Echoes From a Distant Land (5 page)

‘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 reassure 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.

As the caravan moved down Government Road, Wangira'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 Wangira 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 pushing, 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. Wangira 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 Wangira were a multitude 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.

Wangira 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, Wangira 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, Wangira 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
glasses clung to the bridge of his long elegant nose. Untamed bushy eyebrows — with the colour and texture of thin wire like his hair — clustered above the flashing lenses.

The client was quite an odd man, even for a
mzungu
, but Wangira 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.

‘Oh! A shooting stand. That would be with the weapons.' Hungerford, now looking somewhat relieved, shouted, ‘Ali!'

Ali appeared.

‘Ali, take one of the boys and bring me …' he flipped a page on his sheaf of notes, ‘… box twenty-two.'

Ali pointed at Wangira and made a gesture to follow him.

Wangira scrambled to his feet, pleased to play a part. Although very few of the porters could understand English, all were now interested as the scene unfolded.

Minutes later Wangira returned carrying a long metal box.

Ketterman watched closely as Wangira placed the box at his feet and backed away a few steps. Ketterman's eyes followed him.

‘Would you like me to open it?' Hungerford asked after a long interval.

‘What?' Ketterman asked.

‘I said, would you like me to check the gun-stand?'

‘Oh, yes. Of course.'

Hungerford snapped the silver clips apart, lifted the lid, and carefully took the tripod from the case. It was still furled in a grey woollen bag and, as Hungerford held it, Ketterman reverently withdrew the tripod from its sheath.

Ketterman unfolded the legs and studied it. He seemed to find everything in order, and his shoulders relaxed as he took a deep breath.

It was now Hungerford who frowned. Studying the tripod, he asked, ‘What kind of weapon do you mount on such a stand, Mr Ketterman?'

Ketterman grinned. ‘A very special one.'

He signalled to Wangira. ‘Young man, come.' And he walked to a box at the end of the stack of supplies. Pointing to it, he said, ‘If you please.'

Wangira carried it behind Ketterman, who opened it beside the tripod.

There was a box within the box.

Wangira was familiar with rifles. There had been times when hunting safaris had passed near his village, and every boy within a half-day's walk had gathered to catch furtive glances of the white men and their equipment. But this contraption was something quite new to him.

‘A camera,' Hungerford said.

‘A 35mm Simplex Motion Picture Camera, to be precise,' Ketterman said, slipping his thumbs into his belt and leaning back on his heels.

‘You're a photographer.'

‘A mere amateur, Mr Hungerford, but — dare I say it — a damn good one.'

Wangira watched Hungerford move his gaze from the camera to Ketterman and back again.

‘So,' he said, ‘you're not a hunter at all.'

‘Quite the contrary. I'm a hunter of interesting subjects to immortalise on 35mm moving picture film. And occasionally, if the subject demands it, also on still film.'

At this he hurried to his stack of belongings and returned with a wooden case from which he withdrew a small black box.

‘This is Eastman's Folding Pocket Brownie. The model 2A.'

Hungerford nodded his head slowly. ‘Cameras.'

‘Quite a few.'

‘And with no guns and all these cameras, why did you hire N&T? I assume you have no interest in big game hunting at all.'

‘Wrong again, Mr Hungerford. Why else would I come to Africa? There are more ways to hunt the wildlife than by killing it. With these cameras I shall capture the animals and preserve them for posterity. Posterity, Mr Hungerford. Think of it! All the excitement of a big game safari that you know so well, but without the need to kill the poor beasts. And I can entertain thousands with my films. I intend to shoot twenty reels out here and, with your assistance, they will be of your usual quarry: lion, elephant, buffalo. I want to capture all the excitement that presently only the privileged few can experience.'

‘In that case I could have saved you the cost of two first-class gun bearers.'

‘Then call them camera bearers if it makes you feel better.' There was no animosity in Ketterman's tone. He seemed to be enjoying the banter.

‘I can't ask a good gun bearer to carry a box. They may appear
to be ignorant savages to you, but my gun bearers have their pride,' Hungerford said irritably. ‘I'll find you a couple of men to carry your cameras and whatnots.'

‘This young man right here seems to be strong enough,' he said, pointing at Wangira. ‘Why not him?'

‘As you wish, Mr Ketterman,' Hungerford said with a sigh of resignation, and then appeared to realise they had become the centre of the porters' rapt attention. ‘Ali,' he said brusquely. ‘Get these boys back to setting camp.'

‘Get on with it!' Ali said in Kiswahili. ‘All of you, back to work.' He began to shout his orders.

Wangira turned to leave.

‘Wait,' Ketterman said to Hungerford. ‘Let me take a picture of him.' He indicated Wangira. ‘To demonstrate the camera, I mean.'

Ketterman fumbled with the controls, twisting a knob and turning a wheel.

