Echoes From A Distant Land Part 3

The last time such a group had visited Igobu, most of the young men had been marched away to Nairobi. Months later, word trickled back that the men had been conscripted into the Carrier Corps and required to carry supplies and weapons into German East Africa where the British were waging a war. Others worked for the government administration or were sent off to build railway lines and fortifications for the British army. The only reason that younger men like eighteen-year-old w.a.n.gira were still at home was that he and a few others were away from the village at the time. They had lived in dread that the recruiters would return for them one day.

The white man addressed the chief in very poor Kiswahili. w.a.n.gira knew the chief did not speak Kiswahili - only a handful in the village could - and after the white man began to get annoyed at his silence, w.a.n.gira told him that the chief could not understand him.

'What in blazes ...?' he spluttered. 'And how is it that a young colt like you can speak English?'

w.a.n.gira explained his education with the Consolata Sisters.

'Well, it's about time these blasted missionaries did some good.'

He squinted at w.a.n.gira again. It was an expression meant to intimidate.

'What's your name, boy?' he demanded.

w.a.n.gira hesitated for a moment. 'Samson,' he replied.

'Samson, is it?' The white man ran an appraising eye over w.a.n.gira. 'Hmm ... How many more are there like you in this village?'

w.a.n.gira's heart sank. It appeared likely that his worst fears would be realised. The white man was there to take what remained of the warrior age-set to fight in their war.

'You. Samson. Tell your chief this. I am called Hungerford and I need porters for my safari. Tell him I will give him fine mericani cloth,' he clicked his fingers and the Swahili man showed him a sample that he had reefed from one of the packs, 'and an axe and a knife for every fifth man I take.'

w.a.n.gira hesitated.

'Tell him!' the man growled.

When w.a.n.gira pa.s.sed on this message, the old chief's eyes grew wide with interest.

'I need twenty-two, but tell him I'll take as many as he can spare for six months,' Hungerford added.

The chief was now in his element. He was a keen negotiator, having learned his skills by bargaining with the Arab ivory traders. With w.a.n.gira's a.s.sistance, the discussions were wide-ranging and robust. The chief agreed Hungerford could take nine men of the tribe and they finally agreed on a price. The chief ordered all the eligible young men to a.s.semble in the village clearing; there were around thirty of them.

w.a.n.gira stood beside the chief, pleased to have been excluded from the line-up. Fighting in a wazungu war carried none of the accolades that a battle with the Maasai did. Some men never returned from such duties and, in any case, it was demeaning for a warrior to be forced to do manual labour.

Hungerford and the Swahili, named Ali, prodded and poked each warrior in the line-up. It was obvious they knew the measure of a man: w.a.n.gira watched as, one by one, the strongest of his friends were chosen to leave the village.

When they'd selected eight, Hungerford said, 'Done. Ali, pay him.'

'But we have only eight, sahib.'

Hungerford turned and pointed squarely at w.a.n.gira.

'Nine,' he said.

w.a.n.gira was mortified by his new role as a porter on a white man's safari. He'd tried to remain obedient to his chief's orders and stay with Hungerford until the end of the safari, but nine days into the journey to Nairobi, w.a.n.gira decided to run away.

In camp that night, he sat in the darkness, waiting for Ali, the ugly Swahili head man, to tire of his constant vigilance, so he could make a dash into darkness, and freedom.

Around midnight w.a.n.gira saw his chance and slowly pushed his bed roll aside, preparing for his leap.

He felt a hand grab him firmly by the ankle. It was Kitunga, a member of the Wakamba tribe, whom w.a.n.gira had met on the first day.

'Think long before you act,' he told w.a.n.gira in a whisper. 'You might escape Ali, but he has others posted beyond the light of the fires. He has told them to shoot anyone trying to flee.'

'Let me go, Kitunga,' w.a.n.gira hissed. 'It is shameful for a Kikuyu warrior to carry another's burden. It's woman's work.'

