The African Safari Papers Read online

  Copyright

  The edition first published in the United States in 2011 by

  The Overlook Press, Peter Mayer Publishers, Inc.

  141 Wooster Street

  New York, NY 10012

  www.overlookpress.com

  For bulk and special sales, please contact [email protected]

  Copyright © 2001 Robert Sedlack

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

  ISBN: 978-1-46830-095-6

  Contents

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Note to the Reader

  Begin Reading

  This book is dedicated to anyone who’s had cold,

  grinding, grizzly bear jaws hot on their heels.

  Acknowledgements

  With thanks to:

  Dad for being there in ’84;

  Mom for telling me the Robert the Bruce spider story;

  Libby for keeping a warm home to come back to in Canada;

  Caitlin for providing the initial inspiration;

  Wendel, Kim, Adam and Rowan for reading the early drafts and being so helpful and supportive;

  Bill Hicks for proving that courage and integrity don’t have to be compromised;

  Joe Kertes, Timothy Findley and Jim MacDonald; and Margaret Hart for storming the castle;

  John and Kendall for the shearing, shaping and shepherding.

  Note to the Reader

  In the summer of 1983 I took a safari to Kenya with my mother and father. The book you are about to read is a work of fiction. It should not be confused with my actual safari, which, by comparison, was reasonably uneventful. Likewise, the characters set forth here should not be confused with actual persons, living or dead.

  Thursday, August 11

  7:23 p.m.

  In Flight — Paris to Nairobi

  Dad has us sitting in different parts of the plane. It’s in case we crash. He has a plan for everything. This way, one of us will presumably survive, proudly pick up the fallen torch and carry on.

  I hope it’s me.

  Checked on mom. She was crying. Jesus. Wouldn’t say why. Just stared out the window. Dad was sitting in the back, drinking scotch. He didn’t seem too happy when I told him. He got up right away to see what was wrong.

  I went and smoked a bowl in the bathroom. What about the smoke alarms, Richard? No problem. Designed for the uninspired … not the desperate. How do you do it? I smoke with a small pipe and haul every last burned leaf and stem deep into my lungs. I exhale through a straw into a sink full of water. A few wisps curl into the air but not enough to set off those pesky alarms. Any remaining odour gets zapped with a tiny room freshener I carry. Fresh orange fragrance … made from real oranges. Mom swears by the stuff. Spritz, spritz. So do I.

  I left the bathroom humming nicely. Like the big furnace gran had in the basement of her old house. Warm and buzzing. It didn’t matter that the plane was getting bounced around like a pop can tossed from a moving car. I passed mom and dad. He seemed agitated. She kept staring out the window watching those wings dip and dive.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” said dad, trying hard to be compassionate but wanting nothing better than to get her in a headlock and run her forehead into a pole.

  “Then why aren’t we sitting together?”

  “It’s just a sensible precaution.”

  “A precaution for what, Ted? Crashing. If you didn’t think it was possible, we’d be sitting together. I hate you for putting these thoughts in my head.”

  “Janet, the odds of being killed in a plane crash are one in four million. You’ve got a better chance of winning ten million dollars in the lottery.”

  “What are the odds of a freak of nature, a blast of sudden and catastrophic wind shear?”

  Yes dad, what about that?

  “Wind shear does not bring down planes at 37,000 feet.”

  “Oh no? What about rolling thunder?”

  “Rolling what?”

  She had already told me about this. I have to admit that she succeeded in twisting a knot in my stomach, a knot that had remained tied until my visit to the latrine.

  Mom began her account sounding like a somber narrator on a disaster documentary. “Mount Fuji. British Airways. March 5, 1966. Boeing 707. Perfectly clear day. Suddenly, wham! The plane disintegrates. 124 dead. The crash investigators determined that a rolling mass of air, something like horizontal wind shear, smashed into the plane and blew it to pieces.” Mom took a deep breath and her voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you know what happens when a plane breaks apart at 37,000 feet? All your clothes get ripped from your body. Shoes, socks, underwear. Everything. You fall to the ground completely naked.”

