Africa Beckons (Part 10)

A white man in Africa

(1979) It soon became evident to Alex, Sally and I that we needed extra funding to secure additional safari equipment. I had accumulated savings from my brief real estate career, so a decision was made that I should fly back to London to arrange a transfer of funds and to buy items on our wish-list.

I soon flew to London and spent around ten days in England, organizing money to be wired to our Kenya bank account and purchasing various items on our must-have list. Before flying back to Nairobi, I sent a telegram to my girlfriend Nicky to let her know of my flight arrival and to ask her to collect me at the Nairobi airport.

I had brought back with me to Kenya as much luggage as I could, and this included my acoustic guitar and a pair of water skis. Arriving at the airport in Nairobi, I passed through Immigration and then made my way to the Customs Desk. “Do you have anything to declare?” asked the Customs official. I had an acoustic guitar in a guitar-shaped hard case and a long bag containing the water skis. I replied that I had a guitar and a pair of water skis. The Customs official gestured toward the guitar case and said, “Are these the water skis?” For a moment, I was stunned, not quite sure if he was joking. He wasn’t.

I should mention that in those days, working in Customs at the airport was a prized career for educated Kenyans, because it was a time of open-season for making foreign visitors pay import duty on any item they had that looked expensive: a camera, a watch, even the luggage itself. Anything. It did not matter if you swore on a bible that you would be taking it back home with you. If you were in their sights as a target, your goose was cooked. Of course, the ‘duty’ on such imported items was only payable in cash, and no traveler ever got a receipt.

So, I am stating the obvious when I say that these were simply bribes being solicited from puzzled foreigners who feared that if they did not pay up, they might be put on the next flight back to their airport of origin. Knowing that this was coming though, I already had a twice-folded Ten Pound note, sitting there ready in my pants pocket.

I confidently announced to the Customs official that the guitar and water skis were my personal items, and that I would be taking them back to London with me on my next trip back. With that, I fished out the pre-folded Ten Pound note from my pocket, palming it so that my handshake with the Customs official would not reveal the presence of money changing hands. I had learned that one must always do this discreetly because if the Customs Supervisor is hovering nearby, and he sees money changing hands, he swoops in and wants his cut, meaning it will just get even more expensive for me.

Shaking hands is commonplace in Kenya, and I always love to see the way the recipient’s face breaks into a big smile as soon as our palms touch and he or she feels the welcome presence of crisp folded currency!

I emerged from the airport terminal into the sunlight, hauling along my bulky luggage and eagerly searching for Nicky’s face amid the throng of local taxi drivers, tour representatives, scam artists and pickpockets. A dozen or more safari vehicles from different companies were parked in a row alongside the sidewalk, each one prominently adorned with the safari company’s name and logo.

I eventually spied Nicky in the crowd, and I made my way to her through the jostling throng, a sea of black faces. After our greeting (I had really missed her), we pushed our way over to the car park. Nicky knew I would be bringing maximum luggage, so I had assumed she would be bringing her Suzuki four-wheel-drive to come and get me. When she pointed at a tiny white Fiat 500 with a red rolltop canvas roof, I was visibly shocked. “Sorry,” she said, “I should have told you that I sold the Suzuki.” Somehow, we managed to get everything into the Fiat 500, rolling back the soft-top all the way, so we could get the guitar and the water skis inside. We drove off with the guitar neck and the water skis poking out of the roof.

As we exited the car park, the only thought I had was a hope that we could avoid the humiliation of being recognized by any of the safari guides who stood by their vehicles lining the roadway. But that was not to be. I heard a shout. “Is that you, Andrew?” I ducked my head down. “Love the new safari vehicle! How many wageni (clients) can you take in that thing?” This loudmouth was attracting unwanted attention, as we crawled by in heavy traffic. “Hey, Andrew,” someone else called out, “Nice gari (car)…. wanna race?” I urged Nicky to overtake a slowly moving saloon car in front of us, but she ignored me and just smiled. I think she was enjoying my humiliation. We finally got away from the traffic, and we headed out to the cottage on Langata Road.

It was quite a few weeks later that I was on safari in Maasai Mara, guiding two English couples on a morning game-viewing drive in the Reserve. Coming the other way along the bush track towards us was a Land Rover. With a sinking feeling, I soon recognized it as belonging to a company’s whose guide had taunted me at the airport, as Nicky and I drove by him in the tiny white Fiat 500. Now the driver of the other vehicle stopped as the two cars came abreast, and I saw that it was indeed him again. He did not address me, but instead aimed his remarks at my clients who were sitting in the rear seats. “You are lucky to be in that comfortable four-wheel drive safari vehicle today,” he said, “because last time I saw Andrew, he was driving an egg!” (to be continued)