Softly Calls the Serengeti

by Frank Coates

  He forced his mind back to the scenery.

  ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Beautiful, eh?’

  Below them stretched the Great Rift Valley, golden in the late afternoon sun. Cloud shadows added texture to the coloured patchwork of grasses that shimmered in undulations towards the distant escarpment that rose grey-blue through the heat haze—a rampart thwarting progress to the west.

  Charlotte followed his gaze over the escarpment and into the valley below. ‘Breathtaking, yes. But I’m not sure I’d describe it as beautiful,’ she said. ‘Perhaps more like magnificent.’

  ‘Beautiful? Magnificent? What’s the difference?’ Riley asked.

  ‘Sodas!’ Joshua said from the back seat, and slipped out of his door. ‘We need a drink.’

  Charlotte fished a small note from her purse and Joshua headed to the duka at the edge of the road, which was doing good business with sightseers.

  ‘Maybe I’m being pedantic,’ she said, ‘but beautiful is how I’d describe a floral arrangement or a colourful parrot. I’d even go so far as to describe a valley somewhere in the Swiss Alps, with pretty little cottages peeping through the autumn leaves, as beautiful. But this is none of those.’

  The land dropped away just beyond the bitumen roadside. Riley ran his eye over the edge into the heart-thumping leap of the escarpment. Studying the middle distance more closely now, he found grey-green islands sprinkled sporadically among the ochred waves: a curl of white smoke; the dots of a cattle herd; the smudge of a maize garden. The minutiae added a grander perspective to the scene. It was something to challenge the imagination, but Charlotte was right, it was not beautiful. The valley had many of the attributes of an Australian landscape—wide, challenging to the eye—but essentially it was more impressive because of its magnitude than its beauty.

  Riley turned away. He thought that beautiful things, even magnificent ones, were better enjoyed in the presence of a loved one. Without someone important to share it with, the scene somehow lost some of its lustre.

  ‘Kuta at sundown is beautiful,’ he said.

  ‘Is that in Bali?’

  He nodded. ‘Uluwatu Temple on the cliff, silhouetted against a red sky. On the beach, it’s like standing at the door of a blast furnace: hot and still and there’s hardly a ripple on the ocean. You can almost drink the air, it’s so heavy and hot. And when the sun touches the water, it sends out a long golden finger that seems to point right at you.’ He caught her expression and shrugged. ‘So they say.’

  He knew he was on dangerous ground now. He should stop. A deep valley, like the sea, can pull the guts out of a man if he allows himself to be drawn into it. Riley today was a different person from the man who had stood on the golden beach at Kuta almost exactly five years ago. He’d been happy and full of optimism for the future back then. His first novel had been a critical success and had hit the heights in sales. And there was Melissa and all that love; it had surrounded him like a bubble.

  ‘You know Bali well,’ Charlotte suggested.

  ‘I thought I did,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  He studied her for a moment, regretting the lapse in his resolve. Bali and its many memories were to be denied. Down that dark path was nothing but trouble. He couldn’t even answer Charlotte’s question so he simply turned the Land Rover’s ignition key and revved the motor.

  ‘We’d better keep moving,’ he muttered, tooting the horn for Joshua, who was at the stall, soft drink in hand, talking to the boys working there. Joshua hurried to the car and climbed into the back seat, soda bottles clinking together.

  Riley swung the car into a gap in the traffic. The diesel roared.

  Joshua stayed in the car while Mark and Charlotte were at the reception desk of the Sarova Lion Hill Lodge. From his position in the back seat, Joshua could see them signing papers. The receptionist gave them each a key, which surprised him as he’d assumed they were sleeping together.

  ‘Our rooms are up the hill,’ Mark said when they returned to the car to collect their luggage. ‘You’ll be staying with the other guides and drivers. If you ask that guy sitting in reception, he’ll look after you. We’ll be spending a day or two here, so take it easy until we’re ready to go.’

