A Pride of Lions (4 page)

I settled back in my seat. “As long as you’re not kidnapping me—” I murmured.

“I wouldn’t dare!” he retorted.

I turned the matter carefully over in my mind. “Why not?” I asked at last.

His eyes filled with amusement. “Do you really have to ask that?”

I was silent, unsure where the conversation was leading and not at all sure that I liked the look of it anyway. I was relieved

when his attention was distracted by our coming into the small township of Voi, where we drew into a garage and opened both the doors wide.

Hugo glanced at his watch. “We have time for a cup of tea, if you’d like one? Will you order it while I get the Landcruiser filled up?”

There was a small cafe attached to the garage and I went thankfully inside and sat down at one of the small tables. The paint on the walls was peeling in places and, at my entrance, the flies came rushing to meet me, glad of something new to pester. I pushed them away with the back of my hand, but there is nothing more persistent than a fly, and I knew that it was a losing battle.

An Indian appeared behind the counter, dressed only in a pair of shorts and a brightly coloured shirt that was flapping loose to give him an illusion of coolness.

“Ndio?
Yes?” he said.

I ordered the tea and we carefully discussed whether I wanted a mixed brew, or a brand from the slopes of Kilimanjaro, or another from up country in Kenya. I settled for the mixed brew, hoping that it would also be the strongest, and the Indian congratulated me kindly on the extent and use of my Swahili.

“So you are not touring here?” he deduced.

I shook my head. “I’m working as translator on the new Safari Lodge,” I told him.

His eyes lit up. “Will it be near here?” he asked me.

“Fairly near,” I said.

His face fell. “I have never been anywhere but here,” he confessed. “My elder brother is in Nairobi, at University there, but I have not even been to visit him yet.”

I looked at his boyish face beneath the smooth black cap of his hair. “There is time yet,” I said.

“But everything is happening in Nairobi!” he explained. “Nothing happens here. A few tourists come here, on their way to the Park, or travelling up and down the road, but nothing happens
here!”

He produced the tea, stirring the milk into the cups as he put them down on the counter. I carried them over to the table and then came back to pay him. Happily the tea was hot enough to deter the flies from going too close to either cup.

“Is it always so hot?” I asked the Indian boy.

He shrugged his shoulders. “It depends—Not always like this, but it doesn’t get cold either. When the rain comes it will be better,” he added. “The long rains failed and the ground and the animals are very thirsty.”

I sipped at my tea thankfully. It was hot and very strong, with a delicate fragrance that makes Kenya tea a little more like the Ceylon variety than that of India. I wondered what Hugo could be doing for so long, and I was just covering his tea with his saucer when he came in and threw himself down on the chair opposite me, wiping the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief.

“One of the nuts had worked loose on the rear wheel,” he said heavily. “The attendant saw it, fortunately, but the nut was cracked through and we had to find another one that would fit!” He made a sour face. “The vehicles round here have to take quite a beating one way and another.”

He swallowed down his tea, grunted, and rose to his feet. I followed him reluctantly. Even the peeling paint and the flies seemed preferable to braving again the heat outside. In this I was right, for the Landcruiser had been sitting in the full sun all this time and the seat was so hot that I gave a little involuntary gasp as I sat on it, which at least gained me a sympathetic, if wry, smile from Hugo.

“Only another couple of hours now!” he said with forced cheerfulness. “Hold on to your hat while we low-fly up the metal road for as long as we can!”

He was as good as his word. We stormed up the road, passing the one or two vehicles we met on the road. But then suddenly we left the main road again, turning off through a large village that had grown up around the railway line. There was a train waiting in the station that began to slowly pull out as we approached it. A number of women, mostly wearing highly coloured handkerchiefs round their heads, made a rush for the slowly moving train and jumped on board, pulling their laden shopping baskets after them. Hugo let in the clutch and we rattled across the lines and on to the dusty track beyond. There were one or two notices telling us that we were now back in Tsavo East and that this was not an official entrance and so the public were not permitted to make use of it. An
askari
came out on to the road and waved the Landcruiser on, saluting smartly in response to Hugo’s friendly wave.

“It really isn’t long now,” said Hugo. “I always feel better when I get to the last lap.”

Surprisingly, I was not as tired now as I had been before. The sun had slipped a little from being directly overhead and the animals were beginning to come out from the shade of the long grass. Again and again we startled some of the tiny dikdik and we could see them darting onto the bushes ahead of us. The hartebeestes, tall and elegant, turned their heads to watch us go by, decided that we were not dangerous and went on with their search for food.

We came to a river and, over on the other side, I could see the temporary camp where we were staying while the Chui Safari Lodge was being built. The long dry season had reduced the river to a depth of little more than a foot, but the red colour of its water indicated that it had already been raining further upstream. I wondered how we were going to get across. I need not have concerned myself. Hugo drove along the bank for about a quarter of mile and then launched the Landcruiser into the water.

I rather enjoyed slithering across the reeds, mounting a halfsubmerged shelf of rock and off again, sending the crocodiles, who were larger than I liked, rushing off into the deeper water and away from our churning wheels. We doubled back on ourselves, picking out a way across by following the marks of previous vehicles where they showed up in the muddy shallows and on the edges of the rocks. Ten minutes later, Hugo disengaged the four-wheel drive and we roared along the narrow track towards the camp, where I was to live for the next few months.

A row of tents had been pitched looking across the river, presumably to be used as bedrooms. In the centre of the camp were some rather more substantial buildings, with mud and wattle walls, where they had any at all, and thick thatched roofs to keep them dry. The first of these turned out to be a place where everyone could gather to play games and have a drink and, on our arrival, a number of people came running out from there to greet us.

