Zamba

by Ralph Helfer

  A swarm of bats swooped down to check us out. Junior had never seen anything like these silent “birds.” Alarmed, he snarled and leaped away, stumbling over the dead tree before he could get his footing. Tammy thought he’d seen something out there that she hadn’t, and fell over Zamba trying to get away from it!

  Zamba, God bless him, never got up. He raised his lip in a small snarl and went back to sleep. The last few bats flew around looking for places to sleep the storm away. They settled high overhead in the deep rock crevices, hanging in their upside-down world.

  The warmth from the fire was beginning to take effect. My “pride” was accustomed to fire, as they had seen it many times, but I’m not sure they had understood the warmth it could bring. As it blazed, it threw strange outlines of the rock formations and the lions against the walls of the cave. The shadows dancing against the walls of the cave made the lions uneasy, and they got up, pacing back and forth watching, their eyes opened wide in wonder, snarling at each shadow, following the images as they frolicked from one rock to another. The more they moved, the more the shadows danced. The cats roamed the cave, unaware that the disturbances were of their own making.

  I watched, fascinated. In my mind I saw an ancient and mythical dance, the dance of the demon lions, who came out only when darkness fell. They came out of every crack in the rock, behind every crag. It was like watching a masquerade ball, a choreographed dance in some underworld palace. The shadows were grotesque on the walls, ten times bigger than real lions, leaping from one crevice to another cranny; huddling in recesses, only to jump to a far-reaching rock across the cave, walking on the ceiling like devil acrobats.

  The lion demons slowly hypnotized the big cats, and as they relaxed, their eyelids fell and their bodies succumbed to a peaceful sleep. The demons settled into the rocks, hidden until an occasional spark from the fire made one of the cats jump. My real lions lay on top of one another, blending into one another in the firelight like a sea of warm, liquid honey.

  I listened to the crackling of the fire and the low rumble of the storm passing overhead. Occasionally a bolt of lightning lit up the entrance to the cave. I sat quietly, watching the lions. Junior was the farthest away, near the entrance. Although he looked up to Zamba as the head of the group, I think sometimes he felt himself the guardian and protector of the pride, maybe because Zam spent so much time with me.

  I had never shared sleeping quarters with any lions other than Zamba, and I had a moment’s worry—if they were going to revert back to their natural instincts, this would be a particularly poor time to do it. The feeling passed quickly; Junior and Tammy were very dear to me, and I felt embarrassed that I had allowed my mind to go there.

  The scent of wet lion filled the cavern. It was a wonderful, wild aroma, the smell of the earth’s true inhabitants. As I dried off and began to relax, I felt warm and cozy as I lay watching them, and the wonder of the kind of kinship I shared with them washed over me. These were carnivores; animals that ate mammals. Mammals like me. And yet we had managed to find a common ground.

  I had spent my life searching for a key that would help me to communicate with wildlife, and I had chosen the lion to help me find the way. That night I truly felt that they had helped me to move a step closer to that dream. For trust surely was a form of communication, and there was no greater proof that they trusted me than their ability to sleep in my presence—and mine, to sleep in theirs.

  I awoke in the morning to the sight of my “pride” piled on top of one another. They looked to the walls as they woke up, wondering where their demon friends had gone. Then, content that all was well, they all went outside to do their business. Zamba gave me a “puff” and a wide yawn. I smiled back and joined him outside to relieve myself. We gave each other side glances, as men do at the urinals.

  Zamba stayed outside to groom. The rain had washed him squeaky clean, and I had never seen him looking so elegant. His mane was fluffy, and the slightest breeze blew it against his face. Each lion found a comfortable spot—Junior on top of the cave, Tammy in front, and Zamba on a broad rock just near the cave’s entrance, and in a minute, they were all asleep again.