  The person Mark indicated was a smug young Kikuyu who looked Joshua up and down as he stood before him. Joshua disliked him instantly. They traded thinly veiled tribal insults until the man finally gave him directions to what he called the dormitory.

  ‘You’ll be staying with the drivers. They’re Kikuyus of course,’ he added with a smirk.

  The setting sun sent long shadows through the acacias as Joshua carried his bag down the path to a sprawling, low-roofed structure hidden from the other lodge buildings by a long line of enormous old bougainvilleas. Their brilliant colours glowed in the sun’s sloping rays.

  Five middle-aged men sat around a low table playing cards. They barely glanced up as Joshua entered.

  ‘Not there,’ one said as he put his backpack on an unoccupied bunk.

  Joshua looked over the eight beds and could see that five were rumpled or had personal items on them. The one he’d put his pack on was clearly not in use.

  ‘Why not?’ he asked.

  ‘It squeaks,’ the man said around a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. ‘You will keep us awake.’

  Joshua moved to the next vacant bunk and tested the bed. It didn’t squeak, and was far more comfortable than the second-hand springed base in Kwazi’s shack.

  ‘I’m Maina,’ the card player said. ‘And this is Henry, Jamleck, Samuel and Jonathan.’ He took a long puff on his cigarette and adjusted his cards. ‘And what’s your name, Luo boy?’

  Joshua was tempted to retaliate in a similarly rude manner, but he knew he would be sharing with these men for some time. In a rare display of self-discipline, he said, ‘Joshua. Joshua Otieng.’

  ‘You don’t sound like a Luo,’ Maina said, taking his eyes off his cards to give Joshua a glance. ‘And you’re not missing any teeth.’

  The others chuckled.

  Joshua kept his lips tightly shut.

  Undeterred, Maina continued. ‘What brings you to the Lion Hill Lodge, my friend?’

  ‘I’m a guide for two mzungu tourists,’ he answered as nonchalantly as he could. ‘I’m taking them to the Serengeti.’ He fiddled with the catch on his backpack.

  ‘The Serengeti?’ Maina removed his cigarette and appraised him more thoroughly. ‘You know the Serengeti?’

  ‘I usually go through Kisumu and Musoma.’

  Maina nodded thoughtfully. ‘How’s the road out that way?’

  Now it was Joshua who nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s not bad. It’s not bad at all.’

  The men played on, only occasionally muttering if someone played a card that didn’t suit them. Joshua had no idea how to play the game, but watched as if he did.

  ‘Do you want to play cards, Luo boy?’

  ‘What are you playing?’

  ‘Rummy. You need a hundred to get into it.’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t like rummy.’

  ‘We can play something else. We like Luo money.’

  Again the others laughed.

  Joshua searched for a plausible excuse. The silence grew. All five card players were now studying him with interest.

  ‘Oh!’ Joshua said, pulling his phone from his pocket. ‘Look, I’ve missed a couple of calls from the office.’ And he hurried outside.

  Joshua stood at the door of the dormitory, staring into the darkness. Strange noises came from the invisible beyond: scuttling sounds among the dead leaves of the garden and squeaks and twitters from the trees overhead.

  He took a tentative step from the reassuring light of the doorway. His breath caught in his throat. Above him were stars—millions more than he’d ever seen or imagined were possible. They formed a translucent dome of light above the trees and hills, so close he thought them almost reachable. And the air was so different he ini
tially had difficulty identifying its unique character. It finally dawned on him that it was not what the night air had but what it lacked. It was crisp and clean and, apart from the slightest hint of sweet wood smoke, it contained little else to define it, but he felt he could drink it rather than breathe it.

  In Kibera, there was nowhere he could go without the powerful taint of decay and filth. The open gutters were foul with decaying food and putrid water. There was always smoke in the air; not the sweet scent of wood, but the stink of smouldering plastic, rubber and the detritus of hundreds of thousands of people with no other means to dispose of their waste. In troubled times, when many were afraid to leave their doorways at night, they relied on Kibera’s infamous flying toilets—human excrement in plastic shopping bags was flung into the night to land wherever misfortune determined. The stink of this foul litter was at times overpowering for even the most hardened residents.

