THE JOURNAL OF ELLIOT CRIPPLESBY
My mood is a mixed one. Jubilation on the one hand, in that we have somehow managed to catch right up with the dastardly Mr. Humphries, but this has been marred slightly - more than slightly in fact. Considerably more - by the manner in which we left the hotel. Our lovely hotel…
Yes, the mine of information that was Allistair MacIntosh has dried up on me forever now I’m afraid. Whatever snippets - or hefty wedges - of invaluable information I could have obtained from him I will never know now, as I’m pretty certain I’ll not be setting foot anywhere near The Scotsman again; not after this.
I have been ‘put in a position’, so to speak, by Geeza Vermies and whilst one cannot argue the fact that he is amazingly successful at what I’ve hired him to do, it nevertheless has to be said that his methods – well, no, I don’t know his methods – let me say the side affects of his actions have… soured things to say the least.
Let me explain. I was euphoric after my chat with Allistair over lunch and all I had learned from it. It was only as I was finishing up the notes I had made over a cocktail in the lobby that Geeza appeared, somewhat grubby, yet animated. I ordered him a beverage of his choosing - a tall glass of thick mango juice as I remember, once he’d downed a half-litre jug of mineral water - and bade him seat himself and report upon what progress he had made.
“I’ve found him Elliot,” he said.
“What already?” I think I’d said that to him once before today.
“Yup, and it was so easy. The kids led me straight to him!”
“Err, the kids?”
“Yeah, you know. All that lot from this morning.”
“All the beggars you mean?”
“Come on Elliot, they’re street kids, what do you want them to do? They haven’t got anything - anything - and they’re never going to have anything either.”
“Yes I know, I’m sorry,” I replied somewhat ashamed of myself. “It’s just that it was so… in your face, you know?” I do not consider myself to be a judgemental person and yet I had condemned the lot of them this morning in an instant. Not my finest hour.
“Hey, don’t beat yourself up about it. It’s a whole lot different to seeing it on the six o’clock news isn’t it?”
“It certainly is,” I agreed. “Ok, so these kids… they’d seen him or what?”
“No, no, we just wandered round for a bit, same plan as before. They showed me the sights, I got them some food, we walked some more. They thought I’d be interested in this big rally that’s going on-”
“Yes, I read about that.”
“Yeah well, guess what? He’s in it.”
I could scarcely believe it. How on earth could this fifty-something year old lecturer suddenly be a rally driver? What’s going on?
Geeza continued. “There’s no way we can collar hold of him before the off, but at least we know where he’s going so maybe we can get him in Mombassa.”
My already euphoric mood was increased a hundred fold. I was soaring and couldn’t believe the astounding luck we were having.
And I still can’t really. It is just that I feel our fortune has become a little… jaded by what must have happened later on last night and then presumably early this morning, the consequences of which I was more than shocked to learn only a few short hours ago.
To continue, Geeza had told me that he had several things to do and headed off to his room. I contacted a car hire firm and ordered us a Land Rover to be delivered to the hotel for this morning. After a sumptuous meal I finished off a bottle of wine with Mr MacIntosh before retiring to pack, and to sleep. I saw nothing more of Mr. Vermies all night.
This morning, after breakfasting heavily in order to sustain us for the better part of the day, I settled the bill with the hotel receptionist and also paid for a packed lunch and basic provisions which Allistair had recommended I do - a few sandwiches, a couple of hard boiled eggs and the like, plus numerous bottles, cans and cartons of soft drinks and water - which we have been most grateful for, let me tell you.
MacIntosh had laid a bus on, free gratis, to take people to the starting line, as almost everybody in the hotel was going, guests and staff alike. This was a big event in Nairobi and was not to be missed.
“You should go,” Geeza suggested. “Go and see the start of the race, make sure the Prof’s still in it.” I nodded in thoughtful agreement.
“Hmm, yes. That might not be a bad idea. It’d be a bit of a shocker if we got all the way down to Mombassa to find out he’d caught wind of us and jumped ship. What time does the bus leave? Are you ready?”
“The bus goes in about five minutes, but I’m going to hang back here. I’ve got a few things to do still and then I’ll get the Land Rover packed. I take it that’s ours?” he said, pointing to the car park outside the lobby.
“Yes, they delivered it this morning. It’s all signed and paid for and I’ve squared everything up with Allistair too, so… Yes, alright then. I’ll leave the packing to you.” And I did.
It was hot, dusty and unpleasant at the site chosen for the start of the race. The crowd was loud and jostling, the mood tense with excitement. As the race was started Le Mans style, with the drivers starting outside their vehicles, I took no time at all in recognising the felonious Mr. Humphries.
Flags waved and people cheered as each driver and co-pilot was introduced to the crowd, with a wave and a smile. It was then announced that the sponsors were bla-bla-bla, most entries since 1987, etc. etc., and all those other formalities that no one ever listens to. The circuitous route was roughly pointed out for the audience on a large poster board and it was explained to us that the first team to reach Mombassa would be declared champion and receive the winner’s cheque for a quarter of a million US dollars (more cheers).
