Safari

by Geoffrey Kent

  “The generators are here, Geoff. They’re charging the cylinders now.”

  “Excellent, well done. And our instructor?”

  “We wouldn’t leave without Carlos, Geoff. Your naturalist is on board, too.”

  Brilliant variety on this trip—we’ll spend mornings on land touring most of the nineteen main islands with our naturalist. The captain says the island of Santa Cruz, an inactive volcano, is a must-see for its lava tunnels. Over lunch on the first day, the naturalist tells us all about the Galápagos penguins and the giant tortoises. “The tortoises are the biggest living tortoises in the world,” he says, “often five feet in length and over five hundred pounds.” The Wards look at me with wide eyes when he explains that the giant tortoises can live to around one hundred years old. “They’re old devils, sometimes their faces look like little old men,” he says, and they were once so populous that the Galápagos Islands became their namesake. “It’s surprising how few people know that ‘Galápagos’ comes from the word for ‘tortoise,’” he explains. “It’s an Old Castilian word that the Spanish explorers used to describe the abundance of the reptile on these islands.” The animals in the Galápagos aren’t at all afraid of humans—in fact, he says, as we walk along the beach, we’ll actually have to step over the sea lions. They’re completely unthreatened by humans, and in between mating and swimming in search of sardines, they love to relax and catch some sun.

  “Not the worst existence in the world.”

  Gerald and Amanda look at me and break into laughter, which pleases me all the more.

  “Whoops,” I tell them. “Did I say that out loud?”

  “Geoff,” says Gerald. “I’m curious. Which animal or bird would you most like to see while we’re here?”

  “That’s easy,” I tell him. “The blue-footed booby on Espanola Island.”

  The blue-footed booby is wild, and I don’t just mean it in the undomesticated sense. I’ve read that their name comes from bobo, a Spanish word for clown, either because of their huge, brightly colored feet or because of their peculiar mannerisms. When a male blue-footed booby is courting a female, he slowly lifts his legs, one and then the other, in the oddest mating dance. Then he stretches his wings wide to show off how broad and strong he is, and he brings her a gift of little twigs as a promise that he’s capable of building a good nest for their young.

  The female, however, keeps her eyes mostly on one thing—his feet. It’s not because bigger is better in the double entendres of Galápagos wildlife; it’s because the brighter his feet, the healthier he’s meant to be. The blue-footed booby’s foot color is an indicator of fertility, and the duller his feet are, the poorer potential the female will believe he has to give her babies.

  In the afternoons when the water is calm, we’ll dive among the marine life and coral reefs, so compelling because of the difficult time they have surviving in this part of the world. The Galápagos happen to sit at the intersection of several different types of currents, bringing a variety of water temperatures through, with the warmer temperatures typically making it more difficult for the highly sensitive coral to adapt and situate themselves there. El Niño in the early 1980s wiped out much of the coral population, which is thought to have originated millions of years ago, and because of the wealth of shellfish, sardines, and anchovies in the Galápagos, overfishing has affected the food chain and caused sea urchins to graze hungrily on the coral without allowing enough time for the coral to recover. Acidity in the water is equally as concerning—since the industrialization of the twentieth century, the waters in this area have ended up with one quarter of the world’s carbon dioxide, which is choking the coral.

  Our first afternoon out on the Pacific, Gerald and Amanda elect to lounge on board to get over the jet lag of their flight from London. As we suit up on the deck, Carlos, the diving instructor, harnesses his cylinder on his back and tells me, “You don’t want to wait another decade and hope to see this coral.” I fit my goggles and put on my wet suit and attach my tank. As we transfer into a smaller Zodiac boat, I know that if we’d sat back much longer to take this trip, the most vibrant corals of the Galápagos would be gone.

  “Now, Geoff,” Carlos says, “I know you’ve done this before, but I have to remind you that this is a drift dive. When we get let in, the current is going to take us down, and you’ll barely even notice it. You don’t have to do much work.”

  “Right, I follow.”

  “Okay. I just had to make sure that’s clear. We’ll be down about a hundred twenty feet, so just remember to keep your eyes on me. Watch for my signals.”

