Green Hills of Africa

was half filled with water. Garrick started to whisper a speech here but

  M'Cola shut him up again.

  'Come on,' I said, and, M'Cola ahead, we started trailing up the damp,

  sandy, ordinarily dry watercourse that led through the trees to the upper

  lick.

  M'Cola stopped dead, leaned over to look at the damp sand, then

  whispered, 'Man', to me. There was the track.

  'Shenzi,' he said, which meant a wild man.

  We trailed the man, moving slowly through the trees and stalking the

  lick carefully, up and into the blind. M'Cola shook his head.

  'No good,' he said. 'Come on.'

  We went over to the lick. There it was all written plainly. There were

  the tracks of three big bull kudu in the moist bank beyond the lick where

  they had come to the salt. Then there were the sudden, deep, knifely-cut

  tracks where they made a spring when the bow twanged and the slashing

  heavily cut prints of their hoofs as they had gone off up the bank and then,

  far-spaced, the tracks running into the bush. We trailed them, all three,

  but no man's track joined theirs. The bow-man missed them.

  M'Cola said, 'Shenzi!' putting great hate into the word. We picked up

  the shenzi's tracks and saw where he had gone on back to the road. We

  settled down in the blind and waited there until it was dark and a light

  rain began to fall. Nothing came to the salt. In the rain we made our way

  back to the lorry. Some wild-man had shot at our kudu and spooked them away

  from the salt and now the lick was being ruined.

  Kamau had rigged a tent out of a big canvas ground cloth, hung my

  mosquito net inside, and set up the canvas cot. M'Cola brought the food

  inside the shelter tent.

  Garrick and Abdullah built a fire and they, Kamau and M'Cola cooked

  over it. They were going to sleep in the lorry. It rained drizzlingly and I

  undressed, got into mosquito boots and heavy pyjamas and sat on the cot, ate

  a breast of roast guinea hen and drank a couple of tin cups of half whisky

  and water.

  M'Cola came in, grave, solicitous, and very awkward inside a tent and

  took my clothes out from where I had folded them to make a pillow and folded

  them again, very un-neatly, and put them under the blankets. He brought

  three tins to see if I did not want them. opened.

  'No.'

  'Chai?' he asked.

  'The hell with it.'

  'No chai?'

  'Whisky better.'

  'Yes,' he said feelingly. 'Yes.'

  'Chai in the morning. Before the sun.'

  'Yes, B'wana M'Kumba.'

  'You sleep here. Out of the rain.' I pointed to the canvas where the

  rain was making the finest sound that we, who live much outside of houses,

  ever hear. It was a lovely sound, even though it was hitching us.

  'Yes.'

  'Go on. Eat.'

  'Yes. No chai?'

  'The hell with tea.'

  'Whisky?' he asked hopefully.

  'Whisky finish.'

  'Whisky,' he said confidently.

  'All right,' I said. 'Go eat,' and pouring the cup half and half with

  water got in under the mosquito bar, found my clothes and again made them

  into a pillow, and lying on my side drank the whisky very slowly, resting on

  one elbow, then dropped the cup down under the bar on to the ground, felt

  under the cot for the Springfield, put the searchlight beside me in the bed

  under the blanket, and went to sleep listening to the rain. I woke when I

  heard M'Cola come in, make his bed and go to sleep, and I woke once in the

  night and heard him sleeping by me; but in the morning he was up and had

  made the tea before I was awake.

  'Chai,' he said, pulling on my blanket.

  'Bloody chai,' I said, sitting up still asleep.

  It was a grey, wet morning. The rain had stopped but the mist hung over

  the ground and we found the salt-lick rained out and not a track near it.

  Then we hunted through the wet scrub on the flat hoping to find a track in

  the soaked earth and trail a bull until we could see him. There were no

  tracks. We crossed the road and followed the edge of the scrub around a

  moor-like open stretch. I hoped we might find the rhino but while we came on

  much fresh rhino dung there were no tracks since the rain. Once we heard

  tick birds and looking up saw them in jerky flight above us headed to the

  northward over the heavy scrub. We made a long circle through there but

  found nothing but a fresh hyena track and a cow kudu track. In a tree M'Cola

  pointed out a lesser kudu skull with one beautiful, long, curling horn. We

  found the other horn below in the grass and I screwed it back on to its bone

  base.

