My Life as a Mankiewicz (47 page)

I notice the Masai tracker is not that upset either. I ask, “If one of them comes for us, should I take a shot at him?”

Mike says, “Oh, my goodness, no. Don't irritate them.” With a little antelope gun, I'm not going to drop a lion; not that I could have. I could feel them running at me from behind, even though they didn't. Mike was absolutely right. As long as you don't cause them any trouble, we really aren't on their menu. They're not used to eating people.

I start to feel the adrenaline pumping, like when you almost have an accident on the freeway. I'm feeling great, and I say, “Boy, that's the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me in my life. That's just incredible.” We get back to the car. I have these big tacky pants on, and as I swing up to get in the car, I look down and I've urinated all over my pants. The stains are all the way down. Mike and the Masai must have seen them all the way while I'm talking. Suddenly, I'm Frank Buck. I have just urinated all over myself, and I know when it happened: when the two big males stood up. Thank God I hadn't had a big breakfast. By the way, Mike and Don Hunt said the most dangerous lions in Africa are in the game parks. Why? Because they're used to people. They've seen people their whole lives, trams with people. They have no fear of people.

One of the times I was in Kenya,
Out of Africa
was shooting there. Sydney Pollack, whom I knew quite well, was directing. People don't think of him as one of the great directors, but he could do everything; a social drama like
Absence of Malice
, a comedy like
Tootsie
, a romantic adventure like
Out of Africa.
Sydney signed agreements with the Masai to clear a landing strip. There were fifty boulders, and the Masai would remove one every three days. Everybody in Kenya's on their own time, Kenyan time. He was getting really disillusioned trying to prep there. Sydney said, “We were down in the Masai Mara. We each had a tent, and there was a common loo tent where you went to the bathroom. It was the middle of the night. Should I get up at two thirty in the morning? I have to go. Every tent had a Masai guard. So I open my flap, I look at the loo tent, and there's a Cape buffalo grazing in front of the tent. I said to my guard, ‘Get rid of him.' And he said, ‘No, bwana. He will be moving on.' I sat down on my little step in front of my tent, and I thought, what is this New York Jew doing in the middle of Africa? I'm doomed. I looked up and I saw all the stars. More stars than you ever saw in your life. I never really looked at them before. I heard the sounds of the night: lions roaring, birds, hyenas. I got lost, and I suddenly realized that if there was a Garden of Eden, this must have been it. Suddenly, the guard taps me on the shoulder and says, ‘Bwana, he's gone; the buffalo's gone.' I looked at my watch and I'd been there forty minutes. I thought it was more like four minutes, but I had completely tripped out. I got up the next morning with a new drive.” You can feel a lot of Africa in that movie.

How This Place Works

You think of Robert Halmi as a big-time producer, but Robert Halmi was an African correspondent and a photographer for
Life
magazine in the late 1940s and was based in Kenya. So Halmi had a house there. Stefanie built what we thought was the African equivalent of Tara, and she's still there four or five months a year; she loves it. There was a house in between that was about to be finished. And after a few trips, I said, “Okay, that's going to be my house.” There was a phone in my living room—the Kenyan phone company was just so great. You would want to call the United States, they would say, “How long will you be talking?” You'd say, “Oh, fifteen minutes.” And they'd say, “Thank you.” I learned this the first night. You'd call, and if you were still talking after about fifteen minutes, they'd just pull the plug. They didn't have that many facilities. Next time, they'd ask, “How long will you be talking?” Now, I'd say, “Half an hour.” I knew that was enough time. So you'd have a ten-minute conversation or you got somebody's answering service and they'd still charge you for half an hour.

I had to have a little road built to my house from the main dirt road. Don Hunt said to me, “It's going to cost you.” The road people from Nanyuki, our little town, came up and said, “It's two hundred dollars.”

I said, “Two hundred, fine.” They were just going to clear a little road so I could drive my Trooper into the garage.

Don said, “It's going to cost you two thousand dollars.”

I said, “No, Don, they said two hundred.”

“Two thousand,” he said.

I said, “Two hundred, Don, and these are nice guys.”

Next day, I get a phone call, “This is the head of Land Management in Nanyuki.”