  Dad was left mute. There are certain images you don’t want interfering with the dull and reassuring drone of those big engines. I don’t think he was affected by the image of plummeting to his death. He was probably thinking about the embarrassment of being found by a Sudanese search-and-rescue team, spread-eagled in a field, without a stitch.

  Mom wrenched her eyes from the wobbly wing and reached into her purse. “I need a cigarette.”

  Dad grabbed her wrist. “You can’t smoke here,” he growled.

  Having the three of us scattered about the fuselage might have been a good idea for a runway crash but it left mom in a nonsmoking seat. She had already been back to my section to smoke several times. She didn’t like dad’s survival plan and by the look on her face she liked his grip on her wrist even less.

  Mom whipped her hand free, snagged a cigarette, lit it, and blew an anxious plume into the cabin. Dad’s momentary courtship with compassion was over. He spat out a barely comprehensible “Goddamn it,” before standing too quickly, hitting his head on the luggage compartment and swerving back to his seat.

  It was a matter of seconds before the protests began.

  A loud American woman behind us made a sorry-ass attempt to get mom’s attention with her coughing. Just once I would like to meet a quiet American abroad. I realize I have a better chance of seeing a hairy frog but I have hope.

  Defeated in her effort to stop the clouds of smoke with her coughing, and undeterred by mom’s comment that she had quite a cough and it was a good thing she didn’t smoke, the loud American woman leaned forward. “There’s no smoking.”

  Mom was thoroughly enjoying her cigarette. She glanced at her fingernails like she often did at home in our living room. “Says who?”

  “It’s the law.”

  “Fuck the law.”

  That’s when I left. Good for mom. Yes, it’s a non-smoking seat, but it’s not the complaint, it’s the attitude that travels with it, like a magpie splashing wet shit on your head. Fuck off. Find something worth getting excited about. I like anti-abortion activists more than I like anti-smokers. At least pro-life fanatics get excited about something that matters.

  Oh I know, all those tests warn us about the evils of secondhand smoke. But if anyone thinks that brief exposure to one cigarette is going to give them cancer, then they had better save their money and purchase one of those plastic bubbles that John Travolta lived in for that TV movie in the 70s. Because that’s the only place they’re going to be safe. Anyone who thinks they can get cancer so easily is insane. They should be locked up.

  I agree with one gloomy forecast. If you’re locked in a small basement room with no ventilation with a person who smokes two packs a day, and you never leave that room for forty years, you might, not for sure, not a guarantee, but you might run the risk of getting cancer.

  But let’s say the scientists who live off government grants are right. If someone has that weak a constitution, is so frail in spirit and health that brief exposure to a burning cigarette is going to give them cancer, then so be it. Let them die. We’ll end up with a stronger herd. Let’s weed out the weak ones. The cranky ones. The pathetic ones who always complain. It’s survival of the fittest. Just like fucking Africa. Any anti-smoking fanatics stealing a peek at my journal? Stop now. This journal is for snoops with dirty hands. I mean it. Put the journal down.

  The only reason that people don’t like smoking is that it reminds them of their own mortality. It’s like I’m standing there, dressed in a black robe with the big hood, and I’ve got a cigarette in one hand and a scythe in the other … and they’re cringing … and they’re thinking … what do you mean this doesn’t last forever? What do you mean I have to die one day? And with a deep voice I chuckle from inside the hood.

  Because that’s really what this anti-smoking crusade comes down to. A fear of dying. Come to think of it, that’s what all crusades come down to.

  11:17 p.m.

