time at all he has sidled up to young Khalid Khashoggi and scored an invitation to shoot there. It’s perfect for our story—whatever that might be—so we load up the Rovers and head out there. One of the toys at the ranch is an excellent black ex-polo horse that Kahlid offers as a prop. It’s certainly an improvement on the donkeys. We devise a scheme to shoot an establishing shot of the black-clad Rhythmatist traveling across Africa on his quest for…we’re still arguing about that. Anyway he’s traveling, and as he travels he comes alongside a herd of giraffe and rides along poetically with them.
Before sunrise the trackers are out over the savannah, and they have located the perfect herd. The giant herbivores are deep in
acacia cover for the night, but the beaters gently coax them toward an open plain where the black-clad horse groover is waiting. As the gray dawn grows I’m astride this dark mare with my ears stretched out to the sounds of the wild. Over yonder in the mist, JP is yelling something from his perch on top of one of the Land Rovers. He wants the giraffe to emerge from the thicket and majestically caravan in front of the camera with the far-seeking Rhythmatist sojourning scenically alongside.
My horse hears the giraffes before I do, and she’s not wild about it. By the time I can see them towering through the early light, the mare is spooked out of her skin and is trotting and prancing with fear. Horses don’t safari for pleasure. They aren’t interested in anything that might come crashing through the bush. But I’ve got her more or less steady when the giraffes appear. My attempts to persuade the horse to snuggle up to the herd, however, are not anything you would see in a cowboy movie. The black mare is struggling to trot backward away from the wild giraffes or, if I can get her to move forward, is making a tight circle. She has no interest in the giraffes at all. And I’m not looking that sage myself.
I’m technically the boss in this relationship, so I get her moving toward the tall ones. But she’s so full of fear that if she’s going to do anything for me, it’s going to be at a gallop. So now we are charging toward the gentle giants. As soon as they catch sight of us, they are off across the open plain—with me and my steed in pursuit. Wow, this is fun! Now that the horse is at a flat-out gallop, she’s much calmer and soon catches up with our quarry. The giraffes are huge and beautiful. As the horse gallops alongside, they appear to be in slow motion. I have to be careful not to get too close, though. One kick from Jimmy Giraffe would take me out of the saddle and turn my skull into peanut butter and jelly.
Man, I’m in heaven. We are charging right along the equator where the dawn happens very quickly. The sun is bursting over the edge of the Maasai Mara as the posse of giraffes, horse, and Rhythmatist takes flight across the open savannah. Now this is the real cowboy movie. The brilliant golden side lighting of the rising sun against the dull blue awakening sky finds me galloping free over the distant African plain with the theme to Bonanza ringing in my ears. This is truly one of the Great Designer’s more intelligent moments. Sometimes the concentrated beauty of a moment can make even the craftiest professional shaman stop and thank.
My rapture is interrupted suddenly by the advent of an acacia thicket, into which the giraffes continue their canter without breaking stride. End of adventure. The prickles on those acacia tree are like nails. The giraffes don’t seem to mind and can plow right through, but for me on my horse those needles are at face level. “Whoa, Nelly!” I cry, tugging the reins and leaning back against the stirrups. My agile little mare puts four hoofs in front of her and stops like a polo pro. She would have bounced me right out the front door if I hadn’t been ready.
Problem is that the giraffes broke cover and headed off totally in the wrong direction, away from the cameras. So while I was freebirding with my tall giraffe brethren, JP was over the horizon, howling profanities. Later, when I return sheepishly to HQ we arrange to try again tomorrow morning.
It actually takes us two more glorious mornings before we are able to line up the giraffes, horse, and camera. We end up with twenty-three seconds of wild ride on film. It doesn’t look much like a traveling shot, so we’ll have to think up another dubious plot point to explain the Rhythmatist’s relationship with the galloping giraffes. Maybe something to do with rhythm and the herding instinct…gimme a minute.
Another of the Khashoggi toys is a pride of lion who live in a large compound surrounded by fourteen-foot-high chain-link fencing. The whole animal thing is a little distracting for us since the Rhythmatist is a musicologist not a biologist, but we are broad-minded when it comes to dumb plot turns that put our hero next to photogenic stuff. Lions? Um…OK, he’s got to commune with the lions who are the last mammals to have seen the girl who has disappeared (or has been kidnapped, or who has gone on a spiritual quest, or…something).
Young Khalid also has, in one of the air-conditioned sheds at the ranch, a full set of band equipment—guitars, amps, PA system, and drums. Those Saudi kids love to jam! The drums are a little obvious, but what the heck. We load them up, drag them out to the lions, and set up a shot.
Now lions are best avoided but aren’t usually a problem out in the bush. For some reason they regard humans as superior predators, or at least one or two rungs up the food chain. If you are in a vehicle they pay no attention at all, but if you are on foot they will generally move away with majestic caution, unless you surprise or corner them. Cubs are less cautious, more playful, and way scarier than the adults. Lions actually become more dangerous when they have greater contact with humans because they lose their fear. Perhaps they start noticing ours.
Within the lion’s enclosure is another area sectioned off with a ten-foot-high wall of chain-link. In this area a chicken wire cage has been constructed in which my drums are set for me to serenade the lions. I’m sure JP actually thinks that we’re going to get the lions grooving to the beat. We have both studiously avoided any talk of what relevance any of this might have to our film.
I notice that there is no top to my little chicken wire cage. This amuses both our crew and the Khashoggi ranchers.
“Show no fear!” they chortle.
I insist that I want full chicken wire coverage, and they start rigging while still snickering about the scaredy-cat black-clad guy. The wranglers are dubious that the big cats will come anywhere near the noisy drums, so the feed truck arrives full of fresh kill with which to festoon the cage. It is hoped that the meat show will inspire the beasts to enjoy the music. Or at least to get close enough for us to get our shot.
As soon as the lions get a whiff of the meat truck they are over the ten-foot fence in a twinkling. They have to be shouted at and coaxed to back off while I climb into my cage and the wranglers festoon it with fresh gazelle. The lions retreat snarling as the guys wave sticks and throw rocks at them. As the ranchers finish their set dressing and clear the shot, the lions come right up for dinner. But when I hit my drums they stop dead in their tracks. They do not like my music. JP can shout “Action!” till he’s blue in the face but Simba ain’t coming anywhere near my racket. Their ears are back, and they’re cowering. So I have to stop hitting the drums and just pretend to play. The deep culture of this transports me. Just like a Britney Spears video. After waving my arms for a while in the direction of my drums, being very careful not to hit them, the wild beasts pluck up courage and begin to approach the cage. Soon they are swiping at the treats and JP has the cameras rolling happily.
One lion has discovered that he can reach under the cage. In fact, as his forearm advances under the chicken wire toward my bass drum the whole side of the cage is coming adrift! Just as the consequence of this is dawning on me there is a huge crash next to my head where one of the tawny brutes is climbing onto the roof! The totally inadequate-to-bear-the-weight-of-a-lion roof of my chicken wire cage is just beginning to sag when, faster than thought I’m the loudest drummer on the planet blazing away with terrified fury on the Khashoggi drums. I think it’s the only drum solo that I’ve ever played in my life—can’t stand drum solos—but I’m hammering now! The lions back off with an expression on their faces that reminds me of a certain singer that I know…
I’ll have to tell the Maasai about this trick. All they have to do is carry a chrome snare drum with them when out in the bush protecting (or rustling) the cattle. For myself, I’m relieved at the lions’ poor taste in music.
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