Zamba

by Ralph Helfer

  We drove north. Two hours later, we arrived in Nanyuki, a small settlement located at the base of the looming and majestic Mount Kenya, its two peaks capped with snow. Another fifteen minutes brought us to the magnificent and world famous Mount Kenya Safari Club, which was owned by actor William Holden and his business partners. This was to be our home for the duration of the filming.

  A large throng of people was gathered at the entrance, awaiting our arrival. The staff of the club, the studio crew, and a host of onlookers were all there to greet the four-legged star. I lowered the back door, helped Zamba jump out, and walked him over to a spacious lawn, in front of a shimmering swimming pool. Off in the near distance stood the majestic and snowcapped Mount Kenya, seventeen thousand feet tall. Masai was at my side.

  I was honored when the star of the movie, Bill Holden, appeared to welcome us to the club. So did the other notables in the cast: Trevor Howard, the Parisian model and actress Capucine, and our friend Pamela Franklin, the child actress. The director and producer, along with most of the crew, were there as well.

  A woman approached us. She had rusty red hair that blew against her pale, slightly freckled face. Her low voice was arresting; she sounded British, but the rhythm of her speech was slightly different—I was to find out that she was a third-generation Kenyan. She smiled a welcome to me; the smile was incredibly warm and lit her entire face.

  “Hi. I’m Pippa,” she said, extending her hand.

  “Hi, there,” I said. “I’m Ralph.”

  “I’ve never touched a lion before.” Another warm, hopeful smile crossed her face.

  “Neither had I—once.”

  “Pole?” she said. It means “Sorry?”

  “Never mind.”

  I told her to approach Zamba just behind me. The crew photographer snapped a picture. That opened a floodgate. “Oh! Please, can I?” and “Me, too?” until most of the group had had their pictures taken in Africa with their arm around a lion.

  I simply couldn’t take my eyes off this exciting redhead. And it was mutual. During the time that we were in Africa, Pippa and I were to become inseparable. In my eyes, she was the perfect woman to show me Africa—for me, she was Africa. She would share her love for this great country with me, show me things I had never even imagined, and teach me as much Swahili as I could learn. But I didn’t know that yet.

  When the other lions arrived in the slower truck, we were escorted to a spot below the pool, close to the edge of the forest, a place that we would later dub the Lions’ Den. I had plans sent ahead for the construction, but I was amazed by the creativity that had been lavished on the design. The entire facility was dressed in natural materials, and looked as if it had been there for years. It sat near a freshwater river that cascaded down through the forest from Mount Kenya.

  The den itself consisted of a four-room African shamba, or house. The main entrance leading into the building was made of cedar and bamboo. Its top was arched and covered with a thick layer of elephant grass.

  Inside there were three lion “apartments” fashioned after a Masai manyatta, or village. Each room had a strong, heavy bed made of Meru oak, four feet off the ground and substantial enough to hold a lion’s weight comfortably. The fourth room held all the equipment needed to handle the lions. Along one wall hung a variety of chains, canes, leads, clips, and other paraphernalia. Another wall held an array of medicines, brushes, combs, special devices, tranquilizer guns—not that we’d be needing them!—and accessories.

  All the rooms opened out into the house’s main area. A six-inch-thick teakwood chopping block stood on an counter-height island in the middle. All the meals were prepared here with special vitamins and minerals at hand to work into the meat. The compound’s walls were made of a mixture of cow dung and mud plastered over six-gauge chain link. The roof was covered with woven swamp reed thatching, which would keep the compound cool at all times but was still thick enough to stop any rain from seeping through. Water was piped in twenty-four hours a day from the freshwater springs coming off Mount Kenya.

  A fenced yard surrounded the house so the lions could lounge, relax, or exercise when it was cool enough to be outside. We also used it as a training area. I later learned that the large tree in the center of the compound, and one that the lions loved to use to sharpen their claws, was a Mugumo tree. I came to understand that it was a very spiritual tree, and one that many of the local people came to pray under. It was big enough to sustain the damage from the lions’ huge claws, and the locals were happy to lend use of the tree, as lions are highly respected in all of East Africa.

