‘Huh?’
‘Safari - where are you going?’
‘Oh, to Malindi.’
‘Really?’ Doug looked reflective.
‘Yes, I wanted to ask you about the road.’
‘I have a map in the office, let me show you.’ Doug handed Brian his bill. ‘You should be able to claim that back from your company.’
‘Thanks, this will be a big help.’
Doug rummaged around in his desk under a pile of papers. ‘That map should be here somewhere. When are you leaving?’
‘Tomorrow morning,’ Brian replied.
‘And how long are you going for?’
‘Oh, a week or so - depends on how much work I get done.’
Doug found the map and spread it out on the table. He pointed at a thin red line. ‘This main road goes direct to Mombasa, 300 miles of single lane tarmac most of the way, though you may come across detours round bad sections. The lorries are overloaded and break up the shoulders of the road passing each other. The road is also narrow and bloody dangerous - never drive it at night. From Mombasa,’ Doug moved his finger, ‘you take a similar tarmac road that follows the coast here; 70 miles to Malindi.’
‘How about the route through the game park?’
Doug shifted his finger. ‘Yes, you can cut across Tsavo East Park turning in at Manyani gate. This is dirt all the way, and you won’t have any trouble. The only bad bit is out of the park on the last stretch into Malindi, there are sections of black cotton, and if it rains it’s hell. Ever driven in mud?’
‘No, this is the first 4x4 I have driven. Black cotton?’
‘It’s a type of clay and when wet, it’s a right bugger, so slippery, it’s hard to stand upright let alone drive on.’
‘Like black ice?’ Ventured Brian.
‘I wouldn’t know, it’s not a hard surface, easy to bury the car up to its axles.’
‘Hmm, sounds like fun,’ Brian said.
‘When it’s dry no problem, but just a sprinkling of water and it’s no fun at all.’ Doug stubbed a cigarette out on the floor. ‘I once spent three days camped beside a Bedford 4 x 4, waiting for the road to dry out. All we had to eat was stale biscuits. We had to dig that heavy bastard out of its own ruts and moved it all of two hundred yards in twenty-four hours, heartbreaking work.’
‘Was that on this road?’ Asked Brian.
‘Nahh, just outside a place called Hola, further north of Malindi – here’ - he stabbed a finger at the map. ‘I spent a few years down in Malindi and went on hunting safaris with my uncle. He still lives there, been meaning to go and see him.’
‘You could catch a lift with me,’ Brian offered helpfully.
‘Yes I was thinking that but can’t get away tomorrow, could go on Sunday,’ Doug said, watching Brian closely.
‘I’m in no hurry. I was thinking about leaving on Sunday anyway,’ Brian responded trying to be casual.
‘You sure?’
‘Positive, would enjoy your company,’ Brian said.
‘I would have to bring Gem with me. Are you happy to take the park road, missing out Mombasa?’ Doug asked.
‘Sure but ahh, who or what is Gem?’
‘Gem is my latest heartbreaker, sexy little bitch, can’t leave her on her own.’
‘Gem is your dog?’
Doug burst out laughing. ‘No, my girl.’
‘Oh,’ Brian said embarrassed. ‘That’s even better, there’s plenty of room for the three of us.’
‘Good, you’re on,’ Doug said. ‘We will have to leave early, to get across the park in daylight.’
‘How early?’
‘On the road latest by 8.30. Let me talk to Gem. I will give you a call this evening to finalise the details.’
As Brian drove out the car felt better, more powerful and responsive. Back at the flat, he called his sister and again only got her answer phone. In the afternoon he went to his office and copied the Golden Palm records onto a thumb drive. This was against bank policy, but he needed to study the accounts in private. From here, he went out and found a cyber café in one of the shopping malls. He copied the contents of the drive onto an e-mail and sent it to himself. He bought a take away pizza and went back to the flat.
The next morning, he went over the records in his computer, making adjustments as he looked at it with fresh eyes. There was no doubt that going back to Malindi was the only way forward with his job and it was the right decision. Shutting the computer he turned to the road map. He saw a small lake called Naivasha not far from Nairobi. The map also had a list of hotels, so he was sure that he would find somewhere for lunch.
