The Serengeti
June 12th, 2008
(A safari I went on in my head)
East Africa can influence ones verve like no other place on earth. The morning of December 30th, 1935 was hardly an exception. The sunrise had just begun to reach the top of the kopjes (rocky outcrops like islands strewn across the vast plains) casting morning shadow over their tiny little wildlife hamlets, each sunbeam claiming a separate bedfellow as if a thousand suns had spawned from one. A more virginal breath of air cannot be taken until one has filled their nostrils on the African flatland. It is purity in its rawest form, and takes me back to my childhood where we would get up early on Sunday morning, running outside to spin tops, soaking up the innocence of the fresh air long before I knew any better.
In retrospect I can hardly figure my initial reluctance in accepting this assignment. As a journalist I had been assigned to cover this growing trend for the Centre Daily Times in State College, Pennsylvania, and one would expect that I would have been eager to document the almighty safari, a luxury usually reserved for those with considerably more wealth than me. However, having viewed any kind of hunting as nothing more than savagery, I felt my disinclination justified at the time and had remained skeptical and equally diffident right up until my ship had docked at its Kenyan port. It took only a few hours to fully understand the error of my way, and now with our final day upon us, my head was filled to capacity with memories. Recollections of this environment, of the vast herds of antelope, and columns of wildebeests, head to tail, clumping along their migration routes ears erect listening for lions, sometimes sleeping, sometimes alert and vigilantly stalking their quarry. Never had I been so grateful.
I thought back to my arrival in Kenya, where I had initially boarded a train for the first one hundred miles. At the end of the line I observed the faces of the more seasoned travelers take on an apprehensive look as we boarded the large trucks that would take us to the Serengeti. I came to learn that December was the season of the short rains, and many of the mud roads were often found to be impassable. Although the rains had not been overly heavy, the road was littered with potholes, and we only made it a short way before we ran into nuisance. Our truck was overweight, and as the road became steeper, the mud left us slipping as we climbed. The driver had to get out and cut brush to lie under the wheels as the larger of us were made to push. With no possibility of going backward, we continued to go through the motions until we reached the top of the hill, leaving me covered in mud and soaked through before my adventure had even begun. It was almost five in the morning before I reached my destination, and I could do little more than collapse for a few hours of much needed rest.
We were lucky enough to run across an old rest camp for the evening, and though plenty of firewood lay ready at the camp, I found no water and set out to collect a quantity in a tin bucket called a debe usually used by the natives for hauling petroleum or paraffin. As I approached the river, I was introduced to the first of our four member party Mr. Hesselroth positioned on rock, fishing within the slowly moving water. Hesselroth was an accomplished and well known fishing guide around these parts, spending countless hours perfecting his craft in the many rivers that interlaced the plains. Although I did not have much to add to our conversations, I found great pleasure in watching him captivate the native Masai children with his battle stories of the feared tiger fish, adequately armed with a huge series of teeth that were very developed and very sharp. He would press the bottoms of his palms together into a ‘V’, wiggling his fingers and snapping his hands open and shut to replicate the beasts’ ferocious bite. The children would run screaming into the tall grass, hiding, only to peak their heads out minutes later and return for more.
After finishing a meal of fresh Barbel, we gathered a small tent, some items necessary for cooking, our bedding, and all the other miscellaneous supplies we would need for our remaining four day journey. Hesselroth added to the gear with his fishing supplies and a small shotgun he usually reserved for select game birds. Our old Model B Chevrolet was packed tightly, and we reached our next destination right after sunset. Our target, the former colony of German East Africa, had been renamed the Tanganyika Territory after the First World War in 1918. This land held large amounts of big game in Africa, and Arusha had become well known for its safaris. As we pulled into our outpost, we noticed a large sign posted on the side of the road. 
Due to the baiting of them by hunting parties, one would merely have to drive down the road and the lions having heard cars, would tag along just waiting for a meal. Resort owners had added to the problem by dragging zebra carcasses behind their vehicles, delighting the tourists as they watched the mighty beasts feed.
At the far end of the village, we were to finally meet up with the final two members of our meager party. The newspaper I worked for was owned by a New York packaging mogul by the name of Daniel Engesser. Engesser had made a fortune in the packaging industry; starting Engesser Cartridge and Ammunition Manufacturers, Engesser had initiated a ground-breaking distribution plan, asking local grocery stores, barber shops, and gas stations if they’d stock his products. Enough stores agreed that soon ECAM became a household name in the Midwest. Engesser an avid hunter and safari enthusiast had personally extended an invitation for a reporter, I, to accompany him and his guides on this short safari in hopes of further sensationalizing this rarely realistic adventure. A handsome man, Engesser dressed in an unashamedly expensive suit complete with Oxford baggies, arrived, and stepped down from his vehicle.
