A Guide to the Beasts of East Africa (2 page)

The annual Asadi Club safari is now
something of an institution. The first one had been a pretty relaxed affair, though not
without adventure. One Friday afternoon in the November of 1958 five members of the club
had packed their families into their cars and driven a couple of hours south of Nairobi
to the Athi Plains. They chose a campsite near the river, where the men set up the three
heavy old ex-army tents and camp stretchers, kindly supplied by Amin and Sons General
Emporium – then, as is still true today, an Aladdin's cave of objects from the
mundane to the arcane. The women made the beds, the children gathered firewood. Under
the stars they all dined on rice and the various curries they'd brought with them
ready cooked. They went to bed early – the men in one tent, the women in another and the
children in the third.

Used as they were to the hum of the city, no
one slept a wink. That rustling in the bushes, was it a mouse or the soft tread of a
hungry leopard? That distant coughing sound, was it some kind of harmless night bird or
the call of a frenzied hyena? That nearby rumble, was it a lion or was it Sonny Bashu
snoring? But when the following day dawned clear and bright all terrors of the night
were forgotten.
The families breakfasted on chapattis and leftover curry
and drank cups of tea, sweet and milky. While the women went about the business of
cleaning up, the men undertook the far more onerous task of planning the day ahead. The
children played.

But when it came time to get ready for the
first game drive no one could find young Bindu Ghosh. He had been playing Cowboys and
Indians (oh, those innocent days) down by the river with four of the other boys, but
they didn't know where he was now and he failed to respond to his mother's
call. When he also failed to answer his father's increasingly authoritative
summons a small search party was organized which, while finding no small boys, did
locate a large python curled up under a bush beside a waterhole. About a third of the
way down from its head towards its tail Mr Ghosh saw a suspicious swelling.

My friend Kennedy told me he was once
driving out of Nairobi on the back road towards Limuru when he noticed a log completely
blocking the road ahead. His first thought was that it must have fallen from a truck,
perhaps engaged in some unauthorized firewood removal from the nearby state forest. Then
he saw it move. It was not a log, it was a rock python, as thick as his thigh. As for
its length, he waited until it had moved well off the road before pacing the
measurement. Eight metres. Twenty-six feet. Having found a python of similar size down
by the river, Mr Ghosh was now in something of a quandary. As a follower of the Jain
religion – the more zealous among whom will sweep the path before them as they walk to
clear away any small creatures that might be crushed beneath a careless sandal – he was
naturally reluctant to
kill the snake that lay somnolent but clearly
sentient before him. But if there was the smallest possibility of saving his little
Bindusar from being slowly digested within said sentient being then there seemed no
alternative. He remembered seeing a couple of bush knives back at the camp and it was
towards the camp that he smartly hove, oblivious of any ant, bug or beetle beneath his
flying feet.

His arrival was greeted by a smiling wife,
who informed him that his son and heir was safe and well. It turned out that young Bindu
had got tired of Cowboys and Indians and, returning to the camp unnoticed, had fallen
asleep under his blanket. His father reacted to this joyful news in the time-honoured
fashion. He hugged Bindu to his bosom, cuffed him round the ears, gave him a thorough
dressing-down and sent him back to bed. The python was left to digest the small dik-dik
it had swallowed earlier that morning in peace (though the dik-dik was in fact
considerably smaller than Bindu Ghosh, who was a well-fed child).

The choice of this year's venue for
the Asadi Club safari had not been an easy one. Some members were in favour of going
down to the coast, others said that wasn't a safari it was a beach holiday and
that the Maasai Mara was the place to go. Krish Advani said he'd heard that Lake
Magadi was very good for flamingoes this year, to which Abby Antul retorted that a
weekend watching pink feather dusters with their heads upside down in three inches of
water that smelled like rotten eggs was not his idea of a weekend well spent. The
impasse had been resolved by Mr Malik who, chatting to Hilary Fotherington-Thomas on
one of the East African Ornithological Society's regular Tuesday
bird walks, had discovered that a friend of hers had a place near Meru.