Driving north, out of the Nairobi suburbs, climbing steadily, the Range Rover pulled willingly occasionally passing roadside hawkers holding out bunches of rhubarb, live baby rabbits, sheep fleeces and woven baskets; they whistled shrilly to get his attention. Soon he was driving past brilliant green tea plantations that contrasted vividly with the deep red colour of the soil.
At the top of the escarpment, the vista opened up to a breathtaking view of the Great Rift Valley and Mount Longonot, a former mountain that had blown its top leaving a deep crater. The air so clear he could map every gully on its face. He pulled up at a truck stop to stretch his legs and drink in the view. In the far distance on the valley floor, he could see a body of water that could only be Lake Naivasha. A friendly roadside hawker approached him with belts, baskets and beadwork hanging from his arm.
‘Masaai belt for you mister?’
Brian took one of the belts and held it to his waist. It was too small he exchanged it for another that fitted. ‘How much?’
‘For you, my first customer of the day, only three thousand shillings,’ the hawker replied.
Brian looked closely at the belt, intricate beadwork sewn into the leather. He decided it was a little too garish for his tastes.
‘Do you have any others, less colours?’ He explained.
‘You wait,’ said the hawker and sped off to a nearby wooden shack. Soon he was back with more belts.
Brian chose one with black and white beads interspersed with yellow. It was still too bright and he would probably never wear it. ‘I will give two thousand’ They bargained for a while, Brian parting with two five. ‘Is that lake Naivasha?’ he pointed in the distance.
‘Yes, it is the lake.’
‘And where does this road go?’ Brian pointed at a narrow tarmac road off the main highway.
‘That road is the escarpment road. This one,’ pointing at the highway, ‘much better,’ the hawker advised.
‘But they both go to the lake?’
‘Yes. You want to go fishing?’
‘I can fish on Lake Naivasha?’
‘Oh yes, good fishing, but road not good - many accidents.’
‘How far to the lake?’ asked Brian
‘It’s far.It looks close, but is far.’
‘About how many miles?’
‘Ummm, almost a hundred.’ The hawker offered.
‘Ok, thanks,’ Brian said.
The tarmac was lumpy with many repairs. Narrow and winding, it descended steeply. Brian held his breath as he passed a lorry stopped on a corner, leaving only feet to spare from a thousand-foot drop off. He realised now, he was committed there was nowhere to turn round. The road cut into the escarpment face, the tops of trees lined its outer edge giving some relief from the massive view that seemed to suck at the car. But even these trees disappeared on sections leaving the road seemingly suspended over a chasm. It took all of Brian’s nerve to keep the vehicle steady on the uneven surface. Putting it in low gear, he slowed right down and strained to look ahead on blind corners. He was forced to speed up as a lorry descending faster, tailgated him with hissing brakes. There was no room to let the lorry pass.
‘Crazy bastard,’ Brian swore at the lorry. The road was so steep it took very little time to descend to the valley floor. A small church flashed passed on his right, the only relief against the sheer cliff face. Brian wa
s desperate to get away from the lorry, now dangerously close. On a small incline, he spotted a place he could turn off. The Range Rover skidded as he braked hard, and the lorry zoomed past him, suspension clattering harshly. The turn boy shouted out, ‘mzungu!’ as the driver sounded the air horn.
‘Jeeesus, God help any bastard coming the other way,’ Brian swore, his heart pounding as he watched the lorry careering off down the hill, trailer swerving from side to side. He got out of the car and peered back at the escarpment.
The cliff face loomed large overhead, from here he could see where the road snaked off in the distance, but could no longer see the lake. Once his nerves had settled, he continued his drive, the going made easier as the incline lessened. The tarmac strip was still very narrow, and it needed all his attention to pass over-laden trucks labouring up the hill. He noted with surprise on the trip counter, that he had already covered eighteen kilometres since he bought the belt. It was warmer on the valley floor and he pulled over to remove his jumper; enjoying the view of the escarpment and blue tinted hills in the distance. Soon he was able to gun the 4 x 4 as the road flattened out catching up with the lorry that had overtaken him. Recognising it by the empty trailer swinging dangerously from side to side, he sat behind it for a while, plucking up the courage to overtake.