  'Shenzi,' M'Cola said and imitated a man pulling a bow. The skull was

  quite clean but the hollow horns had some damp residue in them, smelled

  unbearably foul and, giving no sign of having noticed the stench, I handed

  them to Garrick who promptly, without sign gave them to Abdullah. Abdullah

  wrinkled the edge of his flat nose and shook his head. They really smelled

  abominably. M'Cola and I grinned and Garrick looked virtuous.

  I decided a good idea might be to drive along the road in the car,

  watching for kudu, and hunt any likely-looking clearings. We went back to

  the car and did this, working several clearings with no luck. By then the

  sun was up and the road was becoming populous with travellers, both

  white-clothed and naked, and we decided to head for camp. On our way in, we

  stopped and stalked the other salt-lick. There was an impalla on it looking

  very red where the sun struck his hide in the patches between the grey trees

  and there were many kudu tracks. We smoothed them over and drove on into

  camp to find a sky full of locusts passing over, going to the westward,

  making the sky, as you looked up, seem a pink dither of flickering passage,

  flickering like an old cinema film, but pink instead of grey. P.O.M. and Pop

  came out and were very disappointed. No rain had fallen in camp and they had

  been sure we would have something when we came in.

  'Did my literary pal get off?'

  'Yes,' Pop said. 'He's gone into Handeni.'

  'He told me all about American women,' P.O.M. said. 'Poor old Poppa, I

  was sure you'd get one. Danin the rain.'

  'How are American women?'

  'He thinks they're terrible.'

  'Very sound fellow,' said Pop. 'Tell me just what happened to-day.'

  We sat in the shade of the dining tent and I told them.

  'A Wanderobo,' Pop said. 'They're frightful shots. Bad luck.'

  'I thought it might be one of those travelling sportsmen you see with

  their bows slung going along the road. He saw the lick by the road and

  trailed up to the other one.'

  'Not very likely. They carry those bows and arrows as protection.

  They're not hunters.'

  'Well, whoever it was put it on us. '

  'Bad luck. That, and the rain.
I've had scouts out here on both the

  hills but they've seen nothing.'

  'Well, we're not hitched until to-morrow night. When do we have to

  leave?'

  'After to-morrow.'

  'That bloody savage.'

  'I suppose Karl is blasting up the sable down there.'

  'We won't be able to get into camp for the horns. Have you heard

  anything?'

  'No.'

  'I'm going to give up smoking for six months for you to get one,'

  P.O.M. said. 'I've started already.'

  We had lunch and afterwards I went into the tent and lay down and read.

  I knew we still had a chance on the lick in the morning and I was not going

  to worry about it. But I {was} worried and I did not want to go to sleep and

  wake up feeling dopey so I came out and sat in one of the canvas chairs

  under the open dining tent and read somebody's life of Charles the Second

  and looked up every once in a while to watch the locusts. The locusts were

  exciting to see and it was difficult for me to take them as a matter of

  course.

  Finally I went to sleep in the chair with my feet on a chop-box and

  when I woke there was Garrick, the bastard, wearing a large, very floppy,

  black and white ostrich-plume head-dress.

  'Go away,' I said in English.

  He stood smirking proudly, then turned so I could see the head-dress

  from the side.

  I saw Pop coming out of his tent with a pipe in his mouth. 'Look what

  we have,' I called to him.

  He looked, said, 'Christ', and went back into the tent.

  'Come on,' I said. 'We'll just ignore it.'

  Pop came out, finally, with a book and we took no notice of Garrick's

  head-dress at all, sitting and talking, while he posed with it.

  'Bastard's been drinking, too,' I said.

  'Probably.'

  'I can smell it.'

  Pop, without looking at him, spoke a few words to Garrick in a very

  soft voice.

  'What did you tell him?'

  'To go and get dressed properly and be ready to start.'

  Garrick walked off, his plums waving.

  'Not the moment for his ostrich plumes,' Pop said.