“Glad you gentleman made it safely,” Engesser chattered. “Damn glad that is.”
“A mighty beautiful place,” I said.
“Be careful what you call beautiful. You know the Lion is best looking creature on these plains, yet equally dangerous too.”
“Is that so?”
“And they’re not afraid either, I’ve seen them come up to our campfire many a night and sit right by it. They’ll stay there all night unless you chase them away. Damn shame they’re almost too tame to hunt. Hope you like Rhino.”
This started a lengthy conversation consisting mostly of heavy boasting by Engesser, and light listening by me. I was pleased however, to hear he had arranged for a night at the new Arusha Hotel. Upon arriving at the hotel we entered through the lobby and immediately into the dining-room. The entire room from the wainscoting to the ceiling was plastered with paintings of the Great Rift Valley. Giraffe feeding on mimosa trees, a fierce rhino, and lions surrounded us like the wilderness had squeezed itself inside, enabling us constant absorption. There in the back of the dining room sat a daunting figure with an austere look on his face the likes I hadn’t seen since my grandfather had caught me stealing money from the old lady Decker. This stoic personage invited apprehension, and I knew instantly that this must be the final member of our party. The man who had led the US First Army in the third battle of Meuse-Argonne, the man who stormed the city with more than 300 tanks, and in only one day captured 8,000 German soldiers. Amidst this blank stare hunkered a true to life American hero, General Helmbrecht.
We proceeded to exchange pleasantries and took a moment to sip a rare treat of whiskey on ice. General Helmbrecht entertained us re-living tales of the front lines as we chuckled every time he mentioned those “goddamn kraut bastards.” I could have sipped whiskey for hours, but we only had three days remaining and would spend at least an entire day trekking to the crater where we would camp and hunt the rhino. 
Long before I had entertained any notions of sunshine, our provisions had been packed and we started the arduous journey to the rim of the crater. Our party had increased slightly in size as several Lumbwa’ spearman and a number of Masai women were waiting to join us on the slog. Also joining the excursion was a young man from the eastern United States by the name of Jimmy Gehring. Jimmy, fresh out of prep school and living in the wake of his fathers’ untimely death in World War I, had solicited money from his grandparents to undertake a spiritual awakening of sorts on the great African plains. Jimmy, fully clad in roughneck khaki’s, hunting vest, and small rifle would hardly have been singled out for anything but a youthful hunter had it not been for the petrol blue velvet fedora that donned the top of his blonde head. Completely out of place, the fedora, common among gangsters on the east coast, had been given to Jimmy by his late father. Jimmy vowed to wear this hat in his memory till he himself could measure up to that of his elder. We were happy to let him tag along, yet General Helmbrecht had started right in on him, letting Jimmy know that at his age he had spent his time butchering Germans instead of squandering valuable minutes on frolicsome camping trips.
We pressed on through the mountains following a cattle track surrounded by thick flora on either side. As we passed through the undergrowth we suddenly found ourselves taken aback as we reached the quadrilateral crater of Ngorongoro. The crater was breathing with a wealth of wild game. Large herds of antelope fed on the plains, followed by zebras, and large rhinos rumbling to and fro. The lot of us stood in awe, except for the Masai women, oblivious to the splendor, content to unpack supplies their telephone wire curios clanging with every motion.
We proceeded down the western slope and started to assemble our tents at the crag. We ate, drank, and watched the sun slowly set as if it had been dropped every so gently from above. Intent on saving this one of a kind moment, I removed my charcoal pencil from my pack and sketched the silhouettes of our party. The sun cast a shadow over the motley crew, each member so completely different, yet, reveling equally in the splendor around them. Together they sat in silence, a businessman, a hero, a fishing guide, and of course a petrol blue fedora.
As morning greeted us, the anticipation of the day’s events ran rabid in the crisp morning air. I noticed right away that young Jimmy had left the camp before first light. I personally would miss the youngster and came to learn that, amidst an ocean of whiskey, General Helmbrecht had given the young man quite a hard time. Berating him on his lack of enthusiasm in serving his country, Jimmy had decided to leave, hoping to avoid any future un-pleasantries. I was sad he was gone. Only the Masai women had watched him set off alone, his blue fedora almost indiscernible against the morning sky.
All of our hunting supplies had to be driven into the crater, for there was only one rather small trail going into the hollow and another one coming up. The Lumbwa spearman had left earlier in the morning, scouting for game, and Hesselroth had once again gone in pursuit of yet more barbel in the spring fed pond below. The remainder of us descended the south-eastern slope of Ngorongoro and after battling our way through the dense vegetation, parked the Model B Chevy and paused for lunch in a dell.
