Harry Harambee’s Kenyan Sundowner

Chapter 1-2

When Harry began his adventure, as he still liked to think of it, he told himself he’d be a happy man if he only managed to dip his toes in the turquoise water of the Indian Ocean. He was too old and too unskilled and too cautious to surf. He was too impatient with children to help one build a sandcastle. He might consider snorkeling — that is, if the sea wasn’t too choppy, if the boat operator seemed reputable and didn’t gouge him on price, and if they gave him a mask that didn’t leak.

It all started when the too-slick Aldo Barbieri, a friend of a friend, suggested a tour package for Harry. Barbieri had proposed they meet for a late breakfast at Barney’s Beanery on the Santa Monica Promenade. Harry had met the guy at Vince Delgado’s lawn party, one of those events Harry usually avoided. Vince came on like a pal and hosted poker nights. But at every opportunity he’d be hustling insurance annuities.

“What do you like to do?” Barbieri asked as he dunked a biscotti in his cappuccino and then snarfed it down.

“Simple enough. No expectations,” Harry said. “Balmy weather and a beach. They’re telling me I need to relax.”

“Who is this they?” the Italian in a Calloway golf shirt and Ralph Lauren cardigan wanted to know.

“My daughter. Some friends. Vince, for one, which I guess is why he put us together.” Then he added, lest he be accused of leaving her off his list of important persons, “Also, my wife.”

“That’s right,” the faux-amiable fellow said and looked up. “My condolences. In our worst moments, we wish for them to be dead.” He actually smiled. “And then they are. Life is so unfair.”

“Forty years,” Harry said and sighed. “You don’t get over that in a day.” Barbieri’s humor might be lame and tasteless, but Harry couldn’t deny its truth. His last years with Lucille hadn’t been all that happy. They argued, she suffered. He never seriously wished for her to go. But he wanted the tension to ease. And he wanted her suffering to end. And then it had, more abruptly than he’d expected.

Lucille’s passing was two years ago. The period since then could go down in his diary, if he’d kept one, on a page or two. Bored aimlessness. Amateurish golf with guys who wanted to sell him timeshares or reverse mortgages. Spurned invitations to bridge parties. More recently, offers from well-wishers to set him up on polite dates with lonely crones.

This first meeting with Aldo had occurred in August in the pre-pandemic year of 2019, typically a hot month in Southern California. But on this day the breeze off the ocean was downright chilly. Always cautious about temperature, Harry wore a windbreaker over his button-down shirt. Nevertheless, he ordered a cold beer, his summer drink, thinking it was a manful choice for a guy-meetup with the fellow he assumed would be his vacation planner.

“I do a lot of this, you know,” Barbieri said as he took another look at the menu. “And I often go myself. Group rates, best places, safety, all of that. Not a worry in the world.”

“I’m not good in groups,” Harry said with a dismissive wave. “And I’m not one for small talk.”

Barbieri quaffed his coffee. His skin was the color of his cappuccino and his curly hair was jet black. There were sharp lines in his face, possibly from habitually taking too much sun. Harry figured yachties looked like that. This Italian looked like a bookie — or Harry’s notion of how a bookie might look. He didn’t disapprove of gambling, but he disliked the little he’d done of it.

Harry feared he looked like a schlump. His skin was pale, and everything was beginning to sag. His moon-shaped face made him look fat, but he regarded himself as simply stocky with something of a belly. His chin was starting to go flaccid, and he was in serious danger of getting jowls. His lips looked thinner these days and colorless, and when his mouth was closed, the corners turned slightly downward, no matter what his mood. He refused to wear what was left of his hair in a combover and instead kept it short. He had to admit he was beginning to look like a dyspeptic old guy, even though he judged his mind was sharp as ever, and his digestion was still reliable.

When he looked in the mirror, he’d ceased to regard himself as handsome, if he’d ever been. The drooping of his facial features lent him a somewhat mournful expression. The best spin he could put on it was sincere. Indeed, he considered himself a man of his word, a straight shooter, an honest partner in any enterprise.

As he took a noisy sip, Barbieri raised an eyebrow, squinted, and asked, “You getting any?”

Harry hesitated while he wondered about the seriousness of the question. Then he muttered, “Nah.”

“Since how long?”

Harry shrugged innocently. “Years.”