I staggered out of the Landcruiser, unbelievably stiff after the long drive from the coast, and became immediately aware of a pair of cool female eyes appraising me. Who on earth was she? I wondered.

“Hullo there!” she said.

“Hullo,” I answered. I sounded as surprised as I felt.

“Clare deJong? I’m Janice Kemp. I’m strictly a visitor, trespassing on Hugo’s kindness. Actually, I’m with a team looking into the survival of animals—sort of scientific.” She smiled, well pleased with herself.

“Oh,” I said.

She was a very pretty girl, with the sort of long flaxen hair that I would have loved to have had myself, and clear blue eyes that she accentuated by using a blue eye-shadow on her eyelids.

“I’m
not particularly scientific,” she went on, laughing. “But I take very good photographs and I don’t mind roughing it in the wilds of Africa.” She gave me a closer look. “Looking at you, roughing it is the right word!” she added in a pretty drawl.

“It’s a bit cooler here,” I said flatly. “It was one of the stickiest days I ever remember at Malindi.”

“Oh yes?” she said with a supreme lack of interest. “Well, don’t let me get in the way of meeting your future boss. He doesn’t speak a
word
of English!”

“That’s why I’m here,” I told her.

Mr. Doffnang was easy enough to pick out from the little gang of men who surrounded him. He was obviously very pleased to see Hugo again, pumping his hand up and down with increasing enthusiasm. I got the impression that he had been rather lonely on his own while Hugo had been down at the coast.

“This is Miss deJong,” Hugo introduced me, making his escape as fast as he could.

The Dutchman swung round to face me. He had a round face with slightly protruding, anxious eyes that flickered here and there in ceaseless activity. His relief at finding someone who spoke his own language I found rather pathetic.

“Who is that young woman?” he asked immediately, pointing a sly, stubby finger in Janice Kemp’s direction.

I told him all I knew about her, while he nodded his head and sucked anxiously at his upper lip. Finally he began to talk excitedly himself.

“You can have no idea what I have suffered from that woman! Daily she has been coming round the site, making trouble with this man and that man. And me, I can say nothing to her—nothing at all!”

I had difficulty in not laughing. “What kind of trouble?” I

asked curiously.

“She has only to appear!” he said crossly. “Take a look at her, Miss deJong, take a look! Waving that long fair hair around! Why doesn’t she bind it up like a decent woman would?”

“It wouldn’t be very fashionable,” I said dryly.

I thought Mr. Doffnang would explode with rage. He began a long dissertation on exactly what he thought of fashionable ladies tramping round the National Parks and holding up his work.

“She plays poker too!” he ended on a brooding note.

I giggled. “Don’t you?” I asked him.

He looked very stern and sober. “I do not!”

But Janice Kemp was only one of his difficulties. He had been given an Indian assistant to help him procure the materials for the new hotel and, as they were totally unable to communicate with one another, Mr. Patel had spent his time wilfully misunderstanding every word that Mr. Doffnang had said to him.

I began to wonder what I had let myself into, but I couldn’t help liking Mr. Doffnang. Beneath his anxieties, I suspected there lurked the same kind of sense of humour that my father had. Sooner or later the absurdity of his situation would strike him and his fright at being totally cut off by the language barrier would fall away. Or at least I hoped it would!

“We’ll sort it out tomorrow, Mr. Doffnang,” I comforted him. “If you’ll excuse me now, I must go and find out where I’m sleeping and get clean again.”

He nodded disconsolately. “It’s getting dark,” he agreed. “But why should this girl want to come here? Tell me that! Never mind Mr. Patel! Did you know that last night an elephant walked through the camp? I could hear it breathing from my bed!”

I swallowed nervously. “I’m sure it’s quite safe really,” I murmured.

Mr. Doffnang made an expressive noise in the back of his throat. “You will find out!” he threatened. “But, by all means, go now. You must have had an uncomfortable ride, no?”

I smiled. “It wasn’t too bad!” I said.

I looked around the camp and an African came running, bidding me to follow him and he would show me to my tent.

“My name is Katundi,” he told me with dignity on the way down the earthen path that ran along the line of tents. “If you need anything, you have only to call me. Would it please you if I prepared a shower for you now?”

“Oh, please!” I said.

He left me at the entrance to my tent after showing me how to zip myself into it at night. The groundsheet was welded on to the sides to give added security against insects and other small animals and there was mosquito netting on all the windows, which could also be covered by canvas flaps to give one greater privacy. The tent itself was really very comfortable. A strip of matting had been laid on the floor beside the metal-framed bed. There was also a table and a chair. Hanging on the tent-pole was a naked electric light bulb that came into flickering action when the generator was switched on, which happened around sunset.

I sat down wearily on the bed, too tired even to pull off my clothing. In the distance I could hear two birds squabbling and the trumpeting of an elephant. These were the sounds of the wild I had so longed for. This is what the world had been like since the beginning of time—since before man had arrived on the scene, anyway.

The sun fell out of the sky with the abrupt suddenness of the tropics and Katundi came by with a lighted hurricane lamp which he hung on the post outside my tent.

‘Your shower is ready now!” he told me.

And on a rising tide of excitement, I gathered up my washing things and went off to tackle the canvas bag-full of water that he was pleased to call a shower.

CHAPTER THREE

I met Hugo coming back from the shower. I pulled my cotton dressing gown closer about my still damp form, feeling foolishly tongue-tied at being caught at such a disadvantage. “Can you cope with Doffnang?” he asked me.

“If I can cope with that shower, I can cope with anything!” I assured him blithely.

He grinned. “I’ll have you know that that shower is my handiwork!”