Following our brief meal, Engesser and Helmbrecht, eager to start the hunt, had volunteered to use the Model B to flush game towards myself, hoping to force either wildebeest or rhino into a direct line towards my ready and willing rifle. In retrospect we should have waited for the Lumbwa spearman to join us, but the testosterone had flowed heavily for days, and there would be no holding back our enthusiasm.
I watched the truck evaporate into a sea of ducks. Every species imaginable swam in the lake. There were Egyptian geese and numerous fine-looking egrets. In the middle of the tarn were multitudes of flamingoes – as I watched they took flight from the pool until the heavens light was blocked with this blissful pink eclipse. Suddenly, the flock shifted and headed for the shore. Out of this great pink blur appeared the Model B, chasing several rhino across the surface. Nearer and nearer they came, Engesser, eyes blazing, stomped on the gas pedal separating a single frightened beast from his companions. Now up to this point, everything had been going according to our scantily prepared plans. But, the Serengeti is known for its mercurial twists of temper, and the motherland not wanting to disappoint, swiftly fashioned a behemoth so portentously large and heated that an irrecoverable state of devastation and destruction was ineluctable. 
The rhino, sensing certain doom, suddenly decided to come to a dead halt, turned, faced and charged full boar into the Model B. Never had two men been more unprepared for a situation. Engesser and Helmbrecht, with barely enough time to protect themselves, held on for dear life as the mammoth smashed and then flipped the Model B on its topside, pinning the two hunters underneath without their weapons. Looking back I find it hard not to chuckle as the solitary colossus stood over the caged men, staring as if there had suddenly been some kind of monumental role reversal. I stood about fifty yards away, unsure of how to proceed at the time. Fearing for the lives of my companions, I raised my rifle and quickly fired a slug directly into the lumps’ hind quarter. My intentions has been merely to send the animal on its way, the rhino however, with plans of his own, decided it best to about face, snort, and dash directly toward he who had so brutally inflicted his backside.
Now if my account gets kind of blurry at this point, remember that sheer terror will do that to a man. It was if a steam engine had been cut loose from its tracks barreling toward what little of my life might be left. The bully was mountainous, a thousand pounds of thundering Herculean insanity. Never before had I seen nature display such a tremendous creature. The rhino, nostrils flaring, spun his tree trunk legs as he covered ground at a disturbing rate. I couldn’t lift my rifle. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t scream. The leviathan continued to charge, and at about ten yards I saw my life flash before my eyes. At five yards I remember a hearing a pop, followed by a small flash of light somewhere atop the hill countless yards away. As I then submitted to certain death, my eyes coupled with him that would send me to my maker. Then as if time stood still, he shot me a quizzical look, let out a bellow, and dropped smack dab at my feet, steam rising from his hillocky baseball sized nostrils. From between his eyes a small drop of blood fell to the earth.
I joined him on the ground without delay.
After I came to there was some discrepancy as to the exact details of that afternoon. Particulars aside, we would all agree that a big name from above must have been watching out for us. We climbed the hill where the mysterious shooter had been perched but to no reward. It had to have been a one in a million blast.
“Best goddamn shot I’ve seen since boot camp” yawped General Helmbrecht.“If that sum a’ bitch hadn’t jumped the blinds I’d buy him a whole damn bottle of snort.”
“Fine shot indeed,” chirruped Engesser. “Damn fine.”
Having seen the event firsthand I found myself with little to say, grateful to simply be breathing.It was a fitting ending to our safari and I felt cocksure that I had experienced the best that Eastern Africa had to offer.
We drank much whiskey that night, dined on the wild game, and continued to re-live the afternoon’s events with one another ad nauseam. It had been a wonderful escapade. An adventure filled with beauty, laughter, and most of all mystery. There was no surprise we all slept soundly this last night of safari. Yet, no one slept as contently as the small Masai boy in his hut, proudly clutching the petrol blue fedora he found earlier, left atop a hill in the Serengeti.
ALEX TO » Blog Archive » The Serengeti said:
[…] The Serengeti June 12th, 2008 (A safari I went on in my head) East Africa can influence ones verve like no other place on earth. The morning of December 30th, 1935 was hardly an exception. The sunrise had just begun to reach the top of the kopjes … […]
June 12th, 2008 at 1:42 pm #
Citizen Wausau » Blog Archive » Your Voice: Version 2 said:
[…] Alex Tallitsch of “The Search for Redemption” blog posted some lyrics to a rap song that were sort of personal and introspective, but then he took that post down for some reason. However, you can still read his first-person account of a fictional African safari: […]
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