  'Some people probably like them.'

  'That's it. Start photographing them.'

  'Awful,' I said.

  'Frightful,' Pop agreed.

  'On the last day if we don't get anything, I'm going to shoot Garrick

  in the behind. What would that cost me?'

  'Might make lots of trouble. If you shoot one, you have to shoot the

  other, too.'

  'Only Garrick.'

  'Better not shoot then. Remember it's me you get into trouble.'

  'Joking, Pop.'

  Garrick, un-head-dressed and with Abdullah, appeared and Pop spoke with

  them.

  'They want to hunt around the hill a new way.'

  'Splendid. When?'

  'Any time now. It looks like rain. You might get going.'

  I sent Molo for my boots and a raincoat, M'Cola came out with the

  Springfield, and we walked down to the car. It had been heavily cloudy all

  day although the sun had come through the clouds in the forenoon for a time

  and again at noon. The rains were moving up on us. Now it was starting to

  rain and the locusts were no longer flying.

  'I'm dopey with sleep,' I told Pop. 'I'm going to have a drink.'

  We were standing under the big tree by the cooking fire with the light

  rain pattering in the leaves. M'Cola brought the whisky flask and handed it

  to me very solemnly.

  'Have one?'

  'I don't see what harm it can do.'

  We both drank and Pop said, 'The hell with them'.

  'The hell with them.'

  'You may find some tracks.'

  'We'll run them out of the country.'

  In the car we turned to the right on the road, drove on up past the mud

  village and turned off the road to the left on to a red, hard, clay track

  that circled the edge of the hills and was close bordered on either side

  with trees. It was raining fairly hard now and we drove slowly. There seemed

  to be enough sand in the clay to keep the car from slipping. Suddenly, from

  the back seat, Abdullah, very excited, told Kamau to stop. We stopped with a

  skid, all got out, and walked back. There was a freshly cut kudu track in

  the wet clay. It could not have been made more than five minutes before as

  it was sharp-edged and the dirt, that had been picked up by the inside of

  the hoof, was not yet softened by the rain.

  'Doumi,' Garrick said and threw back his head and spread his arms wide

  to show horns that hung back over his withers. 'Kubwa Sana!' Abdullah agreed

  it was a bull; a huge bull.

  'Come on,' I said.

  It was easy tracking and we knew we were close. In rain or snow it is

  much easier to come up close to animals and I was sure we were going to get

  a shot. We followed the tracks through thick brush and then out into an open

  patch. I stopped to wipe the rain off my glasses and blew through the

  aperture in the rear sight of the Springfield. It was raining hard now, and

  I pulled my hat low down over my eyes to keep my glasses dry. We skirted the

  edge of the open patch and then, ahead, there was a crash and I saw a grey,

  white-striped animal making off through the brush. I threw the gun up and

  M'Cola grabbed my arm, 'Manamouki!' he whispered. It was a cow kudu. But

  when we came up to where it had jumped there were no other tracks. The same

  tracks we had followed led, logically and with no possibility of doubt, from

  the road to that cow.

  'Doumi Kubwa Sana!' I said, full of sarcasm and disgust to Garrick and

  made a gesture of giant horns flowing back from behind his ears.

  'Manamouki Kubwa Sana,' he said very sorrowfully and patiently. 'What

  an enormous cow.'

  'You lousy ostrich-plumed punk,' I told him in English. 'Manamouki!

  Manamouki! Manamouki!'

  'Manamouki,' said M'Cola and nodded his head.

  I got out the dictionary, couldn't find the words, and made it clear to

  M'Cola with signs that we would circle back in a long swing to the road and

  see if we could find another track. We circled back in the rain, getting

  thoroughly soaked, saw nothing, found the car, and as the rain lessened and

  the roads still seemed firm decided to go on until it was dark. Puffs of

  cloud hung on the hillside after the rain and the trees dripped but we saw

  nothing. Not in the open glades, not in the fields where the bush thinned,

  not on the green hillsides. Finally it was dark and we went back to camp.

