The sun was nearly set over the plains of Kenya as I sat down with my evening scotch. The chaise was comfortable, and I closed my eyes to listen carefully to the sounds of the veldt in the purple dusk of early evening. The cough of a lion in the distance, the soft scurry of some small animal as it went about its nightly food gathering, and the chirping of insects all blended into the natural choir that sang to the veldt in the evening. The safari was over, the clients safely on a plane back to home, and the myriad of sounds soothed my mind almost as much as the scotch.
It had always been that way, I thought, even when I was just a boy following his parents into Africa on behalf of the Queen. My father had taken the position of wildlife manager over several thousand acres of Kenyan plain and bush when I was five, and, except for occasional trips to visit family, Africa has been my home since. I did go back to England for school, and upon graduation, I returned to take the post held by my father for so many years. I lasted in the job for a while, but I soon learned I was just not fitted to the role of bureaucrat. Being young, and without many responsibilities, I went into business for myself as a safari guide.
By this time in Kenya's history, leading hunters through the countryside in search of the perfect horns, the largest tusks, and all the other coveted attributes of the native wildlife was a thing of the past. The Kenyan government had realized that the wildlife was worth much more alive, running through the grasslands than dead, stuffed, and hanging in someone's trophy room, and had completely banned hunting. I was relieved, really, because the hunting had reduced the population of certain species, and I loved watching animals more than hunting them. My new-found occupation was the conducting of photographic safaris.
I took another sip of the excellent single malt. I had purchased two cases on my last trip to the Isles, and congratulated myself on my selection. The smoky taste brought back memories of my hunts and the hunters, and as I again closed my eyes, my favorite hunt came to mind.
I had received a letter in January from one Colonel Reginald Lewiston Fitzgerald, British Army (retired), inquiring about services and pricing for a three-week photographic safari in April. He would be pleased to be accompanied by his wife. He further asked if the trek would be made on foot, or if vehicles would be provided. Evidently, Reginald spent most of his time reading about the safaris of the early nineteen hundreds. I replied with my prices and details of my services, including the fact that he would not have to walk, but would instead be driven about the plains in the comfort of all-wheel drive vehicles. In a few weeks, I received a check to reserve the date, and on April second, I drove to the Nairobi airport to pick up my clients.
Colonel Fitzgerald was not exactly what I had expected of a retired British Army officer. He walked rather hunched over, not ramrod-straight as do most military people I have met, and his clothing was somewhat rumpled. When he said a gruff "Hello," I caught the unmistakable odor of gin. I attributed the rumpled appearance and the gin to the length of the flight, and to a probable fear of flying. The protruding belly, I decided, would be the result of too much good cooking and a lack of exercise.
Conforming even less to my expectations was Vera Fitzgerald. I had envisioned a greying woman plump with the weight of bearing heirs for the Colonel, and probably stiffly prim and proper from years of being "the Colonel's Missus." She would be dressed in an equally prim and proper summer suit. I was, instead, greeted by a flashing smile and a firm, but soft handshake from a young, red-haired woman wearing a khaki bush outfit. Vera couldn't have been over twenty-five, and although the bush pants and loose shirt tried to hide it, her figure filled them quite nicely. The pants molded themselves to a tight, feminine bottom and long, slender legs, and her full breasts caused the shirt to gap invitingly. Her hair was done up in back, to get it off her neck, but small wisps had become displaced and lay seductively on her forehead and cheek. She spoke with the soft accent of upper-class British society, and her face with it's deep, dark eyes and full, sensuous lips was mesmerizing. She moved with a sinuous grace that spoke of the refined fitness of a woman in her prime. Vera was as out of place with the Colonel as I would be in a Victorian drawing room. It was not my place to question the radical differences in the two, but I did wonder a bit.
