This first novel, set primarily in East Africa, views the white expatriate community of Kenya through the eyes of Esme , an Italian among Anglo-Saxons. She first travels to Africa with a lover to escape her sorrow following the death of her poet father. However, intrigued by an environment that is alien to her experience, she decides to stay and is quickly accepted into the expat community, where her friends range from edgy outsiders, like Esme herself, to loners who are at home only in the bush. Esme eventually becomes entangled in the community's incestuousness while remaining distant from the Africans. (She bemoans the chasm of race and is slightly envious of those who have managed to bridge it.) Against this story, with its numerous witty literary allusions, is the backdrop of recent violence on the continent, first in Somalia, then the Hutu massacre of the Tutsi. These events give the novel a sense of roman aclef that turns the Karen Blixen story inside out and provides a not-so-subtle portrait of contemporary Nairobi. Frank Caso --This text refers to the hardcover edition. Amazon.com Review
Things have certainly changed in Kenya since the 1930s, when Baroness Karen Blixen (a.k.a. Isak Dinesen, author of Out of Africa) had a farm at the foot of the Ngong Hills. In Francesca Marciano's Rules of the Wild, the Blixen spread has become an affluent white suburb of Nairobi, home to the tony "Karen" Shopping Mall and populated by a new breed of narcissistic young expatriates and second-generation white Africans. Esme, the beautiful twentysomething Italian narrator, lands in Kenya by happenstance, seeking to escape a painful past and the recent death of her beloved father. Captivated by the sheer physical beauty of the landscape and the raw honesty of her new "tribe," Esme is further ensnared by her love for two dynamic men--one a gentle 1990s version the Great White Hunter, the other an angry journalist obsessed by the carnage of Somalia and Rwanda. In her eminently readable novel, Marciano creates a hip, knowing set of characters who are ironically aware that their easy lifestyle, supported by trust funds and cheap labor, contrasts darkly with the poverty and decay of east Africa. Esme, an intense and thoughtful observer of the scene, struggles not only with the desire to test herself, "to love without illusion, to love without feeling safe", but with what it means to be white in Africa, living in bizarre isolation from the native culture, drawing spiritual sustenance from the land but protected from the continent's turmoil. Finally, the passion she develops for Kenya roots her and gives her purpose, a home. As one of her friends observes, "I'll tell you what it is about this place.... It sentences you to freedom ... you are constantly reminded of what it means to be free and to be alive. And then it becomes difficult to settle for anything less than this." --Marianne Painter --This text refers to the hardcover edition. From Library Journal
From an Italian documentary filmmaker who lives part-time in Kenya comes the story of a young woman and her lovers in that country's expatriate white community. This work generated a lot of talk?and sales?at the 1997 Frankfurt Book Fair.
Copyright 1998 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to the hardcover edition. From the Inside Flap
A mesmerizing novel of love and nostalgia set in the vast spaces of contemporary East Africa.
Romantic, often resonantly ironic, moving and wise, Rules of the Wild transports us to a landscape of unsurpassed beauty even as it gives us a sharp-eyed portrait of a closely knit tribe of cultural outsiders: the expatriates living in Kenya today. Challenged by race, by class, and by a longing for home, here are "safari boys" and samaritans, reporters bent on their own fame, travelers who care deeply about elephants but not at all about the people of Africa. They all know each other. They meet at dinner parties, they sleep with each other, they argue about politics and the best way to negotiate their existence in a place where they don't really belong.
At the center is Esme, a beautiful young woman of dazzling ironies and introspections, who tells us her story in a voice both passionate and self-deprecating. Against a paradoxical backdrop of limitless physical freedom and escalating civil unrest, Esme struggles to make sense of her own place in Africa and of her feelings for the two men there whom she loves--Adam, a second-generation Kenyan who is the first to show her the wonders of her adopted land, and Hunter, a British journalist sickened by its horrors.
Rules of the Wild evokes the worlds of Isak Dinesen, Beryl Markham, and Ernest Hemingway. It explores unforgettably our infinite desire for a perfect elsewhere, for love and a place to call home. It is an astonishing literary debut. --This text refers to the paperback edition. From the Back Cover
In this mesmerizing novel, Francesca Marciano evokes the startlingly exotic world of contemporary expatriates living in Nairobi. Relief workers befriend wildlife researchers, artists exchange their intimate secrets with documentary filmmakers. They meet at dinner parties, they make love, they argue about the best way to negotiate their existence in a land they can never hope to claim.At the center of it all is the young and beautiful Esme, a free spirit in search of love and a place to call home. She thinks she has found what she is looking for in Adam, a safari leader with an almost holy appreciation of the terrain. Then she meets Hunter, a spitfire journalist outraged by the poverty and violence in which most Africans live.