  This was surely a palace fit for the King of Beasts.

  I stayed nearby, in a luxurious suite adjoining the main hotel, just over a grass rise from the Lions’ Den. The view was spectacular. The grounds of the club were beautifully landscaped and blended in with the nearby mountain forest. Jacaranda trees with their vivid purple flowers, Cape chestnut, acacia, and giant fig were just a few of the trees that graced the grounds. In the near distance, the glorious peak of Mount Kenya rose majestically.

  I was amazed to find that herds of elephants, buffaloes, impalas, water bucks, and lions were among the many species that frequented the forest just a few yards away. I assumed that the small fence that bordered the grounds was a sufficient barrier to keep the forest on that side and the club on the other. I was proven wrong on numerous occasions.

  We put each lion into his or her own room. They explored the rooms thoroughly, sniffing and smelling the different woods, opening their mouths to more fully appreciate all these new smells. The house was a hit.

  That first night, I slept in the compound with Zamba. I was afraid he would be frightened and need someone to hold his paw. Maybe I babied him too much, but he meant everything to me, and I wanted his first night in this special place to be special.

  Early the next morning, I was repairing some of our equipment that had been damaged during the trip. One of the Askaris, our guards, came in with a man.

  “This is Njoka. He wants to work for you.”

  He was of the Kikuyu tribe, and had a slight build, light-colored skin, and piercing dark eyes, although he kept them cast down as I spoke to him.

  “Aren’t you afraid to work with the lions?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How will you be able to function?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It didn’t take but a minute to realize that he didn’t speak any English.

  “Sorry,” I said. “No English, no job.”

  The Askari translated for Njoka, who said, with great effort, “I…speak you Swahili. Then we understand. You in Africa now. Okay. Okay?”

  He was right, I thought. I should learn a bit of Swahili, and at the same time he’ll learn a bit of English.

  “Okay. We’ll give it a go. How do I say okay?” I asked the Askari.

  “Sawa sawa,” he said.

  “Sawa sawa,” I said to Njoka.

  He smiled, then went over and sat on a stool. I guess he figured to start right that minute. The guard left. I put Njoka to work cutting up meat and preparing the lion food. Njoka was to become a good friend, one I could always count on. I also did learn quite a bit of Swahili. If he could teach me a language, I guess that means he was a pretty good teacher.

  Every day at the club was a celebration of life. It took all my self-control not to run the lawns with Zam, shouting out my happiness at all the wonders around me. The grounds of the club were truly magical, filled with running streams, flowers, plants, and trees. And the animals! The variety in the bird life alone was astounding: marabou storks, egrets, kiwis, kites, Egyptian geese, and a Sari crane that the staff told me had been there for years. It had been attacked by a leopard once and survived, and another time by a baboon. One wing was damaged, but the bird still strutted its stuff throughout the grounds.

  About four o’clock each day, the bird man came to
feed the birds. An old man, he carried a satchel filled with bird food over one shoulder. Not just seed, but cut-up fruit as well: mangoes, apples, oranges, grapes, and lots of pawpaw. When the birds saw him coming, they would swoop down from the trees and rooftops, landing at his feet. Many of the birds were marabou storks, the largest birds in Africa, with six-foot wingspans. They would launch themselves off the tops of the giant trees and glide across the grounds, coming in for landing like a 747. As they approached the ground, their feet touched down with an occasional hop, just like the wheels of a plane, before bringing them to a halt just inches from the bird man. It was something to see.

  If we weren’t working on the set, every day at four o’clock, Zamba would strain against his lead to go see the birds. He never tried to chase them, but he was definitely fascinated by the way they flew and landed. Many bits of food landed within a few feet of him, and the birds picked it up and ate it unconcernedly; they didn’t seem to mind his being there and treated him just like a person.