'Better to work like a woman than die like a stupid man, my friend. But you misjudge the work. To be a good pagazi, what you call a porter, requires skill, strength and courage.'

'Do you mean you choose to carry these loads?'

'We Kamba are renowned pagazis. We began by carrying our own goods for trade, but our land is between the coast and the hinterland tribes, so we have been employed by many others, such as the Arabs, to carry ivory and trade goods to and from the coast. Now we are wanted by the British for all their carrier needs. Even the white hunters like Hungerford know we can be trusted to work hard and stay until the very end of the safari.'

w.a.n.gira had met Kitunga, a man about his own age, in the same way he'd met many others since joining Hungerford's safari. w.a.n.gira had an insatiable appet.i.te for knowledge and an almost limitless capacity to absorb it. He filled the long boring hours on the trek by learning all he could from the porters recruited from other tribes. After conversation with Kitunga, he already knew much about the Wakamba. He'd learned they were excellent weavers, made beautiful baskets and pots, built houses quite unlike the Kikuyu, had many curious s.e.xual practices, and when a group of them danced in the camp one night, he discovered they were excellent dancers.

'You told me you were clearing the forest for a new food garden when Hungerford came to your village,' Kitunga continued. 'What is the difference if a warrior cuts trees or carries a load? Is it what you were trained for? No. But when you are on safari you will see things you would never see in your village. There is much to learn.'

'Like what?'

'If you study the white men you will see many things. They have curious ways, but some of them are interesting. And useful. They do more than merely hunt with their powerful weapons. They build great buildings of stone and wood. There is a train station in Nairobi and people arrive from all over the world. When you see Nairobi you will understand. You will be amazed.'

'Tell me of this place, Nairobi.'

'It was Maasai land before the whites came. Now it is a very big village where the government people live.'

'I don't understand why we are going to a big village,' w.a.n.gira said. 'If these Englishmen want to hunt, why do we go to Nairobi?'

'That is where they get provisions for the safari, and we get our loads. Sixty pounds by the white man's measure. To you, a stone like so,' he said, making a circle with his arms.

But w.a.n.gira knew the weight of sixty pounds. It was a bag of maize cobs fresh off the stalk, before the sun had been able to dry them. He frequently carried such bags from the field to the wagon for delivery to the market. He would have no problem with sixty pounds.

'How far is it to this village, Nairobi?' w.a.n.gira asked, becoming more interested.

'Not far. I have heard we will reach there tomorrow.'

w.a.n.gira nodded and decided to wait until he'd seen Nairobi before thinking further about running away.

The following morning was shrouded in fog and, as the safari wended its way through the forested hills, an air of excitement rippled down the line of pagazis. They were on the uplands near the Kikuyu village of Limuru, and word spread that those at the head of the line could see Nairobi through the mist.

When w.a.n.gira reached the ridge he caught sight of the towns.h.i.+p below. It was truly amazing as Kitunga had promised. The huts and buildings sprawled along the river, stretched across the flat gra.s.sy plain, and dotted the surrounding hills. Surely it could house ten times the people of Igobu. Maybe twenty. Even a hundred times!

He stepped from the line of trudging porters to study the sight and received a shove from behind. Ali, the head porter, growled, 'Get along!' and uttered a swear word in Kiswahili before moving on.

Not for the first time, w.a.n.gira felt his anger rise with the urge to strike back at the big man. He was aggressive and rude. More than once he'd seen Ali raise his hand to one of the porters who he'd claimed was lagging behind on the road or not doing his fair share of work in camp.

'Never mind him,' whispered Kitunga. 'He is too big and too stupid to learn manners.'

'I will teach him that size is no excuse to behave badly,' w.a.n.gira said.

'Be careful. I have heard that he killed a man in Kibwezi. He has a very large knife in his belt. Big like a sword. Have you seen it?'

'I have.'