  .The Springfield was very wet when we got out of the car and I told M'Cola

  to clean it carefully and oil it well. He said he would and I went on and

  into the tent where a lantern was burning, took off my clothes, had a bath

  in the canvas tub and came out to the fire comfortable and relaxed in

  pyjamas, dressing-gown and mosquito boots.

  P.O.M. and Pop were sitting in t
heir chairs by the fire and P.O.M. got

  up to make me a whisky and soda.

  'M'Cola told me,' Pop said from his chair by the fire.

  'A damned big cow,' I told him. 'I nearly busted her. What do you think

  about the morning?'

  'The lick I suppose. We've scouts out to watch both of these hills. You

  remember that old man from the village? He's on a wild-goose chase after

  them in some country over beyond the hills. He and the Wanderobo. They've

  been gone three days.'

  'There's no reason why we shouldn't get one on the lick where Karl shot

  his. One day is as good as another.'

  'Quite.'

  'It's the last damned day though and the lick may be rained out. As

  soon as it's wet there's no salt. Just mud.'

  'That's it.'

  'I'd like to see one.'

  'When you do, take your time and make sure of him. Take your time and

  kill him.'

  'I don't worry about that.'

  'Let's talk about something else,' P.O.M. said. 'This makes me too

  nervous.'

  'I wish we had old Leather Pants,' Pop said. 'God, he was a talker. He

  made the old man here talk too. Give us that spiel on modern writers again.'

  'Go to hell.'

  'Why don't we have some intellectual life?' P.O.M. asked. 'Why don't

  you men ever discuss world topics? Why am I kept in ignorance of everything

  that goes on?'

  'World's in a hell of a shape,' Pop stated.

  'Awful.'

  'What's going on in America?'

  'Damned if I know! Some sort of Y.M.C.A. show. Starry eyed bastards

  spending money that somebody will have to pay. Everybody in our town quit

  work to go on relief. Fishermen all turned carpenters. Reverse of the

  Bible.'

  'How are things in Turkey?'

  'Frightful. Took the fezzes away. Hanged any amount of old pals.

  Ismet's still around though.'

  'Been in France lately?'

  'Didn't like it. Gloomy as hell. Been a bad show there just now.'

  'By God,' said Pop, 'it must have been if you can believe the papers.'

  'When they riot they really riot. Hell, they've got a tradition.'

  'Were you in Spain for the revolution?'

  'I got there late. Then we waited for two that didn't come. Then we

  missed another.'

  'Did you see the one in Cuba?'

  'From the start.'

  'How was it?'

  'Beautiful. Then lousy. You couldn't believe how lousy.'

  'Stop it,' P.O.M. said. 'I know about those things. I was crouched down

  behind a marble-topped table while they were shooting in Havana. They came

  by in cars shooting at everybody they saw. I took my drink with me and I was

  very proud not to have spilled it or forgotten it. The children said,

  "Mother, can we go out in the afternoon to see the shooting?" They got so

  worked up about revolution we had to stop mentioning it. Bumby got so

  bloodthirsty about Mr. M. he had terrible dreams.'

  'Extraordinary,' Pop said.

  'Don't make fun of nie. I don't want to just hear about revolutions.

  All we see or hear is revolutions. I'm sick of them. '

  'The old man must like them.'

  'I'm sick of them.'

  'You know, I've never seen one,' Pop said.

  'They're beautiful. Really. For quite a while. Then they go bad.'

  'They're very exciting,' P.O.M. said. 'I'll admit that. But I'm sick of

  them. Really, I don't care anything about them.'

  'I've been studying them a little.'

  'What did you find out?' Pop asked.

  'They were all very different but there were some things you could

  co-ordinate. I'm going to try to write a study of them.'

  'It could be damned interesting.'

  'If you have enough material. You need an awful lot of past

  performances. It's very hard to get anything true on anything you haven't

  seen yourself because the ones that fail have such a bad press and the

  winners always lie so. Then you can only really follow anything in places

  where you speak the language. That limits you of course. That's why I would

  never go to Russia. When you can't overhear it's no good. All you get are

  handouts and sight-seeing. Any one who knows a foreign language in any

  country is damned liable to lie to you. You get your good dope always from