After greetings had been exchanged, I drove the Rover to the baggage claim, followed by the truck that would serve to carry all the Fitzgerald's safari gear. In an hour, we were on the way, and by late afternoon, we drove into the first camp. My crew of trackers, cooks, and miscellaneous help had set up the tents, portable shower complete with hot water, and table and chairs. The always wonderful odors were coming from the cook tent. A comforting fire was burning, and after the Fitzgerald's had selected the luggage they would need and it was carried to their tent, we settled down to dinner. In my father's day, this would have been a fresh killed antelope roast with canned vegetables and fresh fruits from the bush, but clients today have more refined taste. Tonight, we dined on aged steak grilled over hot coals, baked potatoes with cheese, fresh peas from the Nairobi markets, and for dessert, strawberries and cream.
I discovered it was a joy to watch Vera eat strawberries. After dipping them into the cream and then in sugar, she wrapped her full lips around each one, drawing off the sweet topping before popping the berry into her mouth. She seemed to savor every inch of the berry. I'm sure she didn't mean it to be erotic, but those lips sucking over the berry brought thoughts to mind that were better left alone.
With dinner over, we sat by the light of the gasoline lanterns and I started to layout the itinerary of the three weeks. I had barely gotten started when the Colonel excused himself, and returned from the tent with a quart bottle of gin.
"Would you have a glass and some ice?," he asked. I motioned to one of the cook's helpers, who soon returned with a short tumbler of ice.
"I'm afraid this will be the last of the ice until we return," I said. "It just isn't practical to keep ice in the bush."
"No problem, son," said the colonel. "I had expected as much, and it won't bother me a bit." With that said, he poured the tumbler full and drank about a half inch of the clear liquid.
I returned to my discussion of our trip, the animals we would likely see, and what they could expect in the way of accommodations and the few hardships made necessary by the country. As I talked, both Vera and the Colonel nodded, although the Colonel spent more time emptying his glass than listening. He had emptied it and poured a refill as I spoke of the camp facilities they could expect. I was especially careful to instruct Vera to never go out of the camp unless accompanied by myself or one of the trackers. I explained that we would construct toilet facilities as we traveled that were sufficiently secluded for her privacy, but that there must always be someone with her. African wildlife is still wild, and the occasional leopard or hyena sometimes can present a threat.
When I had finished, I noticed that the colonel's glass was again empty, and that he was passed out cold in his chair.
"Reginald has had a long trip, and he is really exhausted," apologized Vera. "Would you help me get him to the tent?"
The cook woke me the next morning at sunrise, and by the time the Colonel and Vera made their way to the table, I had finished a cup of excellent coffee and a cigarette. The Colonel didn't say much as he ate his pancakes, but Vera was full of questions about what we would see that day. She seemed excited by the prospect of seeing animals in the wild. The Colonel seemed rather uninterested in everything. After finishing breakfast, he spent the time filling two hip flasks with more gin. Vera left to take care of some female thing or other, and upon her return, we started over the plains in the Rover. At that time of day, the lions would be bedding down under the acacias to sleep off the night's feed and I soon found a pride. Vera, it turned out, was the photographer. She took both movie footage and stills with what appeared to me to be consummate skill. The colonel contented himself with looking out the window, and, when he thought I wasn't looking, took large swigs from his hip flask. In an hour, he was giggling at the antics of the cubs, and shortly after, was asleep.
We drove over a small rise, and the panorama of the plain exploded in Vera's eyes. I always plan several of these "surprise" views, because it really impresses the client, but Vera was astounded. She stood open mouthed for a few minutes, and then seemed to be trying to take both movies and stills at the same time. I laughed, and she looked at me, frowning.
"Mrs. Fitzgerald, forgive my laughing, but you'll see a lot of this in three weeks. You don't have to use all your film at once. You might try looking for unusual animals, or other unique sights and photograph them instead of trying to get it all today."
It was her turn to laugh. "I guess I'm acting like a rank amateur. It's just so magnificent. I've never seen anything this wonderful in my life."
