Rules of the Wild

( 3 )

Overview

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 ...

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Overview

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 Esmé, 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, Esmé 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.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
"Remarkable . . . sensuous . . . compellingly readable . . . makes you feel as if you've come back from someplace very far away." --USA Today

"An intensely romantic novel . . . worthy of Flaubert." --The New York Times

"An updated English Patient. . . . Engaging. . . . A page-turner. . . . Intense and lyrical." --Elle

USA Today
Remarkable. . .sensuous. . .compellingly readable. . .makes you feel as if you've come back from someplace very far away.
People Magazine
In this lush first novel, an Italian expatriate in Africa wavers between two lovers. . .and their disparate worldviews.
Anderson Tepper
Oozing with literary pretension and horny soul-searching, Marciano's novel never ventures beyond its small circle of white lovers [and] jaded castaways. . . .they remain. . .stuck [in Africa] because this place makes us look good. — Time Out
NY Times Book Review
Wise and beautifully written. [An] impressive first novel. This rarefied world...is vividly drawn.
Glamour
Think Out of Africa with all the sex scenes left in. . . .Smoldering.
New York Times Book Review
Wise and beautifully written. [An] impressive first novel. This rarefied world...is vividly drawn.
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
The voice of Italian-born narrator Esme, which seduces the reader into the world of this intelligent first novel, is sad, tense, darkly foreboding, secretly desperate. From the beginning, we know that this will be a story of missed opportunities, failed love affairs, unfulfilled longings. Juxtaposed with the tale of a woman trying to find herself is a trenchant and striking picture of contemporary Africa. Esme flees Italy for Kenya after the death of her charismatic father, a poet, and is grateful to find security in an affair with idealistic safari operator Adam. Africa initially seems a paradise to Esme. She is welcomed into the inbred white community of Nairobi, where alcohol and drugs are routine pleasures, everyone has slept with everyone else and the colonial attitude toward blacks has not changed. When she meets a burning social conscience, restless Esme recognizes a kindred spirit, and their passionate affair threatens to destroy the only haven she has known.

Hunter has covered the carnage in Somalia and Rwanda, and his insistence that Esme acknowledge the 'real' Africa -- the poverty in which most Africans live, the despoliation of the environment -- unsettles her already fragile emotional balance. In the end, she will be caught between two worlds, two lovers and two visions of the future. Marciano's passion for the spectacular landscape of Africa is almost palpable. Her character analysis is often profound as she delicately conveys the moral complexities of social and personal issues. Her Africa is a paradox in every sense: beautiful and tragic, luxuriant and rotting, paradise and hell, Esme's nemesis and her salvation. This resonantly ironic, beautifully observed novel announces an impressive new talent.

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.
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.
Megan Harlan
Marciano's prose deflates romantic African stereotypes...while intelligently constructing..two romances, as well as a poignant third. --Entertainment Weekly
Elle
An updated English Patient . . .Engaging. . .A page-turner...Intense and lyrical.
Richard Bernstein
An intensely romantic novel, worthy of Flaubert. -- The New York Times
Kirkus Reviews
A debut that takes us into an Africa where, with Marciano as our guide, we are more likely to come upon Bianca Jagger than Nelson Mandela.

'Let's be honest about it,' heroine Esme admits early on. 'This is a story about white people in Africa. I am not going to pretend that it is anything else.' To which it might be helpful to add: not merely white people, but exceptionally bored, chic, and unhappy white people, the sort who snort cocaine in Nairobi restaurants and have trouble remembering whether they've slept with each other.

Esme herself fits in nicely: the Manhattan-bred daughter of a renowned Italian poet, she is taken to Kenya on safari after her father's death and quickly decides to stay on. It's not that she falls in love with Africa, exactly; she simply seems to have had her fill of everything else. So, she sends her boyfriend back home and moves in with Adam, the safari guide and big-fame hunter, who takes her on as his assistant and mistress, thereby bringing her into the very narrow confines of the expatriate scene. Here, she makes the rounds, shopping by day and clubbing by night, until she falls for Hunter Reed, a British journalist who covers tribal wars, swills champagne, and tries to expand Esme's horizons a bit.

She becomes his lover but is unable to keep up with his needs and his cynicism. Eventually, she goes home to Italy to put him behind her, only to find him on her doorstep in Rome one day. By the time she returns to Africa she knows there's no hope that they can make a life for themselves, but hope is beside the point.

From the Publisher
Remarkable . . . sensuous . . . compellingly readable . . . makes you feel as if you've come back from someplace very far away." —USA Today

"An intensely romantic novel . . . worthy of Flaubert." —The New York Times

"An updated English Patient. . . . Engaging. . . . A page-turner. . . . Intense and lyrical." —Elle

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780375703430
  • Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 9/28/1999
  • Series: Vintage Contemporaries Series
  • Edition number: 1
  • Pages: 304
  • Sales rank: 492,418
  • Product dimensions: 5.22 (w) x 8.00 (h) x 0.68 (d)

Meet the Author

Francesca Marciano
Francesca Marciano is a documentary filmmaker who divides her time between Rome and Kenya. This is her first novel.
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Read an Excerpt

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."

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First Chapter


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, Esme, 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."

    Nicole is cutting a line of coke on her compact mirror inside the pink Gujarati washroom. I envy the way she always seems to be completely unaffected by her surroundings and carries on living in the third world as if she's simply browsing through an ethnic sale at Harrod's.

    She snorts quickly, holding back her curls.

    "Wow! It's such bad stuff, but what the hell..."

    She watches me while I inhale my portion of rat poison, then puts on a naughty smile.

