Zamba

by Ralph Helfer

  We were on our way to Satuk through the Laikipia outback to see my good friend Simon Evans, who owns and operates a camel safari. This region is usually quite dry, but when it does rain, there are stretches of black cotton roads that are impossible to travel. The recent storm had lasted for the better part of a week, and some of those roads were not much better than swamps. In some cases they had disappeared completely.

  Fishtailing our four-wheel drive Rover around a corner, we found ourselves confronted with a body of water that stretched in all directions for a good three hundred feet. We were already committed, so we gave it all we had, in the hopes that the momentum would carry us through the mud. It didn’t. Halfway through we sank right into it, the wheels spinning us deeper and deeper. We saw signs of the road rising out of the swamp about a hundred feet ahead on the other side.

  We waded through the muck to see what we were up against. The road ahead had a base of gravel and had held up quite well. It was just the spot where the Rover was bogged down that had filled with water. It looked like a torrent of water had come down the gully going quite fast and hit the road, washing it away and leaving only mud in its place.

  We spent a few hours jacking up the Rover, putting brush under the wheels, lowering the jack, and slowly creeping ahead a few feet—over and over and over. It was slow, hard work. I took Zamba out of the Rover and tied him to a nearby log so he wouldn’t wander while we were working.

  The three of us were taking a break under an acacia tree when out of the bush came four warriors. They were all wearing the customary red shukas, full-length, dresslike tunics, and red, black, and white beads crossed their chests; and each carried a spear and a machete held by a skin belt. All wore shoes cut from a car tire. One huge man walked directly up to us. Zamba stood up and emitted a low growl. The man ignored the potential threat and gave us a broad grin.

  “Sopa,” he said, using the Masai greeting. “I know of you. You are Bwana Simba.”

  “Well, of this lion, at least.” I smiled, surprised that we would be known this far out in the bush. I calmed Zamba with a command to lie down.

  The man spoke a fair bit of English, and we exchanged some small talk about Zamba. To my embarrassment, he was very impressed by my ability to control Zamba. The more I tried to explain to him that it was a matter of training behaviors, the more he insisted that I had some godlike power.

  In the meantime, the other warriors had been looking—and laughing—at the situation with the Rover. A few got to pushing it, causing it to rock back and forth.

  “Well, we have come to help,” said the big man.

  “How did you know we were here?”

  The big fellow laughed.

  “Jungle drums,” he said, then laughed aloud again.

  He knew what to do with the Rover. He said something in an African dialect I didn’t understand, but which Shilingi recognized as Dorobo. Almost in unison, the warriors thrust the butts of their spears into the ground and took out their machetes, walking off into the bush. We heard a good deal of Dorobo being spoken, along with the hacking of brush, and then moments later they reappeared dragging huge, dead trees behind them. For the next two hours, we helped them build a road of brush through the muck to the gravel road. Then, with Zamba in the back to give the Rover some weight, everybody started pushing. With the engine roaring, the Rover slipped and slid the hundred feet to the gravel road. A cheer went up as the tires cleared the muck and hit hard dirt again. Everybody was covered in mud and smiling.

  The biggest smile was on the big headman, who slapped his muddy hand in mine.

  “We are so happy you got stuck,” he said. I was shocked at his words and could only look at him, puzzled. “If you had not gotten stuck, we would not have been able to help you.”

  Then, with a wave, the warriors pulled their spears from the ground and disappeared into the bush.

  26

  The rain had held up production for months, and when it finally stopped, we worked day and night to take advantage of the weather. After a couple of months of this grueling pace, it became clear to the producers that everyone on the set was exhausted, pure and simple.

  So they gave the performers and crew a couple of weeks off to go on safari and see a bit of the country before finishing the rest of the filming. Pip and I were looking for an out-of-the-way place—something different and exciting, and yet relaxing. We were still discussing where to go as we drove into Nanyuki one afternoon to buy some supplies for the house.

  We stopped along the side of the road for some of the roast corn that the locals cook on small charcoal stoves, or jikos. These stands were quite common all over Kenya, and they fed a lot of people who hurried back and forth to work.

  “Zamba had one of his moments last night,” I said as we got out of the car.

  “You mean seeing things that aren’t there?” asked Pip, with just the slightest hint of sarcasm in her voice.

  “Pip! Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?” She smiled, and then: “I’m sorry. I’m just teasing.”

  Some extraordinary things were starting to happen as Zamba matured. He was about eight years old, and there were times when he would awaken in the middle of the night, fully alert, as if he’d heard something I hadn’t, or had a bad dream. Sometimes he would sit up in bed and watch as though something was moving across the room. His moods during these episodes were unpredictable: sometimes he was gentle and warm, other times his lips formed a snarl as he watched, his eyes crimson.

  These moments had gotten more frequent and more intense during the time we’d been in Africa. Once, while walking in the forest near the club, he stopped in the middle of the trail and sat down. I could see his eyes following something moving in front of him, and heard him “chuff” at it with the friendly noise lions make when they’re greeting someone. The only problem: there wasn’t anyone there. Pippa had seen it, too, but she was reluctant to believe there was anything unusual about it.

