Hello, Thank You & Goodbye - a true (ish) short story - on safari in Kenya

Surprisingly, for a village made of shit, it really didn’t stink at all. In fact, Sebastian had been in some houses in the UK where the stench had been far more intolerable. No, by comparison, the small tribe’s commune actually offered up quite a pleasant environment really – well, that is to say when you became accustomed to the swarms of flies out on an expedition of their own; excavating deep into your nostrils and mouth and not to mention up the orifices of any knickerless travel agent who’d decided to go commando that day and that you’d to hold the hand of. Or worse, if you, as tour leader, were expected to extend a helping hand and go delving into no fly zones yourself.

Classless travel agents aside for a moment though, what a privilege it was to take an unofficial detour from the tedious lion safari in the Masai Mara that just any old body can go on and which even the lions show a distinct indifference to; lying there, yawning, stretching, while people gawp at them. How wearisome it’d all become, even for them; bored, nothing better to do these days apart from wondering what to have for lunch other than coming up with original poses to accommodate the latest batch of fresh white meat standing atop the relative safety of their Jeeps or poking their heads out the open roof of a minibus - the safe choice for those not altogether brave enough for an authentic safari experience. Necessary, to look menacing though; the least the lions could do as hosts of sorts, it being a ‘lion safari’ an’ all, was to corroborate in photographs the lies the humans would inevitably tell when they got back home; tales about how they barely escaped being mauled, ripped apart like a designer dress in the Boxing Day sales. Sure, human might be nice for a change, but canned food generally wasn’t an option. Yes, the lions knew that; the containers they came in usually far too much effort to open, meals on wheels not quite as convenient perhaps as they promised to be. And why bother; there was, after all, a whole smorgasbord of zebra and giraffe grazing nervously over at the old salt lick market just across the way.

Hmmm… yeah… one of them would make a nice change from grisly old gazelle… wash it down with a nice cool drink… well… a drink at least. Would, perhaps, be what the lions thought?

An explorer and a risk taker though, Sebastian didn’t much care for rules. Never had. In fact he’d been brought up to break every one that’d ever been written – although you would never think it, all posh, sophisticated and seemingly righteous as he was. In his opinion, the world was stuffed to the stratosphere with 'say this and not that', 'don’t do that, do this instead' and, 'only we can say this and only we can say that'. Ridiculous; it all meant the same f**king thing in the end. Call a spade a spade that’s what he said – well perhaps not there in Africa where spades where everywhere you looked, but you get the drift - and make no mistake, the spade has an equally ‘charming’ name for all the other tools in the garden, even the ‘fork 'n shovel’, it's distant cousins.

One couldn’t do right for doing wrong these days though, and as far as Sebastian was concerned, society put far too much emphasis on political correctness as opposed to corrupted politics that made up many of those stupid rules we all live by. And anyway, it was a free world. Apparently, but one that his bosses were half way across the other end of, so who would know if they went off the beaten track (and I mean, track.) No one at all, that’s who. Well, not unless the behemoth girl with the pizza face (getting back to the travel agents) who chose to opt out of actually going into the mud village, wrote about it on the form all the agents had to fill in at the end of the trip – that ‘f**king bit’ about the Tour Leader’s performance that he so hated. And even though it was her choice not to go in with them all, she’d end up feeling dejected anyway; left out - especially when everyone else came back to the minibus all excited, saying how they’d never been anywhere quite like it, some of the more raunchy girls (and usually at least one of the guys) giggling about what it would like to be speared by the big black hunk of meat obviously in training as a security officer at the airport in Nairobi, judging by the way he tried to touch their junk.

He couldn’t remember that particular travel agent's name, Nellie, probably; after all, she always looked as nervous as a slave girl virgin in a Roman bathhouse, but a shifty looking bitch who’d do something like that if ever there was. Yeah, she'd cause trouble that he really didn’t need, what with his well-known approach to leading these trips being considered controversial by his superiors back at the main offices anyway; often choosing to go off itinerary, using the argument that it armed the ignoramus agents with an overall more authentic experience so that they could better sell their company’s holidays in their respective high street bureaus where usually they could only pretend to know about far-off lands to the unsuspecting customer.

