Safari
Tira Khan
When I arrived in Nairobi, it was dark. Starlight ricocheted off buildings and cast angular shadows in the darkness. I felt like I was in a noir flick. And the people, aside from the glowing whites of their eyes, were night itself. I climbed into a taxi with scaly leather seats, and the cabbie drove me to what looked like a suburban house. When I handed him cash for the ride, he looked at the bills and then at me. It seemed his English wasn’t as good as I had first thought, so I motioned him to keep the change.
I was in Africa only because I was lucky to have had a father who won a spot on a safari and have little interest in leaving Oz. I, on the other hand, was only too happy to leave Australia. I had slacked off my studies at university and decided to take the year off. My life consisted of working in a cafeteria and drifting away from classmates, who were busy attending lectures, penning exams, or napping in the library. Meanwhile, at my parents’ place where I’d returned, things had been pretty much the same, not good or bad in any particular way, just the same which, being young with nothing to do, was bad enough for me.
When I finally flipped the calendar to September, I was ready to strap cash around my waist, hoist my rucksack over both shoulders, and walk to the bus stop. Pappy came with me and offered to carry the pack, but I told him no because I wanted to be self-sufficient. At the Qantas gate, he hugged me and said to stay away from the lions.
I don’t remember much about that night before the tour except that I found a spot on the floor to sleep. Men and women travelers were sprawled all over what looked like someone’s living room, and there was a padlocked box with a sign overhead asking guests to deposit their overnight fee. I pulled out my sleeping bag and slept fitfully until the chickens wandering in the front yard disturbed my rest. In the morning, I decided that the bathroom was untouchable, so I left without a shower. While waiting for the bus I looked around and admired the large women wrapped in sarongs of vibrant yellows and greens. They balanced jugs on braided heads and babies on their backs. I decided to get my own hair braided in cornrows before I checked into the hotel where I was to meet the tour. By the time I arrived at the hotel, I was dirty with an invisible grime that comes from long plane rides, and tired in the kind of way only jetlag can seep into your bones.
At the hotel, the men wore creaseless beige uniforms that looked like they’d been ironed onto their lean bodies. The male hotel receptionist—and I quickly realized there were only men in such prominent positions—handed me the key to my room. I declined the porter’s services and instead slung the rucksack over my tired shoulder. I couldn’t afford these small luxuries, which made me anxious about what to tip the help and broke down the similarities I had imagined between them and me. I wasn’t a rich tourist; no, I was like them: poor and dark skinned (thanks to an aboriginal great-grandmother). And even though I was a woman, I thought I was man enough to face dirt on its own turf: to greet the day without a shower. I was like them, only not them.
I traipsed through barren hallways in search of my room, stepping on ruby-colored rugs and noting the shell-shaped sconces of frosted glass. It was the kind of place I could afford only because I was in Africa. My room was a clean but faded version of colonial imperiousness. The room smelled musty, as if it had been cleaned several weeks ago and remained undisturbed until now. I turned on a large ceiling fan, which lazily circulated the dense air over two double beds covered in thin cotton blankets with thermal-like indentations. I opened a screenless window to lure in the freshness of the sub-Saharan afternoon, sprawled on the bed and, soon fell asleep.
When my eyes opened, the sky was the color of diluted orange soda. Then I noticed a large cross on the wall next to my face. On second glance, it metamorphisized into the largest insect I had ever seen, with lacy wings the size of plump zucchinis extended on either side, and its thin tail pointed toward the ground. At first I thought it wasn’t alive; it looked like a prehistoric specimen. I wondered if it was dangerous. Was this why I had received immunizations on my butt? I arose from the bed slowly, inching toward the door until I could ease out into the hall. Realizing the door would lock if I let go, I wedged my foot in the doorjamb while deciding if it was better to lock myself out of the room and escape the insect or to remain with my money and passport and hope for the best. The logic of the guidebooks led me one way, my instinct for survival the other. As I pondered the decision, I heard footsteps, and a young security guard rounded the corner.
“There’s something …” I said, my voice trailing off as I realized that he might only speak Swahili. I gestured toward my room. He looked at me quizzically and said something that I didn’t understand. I wondered what he thought: a female tourist brazenly urging him toward her room. He walked in and his eyes enlarged when he spotted the insect. Then he smiled shyly and opened the bedstand drawer. His fingers clasped King James. He shrugged and nudged the insect with the book until it slid ever-so-slightly to the right. In doing so, he seemed to gain confidence and swatted it, waving the Bible around the room. The insect fluttered wildly until it discovered the window and then disappeared in a blink. The guard turned to me and smiled. Then I noticed him: his teeth looked Hollywood-white and his skin ebony. I was startled by the contrast. Though I had always thought of myself as dark-skinned, I now seemed simply muddy. He returned the Bible to the drawer and started to say something in Swahili. I stared at him and he stopped. We stood there for a moment in silence, the room and the halls empty and peaceful. I became conscious of my braids, my skin, my sex, my inexperience.
He shut the window, as if in gentle admonishment and, before I could tip him, left the room.
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