Born Wild by Tony Fitzjohn Read Free Book Online

Kora and about George that gripped and inspired me. I couldn’t be him but from the moment I arrived I knew that this was it. This was how I wished to live my life. I want some of that, I thought. To get a part of it, though, I was going to have to prove myself first. I wasn’t going to be much use to George if I couldn’t even make friends with Christian. The next morning we followed the same routine – up before dawn, then the slow drive down to the river in George’s footsteps. There was Christian again, tail swishing, an unfathomable look in his eye. I thought, If the Old Man can do this, so can I. I walked straight across and said, ‘Hello, Christian, I’m Fitz.’ Christian got up, rubbed his head against me and just sat there on my feet while I scratched his head. It was the beginning of one of my life’s most valuable relationships.
    The feeling of tranquillity and unity with nature that we experienced when we were out walking with the lions was a major part of why I loved my life so much. It was a feeling and code of behaviour that went entirely unexpressed, indeed would actually dissolve if I thought about it. Integral to everything we did was that the lions came before ourselves. We lived very simply and would go hungry rather than ration the lions; we wouldn’t sleep if we needed to watch out for them; we wouldn’t leave camp so that they were always protected. I had been living a pretty dissolute, aimless and selfish life since leaving England, yet within a few weeks of being at Kora I was a better human being. I felt spiritually and morally refreshed. That’s not to say I didn’t behave badly and have a lot of fun when I was away from camp but the core of my life now had some meaning.
    We lived a life of quiet routine at Kora, punctuated with memorably disgusting meals cooked by Hamisi, a Sudanese cook who had been with Terence for decades. We didn’t give him much to work with – tins of carrots, bits of goat and posho, Kenya’s staple maize meal – but even with better ingredients he was noEscoffier. Every morning George and I would take the lions for a walk down to the river. There was always something to do as we walked along – the lions would follow trails and George would show me what to watch out for and which tracks were made by what animal. He was a shower, not a teller, and by this method he taught me a huge amount very quickly. I soon recognized the songs of birds and the tracks of animals; it would be a while longer before I could recognize individual animals but it came with time. When we reached the river, the lions would lie down with explosive sighs and we would sit with them, shaded by the palms and giant figs, to watch the river go by. At eleven o’clock or thereabouts George would make himself a pipe and pull out his battered Stanley flask. Then we would have a cup of gin and Treetop orange squash before walking back to Kampi ya Simba for lunch.
    The camp Terence had built did the job but that was all. The fence kept the wild lions out and allowed those that needed a safe place to stay inside. Life for us revolved around the sand-floored mess hut, with its thatched roof and three cement-covered hessian walls. Where the fourth wall should have been, a sandy area led to the fence and, beyond it, the bush. George’s ancient typewriter sat on the table, much as Ruark’s or Hemingway’s must have done, the litter of books, papers and objets trouvés that surrounded it shuffled to one side for meals. He was a great correspondent and was always writing to some old friend or dealing with the council or Game Department. Rough bookshelves housed his collection of photographs, novels and reference books and quite often a snake or two looking for a quiet place to rest. The sand floor displayed the spoor of George’s menagerie of guinea fowl, ravens and seed-eating birds, which to Terence’s disgust would beg