"Oh yeah luv, F**kit (Phuket) is lovely at this time of year, I've never been meself mind ye, but it looks luvverly in the brochure... there's palm trees everywhere and like, the sea and stuff... sand, I fink... and you can get a massage on the beach there you know... with a happy ending too... if you know what I mean, wink wink, elbow, elbow. I’m going there on me honeymoon… if I ever get married... if I ever get a boyfriend.”

But whoever had said, ‘when in Rome, do as the Romans do’, could never have come up with a better philosophy as far as Sebastian was concerned. Travel was a great excuse to be somebody else, to live outside of your own mundane world for at least a week or two. It wasn’t just exploring foreign lands; it was an opportunity to explore yourself too; excavate your inner adventurer.

“And when one is in Sydney, it would be a shame not to experience the red light district of King’s Cross… don’t you think?”

But somehow he got away with it; perhaps was even admired for his approach; being designated to lead more of those worldwide trips than anyone else in the head offices. Blind eyes were often turned at some of the things he got up to, such as the famous bad taste parties in his hotel room on the last night. Yes, get-togethers where the agents had to purchase the most tacky gift they could find for about £2.00, and which could often result in wearing scanty underwear or playing drinking games and racking up one hell of a bill on his bar expenses.

And so, despite the fact that the prestigious worldwide tour company he worked for had given him strict instructions not to even think about it, he’d soon persuaded his Kenyan guide Sam (who’d very surprisingly, also been making very obvious sexual advances towards him, white meat scarce in the African plains obviously) to drive him and his latest motley group of twenty travel agents to a tiny village comprised with admirable innovation of grass and cow dung.

He’d sweet-talk Nellie later; over dinner; make her feel pretty; lie that one could barely see the lumps erupting all over her bare arms and legs sticking out of the cocktail dress she’d inevitably still wear despite looking like a walking volcano that would put the 1911 eruption of Kilimanjaro to shame.

“Not in this romantic light.”

Yes, he could get round her sort easily enough; she'd fallen in lust with him. He could tell by the way she gazed at him; sneaking lingering peeks through her sunglasses while her head was pointing off to the side; taking longer than long looks as she sidled up on the lounger beside him by the pool, checking his package out when she thought he was sleeping. It happened all the time. Yes, he’d have to give her special attention, his personal phone number at work even, tell her she could call him at any time if she needed to ‘bypass the minions’.

“And you know how hard that is normally,” he'd say, a bit too cheaply, but girls like Nellie loved that kind of innuendo from handsome men like him. She’d give him a good report.

She did know how hard it was; and yes it was good to have someone on the inside at the large main offices for many reasons, every travel agent knew that, but especially because there was always the chance she’d be the first to hear about any upcoming trips to a country where buildings were actually made of glass and steel and where monkeys didn’t dart out of the palm trees on the beach to pilfer your purse or spit in your face. No, her biggest problem on the beaches of less adventurous holiday destinations would be the shouts of ‘beached whale’. She was well accustomed to that from the local boys, and the odd tourist, something she had long since learned to ignore. Her weight certainly didn’t stop them from trying to get in her knickers in the early hours though, she always thought, when the bars were closing, and the randy dingy coloured little f**kers still hadn’t managed to pick up a leaner piece of white meat with their cheesy lines, such as how they would pay three camels for a woman like her. (Fair enough trade though, you had to admit, she’d probably take up the same amount of space). Yeah, that would do it, Sebastian would sit with Nellie the elephant and all her humps at dinner, wink at her occasionally even. But it didn’t matter; the coolest agents in the bunch would fight to sit with him too anyway. They always did, him being their great white leader and all. No, he wouldn't have to be alone with her. His was the captain’s table.