'Then remember it, my friend. A push and a shove is no reason to die. Come, let us keep up and there will be no more said.'

w.a.n.gira made no comment, but did as Kitunga suggested. He knew it was good advice not to make trouble with the Swahili. But there was a limit to how much a Kikuyu warrior could tolerate from one so ignorant.

Ira Ketterman sat stiffly in the saddle as the safari - his safari - lined up in front of the Norfolk Hotel where its guests on the veranda were being served tea by smartly dressed waiters in white dhotis, black jackets and natty red cabooshes. All were there to see the biggest safari since Teddy Roosevelt's in '09 leave town.

In fact it was a Newland & Tarlton safari, but Ketterman was the client and paying a princely sum to ensure all his precious equipment travelled as safely and securely as himself. He'd not spent the last ten years planning for his retirement, and this safari, to have it end in disaster.

He smiled, recalling the safari leader's puzzled expression as he inspected his inventory when it arrived from New York the previous week.

'I've never in my life seen such cooking equipment,' Hungerford, the safari leader, had said, adding that champagne and caviar were not unusual supplies on a Newland & Tarlton safari, but Ketterman's special tents, made to his strict specifications, his velvet-lined boxes and the curling pipes and odd bulbs on his pots and pans, were very unusual. He had delicately asked Ketterman if the cooking equipment was in observance of some religious beliefs, but Ketterman said he wasn't a practising Jew and left it at that, much to Hungerford's mounting confusion.

Ketterman walked his horse along the line of porters towards the head of the column. He noted that N&T made a good show of their porters, decking them out in khaki shorts, blue serge jackets, laced puttees and bright red fezzes. The porters carried their own roll of two blankets and a felt-covered water bottle and enough posho, maize flour meal, hanging from their belt to last a week.

Two of the four armed askaris were attending the ox wagons carrying Ketterman's heavy gear. The others were at the end of the line, guarding the ammunitions and weapons wagon.

Ketterman joined Hungerford, who stood in his stirrups at the head of the column surveying the army of porters, wagons and pack animals. He lifted his arm aloft, and when he dropped it, the strident note of a conch-horn sounded. Drummers thumped their instruments and kudu horns sounded a cacophony. The flag bearer beside them raised the Stars and Stripes, and furiously waved it. Lifting his knees high, he proudly stepped forwards. The entire column wriggled and swayed, like a giant snake roused from its sleep in the sun, as if testing the dust for a better purchase. Then the safari inched forwards.

Hungerford and Ketterman stepped their horses aside to allow the pagazis to troop past. Balanced on the heads of porters or strapped to their backs was everything the safari would require for the next three months, except for fresh foods. There were chop-boxes, mosquito nets, a folding bath for the client's evening ablutions, medicine chests, tents, salt for curing meat, water containers, barter goods. Hungerford, and hopefully Ketterman should he feel so inclined, would shoot all the meat they needed. The excess game meat would be dried as insurance against a lean period when they couldn't trade for whatever they needed with the upcountry villagers.

'Good morning again, Mr Ketterman,' Hungerford said as he drew his horse alongside.

'Ah, Mr Hungerford. Congratulations! We are off to a fine start.'

'Indeed we are. A very good omen for our hunting, I suspect.'

Ketterman turned in his saddle to rea.s.sure himself that his precious wagon was making its way along Government Road.

'I can promise you, Mr Ketterman, that your expensive hunting gear will be perfectly safe with my men.'

'There is so much to watch over,' Ketterman said as the porters began their rhythmic marching song. 'I wonder how you manage it.'

'N&T prides itself on good management, sir.' He raised his leather-bound folder. 'In here I have a full list of all our goods and equipment. Ninety-five chop-boxes or individual pieces of equipment. Eighty carried by porters and the remainder on pack animals or in wagons. All present and accounted for,' he said, smiling smugly. 'I studied your inventory again last evening,' he added. 'I was intrigued by your hunting equipment. Can't say that I've heard of any of it.'

'Most of it is foreign, Mr Hungerford. German and French in the main.'