I say, “Yes.”

“I understand my men were out there. They quoted you two hundred dollars.”

“That's right.”

He says, “Well, yes, and I get the same. I'm the head of Land Management.” So I lay $200 on him.

Then I get a call from the head of Land of Nyeri District; districts are like states here. He gets $500. Then somebody from Nairobi calls and says, “The district manager in Nyeri had no right to do this without clearing with me first.” He gets $1,000, plus the $500, plus the $200, plus $200. And yeah, it was $2,000. Don said, “What, do you think I'm crazy? I know how this place works.”

John Hurt is an incredibly talented British actor who was the villain in
A Man for All Seasons
and who played
The Elephant Man.
He had huge drinking problems. He'd gotten married to an American girl. John had heard about this place and decided to build a house there. He announced in the
Kenya Times
that he had come to Africa to stop drinking, among other things. Everybody read this and said, “You picked the wrong place.” They have what are called “sundowners” every night. That's the wrong place to stop drinking. But he was a remarkably intelligent, bright guy, and I drove around with him a few times. So it was really Halmi, Stefanie, John Hurt, and me for quite a while. Then Julian McKeon, who was an ex-professional hunter, and his wife, Jane, moved up to the ranch. I met photographer Peter Beard, and Adnan Khashoggi, international wheeler-dealer and financier. Kenya had a lot of those people then. David Lean got married for the sixth time and he headed right for Kenya, Don Hunt's house, to show his wife Africa. Producer John Calley was there. Alan Ladd Jr. was in Kenya staying overnight at the Safari Club. He said to the manager, “Doesn't Tom Mankiewicz have a house around here?”

The hotel man said, “Yes, Mr. Mankiewicz has a house out on the ranch. You go out the gate and up the dirt road about two miles.”

I had a guy named Henry, a Masai, who was the guard at the house. The Masai don't like to live indoors if they can help it. So Henry had a little lean-to, which he preferred. Locals told you to mix up the tribes for your household because they always keep an eye on each other; Kenya's very tribal. If you get them all from the same tribe, they may take your whole home. So Laddie pulls up and says, “Hi,” and Henry just stares at him. “Is this Mr. Mankiewicz's house?” and Henry nods. “Mr. Mankiewicz isn't here, is he?” and Henry shakes his head no. Laddie says, “Well, we're just going to go in and take a look around,” and Henry says, “No,” shakes his head. Laddie says, “It's okay because we're great friends. It's just a quick look; we're not going inside the house.”

Henry says, “No.” Laddie looks at him, and Henry pulls out his machete.

Laddie says, “We're leaving right now.”

I sent Henry a bonus. I told him, “Good for you, Henry. Don't let those fuckers in that house.”

I would start to feel guilty because Mina, my houseboy, would ask, “When are you coming back, boss?” He spoke three languages. He was so smart, and he really nailed nationalities. He said, “Africans like the British and Americans for different reasons. The Brits hold you in a certain amount of contempt, but they let you know that. You know exactly where you stand with British people all the time. The French pretend to love you, but they hate you. They really think less of you than the Brits do. They're terrible people. When the French left their colonies, they took everything with them. The British left roads and a telegraph and a post office. Nobody has any use for the Germans. And Americans are so much like Africans. They're always bubbling around, ‘Can I take a picture? Can your wife take a picture with me?' Americans will hug you the second time they see you, you know? It would take a Brit ten years to shake your hand.”

Bob Rafelson, who directed
Five Easy Pieces
, was directing a movie in Kenya called
Mountains of the Moon
about an explorer, Sir Richard Burton. He called me. “I understand you've got a great house in Kenya, and I'm going to be shooting there. Can I stay in it? Can we make a swap? I have a condo in Aspen.”

I said, “We don't have to swap, because I hate skiing, but if you want to stay in the house, sure, if you'll just pay the expenses of the house and my staff. Mina gets a hundred dollars a month, the
shamba
boy gets seventy-five, and Henry gets fifty.”

He said, “No problem.”

So Rafelson arrived, moved in. I thought I'd call and find out how things were going. Mina answered. I said, “It's the bwana, Mina.”

He said, “Bwana Mank. How are you?”