  I don’t think there’s anything quite as beautiful as Africa the day after a storm. It seemed as if the rain had washed every microscopic bit of dirt out of the atmosphere. The slag that had covered the landscape was gone. It was a time of rebirth—everything dirty, decayed, used, soiled, or damaged had been washed away, and a new, perfect world emerged. The sky had never been bluer, or the clouds whiter, and the leaves of the trees looked as if they’d been hand-washed. Little rivulets of clear cool water coursed their way down the hills into the valley below, finding their mother river and joining her to swell her banks and moisten the dry land far below. This must have been how Creation looked on the first day.

  The walkie talkie beeped. “Ralph, old boy, you there?”

  24

  The big day had finally come—the day I was to “fight” Zamba in the film. I awoke early, showered, shaved, put on my khaki shorts and Western shirt, threw a sweater over my shoulders, and headed down to the compound. Pip was already there, with Njoka and Masai. I gave Zamba his good morning hug and we went to work, giving him a thorough grooming, combing out any early morning mats in his mane. Masai and Pip picked out any dodo bugs that had set up house in his fur. We were all a bit silent, anticipating the task ahead of us, and even Zamba seemed to feel the tension in the air.

  We rode down to the set in the Rover. To get there, we had to drive through a rough, desolate area called Rumaruti. Deep crevices, rocks, and raging streams all helped to make the ride an uncomfortable, bumpy trip. Zamba eased himself up through the sunroof opening and rested his front paws on the roof of the car. With his huge head, massive chest, and mane sticking well above the opening, he rode like a monarch touring his kingdom. Making slow progress, we passed a small group of Masai walking tall, all decked out in their brightly colored garments, skin dyed ocher, and each carrying a spear. I waved. They waved back, and then froze at the sight of Zamba, who let out his usual guttural growl in greeting.

  At last, we arrived at the set. As I pulled through the gate, Langjo, the security guard, saluted me. He was barefoot and dressed in khaki shorts and a brown short-sleeved shirt with epaulets, carrying a spear.

  “Jambo, Bwana Simba!” he said, with a broad grin.

  “Jambo, Langjo.” I smiled back. After checking with the assistant director, I unloaded Zamba and put him in a specially built enclosure. The sun had come out, and the grass and shrubs were drying off. Feeling great, Zamba took off, leaping around in his new enclosure, occasionally slipping on the morning dew and falling on his face. In this cold, crisp morning air he would certainly give a great performance on film.

  There was a lot of quiet excitement on the set. Although everyone was looking forward to the fight, everyone was aware of the danger involved. It was unusual for someone to wrestle an animal of Zamba’s size. Many trainers would wrestle “young adult” lions, but people didn’t generally take on a big five-hundred-pounder. There were a number of reasons for this. The obvious one, of course, is that a big animal is harder to control than a smaller one. We also had to make sure that we didn’t accidentally wrestle too long and confuse the cat by stimulating a sexual response. It’s also easier to wrestle with a younger lion because the young adults still have a cub’s playing instincts. A mature lion no longer “plays” as he did when he was a cub. Instead, he has to be taught to simulate an attack, to pretend to do exactly what he would do if he was making a kill, without really biting or exposing his claws. This is hard with an adult: sometimes, like human actors, they could get caught up in the moment. Their natural instincts would take over and a mouth hold would become a real bite.

  Zamba would have to fight me, controlled only by our affection for each other. When he raced at me and launched himself into full attack mode, only his years of training would tell him to pull his punches. When his massive paw slapped m
e across the face, or when my arm was between his fangs, the quiet words I was speaking into his ear would guide him, and my hand on his mane would direct him.

  There was another factor adding to our nerves. The crew was buzzing with news of a young woman in a neighboring town, supposedly an animal expert, who had accidentally been killed by her own lion, a three-year-old male about the size of Junior. She had tied him out and left him for a little while, and when she came back he had greeted her by jumping up on her, the way he always did. But when she told him to get down, he had slid his front feet down her shoulders instead of jumping down, and one of his dewclaws had hooked the carotid artery in her neck. She bled to death in about a minute or so. They said the lion never realized what he had done, and continued to play with her while she was on the ground dead.