He was gracious; known for being fair; benevolent; spending time with them all; showing a genuine interest; talking to every one of them sincerely, regardless of who was who. Old and decrepit, painfully shy, ugly mugged, fat as f**k like Nellie, skinny as a rake, camp as Christmas or just f**ked up in general, they all loved him. And why wouldn't they? He shared himself equally among them without showing any kind of prejudice or favouritism whatsoever. It was admirable. He should have been a priest really (in fact he was once, well, that is to say, perceived as one anyway, and he went along with it for the laugh. Who knew a silk mandarin collar shirt made on the beaches of Sri Lanka, worn under a plain black jacket could have been so convincing? But then that might have been because he also walked around with the bible from his hotel drawer as a prop and pontificating.) But a professional, that's what he was, and funny too, a great actor. It made him all the more attractive. Not just a handsome face and an incredibly sharp dresser who had a worldliness about him that had nothing to do with actually having travelled the world, he was a real personality who knew just how to engage people.

Yes, it’d be a small price to pay, that tiddly little wink. He’d maybe even venture into her orbit, whisper something in her ear, a hot breath, together with his soft Scottish accent that they all went gaga for, that would tingle her spine not to mention other erogenous zones. It always did.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come in my love. I’ll keep you safe, I promise,” he said.

Nellie shook her head as far as her fat neck would allow; not even his movie star hand extended into her atmosphere could coax her into such a dingy looking place, obviously adamant she wasn’t going; not the celestial trip she had in her mind. Just as well really, the locals might think an elephant’s on the rampage if you do. He thought.

“Well, okay lovie, if you’re sure, but we’ll miss you. I promise we won’t be long, though,” he said smiling; making sure his eyes glinted in the sun; they looked amazing when he did that; surreal almost, turquoise delights filled with light (even if he did have to wipe the bleariness away with his sleeve after the person he ‘d done it for was no longer looking).

But getting back to the flies for a minute. They have rights you know, flies, being considered almost sacrosanct in those kinds of tiny indigenous villages that are no bigger than a major intersection roundabout. And all they had to do was hang around with the one and only cow (no, not Nellie) following it as it circled the tiny village, still not finding any grass to munch on from the five minutes it had to grow in-between perambulations.

But it is the cow that is actually revered (the flies just jumping on the bandwagon) strangely enough in a land filled with magnificent animals, something to do with milk and meat or something. Even just having one cow for the entire village signified wealth, apparently. But still, by association, the fly could get away with murder if it really wanted to. And why wouldn’t it? The lions and the cheetahs always had, the f**king mosquitoes. ‘Monkey see, monkey f**king do’, that was the buzz around those parts. But despite the odd half-hearted flick of its tail, which had no more merit than a mother threatening to spank her spoiled little brat of a child in public for fear of being sued by it, the cow really didn’t seem to mind at all, ignoring the little b**tards as they moved with it; crawling over its big black eyes, its ears and up its arsehole, f**king off just in time before the payload was delivered, and then jumping all over that breakfast pancake like flies round shit… oh… wait a minute!

Plenty for everyone though, that was the beauty of having a cow who shat in your village throughout the day. Enough shit for everyone, and delivered right to your doorstep too, sometimes, even conveniently having it brought inside. That kind of real wealth didn’t have to be rationed at all; a free source of construction material for the village’s maintenance work; fresh dung, great for patching up those pesky holes in your walls and bedroom floors, staves away the peeping Toms, you know, that kind of thing. Innovative, that’s what it was, definitely, but admirable too… well in a sense, anyway. And green; toxic, perhaps, but green nonetheless. People paid a fortune for organic shit in the civilized world.

But to persist with the flies, because after all, that’s what they are; persistent little f**kers, neither did the tribe members mind them. No, even though they crawled all over their faces too, their entire bodies for that matter, playing hide and seek in their hair and always winning (not hard being black on black) disappearing down into their loin cloths, or whatever. (Well at least it seemed like they didn’t mind anyway, but if the truth be known, ain’t nobody roun’ there gonna be willing to become no spear practice for being sacrilegious by swatting at them; that was disrespectful.) The travel agents had been warned to observe the same rule too, easier said than done though.

But what a different species the villagers were from them, even though they were, apparently, human as well. Absolutely nothing like their western counterparts who felt free to scream and flap about if even one of the disease ridden flies came near them by the swimming pool, or, when they came in fleets, together with a number of other species that were actually unknown to the white man, to check out what was for dinner. Yes, eating a la carte, sitting at tables set up courtesy of the Hotel Manager hoping to impress them all so they’d go back and sell his hotel, was never a great idea; all secretly wishing to be inside in the air conditioned restaurant, or up in the room watching porno with a room service pizza.

