Echoes From A Distant Land Part 4

'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 w.a.n.gira and made a gesture to follow him.

w.a.n.gira 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 w.a.n.gira returned carrying a long metal box.

Ketterman watched closely as w.a.n.gira 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 w.a.n.gira. '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.'

w.a.n.gira carried it behind Ketterman, who opened it beside the tripod.

There was a box within the box.

w.a.n.gira was familiar with rifles. There had been times when hunting safaris had pa.s.sed 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 d.a.m.n good one.'

w.a.n.gira 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 a.s.sume 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 a.s.sistance, 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-cla.s.s 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 w.a.n.gira. '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.

w.a.n.gira turned to leave.

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

Ketterman fumbled with the controls, twisting a k.n.o.b 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.'

w.a.n.gira stood bolt upright, and waited.

Ketterman, realising that w.a.n.gira had obeyed, looked up from the viewfinder. 'You speak English?'

w.a.n.gira 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. w.a.n.gira 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.

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

w.a.n.gira 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 c.u.mbersome 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.

w.a.n.gira 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 w.a.n.gira thought he wanted to speak to him, but it pa.s.sed and w.a.n.gira continued on his way.

'Wait,' Ketterman said.

w.a.n.gira turned to him.

'We need to have a talk, you and I.'

w.a.n.gira 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?'

w.a.n.gira 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 w.a.n.gira, 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 gla.s.s at the front is the lens,' he continued. 'And that k.n.o.b just there moves the back plane to and fro to change the -'

'It is not the camera you used to take my photograph.'

'No, it is a different one. That was an Eastman Kodak. I could have used the Hess-Ives but I thought a black and white study might be ... Oh, would you like to see the photo I took of you?'

Sam's eyes lit up.

Ketterman went around the table to his desk. The enlargement was in a folder and as he slipped it out, he again admired it. The strong lines of Sam's face, his high cheekbones, his square jaw with just a hint of a cleft in his chin. His wide intelligent eyes. The camera had captured them perfectly, but the portrait had an elegance as portrayed in the subtle skin tones, and the afternoon light had softened his body's contours and muscles to give them a grace and beauty that was otherwise concealed by his masculinity. Sam was not yet a cameraman's a.s.sistant, but he was an excellent subject.

Ketterman moved a lamp to the table as he slid the print across. 'It's quite a good shot, actually,' he said modestly, watching Sam's delight spread across his face.

Finally, Sam looked up from the photograph. 'It is beautiful,' he said in wonder, then dropped his eyes in embarra.s.sment. 'I mean, it is a very nice photograph.'

Ketterman laughed. 'Thank you. But it is you who have made it beautiful, not I.'

Sam squirmed.