“C’mon, Harry. Not one hooker? Blind date? Tinder? Not even a hand job in the front seat?”

Harry glanced quickly around at the guests at a nearby table. No heads had turned. They weren’t being overheard, or, if they were, no one cared.

Lowering his voice, Harry replied, “I had a couple of dates that I realized were going nowhere from the first glance. But I didn’t want those to go anywhere. And, yeah, nothing. Not once.”

Barbieri teased, “You might as well be a monk, Harry!”

Again, apparently no one heard. Or cared.

“When Lucille was having one of her bad days, she even came right out and gave me permission. I mean, she didn’t say ‘Go do it,’ but she did say if I did, she wouldn’t blame me. But she made it clear she didn’t want to know. Not that I would’ve shared.”

“So, how do you know it still works?”

Harry smirked. This line of questioning was embarrassing. Especially from someone who wasn’t a close friend. “How would anybody? A guy needs to do himself every now and then. You know, keep the prostate pliable.”

“How about blue pills? You use those?”

“Tried them a few times before Lucille took a turn for the worse. The doctor gave me samples. Worked fine, maybe too well. I guess she didn’t have fantasies about doing it to exhaustion with some young stud. She complained I took too long.”

“Wow,” Barbieri said. “You’re wound up tighter than I thought.”

“Is this discussion going somewhere? I mean, isn’t this kind of personal when I don’t know you at all? Vince Delgado said you were a standup guy, could get me a great price on a luxury tour package, and I wouldn’t be sorry. I think I’m sorry already.”

“Whoa! Peace!” Barbieri complained as his grin grew wider. “All this is very much to the point.” Even though the people at the next table were in heated conversation themselves and would hardly have noticed, Barbieri was now the one to lower his voice when he added, “I arrange recreational encounters.”

Harry was stunned. “I’m not asking for that.”

“Your old pal Vince didn’t tell you about Thailand last year?”

“He said he got an incredible deal on a couple of tailor-made suits. He rode on an elephant. And the high-rises in Bangkok go on forever, make Manhattan look like a kiddie park.”

“Vince and his buddies had the time of their lives. I’m surprised he didn’t brag. Maybe he thinks you’re too uptight. By the way, we don’t do the rides anymore. Animal cruelty. You wouldn’t want to see what they have to do to get the elephants tame enough to put up with it.”

“And what about those women? Or are they girls? Aren’t they being victimized? Are they so happy to serve?”

Barbieri shook his head. Harry wasn’t sure whether the fellow was indicating the option was no longer available or just not available for him. “I’m not suggesting Thailand for you. Okay, you didn’t ask. But I don’t have to guess that Vince knows what you need and figures he’s doing you a favor.”

“Do I look that desperate?”

“Harry, you’re normal! Who was the guy who said that most men lead lives of quiet desperation? At your age and in your situation, that’s a given. You’d have to be brain-dead not to still be thinking about it at least a hundred times a day. It’s in the wiring, you know?”

“Okay, I’ll admit to having fantasies. And I assume that’s normal. But what you’re talking about is immoral and I imagine totally illegal.”

“Look, Harry. I’m a pro at what I do. Bottom line, I arrange once-in-a-lifetime experiences for people of high net worth. I’m in it for the money, sure. Also the lifestyle. Why not? But I will also tell you I have a knack. If what I’m talking about isn’t your thing, I will get you whatever fires your rocket. Now I’m not talking about hookups. I’m no pimp. My business is tour packager, but actually it’s more like experience designer.”

“I don’t want this to sound mean, but some people might say you know how to spot a client’s weaknesses, then exploit them.”

You’d think the guy would be offended, but he just smiled. Barbieri held up a cautionary hand. “Let’s back up a minute. Think of it this way. Say you’re right here in the land of the free and the home of the brave. You’re looking for a date, you spend some time scrolling and swiping headshots on your phone. You like this pretty face, you read her profile. Maybe her generous-sized chest is in the shot. She’s not a kid, she’s not perfect, so you figure she’s for real, she might not object to having a fling with an older man. Thirtysomething? Forty? Maybe she’s got a daddy thing. You reach out, she agrees, you meet for coffee or drinks. You hit it off, there’s a chemistry, the date slides into dinner. Dinner slides into a passionate hookup on her couch. You stay the night. At breakfast, you guys decide you’re into each other.” He paused for effect, then challenged, “Could happen?”