On a straight bit of road he accelerated past, speeding for a while to get some distance between the two vehicles, he was so busy watching his rear view mirror he failed to spot a police check mounted on a corner. An upside down board propped up in the middle of the road proclaimed “accident ahead.”Quick reactions had the car tyres squealing as he zig-zagged through the rows of battered spikes laid on the road, the armed police yelling at him to stop as he zoomed past.
‘Fucking arseholes,’ he shouted back, badly frightened. What a stupid place to put a roadblock! He began to slow and then ducked down accelerating away, expecting bullets to crack around him. Once out of range, he eased off the power and started to laugh, seeing the funny side of the situation. At least he was getting an education on how to control the car, so far, it was impressive.
Either side of the road, neatly fenced ranches with sheep dotted on them grazed on brown grass. The road opened out crossing railway tracks. In the near distance he could once more see the lake sparkling in the sunlight, the wide open space around him, a sense of beauty and freedom. He slowed at a cluster of signboards and read, “Naivasha Hotel, 12 kilometres.” He followed the sign. A short while later without warning the tarmac abruptly ended. A wide dirt road continued, badly corrugated. The car shook like it would fall to pieces. Brian cautiously accelerated until the car went fast enough to ride on the top of the corrugations, and the shaking stopped. A huge dust cloud boiled out from the back of the car and the fine volcanic sediment found its way though door seals, invading the car like puffs of smoke.
A Landcruiser appeared, racing towards him on his side of the road. Brian slowed down and the car shook violently. At the last minute the other vehicle moved over and passed him, the European diver gave him a cheery wave. Brian was engulfed in a dust cloud and small stones pattered against the windscreen. He slowed to a crawl until the dust settled, only to then see a huge articulated lorry moving towards him.
He managed to wind up the window in time, and alternately speeding up and slowing down for oncoming traffic, he covered the distance to the hotel. The immediate contrast was welcome. Huge shade trees grew over manicured green lawns down to the lake, fringed with rushes, rotating sprinklers on the lawn and brightly coloured birds flitting in and out of the water. He parked and a uniformed guard approached the car and saluted smartly.
‘Good morning, Sir, and welcome to our hotel.’
‘Hello there,’ Brian said. ‘I’m hoping to get some lunch.’
‘Very good, sir, we have a buffet lunch, all you can eat for nine hundred shillings.’
The askari led Brian to the main building, a country house nestling under the trees facing the lake. Smaller bungalows led off on either side, peppered across the expansive property. The main house had a wide veranda dominated by a gleaming well stocked bar, and off to one side was large dining room with tables neatly laid out for lunch. Brian slid onto a barstool and ordered a cold beer. He saw his reflection in the mirrored optics counter; his face was covered in dust. He asked the barman for directions to the washroom. When he got back a man dressed in safari gear was at the bar.
‘Morning to you,’ he nodded pleasantly at Brian.
Brian smiled. ‘That’s some dust on the road,’ he remarked conversationally, patting his hands dry on his jeans.
‘Yes, be glad it’s not wet. Like an ice rink when wet, then it’s churned up by the Lorries and gets real interesting.’
‘I was wondering what those huge trucks were carrying?’
‘Flowers,’ the man replied. ‘Cut roses, chilled, direct to the airport, and flown out on a jumbo; be on the streets of Amsterdam tomorrow morning.’
‘Wow.’ Brian was impressed.
‘Yes, the biggest flower farms in Africa along this lake. Trouble is they use a massive amount of water.’
‘Must be a profitable business,’ commented Brian.
‘If you have the right connections,’ the man replied, rubbing his fingers together in the international gesture for money. ‘What brings you to the lake?’
‘Saw it on a map and had time to kill, down from Nairobi for the day. My name is Brian,’ he introduced himself.