“Ere, this soup’s cold, and it’s got a bleedin’ fly in it.”

Yes, such statements were most embarrassing, especially when the agent had ordered the gazpacho.

F**king lightweights; that would be what the villagers would say if they could speak proper English, although as mentioned, they probably had some equally humiliating expression in their own language - whatever that was. Swahili… maybe... or was that also the name of a soup? Perhaps though that was just reserved for those more civilized folks in Nairobi and Mombasa? Apparently the villagers just made sounds like ‘woogabooga’ and the like (if that’s not too politically incorrect) as they hadn’t even appeared to know what ‘jambo’ meant; just smiling politely and almost nodding when the greeting was imparted to them like a group of schoolchildren reluctantly saying good morning to their teacher. Mind you, the tribesmen probably had no use for greetings, all sleeping in the one hut and all, never long enough away from each other to merit saying hello or goodbye. Maybe that’s why. But everybody knew that word jambo, didn’t they?

It sounded racist somehow, something not quite right about it, not really. Or maybe that’s just because it rhymes with Sambo, that was a ‘no no’, the word golliwog was too. It was all they’d heard since they’d arrived though, 'jambo'. Kind of used in every sentence actually, or so it seemed; the westerners converting it to the way they would stretch out the word ‘hi’ (if that is indeed a word) back home, when they were pretending to be pleased to see their nosey neighbours coming the other way. Ja-mbo, they insisted on saying, self consciously, when in fact it should be pronounced short and punchy like the dialogue of a couple who should never have gotten married when they did deem to communicate. 'F**k off', or some such equally pleasant interaction. Yeah, that’s how it should’ve sounded.

Sebastian always made a point on every trip of teaching the agents the local greeting and niceties though. ‘Hello’, ‘thank you’ ‘goodbye’ – even if they did mispronounce it in their common working class accents the majority of the time when they did try to use it. But no, they expected everyone to speak not only English, but also their particular brand of local vernacular. And inevitably, when the locals didn’t understand, their further attempts at speaking the local lingo consisted mainly of adding an, ‘el’ and ‘o’ respectively, to the beginning and end of nearly every word regardless of whether they were in Spain or not.

'Where… is… the… el telephono?' Okay, bad example; that’s pretty much correct (I said pretty much) but then again, not if you’re in Thailand. But, “Eh up chuck, kin ye tell us where I can get a bacon butty luv?” usually wasn’t the best approach in chatting up a Muslim woman in Dubai, one who might be whipped for even being within forty feet of a fat hairy white man barely wearing a wife beater and a two sizes too small speedo riding up his crack, perhaps even too much for the nude beaches of Ibiza where maybe he was more suited to.

But getting back to the important matter at hand. Yes, the flies (but just to swat the point) apparently the villagers were as impervious to them as the wildebeest outside of the villages’ ramshackle, but nonetheless (it has to be said, given what they have to work with) commendably fortified and cleverly constructed circular walls. A fortification, in fact, that was highly unlikely to keep wild beasts at bay at all if the creatures really put their minds to it (something they would have known if only their common sense could evolve to at least that level of the travel agents’, Sebastian thought).

But native tribes know what they’re doing - even if it was thought that they could only mumble with incomprehensible sounds that made people jump wondering just what animal had sneaked up behind them this time. Their ancestors had taught them well; skills utilised in their everyday lives passed down through millennia. There was something not to be said for that, actually though, the other side of the coin could argue that they hadn’t progressed any at all; hadn't evolved like the rest of mankind had (mind you... perhaps that wasn't altogether a bad thing). But yes, they were quite safe behind their shitty walls; their human state of mind, if not sense of greed at least evolved to a level that the wild animals that shared their plains could never even hope to aspire to – well not without some chemical spill in the salt lick turning them into supramental mutants anyway, and that will inevitably only be a matter of time.

Or had that all changed in this modern world of tourism? Just who is manipulating who, as this world becomes smaller, becomes one big cauldron of indistinguishable mush?