  An animal’s roar filled the night—a nameless sound from the far side of the hill, made more threatening because of its anonymity. The short hairs on the back of Joshua’s neck tingled. The roar hushed all others and there followed a period of utter silence—a unique experience in Joshua’s life—leaving nothing but the soft beat of his heart and an indeterminate hiss in his ears.

  The sound came again—one long, moaning grunt followed by a succession of staccato encores before it dwindled to nothing. After a moment’s respectful silence, the lesser creatures resumed their positions on the night stage: twittering, scuttling, sniggering, barking, howling and squealing.

  It was hard for him to imagine that Nairobi was only two or three hours away. Kibera was further—an eternity, surely.

  He pulled his mobile from his pocket and clicked open Mayasa’s text. Ninakupenda, it said. I love you was far more poetic in Swahili than in English. Call me, she’d added. She seemed so far away she might have been in another universe. Only her text message, carried across time and space, remained of her reality. He felt lost in a fog of loneliness.

  Muffled sounds of conversation drifted from the drivers’ quarters. How he envied them their nonchalant acceptance of the beauty outside the stuffy confines of the dormitory. How could they remain indoors when such a magnificent night lay untouched outside their door? It implied they had experienced even greater beauty elsewhere, beauty he couldn’t imagine; or they had seen so much beauty that they’d become bored with it. In either case, he resented them immensely. Just a small portion of the purity contained in that single night could gladden the hearts of half of Kibera.

  He edged away from the dormitory a step at a time. Five metres. Fifteen.

  A three-quarter moon was rising, throwing a silver wash over the landscape that transformed it from a world of highlights and deep shadows into a two-dimensional image of reality. He wanted to plunge into that silvered scene; to become part of it; to know what being silvered felt like; and to look back to where he stood, rooted in wonderment. But the very thought of moving into the open made his skin prickle with fear and excitement. In Kibera he could recognise the dangers; he could avoid or confront them depending on his mood and the circumstances. But here he had no idea where danger lay. Indeed, it could be lurking at close quarters, even behind the huge bougainvillea bush a mere five metres from where he now stood. He had been drawn fully thirty paces from the dormitory. The umbilical cord of light that had kept him connected to the building ended ten metres away. He felt adrift in the night, unaware of the new world he now occupied.

  A terrifying screech of unimaginable savagery shattered the silence. It came from the tangle of bougainvillea. It had such force that he doubted any living creature could create it. A comb scraped across a highly sensitive microphone came to mind.

  He dashed to the dormitory door, sending a chair clattering into another on the small porch, and entered the room owl-eyed and blinking.

  The drivers looked up from their game.

  ‘It’s a tree hyrax, Luo boy,’ the fat one spluttered as the others howled with amusement.

  The shower stung Riley’s back with its icy darts. Turning, he endured its full force on his face until he was unable to catch his breath, then turned it off.

  He grabbed the towel and, in front of the bathroom mirror, ran it vigorously over his back and legs to warm him. His reflection stared back, and he moved closer to the mirror, turning this way and that, studying his features as he’d not done for a long time. It was as if he were in front of a vaguely familiar portrait. Tiny crow’s-feet clung to the corners of his eyes. As had been the case for some years, his dark brown hair was thinning on each side of his crown, but now it was slightly more obvious. The grey, sometimes green eyes stared back.

  Out there on the Great Rift Valley escarpment, Charlotte must have thought him demented. The only excuse he could find for his moment of weakness was the memory of Omuga and his eight kids.

  Now he had to get dressed for dinner and face Charlotte again, with those sympathetic eyes.

  He screwed the towel into a ball and tossed it into a corner of the bathroom, then pulled on a tee-shirt and ruffled his hair to make it sit.

