Elephant Dropping (9781301895199) (20 page)

‘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 was 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.