  Managed to close my eyes for a bit. Everybody on the plane is asleep. Everything is peaceful. This is when the bomb would go off. Life’s cruel that way. I’d be thinking just what those college students on Pan Am 103 were thinking, “Gee, it’ll be nice to get back home for Christmas. I wonder if Melanie will meet me at the airport?” Thinking of sleigh rides and carolers and how sweet Melanie’s pussy was going to feel, slipping and sliding under that big comforter. There would be the soothing voice of the pilot
announcing the flight time to New York and maybe mentioning something about the constellations I could see on this clear night, if I happened to be sitting by a window. Reaching slowly for my tray table because the idea of sipping a brandy suddenly appeals to me. Turning serenely to the flight attendant and opening my mouth to speak and then … BOOOOOM! Plane disintegrates. Clothes blown off. Still strapped in my seat. Still conscious. Floating. Stars bright. Holy night. Upside down. Freezing air squeezing my balls. My ears bleeding.

  Jesus. Why do I write this shit when I’m flying?

  I checked on mom. She had put out her cigarette when the flight attendant asked if she’d be so kind as to do so. Good for Air France. Nice and civilized.

  Dad had mentioned before I arrived in Paris for the safari that mom was having some troubles. What kind of troubles? He wouldn’t say exactly. Which was surprising because he’s always so thorough. I was too self-obsessed to pursue the matter. I needed to borrow some money from him so I wasn’t worried about her troubles.

  Can’t believe they’ve been in Paris for a year. She never wanted to move to France in the first place. She quite liked our two-storey house and small backyard with a birdbath for the robins. Her flowers. Her shrubs. Her badminton.

  According to mom, dad had wanted to live in Paris ever since he read Hemingway in college. She says he put in his transfer request seven years ago. I’d never seen him so happy as the day he came home and announced that he and mom were going. I’d never seen mom pretend so hard to be happy.

  The timing was perfect. Maggie was at university. I was due to finish high school. Dad would go over early and mom would join him after I’d graduated. They would rent out the house and get a condo for Maggie and me to live in.

  I remember our final morning together in the house. It was a week after my last day of classes. Mom had come up to my room to do laundry before her flight. Her last domestic duty as a mother. She asked if I needed anything washed. I didn’t hear a word. I was so hungover. I remained sluggish until I realized she had taken my jean jacket downstairs to wash. Gradually I pieced together the sequence of events taking place down in the laundry room. She was feeling in my pockets to see if there was anything that needed to be removed. Things that would be ruined by the warm, soapy water. Things like a candy bar. My wallet. My pack of cigarettes … my … I jumped out of bed and bolted downstairs. I was too late.

  Mom was standing beside the dryer holding a vial of hash oil. She had tears streaming down her face. I would have expected a demonstration of disappointment. But she wasn’t just disappointed. She looked shattered. Her expression was so extreme, so ridiculous, I almost started to laugh. She held that small vial as though it were a bullet I’d shot into her heart and, through some miracle of self-surgery, extracted it with her fingers. She was holding it out for me to see. Dark, red blood dripping on the cement floor. She told me she thought I was a drug addict. She said she was going to take the vial to Paris and show dad. She never did. Good old mom. Protecting her youngest.

  Maggie drove her to the airport. I was too sick. Poor mom. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, saying good-bye to the house, and the only sound is me in the upstairs bathroom puking. That was the last time we stood under the same roof until I came to Paris for this safari.

  She’s got to learn not to be so hysterical. She read a story in the newspaper once about a mother on LSD who had cut out her baby’s heart with a broken beer bottle. She thought that’s what all people did on LSD. No mom, just those people that are nuts in the first place. Nuts should not take LSD. Mom doesn’t know I’ve taken it. She would spontaneously combust if she knew how often. And guess what? There’s not a single baby’s heart on my floor. Lots of shattered illusions. Lots of lies. Lots of preconceptions about time, death and glass onions. But, so far, knock on wood, no baby hearts.

