BILL BRYSON'S AFRICAN DIARY (EXCERPT)
In the late 1940s and early 1950s after he became a little too saggy to
fit into a Tarzan loincloth without depressing popcorn sales among cinema
audiences, the great Johnny Weissmuller filled the twilight years of his
acting career with a series of low-budget adventure movies with titles
like Devil Goddess and Jungle Moon Men, all built around a character
called Jungle Jim. These modest epics are largely forgotten now, which is
a pity because they were possibly the most cherishably terrible movies
The plots seldom got anywhere near coherence. My own favorite, called
Pygmy Island, involved a lost tribe of white midgets and a strange but
valiant fight against the spread of Communism. But the narrative
possibilities were practically infinite since each Jungle Jim feature
consisted in large measure of scenes taken from other, wholly unrelated
adventure movies. Whatever footage was available--train crashes, volcanic
eruptions, rhino charges, panic scenes involving large crowds of
Japanese--would be snipped from the original and woven into Jungle Jim's
wondrously accommodating story lines. From time to time, the
ever-more-fleshy Weissmuller would appear on the scene to wrestle the life
out of a curiously rigid and unresisting crocodile or chase some cannibals
into the woods, but these intrusions were generally brief and seldom
I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn that no more than four people at a
time ever paid money to watch a Jungle Jim movie. The series might well
have escaped my own attention except that in about 1959 WOI-TV, a
television station well known in central Iowa for its tireless commitment
to mediocrity, acquired the complete Jungle Jim oeuvre and for the next
dozen or so years showed two of them back to back late every Friday night.
What is especially tragic about all this is that I not only watched these
movies with unaccountable devotion, but was indelibly influenced by them.
In fact, were it not for some scattered viewings of the 1952 classic Bwana
Devil and a trip on the Jungle Safari ride at Disneyland in 1961, my
knowledge of African life, I regret to say, would be entirely dependent on
Jungle Jim movies.
I can't say it actively preyed on me that my impressions of Africa were
based so heavily on a series of B-movies made in California more than half
a century ago, but when a personable young man named Dan McLean from the
London office of CARE International, the venerable and worthy charity,
asked me if I would be willing to go to Kenya to visit some of their
projects and write a few words on their behalf, it occurred to me that
there were some gaps in my familiarity with the Dark Continent that I
might usefully fill in. So I agreed.
Some weeks later, I was summoned to CARE's London offices for a meeting
with Dan, his boss Will Day and a rugged and amiable fellow named Nick
Southern, CARE's regional manager for Kenya, who happened to be in London
at the time. We sat around a big table spread with maps of Kenya, while
they outlined what they had in mind for me.
"Of course, you'll have to fly to the refugee camp at Dadaab,"
Will observed thoughtfully at one point. He glanced at me. "To avoid
the bandits," he explained.
Dan and Nick nodded gravely.
"I beg your pardon?" I said, taking a sudden interest.
"It's bandit country all round there," Will said.
"Where?" I asked, peering at the map for the first time.
"Oh, just there," Will said, waving a hand vaguely across most
of east Africa. "But you'll be fine in a plane."
"They only rarely shoot at planes," Nick explained.
This wasn't at all what I had had in mind, frankly. By way of homework, I
had dutifully watched Out of Africa, from which I derived the impression
that this trip would mostly take place on a verandah somewhere while
turbaned servants brought me lots of coffee. I knew that we would probably
visit a clinic from time to time and that someone in the party might
occasionally have to shoot a charging animal, but I hadn't imagined
anything shooting at me in return.
"So how dangerous is Kenya then?" I asked in a small controlled
"Oh, not at all," they responded in unison.
"Well, hardly," Will added.
"It depends on what you mean by dangerous, of course," said Dan.
"Like bleeding and not getting up again," I suggested. "Being
shot and stabbed and so forth," I added.
They assured me that that only very rarely happened, and that it was
nearly always one or the other. You had to be very unlucky to be shot and
stabbed, they said.
"It's mostly diseases you have to worry about," Nick went on.
"Malaria, schistosomiasis, trypanosomiasis."
"Rift Valley fever, blackwater fever, yellow fever," said Dan.
"Dengue fever, bilharzia--the usual tropical stuff," added Will.
But they pointed out that you can be inoculated against many of those and
for the rest most people manage a more or less complete recovery, given
time and a considered programme of physiotherapy. Many even walk again. I
asked if there was anything else I should know.
"Well, the roads are a little dangerous--there are some crazy drivers
out there," Will said, chuckling.
"But apart from that and the diseases and the bandits and the railway
from Nairobi to Mombasa, there's absolutely nothing to worry about,"
"What's wrong with the railway?"
"Oh, nothing really. It's just the rolling stock is a little
antiquated and sometimes the brakes give out coming down out of the
mountains--but, hey, if you worried about all the things that might happen
you wouldn't go anywhere, would you?"
"I don't go anywhere," I pointed out.
They nodded thoughtfully.
"Well, it'll be an adventure," Will said brightly. "You'll
be fine, absolutely fine. Just check your insurance before you go."