Hungerford shrugged and walked off.

‘Very well,' Ketterman said, satisfied. ‘I'm ready. Now stand with your arms by your side.'

Wangira stood bolt upright, and waited.

Ketterman, realising that Wangira had obeyed, looked up from the viewfinder. ‘You speak English?'

Wangira nodded. ‘Yes.
Bwana
.'

Ketterman appeared pleased at the news. Again there was a pause before he turned his attention back to the camera.

‘Hold it!' he said.

The request was unnecessary. Wangira had already stiffened with a sense of unease. Having heard the description of the functions of a camera he didn't quite know what to expect.

He heard a faint click.

‘There,' said Ketterman, lowering the camera.

Wangira swallowed, and for a moment didn't comprehend that whatever was supposed to happen, had happened.

Wangira waited a moment, then moved off to join the others erecting tents, setting the cooking fires and sorting through the mountain of packs. He felt vaguely disappointed to have been only
momentarily the centre of attention and because the moment had quickly turned out to be uneventful.

But it did not extinguish his burning desire to know all about the boxes called cameras.

 

Within the muted light of his developing tent, Ira Ketterman slipped his hands into the armholes of his lightproof bag and unravelled enough celluloid to safely snip the section of exposed film containing the young porter. He then replaced the remainder of the reel in its container.

Before placing his hands into the armholes to the washing tanks, he checked the thermometer and set the stopwatch.

He found working with the portable processing equipment far more cumbersome than using his darkroom back in New York, but he had no other options. He couldn't afford to risk a camera failure going undetected, causing him to arrive home after three months' work only to find he had five hundred feet of useless celluloid.

He had practised with the portable equipment many times at home in New York and soon adapted to the constraints.

After a final wash, he removed the negative from the lightproof bag and swung up the tent flap to examine it. The negative was sharp.

He grabbed his pipe and headed for the black tent he used to make prints and enlargements. It contained a pressure lamp and a complicated set of mirrors and lenses — the most delicate pieces in his entire suite of laboratory equipment.

At the end of the process he took the pressure lamp from the enlargement equipment. The blackened tent filled with light. Ketterman studied the print.

He fumbled around in his coat pocket to find his pipe, filled the bowl with tobacco and slowly tamped it down. The match flared and, when the centre was glowing red, he took a long and satisfying pull of smoke into his lungs. His tension eased. The porter's body appeared in sharp contrast. The print was perfect.

He sat for a long time until the air in the black tent had become almost unbearably hot. But he stayed on, staring at the Adonis captured so perfectly in the print.

Ira Ketterman was sixty-seven years old, and in love.

 

Wangira was returning from the central storage tent to where Ali was organising the distribution of packs, equipment and crates, when he found Ira Ketterman looking at him.

There was a moment when Wangira thought he wanted to speak to him, but it passed and Wangira continued on his way.

‘Wait,' Ketterman said.

Wangira turned to him.

‘We need to have a talk, you and I.'

Wangira looked around for Ali, who was known to have a particular dislike of porters fraternising with Hungerford or the client.

‘Me, sir?' he asked.

‘Yes, you, young man. I'm sure you heard me ask Mr Hungerford for your services yesterday. And he agreed. What do you say?'

‘Sir?'

‘Do you want to work with me?'

‘With the cameras?'

‘With the cameras and all the other equipment I use. You seem an intelligent lad. Are you interested in working with cameras?'

Wangira was still uncertain whether he understood, but nodded vigorously. ‘I … I am.'

‘Then, come,' Ketterman said. ‘Come to my tent and I will teach you all you need to know.'

 

Ketterman's tent boy had set a number of lanterns burning in the corners of the interior and flung the flaps over the sides to let in the cool evening air.

‘Thank you, Babu,' he said. ‘That will be all for today. Come in,' he added, waving his guest forwards.

The porter took a tentative step into the tent.

Ketterman indicated a canvas chair. ‘Sit,' he said. ‘By the way, what's your name?'

‘I am Sam … Samson Wangira, sir.'

‘Samson. Very well. I am Ira Ketterman.'

Sam nodded.

‘Sit down, Samson,' he repeated, and then went to the back of the tent to retrieve one of his cameras. He chose one that he felt would be simple enough to demonstrate the basic principles.

He placed the camera on the folding table between them.

‘This,' Ketterman said, ‘is my Hess-Ives Hicro.' After first pausing for effect, he added, ‘My
colour
camera.'

He offered it to Sam, who, after a moment's hesitation, took it carefully into his hands.

‘As you can see, it's not coloured at all. Merely black like all the rest.'

The joke escaped the young Kikuyu, who was scrutinising the camera in great detail.

‘That little circle of glass at the front is the lens,' he continued. ‘And that knob just there moves the back plane to and fro to change the —'