The starting procedure was then clarified so there could be no confusion amongst either the crowd or the participants. A whistle would be blown. This signified ‘on your marks!’ A hooter would inform the drivers to get ready and then a loud klaxon would be sounded to declare the race begun. The drivers would then run to their cars, start them up, and may the best team win.
A whistle whistled and the drivers took a hunched stance, not unlike long distance runners at the start of their races. The hooter hooted, and the crowd held its breath in the kind of silence that can only be generated by a couple of thousand people all being quiet - it screamed at you. Finally the klaxon... klaxed, breaking the tension as the drivers sprinted to their cars to a thunderous roar from the expectant crowd. And in a few moments after that all was lost to a monstrous cloud of dust.
The noise had been deafening and the atmosphere was admittedly electrifying. But then it was over. The rally was underway and I had personally watched as our quarry raced away somewhere near the front of the pack.
We were taken back to the hotel by the bus that had brought us and I met Geeza immediately in the shaded hotel entrance next to the Land Rover with ants well and truly in his pants. He was incredibly keen to get going which I could readily understand. Although the race route was much longer than the direct one we would be following, the winners at least would probably still beat us, so I allowed myself to be jostled into our four by four and Geeza drove us away, rather quickly I remember thinking.
I can also recall my thoughts when I noticed that the back of our vehicle was absolutely packed with stuff - I couldn’t see what it was, because it was covered up by blankets, tarpaulins and the like, but there seemed far too much there for our journey. It would only take about two days at the very most to reach Mombassa, and then only if we went at a very leisurely pace. OK, we did not know the state of the roads, but even so, it would be two days absolute tops. By the look of it though Geeza had piled in enough gear for a month-long assault on Mount Kilimanjaro.
Another interesting issue was not only the amount he had been packed, but where had it all come from? As far as I was aware Geeza was carrying no money on his person, not since he’d given everything away to those k
ids. Yet here was a large four-wheel drive vehicle absolutely stuffed to bursting point.
Still, at the time I chose not to comment. We were on our way again and in no time at all I forgot whatever concerns I was keeping, becoming completely mesmerised by the scenery which was - is - simply out of this world.
It quickly became apparent that no matter how many of those documentaries you watch they simply do not prepare you for experiencing the place first hand. The thing with nature programs is you only see what the camera wants you to see. You get no insights as to how the place smells, how the air tastes or how it feels, the cool breeze streaming through the window as you drive along - refreshing, yet fighting a losing battle against the intense heat all around you.
And that’s another thing: ‘all around you.’ There is just so much space! It is immense! Vast, stretching out further than the eye can see in every direction. The sky here is simply enormous! You are dwarfed, beset by insignificance as the colossal, unbroken blue swallows you up like... like... well, like nothing I can imagine.
Is it possible for a sky or a landscape to be humbling? I suppose it can. Perhaps an art lover would feel the same when they finally came face to face with their favourite masterpiece. Actually though, that might not be the best comparison. I don’t really know that much about what makes the Art World tick. The only time I have seen an original, bona fide ‘treasure’ of the art world was at the Louvre in Paris many years ago.
After walking for some time in amongst the most life-like and intricate sculptures I have ever seen and then strolling along in the company of hundreds of beautiful paintings, some of which stretched magnificently from floor to ceiling, I came across the first of many signs pointing the way towards the Mona Lisa, that fabulously famous portrait by the undisputed genius, Senor De Vinci.
A good ten minutes and several signs later I entered a long, high-ceilinged corridor and there, twenty yards away was a crowd of people stood before a painting mounted on the right hand wall, roped off to a distance of five or six feet. I have never considered myself as a great art aficionado or even a big fan, but I have to say that my pulse did quicken slightly as I stepped forwards to mingle with the group paying silent homage to Leonardo’s supposed Magnum Opus.
And I remember to this day not being able to get past my initial thought - it’s a bit small isn’t it?
I could not for the life of me see what all the fuss was about, but am fairly sure that somebody with a deeper appreciation of the old oil and canvas could easily be overwhelmed. And yes, that is exactly the feeling I had under the mighty gaze of the Kenyan sun - of being overwhelmed.
We made excellent progress all morning and by the time the sun had gone beyond its zenith we had entered the Tsavo National Park. Geeza was still driving and seemed rather pre-occupied. He was constantly scanning our surroundings, as if looking for something specific. He had not spoken much along the way and as yet I had seen no reason to disturb him. He had still not told me what was in the back, but I was soon to find out.
Our speed had decreased somewhat after passing through the boundaries of the Park - partly because one instinctively slows in order to look out for animals, but also because the road had become a pitted, pot-holed, shambles of a dirt track which had to be negotiated in first gear in many places.
We had not long driven through a patchy area of Acacia woodland when, upon the plains in front of us, we saw several giraffes stood near the roadside. As we edged slowly closer, they decided to cross and when one in particular walked past, Geeza brought us to an abrupt halt. I asked if there was a problem, but with a raised hand he motioned me to silence and, pointing, singled out this one giraffe from the rest of the herd.