  I don’t take drugs as an escape trick, like some cheap magician on a cruise ship. I take drugs to find gold, like a greedy prospector in the backcountry. There are those who take drugs to be cool and those who take drugs to expand. I am not James Dean. I’m a balloon. And god has a mouth on my hole. And is blowing. And filling me up. And filling me up. One day I will explode. And then I will be free.

  I am so grateful that mom and dad never mentioned god in our house. The closest I came to a church was when a school chum got me interested in the Boy Scouts. I joined for the badges and the camping trips and the roasted marshmallows. My chum was a Latter-day Saint, a Mormon for those not in the know. He and his family ate whole-grain cereal for breakfast, and they set aside every Monday night and called it Family Home Evening. They talked and laughed and sang — even when Monday Night Football was on. They were aliens to me.

  The Scout meetings were held in a room in their church. It was around the second or third meeting that my Latter-day Saint chum started showing up with his dad a half hour early. This meant we got to the church a half hour early. The father said the same thing every week. “I see Bishop Ballantyne’s car over there … wonder what the heck he’s doing here on a Wednesday night … oh, what do you know, there’s a worship service in the chapel, shhh, well, let’s not just stand around twiddling our thumbs for twenty minutes, why don’t you grab a seat beside us on the pew here, Richard.”

  This went on for months. I didn’t hear a fucking thing that that old bishop said. But then one day I figured it out. This wasn’t about camping at all. This wasn’t about marshmallows and lighting your farts on fire. This was about saving my soul.

  I quit right there and then. And from that day forward I waited, coiled and tense like a mountain lion, for short-haired missionary boys in smartly pressed white shirts and ties who came to my door with a divine smile, a firm handshake and a plan.

  I’d greet them in my underwear. With nasty holes in my ass. I’d smoke cigarettes and hash oil. I’d drink beer and whiskey. I’d flip through Hustler magazine and ask them what they thought of a particular photograph of a particularly juicy snatch. I’d scratch my balls. I’d belch, break wind, rate the stench, pick wax from my ear. In spite of all this, they’d still get around to asking if I knew who the “king” was. I’d say it was Elvis. They’d tell me that my soul needed an eternal friend. I’d say that my soul was already spoken for, wrapped in the warm embrace of the Dark Prince. Most of them left after that. The persistent ones stayed. I guess they liked the nude pictures lying on the coffee table.

  Never a mention of god in our house. So when I was ready, when I started asking questions, that’s when I turned to drugs. And they gave me colours that no church in the world could provide. Mom and dad gave me a blank canvas upon which to paint. They can be a pain sometimes. But there’s one thing I’ll never forget. They never touched my soul. God bless them for that.

  I’m looking at the other passengers sound asleep. I wonder if this is what enlightenment feels like? Awake and no one to talk to.

  Later

  We have begun our descent into Nairobi airport. The sun has risen. The air is calm. My ears are hurting. I wish they’d pop. Just hit a big air pocket. No doubt mom is gripping her armrests like some poor slob getting gum surgery with too low a dose of freezing. That’s it for now. Welcome to Africa.

  Friday, August 12

  10:45 a.m.

  Norfolk Hotel

  Room 26

  Nairobi, Kenya

  Customs was a joke. Didn’t even open a bag. Not that I was worried because I put all my goodies in one of mom’s travel bags. Yes, I am a bastard. So tell me, young man, just what would you have done if your good mother had gotten busted? I would have confessed. But then again I’ve got a slippery, cowardly side.

  In grade six we broke into a bookmobile that was visiting our elementary school. The bookmobile was just a school bus filled with books that came around once a year. I assume its mere presence in the parking lot was supposed to get us interested in reading.

  Me and Kurt Hutchison forced the door open so tiny Alex Cooper could squeeze inside. He wasn’t there to steal. It was enough of a victory to see him inside the bus. We had parachuted a soldier behind enemy lines. Alex was great. He kept running from the front of the bus to the back, with his arms in the air, yelling. He must have done this about forty times. We laughed until we almost peed ourselves.