain also gave its name to a man.

Kamau wa Ngengi was born in 1894, in a small
village not far from an uninhabited swamp that would five years
later
be the site of a supply depot for the Mombasa to Uganda railway. By the time he finished
school the supply depot had become Nairobi. Kamau found work as an office clerk in town
and soon became a rising star in local politics. His friends and colleagues sent him to
England, where he studied at the London School of Economics and lobbied for African
rights. By the time he came to write a book based on his academic thesis he had chosen a
new name – Jomo Kenyatta. When his country became independent in 1963 he became its
first prime minister and, one year later, its first president. The new nation was named
after the mountain: it was pronounced, like his name, Ken-ya. And just as the shadow of
Mount Kenya reaches for miles around it, so Jomo Kenyatta's influence on his
country is still felt more than thirty years after his death.

‘Oh, just a bit of dry-season mist,
A.B.' said Mr Malik. ‘I'm sure it'll burn off when the
sun's up.'

He looked at his watch and yawned. He had
not slept well – but on the first night on safari he never did. He could always blame it
on the unfamiliar bed or the sound of his companions snoring, but it was not that. He
had slept well in many an unfamiliar bed and would do so tonight. And though the sound
of one person snoring may not be conducive to a good night's sleep, Mr Malik
always found that a chorus of snoring (to which, he liked to think, he would contribute
a harmonious baritone if he could only drop off) could be quite soporific. No, he just
never slept well on the first night under canvas, and that was that. He had to lie there
awake, and let his mind wander where it willed.

Though it had tall mountains and thick forests
and the wide unfenced savannah to roam through, that night his mind kept coming back to
two things. One was the wedding of his daughter Petula. What if it rained? Would there
be enough food? Was the marquee big enough? Was everything all right between Petula and
Salman? The second subject to which his recalcitrant mind returned was the murder of
Lord Erroll. A.B.'s ingenious and innovative explanation was so much more
convincing than any he'd yet come across – but still something didn't seem
quite right. The frustrating thing about all this was that both he and his mind knew
that thinking about these things would not provide any answers. He would find out from
Petula tomorrow the state of play with the wedding, and no new facts about the Erroll
case were about to appear out of the thin air of mere thought. But admonish it as he
might, his mind would just not let go of the subjects, and it was a tired and slightly
grumpy Mr Malik who sat down next morning at the breakfast table.

The Mr Malik who arose from the table was a
different man. Ally Dass had once more worked his culinary magic. A selection of fresh
fruit – bananas (three varieties), pineapples, pawpaw and slices of sweet mango – had
begun Mr Malik's transformation. A cup of hot Nescafé and a plate of string
hoppers with chopped chillies and fried garlic – an innovation to the breakfast menu
which Ally Dass had picked up from a Sri Lankan cook he had been introduced to at the
Nairobi races the previous November – completed the transformation.

Mr Gopez was feeling similarly restored.

‘Ready for a spot of
“find-the-fauna”, Malik?' he said.

‘Ready, A.B.?
Abso-jolly-lutely.'

Over the many years he had been going on
safari, Mr Malik had come to the conclusion that there are basically two ways to find
animals – you go to them, or you let them come to you. The trouble about going to them
is that you are so busy trying to see where you're going that you don't have
much time to look around. Not only that, you're making so much noise that most
animals either hide or scarper. But sit still in one place, stay quiet, and though the
local fauna will be sure to notice your presence, they may eventually decide that you
look harmless enough and start going about their normal business. Does this not lessen
your chances of spotting species? you may wonder. Surely the more ground you cover, the
more different creatures you will see?

My friend Kennedy once told me that on a
trip to the US, a few years ago, he met a chap who was very fond of running. Few weeks
went by when his name didn't appear in the paper as the man who had just run from
X to Y, or Y to Z (where X, Y and Z were always several hundred and often more than a
thousand miles apart). When my friend met him, he had just run from Amarillo to Salt
Lake City (the hard way) and was getting ready for the main event – a trot to Fresno
across Death Valley and the Sierra Nevada. He had become known as the Power Runner.
After some thought, and by steady application, my friend Kennedy developed a less
strenuous version of this activity – and while Power Sitting may not have quite the
cardiovascular advantages of its more
vigorous counterpart, he claims
it is much easier on the shoe leather and very much easier on the knees. It is also
excellent for watching wildlife.

For you don't just power sit anywhere,
you choose your position with care. The first essential is good visibility. Two birds in
the bush will always be worth less than a bird in the hand if you are in the bush too.
In front of the bush or beside it is where you want to be – and if the bush happens to
be in flower or fruit, so much the better. Secondly, a certain level of comfort – while
not essential – is desirable. Perching on one buttock on a rock, or hanging from the
branch of a tree, is not Power Sitting (though while a flat rock is preferable to a
pointed one, and a smooth log beats a knobbly one, the use of cushions is to be
discouraged – the nodding head and the drooping eyelid are not conducive to wildlife
watching). Thirdly, my friend Kennedy insists it is best to power sit alone. We humans
are social animals and it is hard to keep quiet in company. But conversation is for
comfy chairs and coffee shops. The true Power Sitter, though not wishing to be taciturn,
tends to silence. Anyway, try it somewhere near where you live – and if you aren't
satisfied with the result, my friend Kennedy will give a full refund, no questions
asked.

Safari operators, I have found over the
years, are in general not in favour of the practice – and who can blame them? You
don't make your money by telling someone to go and sit on a rock. What you tell
them is that they need to drive around the wide savannah in an open-topped van, fly over
it in a light plane or drift over it in a hot-air balloon and that will be eighteen
hundred and twenty-five dollars per person thank you very much. But when it
comes to sitting still and watching, Mr Malik is of the same opinion
as my friend Kennedy. So while the three minibuses head off from the campsite in search
of the big five, plus however many of the smaller species of African animal are out and
about and visible after breakfast on this particular Saturday morning, we find Mr Malik
strolling towards the river, trusty Bausch & Lomb 7 × 50 binoculars swinging from
their leather strap round his neck. The sounds of Ally Dass rattling his breakfast pots
and cursing his assistants grow ever fainter. Mr Malik is on the lookout for a nice
comfy spot to sit down.