Combining the romanticism of Isak Dinesen with language reminiscent of Ernest Hemingway, Marciano juxtaposes the magnificent beauty of the Kenyan landscape with the human capacity for carelessness and brutality. Erotic, sensual, lush with detail and insight, Rules of the Wild evokes a land that demands catharsis and a heroine suddenly, achingly, alive.
--This text refers to the paperback edition. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
To wake up at first light, a flea in the prairie of rock and sand
each morning, is to realize that one's own importance
is something one highly overrates.
One was mad, all right, after a year of it.
One sees that now, looking back.
Gerald Hanley
In a way everything here is always secondhand.
You will inherit a car from someone who has decided to leave the country, which you will then sell to one of your friends. You will move into a new house where you have already been when someone else lived there and had great parties at which you got incredibly drunk, and someone you know will move in when you decide to move out. You will make love to someone who has slept with all your friends.
There will never be anything brand-new in your life.
It's a big flea market; sometimes we come to sell and sometimes to buy. When you first came here you felt fresh and
new, everybody around you was vibrant, full of attention, you couldn't imagine ever getting used to this place. It felt so foreign and inscrutable. You so much wanted to be part of it, to conquer it, survive it, put your flag up, and you longed for that feeling of estrangement to vanish. You wished you could press a button and feel like you had been here all your life, knew all the roads, the shops, the mechanics, the tricks, the names of each animal and indigenous tree. You hated the idea of being foreign, wanted to blend in like a chameleon, join the group and be accepted for good. Didn't want to be investigated. Your past had no meaning; you only cared about the future.
Obviously, you were mad to think you could get away with it without paying a price.
It's seven o'clock in the morning, and I smoke my first cigarette with sickening pleasure at the arrivals hall of Jomo Kenyatta Airport in Nairobi.
She is on the early-morning British Airways flight.
Her name is Claire, I have never seen her. I was told that she is blond, long-legged and sexy. She will be looking for me. She has probably been told to watch out for a dark-haired chainsmoker with the look of a psychopath, or at least this is the only honest description that would fit me today.
I hate Claire, she is my enemy, even though we have never met. Yet I am here to greet her and welcome her as part of our family, the baboon group whose behaviour I have finally managed to make my own. I guess this is my punishment.
She has never lived here before, but she is coming to stay for good. She will eventually learn all the rules and turn into another specimen, like all of us. That is what everyone has to learn in order to survive here. She is coming to live with the man I am in love with, a man I haven't been able to hold on to. Another possession which slipped out of my hands to be snatched up by the next buyer.
The tourists start pouring through the gate, pushing squeaking carts loaded with Samsonite suitcases. They all wear funny clothes, as if each one of them had put on some kind of costume to match the ideal self they have chosen to be on this African holiday. The Adventurer, the White Hunter, the Romantic Colonialist, the Surfer. They are all taking a break from themselves.
She comes towards me looking slightly lost. I notice her long thin legs, her blond hair pulled tightly into a braid. Her skin is pale, still made up with London fog. She is wearing a flowery dress and a thick blue woolen sweater that makes her look slightly childlike. I wave my hand and she lights up. It's true: she is beautiful. She has destroyed my life.
It's like musical chairs, this secondhand game. When the music stops, one of us gets stuck with their bum up in the air. This time it must have been my turn.
I steer her cart out of the airport towards my old Landcruiser.
"Did you have a good flight?" I try a motherly tone.
"Oh God, yes. I slept like a log. I feel great." She smells the air. "Thank you so much for coming to pick me up at this hour. I told Hunter that I could have easily gotten a taxi--"
"Don't even say that. There's nothing worse than arriving in a place for the first time and having to start haggling for a cab. I believe in picking up people at airports. It's just one of those rules."
"Well, thanks." She smiles a friendly smile. "Wow, you drive this car?"
"Sure." I hop in and open the passenger seat while I hand a ten-shilling note to the porter. "Watch out, it's full of junk. Just throw everything on the back seat."
Claire looks slightly intimidated by the mess in the car. Tusker beer empties on the floor, muddy boots, a panga on the dashboard, mosquito nets, dirty socks, rusty spanners.
"I just came back from safari," I say matter-of-factly as I pull out on the main road.
"Oh."
She looks out the window at the grey sky hanging low over the acacias. Her first impression of Africa.
"What a nice smell. So fragrant."