  The division between nature and the club wasn’t always clear. One night some of the actors and crew were having drinks and telling stories when, suddenly, Kellen burst through the door.

  “LION! LION!” He was yelling and out of breath. I could see the color had drained from his face. Capucine went to get him some water, while Bill Holden and I tried to settle him down.

  “Kellen, calm down. What happened?” I asked.

  “I was walking down to check the lions for the night, and I saw Zamba standing on the trail. I thought he had gotten out of his room somehow, so I chastised him. ‘What are you doing? Get back inside right now! You hear me?’”

  “And?” I waited, a little nervous.

  “Well, he ran back toward the compound, and then instead of going inside, he ran off into the jungle!”

  Capucine came back with the water.

  “I went into the compound to get his lead so I could take him back and—and there was Zamba, in his room! It wasn’t Zamba out there at all! It was some other wild lion I had been yelling at! Man, I don’t think I touched the ground getting back up here.”

  We found out later that a big male had been coming in from the forest to woo Tammy. And we never stopped teasing Kellen, all the time we were in Kenya.

  The club staff were also some of the nicest people I have ever known. Many had been there since its inception and treated us like guests in their house.

  I made special friends with a young Indian boy named Vinod, or Vinny, as he liked to be called. He ran the shortwave radio on the set, and it was from him that I first heard the nickname I’d been given by the locals: Bwana Simba, the boss of the lions.

  “You’re Zamba’s boss?” he asked.

  I laughed. “Well, sometimes—sometimes he’s the boss.”

  “Can I meet him when he’s not too busy?”

  “You mean, like make an appointment?”

  “I don’t want to interfere with his schedule.”

  I put my arm on Vinny’s shoulder. “Zamba would be more then happy to meet you,” I said. I arranged for an “appointment” the following day. All three of us became fast friends. Vinny was always the first to offer his help, and in return I let him come to the lion house and get to know the cats.

  It was also an honor to meet and get to know Jacob, one of the managers at the club. He was second in charge and always available to greet visitors. He remains one of the most charismatic men I have ever met. His smile was infectious, and when you were away, it was his energy that brought you back. In all the years I was to frequent the club, he was always there to smile and embrace anyone coming in from a long safari or on arriving from far-off places. You always felt that he genuinely cared about your well-being, and when he was talking to you, he conveyed the impression that you were the most important thing in his life.

  Our life at the club fell into a lovely routine. Every morning, if the weather was good and we weren’t working on the movie, I would take Zamba out for his brushing and grooming. Sometimes Masai would join me; he loved to help with the grooming. At least thirty children would be waiting patiently on the club lawn in hopes that the breeze would blow the hair in their direction. As I brushed his mane, I pulled the hair apart so there would be enough for everybody. It seemed like the least I could do—where else could they possibly get hair from a lion’s mane?

  Many of the children had been sent to bring some home for their fathers. A piece of lion hair symbolized good times, health, and above all, strength. Both the children and the adults would weave it into their own hair. Some of the elders tied it around their stretched earlobes. I am sure many pieces were sold. When a good breeze would blow, it was pure excitement, with all the kids screaming and yelling and scrambling to catch Zamba’s hair.

  Once, while the children were enjoying themselves, something totally bizarre happened. The sun, which had been bright and hot, began to lose its glow. There were no clouds in the sky, but something was clearly happening. I heard a low, ominous, vibrating sound, and saw what appeared to be a tornado descending on the club: a big, powerful black cloud, spinning like a top, its long, snakelike arm swaying to and fro and coming closer and closer.

  As the sky darkened, the children screamed and ran for cover. I watched as the cloud came directly overhead, then slowly began to descend like a giant helicopter. It was then that I realized it wasn’t a tornado at all but a swarm of locusts! Millions of them. I had never seen anything like it. I knew very little about locusts, other than that some invade every twenty years.