‘The old Johnson place on the Thanandu
– the river, you know. Hippos, elephants, waterbuck – all that sort of thing.
There's a perfectly lovely spot for camping down by the river, and an old
homestead that's been taken over by a troop of baboons – great fun. I'm sure
Dickie would be happy to have you and your pals up for a few days. Would you like me to
find out?'

‘Are there lions?' (No Asadi
Club safari is complete without at least the chance of seeing a lion.)

‘Lions? Oodles, I should think.
Anyway, I'll ask him. When it comes to wildlife, Dickie Johnson knows
everything
.'

‘Then thank you, Mrs
Fotherington-Thomas,' said Mr Malik. ‘I would.'

Dickie Johnson told her that yes he'd
be delighted. She told Mr Malik. Mr Malik told the committee, who agreed that it sounded
perfect. Now all Mr Malik had to do was find out which members, wives and children
wanted to come, book a coach and the appropriate number of open-top safari buses and
drivers, liaise with Ally Dass about the catering arrangements, make sure the camp was
set up and get everything and everyone there and safely home again.

So times have changed, numbers have
increased and the choice of venue has become a little more adventurous, but the spirit
of that first Asadi Club safari lives on. As usual this year there will be one tent for
gentlemen, another for ladies and a third for children under twelve.
There will also be a tent for cooking and a tent for eating and another for the staff.
This year, though, there will be an extra tent – a seventh tent. For this year Mr Malik
has arranged a surprise.

‘Ah, here he is.' Mr Patel
looked up from his still heated conversation with A.B. towards a short round man of
careful coiffure making his way towards them across the Asadi Club Bar. ‘The
Tiger's been looking for you, Malik old chap.'

‘Oh really, do you know what he
wants?'

‘Something about arrangements for the
safari, apparently. And talking of arrangements, I forgot to ask you on Friday – any
news on the wedding reception?'

Mr Malik nodded. ‘I spoke to her this
morning and everything's settled. We've decided on a marquee in the garden –
as you suggested, A.B. And as you suggested, Patel, I'm going to ask Ally Dass
here at the club if he can do the catering.'

‘He did Shobah's bash – my
brother's eldest daughter, you know,' said Mr Patel, reaching for the chilli
popcorn. ‘Made a jolly good biriani, I remember – silver leaf and all that –
though I remember thinking the prawn curry was lacking a certain oomph.'

‘Tricky thing, curry,' said Mr
Gopez, ‘especially if you've got any
wazungu
on the guest list.
Your average white man, I have observed, can seldom handle the heat.'

‘Oh, I don't know,' said
Mr Malik. ‘I read recently that chicken tikka masala is now the most popular dish
in the UK.'

‘Yes, but have you ever tried
it?' Mr Patel rolled his eyes.
‘I read a recipe for chicken
tikka masala in one of those women's magazines – ready-roast chicken, curry
powder, evaporated milk and tinned tomato soup.'

‘That's not a curry,
that's a criminal offence,' said Mr Gopez. ‘Anyway, rest assured, my
dear Malik, that Ally Dass would not allow a jar labelled “curry powder”
within a hundred yards of his kitchen. And no peas in his samosas. I really can't
stand peas in samosas.' He helped himself to the popcorn. ‘So, make a habit
of it, do you, Patel?'

‘What?'

‘Reading women's
magazines.'

Mr Patel turned towards Mr Malik.

‘By the way,' he said,
‘who do you think I saw in town this morning?'

‘Your therapist?' muttered Mr
Gopez. ‘Ah well, best keep trying, I suppose.'

‘Ha ha, A.B. No, Malik's old
school chum.'

Oh no, thought Mr Malik, not …

‘Yes, Harry. Harry Khan.'