  I thought Zamba was psychic.

  In the same way that I believe that real communication between animal species—humans included—is possible—I believe that it’s possible to communicate with things you can’t actually see. I think some people and some animals are better at this than others, and I thought Zamba was especially gifted. Why wouldn’t he be? He was a phenomenal communicator in general.

  Pippa and I were arguing the point when an old woman at the corn stand interrupted us. She had clearly understood our conversation, but preferred to speak in Swahili. Although I had picked up a little of the language, I was happy that Pippa was along to interpret.

  “You need to speak with a Mganga,” the woman declared. She was an old Kikuyu mama, sitting on a small tree stump by the roadway and selling her corn. A ragged old skin hat was pushed down on her head, over her weather-beaten face, which showed her age to be somewhere in the eighties, maybe more. We went over to where she was sitting.

  “To reach a place where your friend and you can truly communicate, you must go through a Mganga, a spiritual person. He will hold yours and God’s hand, so that you may talk.”

  The old woman didn’t seem to know we were speaking about a lion. She never looked at us. She just spoke as though anyone who cared to could listen.

  “I’ve heard of these people,” spoke Pippa. “They’re called Mganga if they heal and do good, and Mchawi, which means witch doctor, if they do harm and practice juju, or black magic. Most are just fakers. It’s rare to find an authentic one.”

  “To find the one you speak of, you must travel far. They are different in the North.” She was looking toward us now, and I could see one of her eyes was closed, and the other had a white spot over it. She was quite blind and talking to where our voices were coming from. “He will not talk to you though,” she said, and laughed.

  “Kwa nini?” asked Pippa.

  “Because you are muzungu.”

  Because we were white.

  Then, she added, “Look to the NFD. Maybe
there. Or maybe no.”

  Then as she turned away, her hand appeared from under her kikoi, palm up. I paid for the roast corn, added ten shillings for the advice, and we headed for the Rover. The corn was delicious.

  “What is the NFD?” I asked Pippa.

  “It’s the Northern Frontier District, the farthest northern region of Kenya. Dry and hot, hot, hot!”

  “What do you think?”

  “Think about what?”

  “You know. That Magogo, whatever.”

  “It’s Mganga. They are supposed to be in tune with the spirits of nature. I know that there are tribes who believe in them very strongly, loving and caring for them as though they are gods. There is one in particular who is supposed to be very powerful.”

  “Do you think the one you’re thinking of and the one the old woman talks about is the same?”

  “Maybe. I don’t even know if I could find him.” She hesitated. “If it is the same one, he wanders far into the interior of the NFD and is in great demand. The local people call him whenever they are concerned about whether or not something will happen. He’s also supposed to have the ability to heal.”

  “Sounds like he’s our man, all right,” I said.

  Pip had a serious expression on her face. “What’s really rare is all the different tribes use him. And he moves around a great deal, so we’ll probably have trouble finding him.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a huge area, only the tribes know it well. He never stays in one place very long, and it’s a very, very hot country.”

  “So?” I said slowly.

  “So, what?” she returned, waiting.

  “Well…” I hesitated. “Next Friday does start our time off for the holidays.” I leaned back in the seat. “Zam, what do you think? Do you want a witch doctor getting into your mind?”

  “Mganga,” Pip corrected.

  Zamba looked like he needed to pee, so that ended the conversation right there. I knew Pip loved an adventure as much as I did, and that I wouldn’t have to wait long for a response.

  A week later we were bathing Zam and loading him in the Rover. The supplies went up top on the roof canopy, behind where Zamba’s hatch opened up. I threw a canvas over the whole lot, tying it down good and tight. One of my friends felt it was just too dangerous an area to go without some sort of protection, so he loaned me a 306 rifle, which I secured under the front seat. We strapped a few extra jerry cans of petrol and water to the bumper of the car, checked the tires to be sure they were well inflated, and headed out into the bush country in search of this spiritual man.

  We had told only a few trusted friends where we were going. This was an intensely personal quest, one that I felt driven to complete. I knew that most people would probably think I was crazy.

  The next day found us driving deep into Kenya. There were no roads to speak of, just an occasional piece of lumber, some rusty wire, empty cans, and quite a number of beer bottles. Some old miners in search of gems had probably used the track we were on. The area was noted for its precious stones, but many prospectors had died trying to find them. Animal tracks crisscrossed the old road at every turn. The animals were there, but they were not as abundant as in the areas farther south. Zamba perked up whenever some appeared, but he never showed any aggression toward them.

  Few mzungu ever went into this area, as the tribes were noted to be quite hostile. I figured that between the gun, Pippa’s fluent Swahili, and the African lion in the back, it kind of evened the odds.

  The NFD lived up to its reputation. It was HOT! Our outside thermometer read 115 degrees, and we were told it had been known to reach 130 degrees at times. I checked back often to see how Zamba was taking it. This was not the best place for a lion, especially one with a full mane, but he seemed quite content to sit up high with his head and shoulders sticking out of the hatch in the roof. The dry wind whipped his mane back off his face, giving him an almost human look. I also noticed that it was tangling his mane and would make it impossible to comb, so we stopped under the only acacia tree for miles, which provided a small amount of shade. Pip got me one of her wraps, a bright orange one, and together we made a sort of enormous bandana out of it. I put as much of Zamba’s mane in it as I could, then wrapped it all up like a giant ponytail and tied it tight. He looked like a washerwoman, but I didn’t think he minded.