  I nod. One hundred and twenty feet is not an extreme dive, but it’s nothing a beginner would attempt.

  We fall backward off the sides of the Zodiac into the ocean—Christ, for as sunny as it is here, the water is freezing!—and immediately we are among what must be thousands of brightly colored, tiny fish. When the fish scatter, I spot my first reef: it looks like a great green boulder decorated in yellow and fluorescent-pink moss. Carlos is close at my side, and I give him a thumbs-up. So far, so good.

  {Harold Lassers}

  The volcanic island of Bartolome in the Galápagos.

  The fish are everywhere, practically raining on us, in bright, reflective red, nature’s romantic contrast to the royal-blue depths of the ocean. They swim down, they flutter aside, they swirl away and scatter from us. When Carlos catches my glance again, he points up. My gaze follows his signal, and there they are: hammerhead sharks, directly above us. There must be two dozen of them, floating in a slow circle—a necklace of moving sharks. The instructor gives me the A-okay sign, letting me know we’re completely safe. I’ve been told there’s never been a shark attack on a human in the Galápagos. A considerable percentage of the world’s fish come from this area, so sharks don’t have much reason to prey on us—there’s already plenty for them to eat.

  The hue of the water grows darker, the neon surface grows more distant, and I know we must be just a few minutes from our maximum depth. A pair of dolphins dances by us, their white bellies catching rays of light beamed down from the surface. Schools of fish appear and disappear again, as if by magic, and a stingray gracefully flaps and floats its way by us. Sea lions greet us, comical little wigglers, not unlike circus seals—one can easily imagine them balancing a ball on their noses. Then, a shark: classically gray and self-assured. He glides by closer to the ocean floor, most likely in search of a late lunch. The ridge between its back fins makes me suspect that it’s what is known as a Galápagos shark. Carlos watches, motionless . . . in turn, the shark ignores us entirely.

  The knowledge of this seems to liberate me completely. I get Carlos’s attention and point down. I’m going farther, I signal to him. He nods his head exaggeratedly and then pumps the Stop signal at me with his hands, as if to say Just take it easy.

  Down, down, down I go, the water ever richer in its color. The most tranquil feeling washes over me, a sort of deep-sea euphoria. A shark swims over my head and for a moment I consider swimming up to him, going face-to-face. The instructor said, after all, that the sharks here won’t do anything.

  Instead, I let the water carry me some more. When I look up, the sun is but a faraway thing. This is the perfect existence, I think. It’s as though I’m drunk on happiness; it occurs to me that in another life I must have been born with scales and gills. The water feels like paradise—even the temperature here is just right now.

  I could stay forever.

  Just then, there’s a tug. It catches my attention—something’s got my fin. Keeping my senses, I navigate a slow, calm turn, so as not to startle whatever this creature is. Then the tug is harder. I jerk around, and it’s Carlos. He stares at me through his mask. What? I ask him, holding up my hands.

  He points to his wrist. Time, he’s telling me. You’re running out of time.

  I want to go deeper and deeper. I gaze down, and in my peripheral vision Carlos waves for my attention. Now he’s tapping his wrist,
hard.

  He’s serious.

  We swim toward the surface. Carlos moves at a pace that seems urgent, about a dozen feet ahead of me, and then he stops. When I reach him, he signals for me to stop. We stay there for several minutes to clear our blood of nitrogen—otherwise, we risk getting the bends, or decompression sickness, a condition that raises the blood to a temperature that can cause crippling or even death. Then he starts up some more and motions for me to follow. We pause again, head farther upward yet, and repeat the pause another time. Moments later we surface. Carlos grips the edge of the Zodiac. “Grab the boat, Geoff,” he tells me.

  {Raymond Chan}

  This brilliant-hued crab occupies rocky coasts feeding on algae, its strong legs keeping it firmly rooted against crashing waves.

  {A&K staff}

  My wife, Otavia, and I with a giant tortoise in the Galápagos Islands. Can you believe this giant tortoise is more than 100 years old?