It seemed to me that he was chewing cud or some such thing, but it turns out that Geeza claims she was speaking to him. Whatever the truth of the situation, he stopped the Land Rover claiming enigmatically: “This is it.” He turned off the engine and got out, something I am fairly sure that would be frowned upon by the Rangers.
“Geeza, what the hell are you doing?”
For some reason I found myself whispering. He either chose not to answer or more likely just didn’t hear me. Taking the spade from its fastenings on the bull-bars at the front he made his way round to the back door and opened it up. I tried again, a little louder this time.
“What are you doing man?”
“Carrying out a promise I made,” he replied enigmatically.
Without another word he tugged back the coverings and blankets and revealed to me the contents of our vehicle. There staring grimly up at me - and every other which way as well to be frank - were all the heads of the animals from the walls of The Scotsman Abroad. He must have been in every room and ransacked the place! There were dozens of them!
“What the hell have you done?” I cried, as this was theft on a reasonably large scale. He simply repeated that he was keeping a promise. I was astounded, to say the least.
He refused to elaborate despite my questioning and had the gall to ask if I was going to help or not? Stunned and now - in my mind at least - a criminal on the run, I got out and helped to dig as he carefully unloaded our cargo, muttering softly all the time and sprinkling what looked like herbs of some kind over each and every head and body part as he handled them.
A little over an hour and a half later we set off again, with me driving this time. After several long miles of tense silence he finally tried to explain.
“Look Elliot, I’m sorry to have sprung that on you-”
“Really,” I said. Truth be told I was furious.
“I didn’t have time to explain. You wouldn’t have understood-”
“Try me!” I snapped. “Now that we’re wanted felons it’s all a bit late, but why don’t you go ahead and try me?”
He sighed and stared off into the middle distance as we continued to bump along.
“All those things – those heads and things – they belong out here in the Wild, not on the walls of some crumby little hotel-”
“That happened to be a 3 Star hotel for your information, with air conditioned rooms, swimming pool and-”
“Yeah all right! Of any bloody hotel then!” Ok, I was being a tad pedantic. “They’re a disgrace Elliot, the sorry legacy of a disgusting bunch of brain-dead cowards – men and women both – who should have been strung up long ago, shot and then left to die.”
I think I shared his general views on the subject of Big Game Hunting although he did seem a little more vociferous than I.
“Yes, but that was all years ago Geeza.”
“Don’t kid yourself matey; it still goes on. There’s bloody canned hunts go on right next to the Kruger for God’s sake.” That’s the big National Park in South Africa of course. “They coax the animals out under the fence, drug them up and get some big, fat German or American or someone to come and shoot them. No, it still goes on and it’s as sorry and pathetic as it ever was – even more so now, because we should know better.”
I have since learned that there are actually organised tours which cater exclusively for hunters to come and bag the animals they most want to have mounted on their walls. Inevitably perhaps, these people are mainly Americans. I wonder why that is…
“Do you know the San Bushmen of the Kalahari have a tradition,” he went on, “a Rite of Passage that all their hunters have to go through in which they have to find and follow a Rhino for a given distance and then sneak right up to her and place a stone on her back without her noticing. Now that’s a challenge. That’s a test of your manhood. That shows you off as a skilled hunter, not standing in the middle of the plains pointing a bloody great cannon at anything that crosses your path and blowing it all to buggery!”
We rode on in silence for a few more minutes. Yes I was angry, but this had obviously affected him more than I’d thought.
“Not that it matters,” I said to myself; or thought I had.
“What?”
Realising I must have spoken aloud, I stared at
the road ahead and took a deep breath. “Ok. Be all that as it may, that attitude of unfettered testosterone that should have died out with the cavemen - none of it really matters does it? You’ve done it. You’ve ransacked an entire hotel and made off with all its… furnishings! Why was it so important to have taken them all? You can’t undo what was done.”
“The Spirits of the Animals weren’t happy. They wanted to be brought back out here; they wanted some dignity back, some respect. They wanted release.”
“Huh?”
“I said you wouldn’t understand,” he shrugged.
“You are telling me that…” it was no good. I was stumped. “What?”
Geeza sighed. “Ok, I’ll try and explain. On our first night here I made contact with a local… Spirit, one of the Denubari.”
“The Denubari?”
“They’re… kind of the Essences of the Animals. Each one represents a certain type of Animal, the embodiment of everything they represent, everything they feel, their attitudes and impulses. To cut a long story short they agreed to help me if I helped them. All they wanted was this lot put back where they belong. When those Giraffes went by, they told me that was the spot.”
I didn’t say anything - what can you say to that? He has his methods. They may well be way, way out of leftfield, but they do appear to be very effective. You only have to cast your mind back to the pigeons and the motorbike-straddling stockbrokers who had accosted me back in London. I still don’t really know exactly what had happened back then, let alone how it was done.
I must have another word with him about it pretty soon, but not today. I will let myself calm down first; give myself some time to reflect on the situation. I only hope that MacIntosh has not put two and two together and phoned the authorities in Mombassa. Mind you, how could they possibly prove we have done anything now, unless they dig up half of Kenya?
As I said, I’ll leave it for the time being, but I’m keeping my fingers and toes crossed for the next few days at least.
***
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