While it is true that Mr Malik and Harry
Khan had indeed attended Eastlands High School together – they had in fact arrived as
boarders on the same day in September of 1955 – it would be stretching the meaning of
the word to call them ‘chums'. Then, as now, Mr Malik was of quiet
disposition, more eager to turn the pages of a book than turn the dial of a contraband
wireless after lights-out, happier sitting on the pavilion steps with pencil in hand and
scorebook on his knees than swinging the willow out on the cricket pitch. Harry Khan was
of a different stripe. In the classroom and on the sports field it was he who stood out.
It was he who knew everybody and was
known by everybody, he who led the
gang, he who gave clever nicknames to boys and masters alike. Whether flashing his bat
at the wicket or flashing his smile on the stage in the end-of-term play, Harry loved
showing off – his Punjabi Shylock in the 1959 Eastlands High School Production of
The Merchant of Venice
had brought the house down, and his score of
thirty-four in a single over still stood as a school record. And while Mr Malik – or
‘Jack' as he had, for reasons which we need not go into here, been nicknamed
– was not the only butt of Harry Khan's jokes both verbal and practical, there is
no doubt that he came in for more than his fair share.

Why? Why does the sun rise in the east? Why
does a cat play with a mouse? Harry Khan could no more refrain from teasing Mr Malik
than could Brahma not create or Shiva not destroy. Though the events of those distant
days have now become more school myth than memory, the story of the python and pyjamas
can even today be relied upon to bring a smile to the lips of the most surly fourth
former, while the petroleum-jelly sandwich still makes the occasional appearance at
Eastlands High more than half a century since its first inspired use by Harry Khan at Mr
Malik's thirteenth birthday bash. When the Khan family left Nairobi for Canada in
1962 taking Harry with them, Mr Malik could not pretend he was sad to see them go.

‘Harry Khan, eh?' said Mr
Gopez.

‘Yes. He said he's over here on
business. I said he should try and drop by the club.'

‘This club?' said Mr Malik.

The last time he had seen Harry Khan was
four years
ago when Harry, visiting Kenya with his ancient mother,
actually started making a play for the lovely Rose Mbikwa, who used to lead the Tuesday
bird walks and on whom Mr Malik, widowed these several years, had long had a serious
crush.

‘Yes. He's still a member, you
know – kept up the subs and all that.'

‘I wonder,' said Mr Gopez,
‘if he'll bring that niece of his again. What was her name – Emily,
Ermintrude?'

‘Elvira,' said Mr Malik.

Harry Khan's niece – or, to be more
exact, his cousin's wife's sister's youngest daughter – had made quite
an impression on the members of the Asadi Club.

‘That's it. Pretty
girl … damned fine –'

‘Dancer?'

‘Now you come to mention it, Malik old
chap, I suppose she was.'

Few present that night at the Nairobi Hunt
Club Ball would forget the sight of Elvira in her short red dress dancing rock and roll
with her uncle Harry to the music of Milton Kapriadis and his Safari Swingers. But to
the surprise of many it had been Mr Malik with whom Rose Mbikwa had danced that evening,
and Harry Khan disappeared back to the US soon afterwards.

What exactly, Mr Malik now wondered, was
Harry Khan doing in Nairobi this time?

‘
She
was a good dancer
too,' said Mr Gopez. ‘They went dancing – at the Claremont Club, you know –
the very night she shot him.'

Mr Patel was spared further discussion of
the Erroll case by the reappearance of Tiger Singh, fresh from
victory
at the billiard table (when the Tiger had last lost a court case or a game of billiards,
no one could remember).

‘Ah, there you are, Malik – I was
hoping to see you. What news on the safari front?'

On weekends Tiger Singh was known for
clothes of a casual cut – yellow shirts and red checked trousers were a particular
favourite – and he was seldom seen out on the golf course without his lucky green
tam-o'-shanter. This being a Monday he was in more formal attire of dark suit and
grey dastar to match.