“Yeah,” Harry admitted. “I suppose. To some people.”

“Okay, now let’s say the circumstances are a little special. She tells you she’s just lost her job. And she’s losing her apartment, supposed to move out end of the week. You invite her to shack up with you at your place, just temporary, and she does. You know she can barely pay her way, so you buy the groceries, take her to dinners, and pay the bill. You even take her shopping and buy her some nice clothes. She’s thrilled. You’re thrilled you did something nice. It could get serious. Or not.”

“It’s special circumstances, all right. Is this the plot of some movie?”

“Stay with me here. You and your new squeeze are carrying on just fine. You’re thinking this is happening really fast, but you won’t be unhappy if it keeps going. Is she being exploited? I think not. Are you? She seems sincere. Then one morning — out of the blue — she informs you she has a boyfriend in Sacramento. She was trying to forget him with you, but she can’t get him out of her mind. She likes you, but she realizes she still loves him. She makes a call, you put her on a bus, and you never see her again.”

“This is a helluva hypothetical.”

“It’s a made-up story, for sure. But not at all impossible, you have to agree.”

“Where are you going with this?”

“So, assume in this story neither of you is married. And you never offered money for her favors. And she never asked. Is what you did immoral?”

“If she wasn’t coerced, I suppose not. I’m sure other women would say I’d taken advantage of her, but in that situation, if we were both into it with no expectations, I wouldn’t call it exactly sinful.”

“And not illegal?”

“Sure. No.”

“Okay, Harry. What I described is how some tourists — mostly older Europeans and mostly white — of either s*x — hook up with locals every day in Kenya. Understand, I’m not talking about anything that the authorities would describe as prostitution or child slavery. These are consenting adults. The men are usually middle-aged, maybe retired. They’ve got money, maybe not a lot, but enough. The women are twenty-, maybe thirtysomething. Many of them are single parents, either unmarried or abandoned by their husbands, and they may even have small children. The other way around, it’s an older white woman, and the optics are different. She’s the one with the money. And she’s telling everyone who might care, including hotelkeepers and safari operators, the guy she’s traveling with is her driver and her bodyguard. And he probably is, but he also happens to share her room. Or maybe he doesn’t, if she cares how that looks.”

Harry took a while to say, “I’m going to have to think about this.”

To which Barbieri replied, “You’re not obligated to hook up with anybody. As if anyone is going to force you to have a good time! Worst case, you’ll stay in the best luxury lodges on the planet and eat spectacular food. And on safaris that will thrill you like nothing you’ve ever done, you’ll see all the wild animals before they disappear from the Earth for good. Your driver will park you on the crest of a hill at sundown, set up a table and chairs, and get you cheerfully drunk on gin-and-tonic as you catch the breeze off the savannah, the herds come to the watering hole, and the sky turns pastel shades you never saw before. It’s called a sundowner, and you could get seriously used to it.”

Harry thought about it, then asked, “For how long?”

Barbieri said, “Two, three weeks?” And he stated a package price, airfare, lodging, meals, and all transfers included. “Mind you, a week of getting up before dawn and jostling around in a four-by-four all day is enough safari. I say we start at the beach. Indian Ocean. Relax first. You hook up, maybe we don’t leave, even. Best not to plan too much in advance. See where it goes. And it will.”

“Wow,” Harry said. “Sure sounds like a deal. But, you don’t know me. I’m a creature comforts kind of a guy. I’m Bilbo Baggins. I’ve spent most of my life editing and publishing history books. I’m not keen on taking risks. Why do you think I’d commit to this?”

Aldo lowered his voice and leaned forward. Harry couldn’t tell whether this conspiratorial tone was the guy’s standard sales close or whether he was really getting choked up. With characteristic Latin passion, he assured his new friend, “You’ll do this, Harry, because there’s a hole in your life. Not in your heart. I have a feeling you’ve got a big heart. You just need some practice sharing it.” Then Barbieri grinned, resuming his casual enthusiasm. “Please, call me Aldo! We’re buddies now. Like I say, once you get there, we don’t have to stick to the program. And, believe me, I’ll stick by you.” Then he flashed a grin with a wink and added, “And you may not want to come back. Ever.”