  It was a sad story, and I had heard many stories like it over the course of my career. When you are dealing with such a powerful animal, you have to teach each other how to act. They have to learn how strong they are, and to handle us with care. Even so, accidents will happen. It’s just a risk you have to take when you work with an exotic.

  It was time for makeup, but this was to be no ordinary makeup session. I had to double as a Masai warrior, and the scene was to be shot in the rain, where regular makeup would wash off. The solution they came up with was to give me a bath in a solution called gentian violet, a long-lasting dye that would color me totally black.

  Three women stripped me down and submerged me in a bathtub of the dye. When I emerged I was definitely black—all over! My skin was the color of mahogany. It was not unattractive—a good thing, since the color did not fully wash off for almost six months. Next came the Masai hairpiece, then the brilliant red wrap of cloth, and finally the spear and the knife. I stood in front of the mirror and admired the effect. My bright blue eyes were the only giveaway. Otherwise, I was a full Masai warrior, one born and raised in Chicago!

  The crew had fenced in the area where the fight was to take place. They had chosen a beautiful spot high on the top of a mountain, surrounded by copper-colored rock that looked down on a lush green valley speckled with acacia trees.

  As I was waiting for the final equipment to be moved away and out of the background of the shot, I reread the script. This scene was the climax of the film. The movie told the story of a Masai warrior who falls in love with a young white girl who has a full-grown lion named King for a pet. The lion’s love for the girl is so strong that the warrior and the lion are forced to battle over the girl’s love. In the heat of the battle, the girl’s father arrives. He must decide whom to shoot: the lion, whom the girl loves, or the warrior, whom she does not. Ultimately the father shoots the lion to save the warrior’s life, but the warrior dies anyway from his wounds.

  The director’s voice shattered my thoughts. “Attention, everybody! What we are about to do is extremely dangerous—not for us, but for Ralph. I must ask for absolute quiet.”

  Because 80 percent of the people in the compound were African, his words were repeated in Swahili.

  A hush fell on the set. I stationed my people around the area to assist whenever necessary. The insurance company had forced the production company to have armed guards on the set whenever the lions were working. I was livid when I found out, and threatened to pull out. I told them that I would never allow a person with a gun on the set. Many of the stunts we did looked dangerous, and weren’t—what if they made a mistake and shot? I couldn’t risk leaving such a decision up to an untrained person. Even if they were stopping something that had gotten out of control, anything less than a perfect shot could enrage the animal even more, increasing the danger.

  They finally agreed to arm the guards with tranquilizer guns. This was even stupider; by time the drug worked, the lion would have ample time to finish whatever mayhem he’d begun. But it appeased them, so I let it be, with strict instructions that no one was to shoot unless Kellen or I gave the order.

  I picked up my props, a spear and knife, and entered the fenced-in area. From the moment I walked in, it seemed that time stood still, that my movements were in slow motion.

  Kellen had placed Zamba in the enclosure so he could get accustomed to the terrain. Zamba had climbed to a high point on one of the cliffs, and was looking over the valley below. With his head held high, and his mane whipped by the mountain breeze, he sniffed at the Africa of his ancestors, and at that moment, I was very conscious that he had traded their survival-of-the-fittest ethos for my friendship. I felt uneasy, as if I was invading his personal thoughts, the territory of his mind.

  I needed to talk with Zamba before we started shooting. More importantly, I needed him to smell me, so that he’d know that this black man was me. His back was to me as he stood looking out over the veldt, and I approached him cautiously. When I was a few yards from him, I called his name, breaking his concentration.

  “Hey, Zam, you ready for the big fight?”

  Zamba put his ears back, and for the second time ever, he snarled at me. It wasn’t just a lifted lip or a complaint, but a real, live, lion snarl. He got up on his haunches and looked at me, and I realized how he must seem to other people. His eyes were red, small, and piercing, and there was no recognition in them. I felt a chill run down my back.

  “Zamba, baby, it’s me.”