  “I’m fine,” I answer, lifting my mask to rest on my forehead. “Just give me a minute.”

  “Geoff, you had a moment down there. Do me a favor and grab the boat just until I know you’re steady.”

  He seems alarmed. I extend my wrist and get hold of the edge of the Zodiac, the rest of me still treading gently in the water.

  “The raptures of the deep got to you,” he says.

  It’s a beautiful phrase. “The what?”

  “‘The raptures of the deep.’ Nitrogen narcosis. The gas in the cylinder—it got to you.”

  “Was that what that was?” I ask him. “My God, I got carried away!”

  “Literally!”

  “Literally.”

  “That can kill you.” He’s chuckling now, maybe only to lighten the scenario. “It’s a good thing I was there.”

  “I didn’t even feel it. I was just so”—I watch my free hand float with the motion of the water in front of me—“happy.”

  “That’s it,” he says. “It goes to your brain and numbs your perception that anything is different. That’s why I didn’t want you to go too far down. The deeper you go, the greater the effect.”

  “I knew we were coming up in stages to prevent the bends, but—”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t mention the raptures of the deep, Geoff. I thought you knew!”

  “It’s a good thing you were there; I never go diving without an instructor.” I take a deep breath, regaining my bearings. “Wow.”

  We’re lifted back into the Zodiac and I’m utterly wiped out. “How was it?” ask Gerald and Amanda, who are lounging on the deck.

  “Breathtaking,” I tell them. “Truly.”

  {Ivan Pavlov/Shutterstock.com}

  Fort Al Jalali, built by the Portuguese in the 1580s, protects the entrance to the harbor of Old Muscat.

  Chapter 13

  Oman

  1992

  In November 1991, the story of our business takes another significant turn when my mother passes away at age seventy-eight. At the grave site next to my father’s boulder, we add one for Mummie with a plaque that reads: Life through her eyes was beautiful. We will carry the torch of her dream forever.

  Mummie’s take on my accomplishments had always been much more favorable than my father’s, and a few years earlier in the late eighties, she’d witnessed the pride of her life when I captained the Windsor Park polo team of His Royal Highness Prince Charles, winning most of the major trophies in England and playing in the finals of the 1987 British Open.

  At the same time, my community-minded and conservation projects such as my collaboration with President Musevini in Uganda put me on the radars of other world leaders to whom I have some ties. Prince Charles is certainly one of them. Another happens to be Qaboos bin Said, His Majesty the Sultan of Oman.

  My friendship with His Majesty the Sultan originated in our British Army days, when we were considered outcasts by our more upper-echelon colleagues. Along with our brother officer, Tim Landon, Qaboos and I were not “landed gentry”—that is, we hadn’t been born to upper-class parents in England. What many of our classmates were not particularly aware of was that Officer Cadet bin Said was in fact the son of the ruler of Oman. We stay in close touch with each other, and Tim and I are stationed in Oman in the 1960s.

  In 1970, there is a successful coup and my old Sandhurst friend becomes the ruler. Tim Landon stays on as his right-hand man and becomes known as Brigadier Landon. In early 1992, His Majesty the Sultan Qaboos bin Said asks me to pass along his invitation to my polo teammate the Prince of Wales for a visit to Oman. In turn, Prince Charles—a lover of history, archaeology, and nature—accepts graciously, and His Majesty the Sultan bin Said sets us up with all the arrangements and generous accommodations for a whirlwind three-day visit.

  After my morning run and a hurried job of packing, I place a call downstairs to the front desk of Claridge’s Hotel at 9:15 a.m., just to be certain that I don’t delay the 11:00 a.m. Royal Flight from Heathrow. Leonard, my driver, assures me that he knows where the airport’s VIP suite is—“Just at the south side terminal, past Terminal Four. It’s all signposted,” he promises. As he pulls out onto Brook Street from the hotel, I relax into the backseat and pull out a stack of notes to review on the ride to the airport.