'I see. Well, when it's time to unbox them, I look forward to studying them in detail.'

'You may do so tonight if you wish,' Ketterman said, smiling.

'We shall only be as far as Limuru tonight, sir. Nothing to shoot there, I'm afraid.'

'On the contrary, Mr Hungerford, although I've never been to Limuru in my life, I am sure I'll have many opportunities for shooting tonight.'

Hungerford glanced at him. 'Limuru is part of the Kikuyu Reserve, sir. And off limits to hunting - unless you're planning to shoot Kikuyus.'

'Anything is fair game,' Ketterman said, enjoying his play on words. 'Let's see what presents itself.'

He turned his horse back towards the body of the column, leaving Hungerford frowning in confusion.

CHAPTER 5.

As the caravan moved down Government Road, w.a.n.gira's chest swelled with pride. He knew he looked good in his blue jacket and khaki shorts. It was more clothes than he'd worn in his entire life. And the tidy little red fez; he felt for it and gave it a nudge to sit at the very top of his head.

The whole town seemed to congregate on the sides of Government Road, cheering and waving small red, white and blue Union Jacks.

There were sights w.a.n.gira could never have imagined if he had remained in Igobu. A white woman wearing a dress of many frivolous folds of pale lemon material sat prettily in a rickshaw. She fanned herself as two African boys in uniform, one pulling, the other pus.h.i.+ng, trotted her past the parade on the dusty street. A soldier in uniform and wearing a long curving sword sat astride a beautiful horse, which skittered in alarm as a motor car clattered past. w.a.n.gira stopped, staring in wonder at the motor car driven by a fat man wearing goggles and a long white coat. At the far end of the road was the railway station and between it and w.a.n.gira were a mult.i.tude of people of many tribes and races: Africans, whites, Indians. A Maasai man shook a stick at a small herd of cattle. A mzungu woman carrying a dainty white umbrella wheeled a baby carriage along the raised boardwalk outside a row of smart shops. An Indian fundi on a rickety bicycle, his tool bag slung over his shoulder, wobbled past an African woman, who was bent double under the weight of the firewood piled high on her back.

w.a.n.gira read the signs on every shopfront as they made their way along the road.

McGrath's Haberdashery.

We Have Finance for Land! Ian Pigott (Prop'r).

Metcalfe's Fresh Meats.

General Store. Merchandise and Food Goods.

Ronald Preston - Gunsmith. Bicycles.

They left Nairobi and its sights behind and after about an hour reached a snaking pathway climbing into a series of low hills.

At the end of the first day's trek, w.a.n.gira was pleased to be able to peel off his load and sit with the others while Hungerford and Ali inspected the chosen camp site.

Sitting in the shade, his back propped against his load, w.a.n.gira casually watched the man they called the client. He was wearing a tight-fitting brown riding jacket, cream jodhpurs and brown paddock-riding boots. He had a little spray of red and black feathers in the band of the brown derby that he pushed to the back of his head as he fussed among the boxes recently taken from an ox wagon. The creases deepened in the notch between his grey eyes where his pince-nez gla.s.ses clung to the bridge of his long elegant nose. Untamed bushy eyebrows - with the colour and texture of thin wire like his hair - cl.u.s.tered above the flas.h.i.+ng lenses.

The client was quite an odd man, even for a mzungu, but w.a.n.gira admired his hat, especially the feathers, which were from a bird he couldn't recognise. He thought briefly about asking him where he'd found such a bird, then put the thought aside. He was muttering to himself, and clearly in no mood for such idle conversation.

'Mr Hungerford!' the client called. 'Mr Hungerford! Hurry, if you please.'

Hungerford quickly joined him. 'Yes, sir. Is something wrong?'

'Most certainly. I can't find my tripod box.'

'Your what?'

'The long box containing my tripod.'

Hungerford slid a hand under his wide-brimmed hat and scratched his head.

'A three-legged stand,' added Ketterman.