  I started to walk toward him. He was still snarling, and his ears were flashing back and forth, radioing his confusion. I could tell he was thinking, It’s him…it’s not him. I was stunned by the effect my color change had on him. The dye was certainly convincing: I was pretty sure that regular makeup wouldn’t have had this drastic an effect. It wasn’t until I got within a few feet of him and let him smell my very nervous hand that I saw him relax. After a lot of baby talk, he finally made a conciliatory noise and pushed his head into my side.

  I yelled, “Okay, we’re ready!” and added, “I guess,” under my breath. I still didn’t feel totally comfortable.

  My instructions were simple. On cue, Zamba was to race at me, leap up on his hind legs, knock me down, and wrestle. It was to look like a fight to the death.

  “Okay, quiet on the set!” shouted the A.D.

  “Start the rain!”

  “Roll camera, and…action!”

  The cameras were rolling. I gave Zamba the cue to attack. He turned and looked at me. My God, that look! At that moment, with his ears back, body low to the ground, and every muscle tensed, he wasn’t the gentle lion I knew. Then he came at me. From outside the enclosure, Pam was screaming her lines, “No, Father! Don’t shoot! Please, Father, don’t kill him! Don’t kill King!!”

  For a nanosecond I saw something unrecognizable in Zamba’s eyes. What was I seeing? What was he seeing? Was he still seeing an unfamiliar African tribesman, instead of his beloved Ralph?

  He had never come at me so strongly, with such determination. Years of training allowed me to stay loose and agile, ready for the hit—I knew that if any part of me tensed up and resisted, I’d break in two. And then he sprang, five hundred pounds of feline power. Six times stronger than a man, he hit me like a ton of swinging bricks. His great front legs and paws gathered me up like a toy and carried me through the air, his mane choking my breath. Then I hit the ground, and did a tuck and roll with Zamba right after me. For a split second, I was allowed to roll out from under him, but he attacked again and again, until his great weight held me to the ground. His eyes narrowed, and his mouth opened to display four inches of fang.

  I threw out my arm to protect my face, and as I did so, I flashed to another time, another place, when another lion had me in the same position and sank his fang into my arm. I could see the scar, glistening under the black dye.

  Zamba’s fangs locked around my wrist and held—softly. Yes, softly. Even with the dye that had rendered me unrecognizable, the girl screaming and the man yelling in the background, and the excitement of the moment, our affection for each other was enough. Our great love for each other was stronger than tradition, stronger than i
nstinct itself.

  Then the father shot the rifle, and Zamba was “fatally wounded.” I broke the squibs that we had placed earlier under his mane, and the “blood” ran down his chest. Screaming and crying, “King! King!” Pam hugged and caressed Zamba. His great head fell into her lap as he “died.”

  The cameras stopped rolling. There was a moment of silence, and then pandemonium broke out. Amid applause, laughter, and cries of “Bravo,” I got up and walked over to Zamba. As I looked down at his still and bloody form, sheer terror shot through me at the horrible thought of his really being taken from me. I bent down over him. One great amber eye opened, and a forepaw shot up and caught me around the neck. He pulled me to him, and with his big, raspy tongue, he licked my face.

  We got up and walked out of the compound, out of my world of fakery and applause, and into the wilderness of his.

  25

  The heaviest rains usually come between March and June, but this was a year of floods, and the heavy rains had come early, so we had been given a few days off while we waited for the weather to clear. My Turkana friend Shilingi and I had decided to go off on our own for a couple of days, and I decided to take Zamba along for the ride. He loved driving with his head sticking out the top of the Land Rover.

  Shilingi was an interesting character. He was a brilliant tracker and a strident conservationist. I found out many years later that it was the zealotry of the converted—he had been a poacher in his youth. His tracking skills and eye for detail made him an incredible person to safari with; he saw all kinds of things on the trail that a normal person would never even notice, and I always felt very safe with him. He carried a small bag of snuff, and he would often stop, take a pinch, and gaze off into the distance. Suddenly, some wonderful animal would then appear. We used to joke that the snuff made them come. “Take some snuff, Shilingi,” we’d bug him, if there was nothing doing on the veldt.