‘Derrick,’ the man held out his hand. ‘I’m in the safari business. Got some rich Americans in tow - that lot of fatties looking at the hippos,’ pointing at tourists gathered by the water’s edge. ‘We’re on our way to the Masaai Mara. They serve a great lunch here.’
Brian craned his neck. ‘Hippos did you say?’
‘Yep, down by the reeds.’ Derrick pointed.
Brian admitted. ‘I’ve never seen one.’
‘Really, come with me,’ Derrick slid off his barstool. ‘I need to gather in my troops anyway.’ Brian, beer in hand eagerly followed.
They walked across the lush green lawn right down to the water’s edge. Derrick’s people were huddled in an excited group peering at something hidden in the reeds, cameras poised. Lily-trotters skipped from lily pad to pad, wide spatulate feet like circus clowns.
Abruptly something surfaced nearby. Two huge nostrils flared open in a rush of air, followed by what looked like two small propellers as the hippo flicked its tiny ears. As the head emerged the animal’s eyes opened and it stared at the group of tourists balefully, its huge mouth, an enormous gash on the waterline. Then its back appeared, an enormous platform with a baby lying on it in perfect miniature. It too flicked its ears, to a collective “awww,” from the female members of the party.
‘Look at that cute baby,’ they said, grinning at each other in wonder. The mother hippo endured the camera flashes for a few moments and then submerged from view.
‘How old is that baby?’ A tourist asked Derrick.
‘I would say it was about a week old,’ he replied. ‘You’re lucky to see it - the mothers are very protective of their young.’ The tourists crowded around him firing questions, which he parried in an easy and informative manner. Brian listened entranced. What a wonderful job, looking at Derrick enviously.
‘Hippos are responsible for more deaths than any other big animal in Africa,’ Derrick was telling them. ‘Problem is, they come out to feed at night, and when frightened, make straight for the water, running over anything in their path. So never take an evening stroll down by a lake or river. Four tons of angry hippo moving at up to thirty miles an hour can flatten anything in its path. Not to mention those enormous teeth and as we are on the subject of feed, how about some lunch, got quite a drive in front of us if we are to get to the camp by nightfall.’ The group broke up laughing and headed for the main building.
Derrick hung back for a moment to say goodbye to Brian. ‘See you around,’ he said as he walked off.
Brian stayed at the water’s edge, hoping to get another glimpse of the hippo. He looked at his surroundings, it was idyllic - the fresh water lake, the green lawn, the neat bungalows nestling under magnificent Fever trees. The call of a fish eagle on the wind, bright yellow weaverbirds making nests in the reeds, and it was cool. No wonder the early settlers loved this place. He resolved to come down on a long weekend and hire a boat and do some fishing.
In the dining room he was ushered to a table overlooking the garden. The waiter took his drink order and then pointed out the buffet. Brian ambled over to look and was astonished at the variety of food. Turkey, chicken, roast beef, ham, and homemade sausages, fresh tilapia and bass straight out of the lake, as well as a beef curry with all the condiments, at least five different salads, and vegetables steaming away in samovars.
Spoilt for choice, he dithered unable to make up his mind, his mouth salivating with eager anticipation. Eventually, he took a bit of everything and felt a little embarrassed at the heap of food on his plate. The dining room soon filled up with hungry tourists and what he assumed to be locals, judging by their confident manner and loud greetings to one another. This was obviously a popular venue, and no surprise the food was delicious. Brian had to admit it was worth the drive down from Nairobi, the place was abuzz, and he had to queue for the desert, managing to squeeze in some bread and butter pudding into his already well-filled stomach.
He settled down to a cup of coffee on the veranda, soporifically leaning back in his wicker chair contentedly, gazing out at the view of the lake and garden. Derrick slid into a chair beside him with a cup of coffee. ‘Hello again, enjoy your lunch?’
‘And how,’ Brian patted his stomach, ‘fantastic food.’
‘Yes all the produce is from farms around the lake. Sometimes they have venison on the menu, best food in Kenya.’
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