THE JOURNAL OF ELLIOT CRIPPLESBY
Having arrived at Heathrow without further incident and not much conversation, both wrapped up as we were in our own private thoughts - in my case regarding what had happened to me back in London - we booked two seats on British Caledonia flight CA0768 to Nairobi International airport. This was conveniently leaving in three hours time, and so having checked in at the desk (Geeza was quite distraught when he discovered that it was a no smoking flight – they all are these days - partial, as he is to the odd roll up or his pipe, which he never seems to be without), we made our way around the shops contained in the Terminal building, purchasing such items as sun cream, hats and cool summer clothes, as I was sure our current apparel would have been most unsuitable.
The flight was long but uneventful, and although I dozed through the feature film the name of which escapes me now, I did enjoy a small half an hour interview, an old re-run, between Michael Parkinson and that finest of Scottish comedians much beloved by said eminent chat show host, Mr Billy Connolly – on his day, a raconteur without equal. We touched down at around eleven forty-five local time and left the aircraft directly onto the tarmac - my first ever contact with Africa.
Africa! What can you say about the place that could possibly do it justice to somebody who has never trod upon her soils (concrete or tarmac)? Other than repeating old clichés, involving words such as ‘majesty’, ‘mystique’ and such like and so forth, you just… cannot – it’s as simple as that.
The sheer immensity of the place is stupendously overlooked until you are actually here, at which point you realise that without travelling by air it takes days to get around, rather than the hours we associate with a long journey back in Blighty. It is truly, truly massive, and you feel this simply by standing silently and looking around. It is difficult to retain the feeling which everybody carries around with them that they are somehow important, even irreplaceable, in a place as vast as this.
It has since struck me that it does not matter whether you are stood in quiet solitude on the parched savannah, sheltering amongst the Acacia trees dotted about here and there, or whether you find yourself similarly ‘alone’ despite being surrounded by a multitude of people in a sprawling metropolis such as downtown Nairobi. You are simply another Human being, as frail and temporary as one of the billion snowflakes alighting gently on the upper slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro, visible in the distance by the light of the moon.
Before any of this sinks in, however, you first and foremost notice the heat. Wow! It hits you like a thousand tons of velvet, smothering you, suffocating you, every delicious breath as thick as treacle. It seems so much heavier, yet much more comfortable, like the difference between sitting on a hard-backed, wooden chair and lounging in a sea of silken cushions. And this was still the middle of the night!
I freely admit that upon first impressions I loved the place.
We negotiated passport control relatively easily, although Geeza was asked a few half-hearted questions due to the words ‘Private Detective’ being written in the Occupation box on his immigration card. Next we queued for some Kenyan Shillings and US Dollars at the Bureau de Change in the massive corridor that is Nairobi Airport.
I haggled only briefly with a taxi driver, who delivered us to our three star accommodation, a lovely little hotel by the name of, funnily enough, The Scotsman Abroad. By this time, the hour had changed from late night to early morning, and so after signing several forms in the hotel lobby, we both headed straight for our rooms, which were opposite one another on the third floor.
Despite my fatigue, I could not help but notice the decor of my room. Functionally, it was pleasant enough, with two low to the ground single beds with wicker work headboards, a small ensuite bathroom with shower and white walls and floor tiles throughout that were cool to the touch. A sliding glass door led, presumably, to a small balcony or veranda. There was a ceiling fan, currently switched off, positioned over the gap between the beds, and there was also a small desk attached to the wall, with a couple of shallow drawers. On it was a large ashtray and a polished mirror lit by a single, low wattage clay lamp. A dark coloured telephone upon the bedside table blended in nicely with the browns and tans of the bed linen.
There was the low humming of an air conditioner - which was a blessed relief - and this gently drowned out the few sounds that filtered up from the streets below. All of this went a long way to make me feel very comfortable and as ‘at home’ as could be. However, like a crack in a window pane, or a yellowy curry stain on your otherwise clean shirt, there was something which stood out a mile and slightly offset the otherwise restful ambiance of the room.
Dotted around the walls were several big game ‘trophies’, wholly inappropriate I thought, in today’s day and age and I felt these glaring, gnarling, growling, snarling faces were in rather bad taste, making - as they did - for most unwelcome bedfellows.
After waking to the ghastly visages of those poor unfortunate creatures mounted on their polished wooden shields, I shaved off two days of growth, had a refreshing shower, and met Geeza downstairs for a breakfast.
“Good morning,” I greeted hum, plonking myself down at his table with a big plate of fresh, local fruits and a glass of pineapple juice. “I’ve ordered tea and toast. Do you want some?”