  I quickly ran Zamba into the nearest doorway, which happened to be the bar. I figured the locusts couldn’t hurt him, but I didn’t want him to panic. He didn’t, but the bartender inside, who was busy preparing the afternoon buffet snacks, jumped over the bar at the sight of him, knocking over the table of hors d’oeuvres that he was preparing.

  “Pole,” I said.

  I would never have imagined how threatening a locust swarm can be. The humming drone was ear-splitting and inescapable as the dark cloud slowly settled on the club. Millions upon millions of huge locusts landed everywhere, eating all the vegetation in sight. These were not little grasshoppers—some were as long as four inches! Drawn outside to look, I was covered in seconds.

  I remembered reading that the locust plague was an awesome spectacle and one of the most feared pestilences of the ancient world. The average locust can consume many times its own weight every day, and a swarm, an army of insects numbering in the hundreds of millions per square mile, can amass in minutes. The garden, full of corn, beans, lettuce, squash, and many other vegetables, was inundated, as well as certain other bushes and flowering plants. The roadway was covered with them, inches deep. A truck coming down the road, now slippery with locusts, careened off into a ditch.

  All of a sudden, the club’s staff burst out of every door: waiters, kitchen help, and drivers, all running outside with bags. They collected the locusts as fast as they could, stuffing them in every conceivable place. The children joined in.

  For a half hour the club was completely covered in locusts, and then, as though responding to some signal unheard by us, they took their loud, vibrating sound off into the sky. Within moments, everything was back to normal, except the decimated foliage they’d left behind. The sky was clear again, as if they’d never been there. One little boy said, “They gave us back our sun.”

  After that, everywhere you went, the Africans were eating locusts—fried, boiled, roasted. Children were running around with them sticking out of their mouths, a foot here, a head there. I tasted some. Not bad!

  21

  Life in Africa was very good. Shooting the movie, on the other hand, was not.

  While we were there, Kenya was inundated with the worst rains in thirty years. Rivers overflowed their banks in all parts of the country, and the earth could hold no more water. Villages were swept away, and many lives were lost. The black cotton murram roads were as slippery as grease, and travel became near impossible
.

  The shoot was supposed to take six months, but it would be a year before we were back in the States. Day after day, the production was canceled because no one could get to the location, and even if we had gotten there successfully, the heavy downpour made it impossible to film. The lions stayed warm and calm either in their “house” or in their accommodations on location. When the sun would burst through, we’d quickly call everybody to duty to take advantage of the rare moment of light.

  Costs mounted, and the studio tried over and over to cancel the production, but there was already a lot invested, and the producers were tenacious, so they focused on ways to get the shots and get out. The production company built a soundstage at the club, which included sets where the majority of the scenes were to be shot, so those could be done inside. It was a pleasure to shoot in a warm, comfortable environment, but it wasn’t all easy going. The drumming of the rain reverberated throughout the makeshift studio and caused the sound man an inordinate amount of problems. Much of the dialogue had to be dubbed later.

  The bright side of losing so many shooting days was that it gave me a great deal of time to spend with Pippa. My relationship with her was unlike that with any woman I had known before her. Her confidence and humor made it possible for us to spend seemingly endless amounts of time together. We spent a great deal of time during those rainy days getting to know the cast and crew.

  As I had hoped, Zamba and young Pam became fast friends. She rode on his back, helped to wash him down before a scene, and would brush his drying mane for hours. He loved to put his head on her lap (but for just a short time; it would quickly become too heavy for her), and to pop balloons that she tossed for him.

  It was on The Lion that I had the great pleasure of working with and getting to know Trevor Howard, one of the great actors of our time, perhaps best known for David Lean’s Brief Encounter, or for his role in The Third Man. He was a wonderful person (as well as a great actor, no matter what shenanigans we’d been up to the night before), and we became good friends while visiting the local pubs or the many private homes that welcomed him with open arms.