  As we near the south side terminal, it’s clear that there’s zero activity. “This isn’t the terminal they use anymore,” says an airport employee in an orange vest, squinting in at me through my driver’s window. He goes on to give Leonard a completely twisted stream of directions, and a lump of panic forms in my stomach as we enter a long line of standstill traffic.

  As we inch closer to the next gate, employees are hooting and making Do Not Enter hand motions. “That bloke gave you the wrong directions,” says one of them. “The VIP suite for the royal party is at the other end of the airport.”

  When we finally find the VIP gate, security is very, very tight. “We have your name,” says one of the guards, “but we don’t have the correct number of your car.”

  “That’s not my problem,” I tell him. “I provided all the necessary information yesterday.” The guard gets on his radio, and after a couple of minutes of reading the details from my passport to his colleague, he finally motions me through.

  Before us, sitting on the tarmac, is the most beautiful DC–8 jet airliner I’ve ever seen. “Is this the Sultan’s plane?” I call to the pilot, who’s standing in the doorway of the aircraft.

  “No, sir,” he says, “this is actually the runabout. His Majesty the Sultan’s premier aircraft is actually a 747.”

  “Let me guess: custom converted.”

  “Indeed,” he says with a grin.

  Leonard helps the airline crew load my bags, and, forever vigilant with logistics, I review the next three days’ itinerary with a careful eye to the hour-by-hour plans. When Prince Charles is surrounded by history, it’s important to mind the time—at moments, I’ve seen him grow so passionate that his entire party has rushed to make up for lost minutes.

  Within fifteen minutes, the motorcade with the Prince of Wales arrives, and Prince Charles greets me and kindly asks me to join him in his section of the plane. On board, we explore the seating arrangement: an office full of its own electronic equipment, an ultraprivate seating area, a fantastic master bedroom and bathroom, and a separate first-class section for His Royal Highness’s staff.

  Prince Charles and I spend the first forty-five minutes of the flight catching up on work and life, and then we take to our respective tables and pull out some work. A short while later, the flight attendant wheels out lunch: a trolley full of lobster, caviar, and fresh vegetables that Prince Charles has brought from Highgrove, his house in Gloucestershire. Eating in leisure, we watch our seven-hour route on the television monitor: we’ve already crossed half of Europe, and we’re about to fly right over the top of Romania and then on down into the Persian Gulf.

  When we land at Seeb International Airport at ten o’clock at night, the Prince of Wales is met by a guard of hon
or. With a warm handshake, my old army chum Tim Landon meets me at the bottom of the steps, and there in front of us sits a fleet of identical blue Mercedeses. “Just think, Geoff!” he calls to me. “If you’d never left Oman to be General Frost’s aide-de-camp, you might have gotten my job, and all this would be yours!”

  We share a good laugh and a hearty handshake. “All in all, Tim, I’d say things have turned out all right for us both.”

  “Without a doubt,” he says. “His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales will ride in the white Jaguar in front. You and I will go in the first Mercedes right behind him.”

  When Tim and I served in Oman together in 1964, the city of Muscat was composed of not much more than Fort Al Jalali, and the dirt airstrip where our Beverley military plane would land. Thirty years on, as we exit a high-level overpass on the highway, bank buildings brighten the night, and the windows of high-rise apartment buildings glow warm with electricity.

  {A&K staff}

  Playing a polo match with Prince Charles as Captain of the Windsor Park Polo Team.

  Twenty minutes later we enter the Al Bustan Palace hotel, and the octagonal ceilings inside the five-story lobby soar high as a temple. We check in, and the Sultan’s staff pass around special badges for us to wear at all times. Tight security surrounds us as we pass through the marble-framed archways of the slick, wide foyer, making our way to the royal suite, which the Sultan has had prepared for Prince Charles’s party. We drop our bags and immediately make gin martinis, and I wander out to the balcony: Beneath the suite lies a great lawn with a walkway lit by palm trees and glowing founts of water. Our view looks out onto the Sea of Oman and a silhouetted view of the jagged Al Hajar Mountains, which stretch far up north to the United Arab Emirates.

  After the rest of the party retires for the night, I head to the executive center, where I work until three o’clock in the morning.