“Thanks, no,” he said with a smile and I noticed then the crumbs littering the white, linen table cloth and the soiled knife lying on his side plate. I decided to have some fun and play the detective – beat him at his own game. Coughing outrageously to attract his attention I reclined in my chair and pretended to smoke a pipe of the Sherlock Holmes variety.
“I deduce from your sunny disposition and early appearance that you enjoyed a good night’s sleep before rising bright and fresh to dine upon a breakfast of toast and,” I checked the spent packet sitting beside his knife, “mango jam. You completed your repast with two bananas and a cup of coffee.” I grinned a grin and a glimmer of humour caused his mouth to form a reluctant smile.
“Are you taking the piss?” he said. I laughed out loud.
“Elementary, my dear Vermies!” and I waved a nonchalant hand over his place setting. “The evidence is all there for the discerning eye. Even now it is barely eight o’clock and yet you have already showered – the ends of your hair are still wet – and have finished eating. By the banana skins on your-”
“Yeah, yeah, thanks Sherlock, you don’t have to spell it out.” He pointed to my hand where I had forgotten my imaginary pipe. “You’re spreading ash all over the place by the way.”
I laughed once more and as my tea things arrived we discussed our next course of action.
“So,” I said with a mouthful of toast, “I hope you’ve got some ideas of what we’re going to do next, because I haven’t got a clue.”
“Yeah don’t worry,” he replied in his laid back way, “I’ve got a few leads to check up on.”
“What, already? God, you were up early!” He smiled a peculiar smile.
“Let’s just say I had an eventful night and leave it at that.” And he did; he refused to be drawn any further, but he suggested that to get a good feel for our surroundings we should take a stroll around Nairobi, just a random wander about letting our feet dictate where we go.
It wasn’t long, however, once we had descended into the heaving streets – already boiling hot – that we changed our plan. After fifteen minutes or so of constantly fending off a plague of begging kids and peddlers of every kind of trinket imaginable, my detective friend spotted that I may have had enough.
“You ok Elliot?”
“No I’m bloody well not!” I snapped back. “It’s too bloody hot, there’s too many people,” and here I swatted aside another set of begging hands that had been thrust into my face, “I don’t know where I’m going and I don’t know why I’m here and I could be in Scotland and… and… it’s just so damned hot! God, it’s not even ten in the morning!”
“Hey, it’s Africa, what did you think?” Seeing
how thoroughly fed up I was though, he suggested a change of tack to which I instantly agreed.
Geeza would push on - he didn’t seem to mind the horde of straggling urchins who were clamouring all around us. In fact, it seemed to me as I walked away that he was positively encouraging them and as he headed off in opposite direction they strung out behind him making the scene look like some sort of tropical Pied Piper.
He would continue trying to find the trail of the devious Mr Humphries in his own peculiar way whereas I would head back to the hotel to follow up a few leads of my own, like scouring through the selection of newspapers provided by the hotel – which all happened to be found in the comfort of the cane furniture of the lobby. I also hoped to speak with the proprietor of the Scotsman himself, a Mr Allistair MacIntosh, a bachelor who has lived out here for the last thirty seven years, and who hails, coincidentally or not, from the island of Skye.
And so it was that I found myself out of the heat of the midmorning sun, sat in the lobby area of the hotel. Five cane tables topped with glass were arranged about the place, each one the focus of four deep, basketwork bucket chairs sporting decorative blue and white flowery cushions. Three ceiling fans whirred away overhead, creating a lovely downdraft of air which added itself to the cooling breeze coming in from the landscaped area beyond the confines of the main building. Out there was the swimming pool which nestled on the fringes of the ornamental gardens, a beautiful array of delightfully bright colours - oranges, reds, pinks and greens - which could be seen quite easily from where I sat with my iced fruit drink, as could the numerous rainbows dancing upon the droplets of water given off by the sprinkler system without which, presumably, nothing would grow.
As far as the papers were concerned, the English ones - the Telegraph, Express and the Sun - yielded nothing. Then I leafed through the Kenyan English-language ones, the only item of any interest being the mention of the sudden influx of tourists which apparently happens around the same time every year, when people flock in to watch the annual Nairobi to Mombassa Rally. Over a thousand miles of raw African countryside, including about one hundred straight through the Tsavo National Park in a race with a top prize of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. It is apparently a most prestigious event, fought fiercely each year by hundreds of competitors from all around the world, with prize money totalling nearly half a million, being awarded down to sixth place.
My reading was interrupted at this point, however, by a most succulent smell drifting over from the poolside area where a barbeque was declaring to all who cared to notice that lunch was ready to be served.
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