  By the second day driving in the NFD, the temperature had hit 118 degrees. Zamba was beginning to breathe heavily. All the windows were already open, so we let down the back door, and even rode with ours held open to get some of the hot air circulating.

  I was very worried about him getting heat stroke, and eventually we had to stop again. We poured our precious water over the kanga cloth that was draped over his head. He didn’t object, but it only covered the back of his head and mane. With a nod from Pippa, I cut two large holes in another khanga, and then draped that one over his whole head and face, letting his ears stick out the holes. Then I tied it underneath his chin like a bib, and cut two more big holes so he could see out. Over this we poured some more cool water. As it ran down his nose, he caught some of it with his tongue and slurped it up—and then a gallon of our reserve water as well. He looked hysterical in his “babushka” getup, but I had to keep him as cool as possible.

  The sun was beating down on him through the sunroof, so we closed it, thinking we’d reopen it later, when the sun shifted positions. The glass windows were reflecting a lot of heat into the Rover, so with a piece of the canvas that was holding down our belongings on the roof, we covered the windows. The dark interior was cooler for Zamba, although he wasn’t happy about not being able to sit up and look out the top. Leaving the front doors and the back open allowed what little breeze there was to blow into the back.

  We drove for hours. Suddenly we saw a cloud of billowing dust about a quarter mile in front of the Rover. As we drew closer we saw that it was caused by a gathering of perhaps forty or fifty tribesmen and a huge number of camels. They were surrounding what looked like a small well.

  Fifteen or more of the men were in the throes of battle, complete with drawn sabers and spears poised to strike! Some were on camels; others were fighting on the ground. Many of the men had blood on their garments, and the camels were dripping blood as well, from slashes on their sides and legs. All the men were yelling and waving their weapons at one another.

  “We had better get out of here,” Pippa said, trying to remain calm.

  I didn’t argue, but there was no easy way out. My instinct was to slam the Rover in reverse, because some of the fighters had already seen our Rover and were running in our direction, sabers out. But the road—if you could even call it that—was so horribly rutted that we’d never be able to outdistance them.

  As I was trying to figure a way around the battle, I noticed the statuesque figure of a bearded man wearing a pure white Muslim robe, astride a white camel on a small rise, away from the fighting. His camel wore red tufts on its reins and a circle of bells on its feet, and the bells could be heard whenever he moved. Three or four camels carrying women were behind him. The moment he saw us, he raised his arm, which ended the fighting.

  I reached down and undid the rope holding the gun, which I passed to Pippa, telling her to hide it along my side of the seat, where I could get to it quickly if I needed it. The warriors raced down to the car and gathered around it, yelling, screaming, pushing the Rover so that it rocked back and forth.

  The man on the white camel joined the throng. He was a large man with piercing dark eyes and a black beard edged in gray. His robe was of white silk, and a large golden medallion was suspended on a thick gold chain from around his neck. I could see that his saber was hanging from his waist, and that its sheath was of a cured goatskin etched in silver.

  The man dismounted, stood in front of the Rover, and yelled something at us that I am sure was obscene. I remember thinking that his voice sounded exactly like the noise a Cape buffalo makes during mating season. As he appro
ached my side of the car, he slid his saber out of its sheath and pointed it at us. I rolled down the window just enough to smell his foul breath, and felt for the trigger on the rifle under the cloth.

  To my enormous surprise, he spoke English. He said, “I am Sheik Rashid Mohammed Ackubar, ruler of the northeastern province of this treacherous land, and the owner of this well. You are trespassers.”

  “We were only passing through,” I said.

  “Out! Out!” he commanded, attempting to open the locked door.

  I had to think fast. If we got out, we’d reveal the gun, and I felt that would be a mistake.

  “We can’t,” I said.

  “You what?”

  “If we do, it will endanger you and your people.”

  “What do you say? Get out, or it is you who will be endangered.”

  From the backseat, Zamba let out an “arghh.” I reached back and took off the wraps he was wearing. He shook his head, and his mane fell down around his shoulders, the way a woman’s hair will when she removes her hairpins. I turned on the overhead lights, and there was Zamba. The lights threw a halo effect onto his head and mane, and at that moment, he looked holy and not entirely of this earth.

  Rashid drew back in awe when he saw him, as did the warriors who stood nearby.

  “Holy Allah! What is this? What have you done to possess a lion to be under your power?”

  “This is why we are here. Now you see why it could be dangerous for us to step out of the car.”

  “What is your name?” Rashid asked.

  “Bwana Simba,” I said without hesitation.

  “What kind of a name is that?” he ordered.

  “It is my given name.”

  “Only Mugu has the power to be a leader of lions.”

  “Mugu?”

  “God,” whispered Pippa.

  “You shut up,” said Rashid, pointing the saber at Pippa.

  It was apparent that women were not allowed to speak to men—or at least this man.