She sits quietly for a few seconds, letting it all sink in, her weariness mixing with her expectations. Her new life is about to begin. I feel a pang in my stomach. I didn't think it would be this hard. As usual, I overestimated my strength.
"Have you heard from Hunter? He's still in Uganda, right?" I ask, knowing perfectly well where he is; I have memorized the hotel phone number.
"Yeah. He thinks he'll be back next week, unless there are problems at the border with the Sudanese troops. In which case he will have to go in."
She sounds so casual, the way she has picked up that hack slang, as if the outbreak of a war was the equivalent of a night club opening. Just something else to report, another two thousand words in print.
"Let's hope not." I add more of the motherly tone. "I'm sure you don't want to be left here alone for too long."
"I'll be all right. It's all so new, I'm sure I won't be bored." She turns to me and I feel her eyes scanning me. "I knew when he asked me to come here that he wouldn't be around a lot of the time," she adds nonchalantly.
She's tough, I can tell already, hard inside, under the fair skin and that blondness. She'll get what she wants.
"You live with Adam, right?"--to put me back in my place.
"Yes. He's still at the camp up north with the clients. I've just come back from there. You'll meet him when he comes down on Saturday."
"I've heard so much about him from Hunter. He sounds wonderful."
"He is wonderful."
We take the Langata road towards Karen. She looks out the window taking everything in: the tall grass shining under the morning sunlight that has pierced the clouds, the old diesel truck loaded with African workers which spits a cloud of black smoke in our face, the huge potholes. She will learn how to drive a big car, find her way around town, she will learn the names of the trees and the animals.
"I'll drop you at home, show you how to turn on the hot water and things like that, and then leave you to rest. If you need anything just call me, I live right around the corner from you."
"Thank you, Esmé, you are being so kind."
She will fall asleep in the bed I know so well which is now hers.
I am glad to hate her. Now I will go home and probably cry.
This is a country of space, and yet we all live in a tiny microcosm to protect ourselves from it. We venture out there, and like to feel that we could easily get lost and never be found again. But we always come back to the reassuring warmth of our white man's neighbourhood in modern Africa. It's right outside Nairobi, at the foot of the Ngong hills where Karen Blixen's farm was. It's called Langata, which in Masai means "the place where the cattle drink."
There's no escape; here you know what everybody is doing. You either see their car driving around, or hidden under the trees in their lover's back yard, parked outside the bank, the grocery shop, filling up at the gas station. A lot of honking and waving goes on on the road. You bump into each other at the supermarket while you are shopping, the post office while paying your bills, at the hospital while waiting to be treated for malaria by the same sexy Italian doctor, at the airport where you are going to pick up a friend, at the car repair shop.
Even when you are out on safari, thousands of miles away from everybody, if you see a canvas green Landcruiser coming the other way, you look, assuming you'll know the driver, and most times you do. It's a comforting obsession. So much space around you and yet only that one small herd of baboons roaming around it.
This is our giant playground, the only place left on the planet where you can still play like children pretending to be adults.
Even though we pretend we have left them behind, we have very strict rules here. We sniff new entries suspiciously, evaluating the consequences that their arrival may bring into the group. Fear of possible unbalance, excitement about potential mating, according to the gender. Always a silent stir. In turn each one of us becomes the outcast and new alliances are struck. Everyone lies. There's always a secret deal that has been struck prior to the one you are secretly striking now. Women will team up together against a new female specimen if she's a threat to the family, but won't hesitate to declare war against each other if boundaries are crossed. It's all about territory and conquest, an endless competition to cover ground and gain control.
You always considered yourself better than the others, in a sense less corrupted by the African behaviour. You thought of yourself as a perfectly civilized, well-read, compassionate human being, always conscious of social rules. The discovery that you too have become such an animal infuriates you. At first you are humiliated by your own ruthlessness, then you become almost fascinated by it. The raw honesty of that basic crudeness makes you feel stronger in a way. You realize that there is no room, no time for moral indignation.
That this is simply about survival.
Nicole and I are having lunch in a joint off River Road, where you can get Gujarati vegetarian meals. You have to eat off your aluminum plate with your fingers. There is a lot of bright-coloured plastic panelling, fans, flies, and a decor straight out of some demented David Lynch set. Wazungus, white people, never dream of coming here and that is exactly why we do, because we like the idea of two white girls having a lunch date on the wrong side of town.
"You look sick," Nicole says, gulping down chapati and dal. Her skin is a shade too pale for someone living in Africa and covered in a thin film of sweat. She's angular, beautiful in an offbeat way.
"I am sick."
"You have to get over it. I can't stand to see you like this."