I asked, “So how is bwana Rafelson doing?”

“Bwana Rafelson doing well, bwana, but he take much
dawa.” Dawa
is medicine.

I thought it through and, on a hunch, sent Rafelson a cautionary telegram. You didn't do drugs in Kenya. The American ambassador can't do much for you if you're caught.

I'm flying from London to Nairobi on that nonstop, and sitting next to me is Bishop Desmond Tutu. He was just becoming world famous. I think, This is great. I start talking to him. When he extends his seat, the big lounge seat with the little blanket, he disappears. He's a very short guy. The flight lands in Nairobi and then goes on to Johannesburg, which is almost as long a flight as it is from London to Nairobi. In Nairobi there was a ninety-minute carryover to refuel the plane. The Kenyan government would not let South Africans off the plane because of apartheid. The Kenyans would say, “Fuck you. No South Africans allowed on Kenyan land.” So they had to sit on the plane.

It's six in the morning and I say to Bishop Tutu, “You know, it's an hour-and-a-half wait, and the Norfolk Hotel isn't far. I've got a car picking me up and I'd love to take you for a little breakfast at the Norfolk, and I'll get you back here before the plane leaves.”

He says, “Oh, but I'm South African; I'm not allowed off the plane.”

I say, “Well, I think they'd make an exception for you.”

God bless him, Bishop Tutu says, “You know, there are only four black people who have South African passports right now. I think I should stay with my fellow countrymen. But I thank you very much. I'd dearly love to have breakfast.” He chose to stay on the plane for ninety minutes with his fellow countrymen who were all white. South Africa, the white apartheid government, was so embarrassed by him, as well as impressed by him, that they let him fly to conferences in Europe because they thought it was good public relations for them.

I was never afraid living in Kenya. When you're in a place with people who aren't afraid like Don Hunt, Iris, Stefanie—everybody was having such a good time there—you're not afraid either. William Holden had died, and Stefanie was learning a lot from Don because she was going to start the William Holden Wildlife Foundation, which still exists. I'm on the Board of Directors. Every year, we teach upward of ten thousand Kenyan schoolchildren about their ecology and wildlife. There are camp-overs and lectures. So Don was saying to her, “You have to slide into this carefully because the African male does not want to be told what to do by a woman. That's why Joy Adamson was killed,”
Born Free.
“That's why Diane Fossey was killed. I'm not saying there weren't other circumstances as well. But they became arrogant to the African male. They were ordering people around. You've got to be very careful about this; this isn't Beverly Hills. Once they get to know you, it's easier. But in the beginning, don't start ordering men around, they'll really, really resent you.” Don got her a special-made, sawed-off shotgun, which she kept in her bedroom. He said, “If anything ever happens to you at night, just aim in the direction of the door, pull the trigger, and it will wipe out everything in its path.” She's never used it, and it's never been a problem.

I owned the house for three or four years. I realized something big was starting to happen inside me. I thought, God, there's so much wonderful life out there, so many wonderful things. It was Christmas Eve and we were at the Safari Club dining room, and I got a call from Mike Ovitz. The host said, “Mr. Mankiewicz, Mr. Ovitz is calling, and you can take it in the kitchen.”

I said, “Please tell Mr. Ovitz I've just left here and you can't find me; you don't know where I am.” I thought, oh fuck, it's Christmas Eve. As much as you love show business and it's part of you, it starts intruding when you're in Africa. Who the fuck wants to talk about a deal at that time? It was a wonderful tonic at that point in my life to remind me that there were other things in the world, other places, and there were wonderful people that had nothing to do with show business. They couldn't care less whether a Bond movie opened big or small; their lives were about something else.

Kenya is an amazing country, and it opened my eyes. Even though I'd been traveling a lot and living in Europe, it was a great burst of fresh air coming through a window. I made friends there that I still have. In the eighties, Kenya was such a fun place to live, like Italy. In Italy, you cannot speed things up. You either get into the rhythm or leave. If you say, “I've got to have the following nineteen things done and I've got thirteen seconds,” they'll just throw up their hands; it's not going to happen. One day you get sick, but the doctors are on strike, you just have to wait. Kenya, the same way. It reminded me a lot of Italy.