Sam had told him, in his heavy Swahili accent (and apparently being able to speak the mumbo jumbo of the tribe) that the Chief demanded an entrance fee these days. Not just a group fee, but individual admission no f**king less. There was also to be a set charge for photographs with any member of his tribe and a higher price to be paid for any taken with he himself in it. No rice, no chocolate bars, no f**king underwear or socks, jambo very much; only hard cash would do.

They knew about money now, and they knew how to use it too. Their finest dancers did have it positively thrown at them, after all; pinning it to their robes as if they were guests at a big fat Greek wedding instead of time honoured tribal dances (which were just your typical war and rain dances really) banging sticks on the floor and blurting out sounds every now and again like a homeless person hopped up on meth at three in the morning. Incomprehensible sounds that served at least to scare the birds, if not the flies, off the tables, and inducing the drunk guy at the back of the crowd (and there’s always one) to imitate them, shouting out over the audience; looking around himself for appreciation while everyone went even redder for him than the sun had made them after hours of lying under it without the appropriate factor applied to their once lily white skin.

Yes, oodles of money, payment for the natives doing what they do anyway, painting themselves red, in their fiery war make up colour, and dressing in equally red tribal robes or curtains or something (which strangely enough, kind of results in a bland magnificence really; uninspired almost, to have their hair, faces and clothes all the same colour). They used some kind of dye, a natural earth pigment, ochre (whatever that is, but obviously only coming in one shade) and went from hotel to hotel performing their ancient tribal dances, banging their redundant spears (redundant, for no rain came and nobody got killed, cept for that one drunk lying at the bottom of the pool that nobody noticed) for the amusement of the civilized world who thought it was all just a great hoot. And after the dance was over, they would make even more money, no longer scared of having their souls captured in photographs. 'How old fashioned were we? How ridiculously naive is such a nonsensical concept', is what they'd say when they learned how to speak English properly - which no doubt they will soon enough, distance learning on their computers in their mud huts. Yeah tourism, their gods must have sent it. Far better than a stinking old flea ridden cow any f**king day. And now they could buy shoes; they didn't have to walk in shit. Fly sprays as well maybe.

Sebastian admired the Chief greatly; he himself finely adorned with glorious hides and plumes that would’ve taken first prize at any Halloween competition in any local pub back home. Truly magnificent, even if he was fat and sweating buckets - not to mention smelling like an Arab’s flip-flop. But who wouldn’t be, dressed like that under the searing sun of the African plains? But beads of sweat pouring down the otherwise arid terrain of his blacker than black face or not, magnificent, he was nonetheless. (Ridiculous anywhere else, but there in his little shitty village, he was certainly a sight to behold.)

Happy to pay for the privilege of the insight into a culture relatively unaffected by the real world and enthusiastically encouraged by Sebastian, who told them that was the kind of thing that real memories were made of, the agents were all thrilled to pay whatever the asking rate – well of course, all except for Nellie, an absurdly fat gazelle, who’d rather foolishly chosen to stray from the herd. Standing up in the minibus, her pointy nose nervously twitching over the open top as she looked at them all file in and wondering if it was just a lure so that the locals could make soup out of them. She also wondered why the hell she’d ever thought it was a good idea to chip her teeth and false nails in a violent struggle with her co-workers in Lunn Poly the Travel Agents in Luton to bag that particular free trip to Africa when the fax had come with one invitation for any of them to take it up.

“It’s my f**king turn,” she’d screamed most uncharacteristically, almost foaming at the mouth, fangs bared (but granted, it was Halloween that day) and shocking everyone into submission with a neck lock that surprisingly her stubby arms had accommodated.

