We stopped in front of the gasoline pumps and the duka where we traded and Keiti got down. I passed my rifle back to Mwengi, Pop’s gun bearer, who locked it in the rack that was built against the back of the front seat. I told Keiti I would go down to Mr. Singh’s to order the beer and soft drinks and told Mthuka to get the car filled with petrol and then drive it down to Mr. Singh’s and put it in the shade. I did not go into the big general store with Keiti but walked down under the shade of the trees to Mr. Singh’s.
It was cool inside and smelled of cooking from the kitchen in the living quarters and of sawdust from the sawmill. Mr. Singh had only three cases of beer but thought he could get two more at a place across the street. Three Masai elders came in from the disreputable drinking place next door. We were friends and greeted each other with dignity and I could smell they had already been drinking Golden Jeep sherry, which accounted for the affection that was mixed with their dignity. Mr. Singh had only six bottles of beer cold so I bought two for the three of them and one for myself and told them Miss Mary had killed the big lion. We drank to each other and to Miss Mary and the lion and then I excused myself because I had business with Mr. Singh in the back room.
There was no real business. Mr. Singh wanted me to eat something with him and drink a whisky and water with him. He had something to tell me that I couldn’t understand and went out and got the Mission-educated boy to translate for him. The young man wore trousers and a white shirt tucked in and big, heavy black square-toed boots which were the badge of his education and civilization.
“Sir,” he said. “Mr. Singh here requests me to tell you that these Masai chiefs take a constant advantage of you in respect to beer. They congregate at the beer hall next door which calls itself a tea room and when they see you arrive they come over solely to take an advantage of you.”
“I know those three elders and they are not chiefs.”
“I used the designation chiefs as one speaks to a European,” the Mission-educated boy said. “But the observation of Mr. Singh here is exact. They abuse your friendship in respect to beer.”
Mr. Singh nodded his head solemnly and handed me the bottle of White Heather. He had understood two words of the Mission English: friendship and beer.
“One thing must always be clear. I am not a European. We are Americans.”
“But there is no such distinction. You are classified as Europeans.”
“It is a classification that will be remedied. I am not a European. Mr. Singh and I are brothers.”
I poured water in my glass as did Mr. Singh. We toasted each other and then embraced. We then stood and looked at the oleograph of the original Singh strangling two lions one in each hand. We were both deeply moved.
“You are a follower of the Baby Jesus, I presume?” I asked the Mission-educated Chagga.
“I am a Christian,” he said with dignity.
Mr. Singh and I looked at each other sadly and shook our heads. Then Mr. Singh spoke to the Interpreter.
“Mr. Singh here says he is saving the three cold bottles for you and your people. When the Masai Mzees return he will serve them wine.”
“Excellent,” I said. “Will you see if my people have arrived in my shooting brake?”
He went out and Mr. Singh tapped his head with his forefinger and offered me the White Heather in the square squat bottle. He said he was sorry we had no time to eat together. I told him to keep off the god-damn roads at night. He asked me how I liked the Interpreter. I said he was marvelous and had strong black shoes to prove his Christianity.
“Two of your people are outside with the shooting lorry,” the Interpreter said as he came in.
“Shooting brake,” I said and went out to motion Mthuka in. He came in his check shirt; tall and stooped and long lipped with the beautiful Kamba arrow scars on his cheeks. He saluted Mrs. Singh behind the counter where the bolts of cloth, beads, medicines and novelty goods were and looked at her appreciatively. His grandfather had been a cannibal and his father was Keiti and he was fifty-five at least. Mr. Singh gave him one of the cold quarts of beer and handed me mine, which had been corked up. He drank a third of his and said, “I’ll take it out to Mwengi.”
“No. We have a cold one for him too.”
“I’ll take this out now and we will keep watch.”
“There are two left,” Mr. Singh said. Mthuka nodded.
“Give the Interpreter an Orange Crush,” I said.
Holding his soft drink the Interpreter said, “Before your friends the Masai return may I ask a few questions, sir?”
“What are the questions?”
“Sir, how many aircraft do you have?”
“Eight.”
“You must be one of the richest men in the world.”
“I am,” I said modestly.
“Why then, sir, do you come here to do the work of a Game Ranger?”
“Why do some go to Mecca? Why does any man go anywhere? Why would you go to Rome?”
“I am not of the Catholic faith. I would not go to Rome.”
“I thought you were not of that faith from the shoes.”
“We have many things in common with the Catholic faith but we do not worship images.”
“Too bad. There are many great images.”
“I would like to be a Game Scout and have employment with you, sir, or with the Bwana Game.”
Just then the Masai elders returned bringing with them two new comrades. I had never met them but my oldest friend among the elders told me that they had many problems with lions who not only carried cattle out of the Bomas but donkeys, morani, totos, women and goats. They would like for Miss Mary and me to come and liberate them from this terror. All these Masai were quite drunk by now and one was a little inclined to be rude.
We had known many fine Masai and great ones and unspoiled Masai but drinking was foreign to Masai as it was natural to Wakamba and they disintegrated under it and some of the elders could remember when they were a great ruling tribe of warriors and raiders instead of a syphilis-ridden, anthropological, cattle-worshipping curiosity. This new comrade elder was drunk at eleven o’clock in the morning and rude drunk. That was apparent from his first question and I decided to use the Interpreter to make a formal distance between us and also, since the five elders were carrying spears of Morani length, which showed bad tribal discipline, it was almost certain that the Interpreter would be speared first since it was he who would utter the provoking words if there should be such words uttered. If there was an argument with five drunken, spear-carrying Masai in the small front room of a general store one was certain oneself of being speared. But the presence of the Interpreter meant that you had a chance to get three of your drunken friends with the pistol instead of one or possibly two. I moved the holster around so it lay on the front of the leg, was pleased that it was buckled down and tripped the buckle on the strap with my little finger.