She has just had a manicure at the Norfolk Hotel beauty salon and her nails are painted a deep blood red. She's wearing the same colour lipstick which is rapidly fading onto the paper napkin and the chapati, a skimpy skirt and a gauze shirt. Looks like she has just walked out of an interview for an acting job at the Polo Lounge in Hollywood and driven all the way to the equator in a convertible sports car.
"You didn't have to go pick her up at the airport. I mean, someone else could have."
"I guess I wanted to test myself. And in a way it was symbolic."
"Did Hunter ask you to do it?"
"Yes." I nod quickly. But it's a lie.
"I can't believe it. He's such a--"
"No. Actually it was my idea."
"You are sick."
"True. But it's all part of our private little war."
Nicole sighs and takes another mouthful of vegetable curry, her wavy hair hanging over the food.
"What does she do? I mean what is she planning to do here?"
"I haven't a clue. Articles for House and Garden? Maybe she will start a workshop with Kikuyu women and have them weave baskets for Pier One. She looks like she could be the crafty type . . ."
"Oh please." Nicole laughs and lights a cigarette, waving her lacquered nails in the air. "She must be better than that."
I take a deep breath, fighting the wave of anxiety which is about to choke me. I am actually drugged by the raw pain. It is almost a pleasure to feel it inside me, like a mean wind on a sail that any minute could wreck me. If I survive it it will eventually push me to the other shore. If there is another shore.
I feel as if I have lost everything. It isn't just Hunter. I have also lost Adam, myself, and most of all I have shattered the silly dream I had about my life here: I have lost Africa.
"When I saw her this morning"--I have to say this, to get it out of my system--"the way she was looking at things, so full of excitement . . . you know, everything must have seemed so new and different . . . it reminded me of myself when I first came down here. Of the strength I had then. I felt like Napoleon on a new campaign, I wanted to move my armies here, you know what I mean?"
She nods; she's heard this a million times, but has decided to be patient because I guess she loves me. She knew beforehand that this lunch would require an extra dose of tolerance.
"She'll fight her battle, and learn the pleasure of annexing new territories. And I don't mean just sexually. She will start to feel incredibly free. Whereas I am already a prisoner here. Like you and all the others. We fought, we thought we had won something, but in the end we are all stuck here like prisoners of war. And we still can't figure out who the enemy was."
"Oh please, don't be so apocalyptic. You are just in a seriously bad mood. I think you need a break. Maybe you should go back to Europe for a while."
"Nicole, why is it that after so many years we don't have any African friends? Can you give me an answer? I mean, if you think about it--"
"What does that have to do with--"
"It does. We're like ghosts here; we can't contribute to anything, we don't really serve any purpose. We don't believe in this country. We are here only because of its beauty. It's horrifying. Don't you think?"
Nicole picks up my dark glasses from the table and tries them on, looking nowhere in particular.
"Look, there's no use talking about this again. I hate it when everybody gets pessimistic and irrational and starts ranting about living here."
She stares at me from behind the dark lenses, then takes them off and wipes them with a paper napkin.
"Haven't you noticed the pattern? We're like this bunch of manic-depressives. One moment we think we live in Paradise, next thing this place has turned into a giant trap we're desperate to get out of."
"Yes," I say, "it's like a roller-coaster."
"I think what we all do is project our anxieties onto the whole fucking continent. This has always been Hunter's major feature and you've just spent too much time listening to him. He loves to ruin it for everyone else because he hates the idea of being alone in his unhappiness. He will ruin it for Claire as well, just wait, you'll see."
This thought makes me feel slightly better. I am not in a position to rejoice at anybody's future happiness at the moment, I feel far too ungenerous. I am acting just like Hunter: working to create as much misery around me so that I don't feel completely left out.
Nicole smiles.
"Come to the loo. Then I'll take you to Biashara street. You need a bit of shopping therapy." --This text refers to the paperback edition. About the Author
Francesca Marciano is a documentary filmmaker who divides her time between Rome and Kenya. This is her first novel. --This text refers to the paperback edition. This somewhat trashy, cliché-ridden, soft-core romance is narrated by a beautiful, world-weary young "citizeness" of the world who escapes from jaded Europe to sensuous Kenya. The echoes of Isak Dinesen (OUT OF AFRICA) and Beryl Markham (WEST WITH THE NIGHT) are intentional. One either likes this sort of thing, or one doesn't. As for the performer, Penelope Anne Miller does one very exceptional thing: She gives the vivid impression of sweaty heat. Somehow this feat makes all the difference in persuading one to listen to this steamy, African Bonjour Tristesse. Y.R. (c) AudioFile, Portland, Maine --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