She could have gone to Palma Nova in Majorca. That invite had come in on the same day from one of the lesser Tour Operators. Yes, that was much more her speed what with all the English pubs and breakfast places. Karaoke; she was great at singing I will survive. But no-o, there she was, amid all the mosquitoes on the entire African continent that had banded together and decided to attack her, and only her. The antihistamine wasn’t working either, her entire body broken out and hard pushed to put a pin between the lumps. Alone, she glanced over at the lions in the near distance and wondered if she should go into the village after all, but they’d sealed the entrance now and there was no way she was going to get f**king cow dung under her new acrylics to get their attention by banging on it. Plus, white stilettos and the African plains hadn’t proven a good match thus far, not with the weight they had to withstand, punching holes in the ground as she tried to walk as they did, let alone negotiating what was tantamount to a straw shithouse. The lions made her more nervous than normal though, seemed to have perked up a bit, straining now to get a better look at her looking at them, all deep in thought thinking how they could all have their lion’s share with someone as substantial as she.

Hmmm, I can’t be bothered to cook; maybe we should just have zebra for lunch tomorrow; looks like we got delivery here.

The lions usually knew the difference between black and white (and I’m not talking portions of zebra) you didn’t mess with the black human; they had spears and were without fear, f**king crazy b**tards covered in blood half the time by the looks of them, but a white woman alone? Huh, easy peasy, It wasn’t often that that kind of opportunity came along - in fact not since that one woman got out of Africa. A tempting morsel indeed, they could even have their friends over for dinner giving the gargantuan proportions of her.

At least we should scare the shit out of her.

It was a privilege yes; to be in that village, but the experience was marred somewhat by T-shirt wearing children who screamed at everyone to ‘just do it’ whatever ‘it’ was, around those parts. Build more dung things? That had surprised Sebastian, as did the locals; not being shy at all, not when they dragged you into the privacy of their huts anyway (where, somehow, not being seen trying to pickpocket you was perfectly acceptable behaviour, and despite a reluctance to say anything in front of their elders, quite vocal when they got you alone, actually proving to be very well versed in English with words like, ‘gimme gimme gimme’). But still not quite getting the hang of fair trade when that little word ‘no’ was unsuccessful no matter how much it was repeated. But to their detriment, it has to be said; most wanting to trade beautiful copper bangles and necklaces (that they somehow communicated, were great for rheumatism) for gaudy plastic baubles, bangles and such things as barrettes typically worn by the bleached blondes of the group (which, incidentally, was 90% of the females, and 50% of the men).

Oh well there’s plenty of other undisturbed culture left in the world... we can preserve those at least, Sebastian thought.

But he’d read somewhere that it was suspected there were only about a hundred such cultures left in the entire world. That alarmed him (which surprised him tremendously, as he didn’t know he really cared). He hadn't really, at least not until he started leaving his own footprint in the shit-covered floor of those magnificent, but basic, in the most indispensable way, villages. Yes, it had been an interesting trip indeed, well worth the fifteen minutes for such wondrous insight into an indigenous race, but at what cost?

Oh typical, here they come, looks like f**king zebra for lunch after all. Having made the effort to get up anyway, the lions sauntered off in disgust down to the old salt lick when they saw the group start to come out of the black humans’ shithole. Funnily enough, the salt lick market always suddenly seemed to have a mass exodus just before they went shopping they thought; this time only a mother elephant (who'd finally found her child after realising the one in the minibus didn't belong to her after all) and who were now slinging mud at each other as well as trying to pull the other's trunks off. Nice to be a lumbering big lump, obviously not needing to care about the king of the jungle's stealthy approach, or anything else for that matter really. yes, Nellie could have learned a lesson from them indeed.

But even if the lions weren't, at least she'd looked pleased to see them all heading back to find her almost in a foetal position; crouched as far under the seat as she could possibly manage, it straining at its bolts, and mumbling something about a particularly forward giraffe having tried to stick its head in the open top to inspect the microsurgery on her bald patch while they were gone, and not to mention the particularly angry rhinoceros that had it not been for her comparable weight, might just have tipped over the bus.

“Aw-w... sweetie, were you scared?" Sebastian sympathised, “Oh, hang on love, stay still.” he said picking up his clipboard, “there's a fly on your head.”

The end

Note:

Since 2006, the Maasai people have since cottoned on to the money to be made from western tourists visiting their villages. This brought about much corruption among their peoples to the point where an association was formed - The Masai Triangle. This regulates visits, now even being sold by the large Tour Operators themselves. One gets a ticket now, just like you do at Disneyworld.

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