  He suspected that dinner at the lodge was a casual affair, but it was the holiday season and dear Charlie would probably be dressed up. He wondered if there were ever a time when she had not been in control of the situation or had ever let her hair down.

  Charlotte paused in the doorway of her cabin. She’d been preoccupied with her thoughts and now ran her hands over her pockets until she found her key.

  She flicked the light switch and walked in darkness down the path from her banda towards the main building. The light fittings mounted every few paces on low posts threw yellow pools at her feet but did nothing to reveal the surrounding bush, which was in almost total darkness. The occasional spotlight at the foot of the fever trees turned their trunks an eerie green, and there were unnerving rustles in the shrubbery.

  She’d been worrying about the wisdom of her suggestion that she and Mark share a short holiday before commencing their research. Mark had been decidedly uncommunicative on the drive from Nairobi and she was concerned how she was going to cope with similar moods over the days ahead. She wondered if her wish for a holiday showed a lack of dedication to her work, but soon dismissed the thought. She was aware she was often too harsh on herself, expecting excellence in her every activity. Surely a brief excursion to experience the wonders of Kenya was permissible.

  Laughter came from the dormitory where Joshua was billeted with the tour bus drivers.

  She entered the brightly lit reception area with a sigh of relief and sweating palms. The head waiter greeted her at the door and led her into the dining room. The candles sitting in glass bowls on each table made for a quite intimate atmosphere. She found Mark already seated with a drink in his hand. Thankfully, he was wearing jeans as she was.

  ‘Evening,’ he said, half rising to his feet. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Hi. A drink?’ She had planned to avoid alcohol at dinner. It had become too easy to follow Mark’s habits, which couldn’t be healthy. But the night was warm and somehow special. ‘Hmm…What shall I have?’

  ‘Wine? A gin and tonic?’

  She nodded. ‘A gin and tonic, please.’

  He gave the order to the waiter. ‘And another whisky,’ he added.

  The waiter nodded and left.

  ‘How’s your banda?’ he asked.

  ‘Very pleasant, although it’s a bit, um…remote.’

  ‘Me too. And they don’t call it Lion Hill for nothing. Did you hear the roaring?’

  ‘No! Was that what it was? A lion?’ She had been in the shower when she’d heard what she’d thought—hoped—was the rumbling of the hot-water service.

  ‘Apparently.’ He shrugged and smiled, looking a little abashed. ‘I thought it was the hot-water system, but the guy who came to turn down the bed told me about the lions on the hill.’

  ‘Really? And you didn’t recognise it? I thought all you Aussies were ou
tback types.’

  ‘We certainly didn’t have lions in my hometown.’

  ‘Which was where? Sydney?’

  He paused for a moment before answering. ‘Wagga Wagga.’

  Charlotte tried not to smile. She failed. ‘Wagga, um…Wagga?’

  ‘I knew it,’ he moaned good-naturedly, shielding his eyes from her with his hand.

  ‘I’m sorry, but it just seems so…well, redundant. And why, if you must call a town Wagga, compound the problem by repeating it?’

  ‘Nobody but an Aussie can understand,’ he said.

  ‘Do any of you understand the double names?’

  ‘Generally, no. Not unless you’re from Woy Woy.’

  This time she burst out laughing, as much from relief as amusement. He seemed to have come out of his pensive mood. She liked him when he joked around, but there were times when he seemed to be on his guard in case he revealed too much of himself. A man of many moods, she thought.

  They chatted for some time before helping themselves at the buffet. Over dinner, they discovered a mutual interest in primitive art. She told him she’d read that there were cave paintings near Lake Victoria, and he said he’d like to see them when they were in the area later that week.

  During dessert she asked him about life in a country town.

  ‘I wasn’t there all that long. My parents moved to Sydney when I was twelve, and when Dad’s job made them move again a few years later, I stayed on to finish school and uni.’

  ‘What did you study at university?’

  ‘BA Lit at Sydney.’

  ‘So did I. Well, not at Sydney University, of course, but at Oxford.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You do?’