dissatisfied…'
'Aldous Huxley,' a woman interrupted. ' Brave New World argues that the freedom to be unhappy is a fundamental human right…'
From an opposite corner came the distinctive whine of the conservation clique, always indignant that their sensitive, sweet and uncannily clever pet elephants had been entrusted to brutish natives who didn't appreciate complex pachyderm kinship structures and had the temerity to worry about their own survival instead. 'It's much too early to lift the ivory ban, much too early…'
'On the contrary, I thought Amboseli was bunged with elephants. Turning to a rubbish tip, a dust bowl—'
Wallace shook his head. These interlopers thought Africa belonged to them.
'I don't see why Kenya should suffer just because South Africa wants to cash in its ivory stockpiles—'
'Why shouldn't good game management be rewarded?'
'I know culling makes a lot of sense,' a girl in several kilos of Ethiopian silver was moaning. 'But I simply can't bear it—'
Sifting aimlessly between the gaggles, ex-hunters fetched themselves another drink. As masters will come to resemble their dogs, the thick-necked, snouty, lumbering intrepids suggested the animals they'd shot. Hunting had been illegal in Kenya for years now. Grown puffy and cirrhotic with nothing to murder, most of these anachronisms were reduced to trucking pill-rattling geriatrics and shrill, fibre-obsessed Americans around the Mara, or had secured contracts with Zanzibar, where the gruff lion-slayers now picked off overpopulated crows.
On its outer edges, the throng was laced with the independently wealthy and the entrepreneurial élite. If they deigned to work, husbands ran light industries and were sure to own at least one aeroplane, a house in Lamu and a camp in the Ngurumans. Not particularly bright, few of these spoiled, soft-handed colonials would have done well in Europe or America, while in Africa they'd little commercial competition. The baby
fat faces beamed with self-satisfaction. Here their dress ran to sports jackets, but out in the wilderness they were given to orange Bermudas and loafers without socks. Their conversation, anywhere, was entirely about cars. 'I had my Daihatsu kitted out with…forgot about one of those bloody unmarked speed-bumps and cracked my engine block…found a way to get around the duty on…' Wallace didn't need to listen very hard.
Their wives, on the other hand, were at least an eyeful. Balanced on legs no thicker than high heels, these emaciated elegants could raise millions on a poster:
SAVE THE ENDANGERED CAUCASIAN FEMALE
Anna has not eaten in three days. She is five foot eight and weighs little over a hundred pounds. Anna requires a full litre of vodka just to survive the cruel leisure of one more back-biting social function. She needs your help. For just a thousand pounds a week, you could adopt a rich white lady in Africa.
As if to torment themselves, Nairobi's physics-defying two-dimensional were all clustered around the buffet, one licking a surreptitious drip of meat-juice off her finger, another fondling a leaf of lettuce. Wallace disapproved of gluttony, but he had no time for greedy ascetism either. Fasting was for mental purification, not miniskirts. And their ensembles, over-accessoried and keenly co-ordinated, betrayed how long they had spent trying on earlier combinations and taking them off. Most of their mumble was inaudible as they confided in one another who was copulating with whom, for in the week since their last party the couplings would have done a complete musical chairs. With the sexual turnover in this town, gossip was a demanding and challenging career. The remarks from the buffet he could hear, however, regarded the timeless servant problem. 'George had his camera disappear, and with nobody coming forward, just looking, like, duh, what's a camera, I was sorry but I had to sack the lot…'
'You have to draw the line
'Aldous Huxley,' a woman interrupted. ' Brave New World argues that the freedom to be unhappy is a fundamental human right…'
From an opposite corner came the distinctive whine of the conservation clique, always indignant that their sensitive, sweet and uncannily clever pet elephants had been entrusted to brutish natives who didn't appreciate complex pachyderm kinship structures and had the temerity to worry about their own survival instead. 'It's much too early to lift the ivory ban, much too early…'
'On the contrary, I thought Amboseli was bunged with elephants. Turning to a rubbish tip, a dust bowl—'
Wallace shook his head. These interlopers thought Africa belonged to them.
'I don't see why Kenya should suffer just because South Africa wants to cash in its ivory stockpiles—'
'Why shouldn't good game management be rewarded?'
'I know culling makes a lot of sense,' a girl in several kilos of Ethiopian silver was moaning. 'But I simply can't bear it—'
Sifting aimlessly between the gaggles, ex-hunters fetched themselves another drink. As masters will come to resemble their dogs, the thick-necked, snouty, lumbering intrepids suggested the animals they'd shot. Hunting had been illegal in Kenya for years now. Grown puffy and cirrhotic with nothing to murder, most of these anachronisms were reduced to trucking pill-rattling geriatrics and shrill, fibre-obsessed Americans around the Mara, or had secured contracts with Zanzibar, where the gruff lion-slayers now picked off overpopulated crows.
On its outer edges, the throng was laced with the independently wealthy and the entrepreneurial élite. If they deigned to work, husbands ran light industries and were sure to own at least one aeroplane, a house in Lamu and a camp in the Ngurumans. Not particularly bright, few of these spoiled, soft-handed colonials would have done well in Europe or America, while in Africa they'd little commercial competition. The baby
fat faces beamed with self-satisfaction. Here their dress ran to sports jackets, but out in the wilderness they were given to orange Bermudas and loafers without socks. Their conversation, anywhere, was entirely about cars. 'I had my Daihatsu kitted out with…forgot about one of those bloody unmarked speed-bumps and cracked my engine block…found a way to get around the duty on…' Wallace didn't need to listen very hard.
Their wives, on the other hand, were at least an eyeful. Balanced on legs no thicker than high heels, these emaciated elegants could raise millions on a poster:
SAVE THE ENDANGERED CAUCASIAN FEMALE
Anna has not eaten in three days. She is five foot eight and weighs little over a hundred pounds. Anna requires a full litre of vodka just to survive the cruel leisure of one more back-biting social function. She needs your help. For just a thousand pounds a week, you could adopt a rich white lady in Africa.
As if to torment themselves, Nairobi's physics-defying two-dimensional were all clustered around the buffet, one licking a surreptitious drip of meat-juice off her finger, another fondling a leaf of lettuce. Wallace disapproved of gluttony, but he had no time for greedy ascetism either. Fasting was for mental purification, not miniskirts. And their ensembles, over-accessoried and keenly co-ordinated, betrayed how long they had spent trying on earlier combinations and taking them off. Most of their mumble was inaudible as they confided in one another who was copulating with whom, for in the week since their last party the couplings would have done a complete musical chairs. With the sexual turnover in this town, gossip was a demanding and challenging career. The remarks from the buffet he could hear, however, regarded the timeless servant problem. 'George had his camera disappear, and with nobody coming forward, just looking, like, duh, what's a camera, I was sorry but I had to sack the lot…'
'You have to draw the line
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