    "We'll turn Claire onto this really bad coke and transform her into an addict, that's how we're going to get rid of her. We'll persecute her till she gets a bleeding nose."

    I finally laugh. The rush makes me feel warmer. I'd like to hug Nicole now, but she is suddenly looking serious.

    "You know, Esme, I never told you, but in a way I feel like I should tell you now..."

    "What?"

    "I did sleep with Hunter as well. Long before you came out here."

    "Oh."

    Her cheeks are lightly flushed. I drop my eyes from her face.

    "I had a feeling you had," I say. But the revelation hasn't shocked or hurt me.

    "Why?"

    "Just because ... oh I don't know. Because of a certain intimacy you two always had."

    "Do you mind me telling you only now?"

    "No. It doesn't make any difference. Really."

    We pause and smile at each other. I feel my heart hammering wildly, and the sudden urge for a cigarette. But I know it must be the cocaine, not her revelation. Strangely, if anything it makes me feel closer to her. She lights two cigarettes and hands me mine. We stand, our backs against the pink tiles, inhaling smoke and scouring powder.

    "I am not unaware of what you said before, you know. We are all trapped in some kind of crazy white-people's game here," she says in a soft voice. "I just don't want to get completely engulfed in that kind of dissatisfaction because I don't have any alternatives."

    "What do you mean?"

    "I wouldn't be able to go back to Europe and function at this point. That's what made me so unhappy about sleeping with Hunter, now that I think of it. I felt he was constantly drawing energy out of me. His bitterness was poisoning me; that's what made me get away from him."

    "Hmmm... I guess I am the one who has been poisoned now."

    We stand in silence, smoking our cigarettes.

    "I'll tell you exactly what it is that hurts, Nicole. The absolute certainty that I don't, and probably you don't either, have the determination, no, wait--the faith--to redeem someone like Hunter. We both would rather be poisoned than try to detox him. I never believed I had the power to make him happy. Isn't that stupid?"

    "Why, what makes you think this girl will?"

    "She has that strength. She will simply drive him out of whatever hole he's trapped in and bring him to the surface. She will love him, it's as simple as that."

    "You love him too."

    "But she's fearless. Young. And she will have his children."

    "Yes. She's a breeder..."

    "Right. We are not."

    "No. We'd rather snort coke in the loo."

    We pause, meditate for a few seconds. Then we do another line and go shopping.

    I have to go one step back and try to put things in order. To fabricate some excuses for myself.

    You have tried to leave before.

    You have woken up in your bed in the middle of the winter, rain furiously pounding on the mabati roof, and felt like everything including your brain was turning to mould. You hate the idea of being so far away, forgotten by your friends at home, oblivious to the political changes in the world. You are starved for magazines, sophisticated conversation, films and good clothes. The person lying next to you is a man who was born here, for whom all that is simply nonexistent. Before falling asleep he has told you how much he loves the sound of the rain pounding on the tin roof at night, how it reminds him of his childhood. You hear him breathing peacefully, wrapped up in the blanket while you are going mad. In the morning you walk out in the garden, holding your hot mug of coffee close to your chin, your last good pair of boots deep in the thick mud. You feel as if your entire soul is going under. Everything around you has the bitter taste of decay: the mangoes rotting in the basket, the corrupted policeman at the roadblock who wants a bribe to let you pass, the headlines in the paper about new tribal massacres in the desert and piles of bodies liquefying in the heat. Suddenly the hardness of Africa reveals itself to you. Senseless and without redemption.

    When you look in the mirror your face looks drained, armored, no trace of lightness left. You look older. That's when you think there may still be time to save yourself.

    You want to leave. And you believe you will never come back.

    Nobody is happy to let you escape, since everyone shares the symptoms of your disease. Someone will take you malcontentedly to the airport, in full Kenyan style, still wearing shorts and sandals, opening one Tusker beer after another, hitting the cap on the door handle and throwing the dripping empties on the back seat. They will sway and swear overtaking matatu buses on the way, they will be rude with the porters who are too slow to take your luggage.

    You don't care.

    You are already on the other side of the ocean, shielded by what's left of your good European clothes, the list of phone calls you have to make tomorrow.

    You are out of here.

    You check in with a smile, handing your ticket to the pretty stewardess in flawless uniform, the efficiency of Europe already welcoming you behind the airline counter.

    You think you will come back, sure, but just as a tourist, to see your friends and your ex-lovers. To see all the places you loved. The Chyulu hills, Lake Turkana, the beach of Lamu, the Ewaso Nyiro River.

    You don't know yet that you won't be able to get away.

    So many people have tried to define the feeling the French call mal d'afrique which in fact is a disease. The English never had a definition for it, I guess because they never liked to admit that they were being threatened in any way by this continent. Obviously because they preferred the idea of ruling it rather than being ruled by it.

    Only now I realize how that feeling is a form of corruption. It's like a crack in the wood which slowly creeps its way in. It gradually gets deeper and deeper until it has finally split you from the rest. You wake up one day to discover that you are floating on your own, you have become an independent island detached from its motherland, from its moral home base. Everything has already happened while you were asleep and now it's too late to attempt anything: you are out here, there's no way back. This is a one-way trip.

    Against your will you are forced to experience the euphoric horror of floating in emptiness, your moorings cut for good. It is an emotion which has slowly corroded all your ties, but it is also a constant vertigo you will never get used to.

    This is why one day you have to come back. Because now you no longer belong anywhere. Not to any address, house, or telephone number in any city. Because once you have been out here, hanging loose in the Big Nothing, you will never be able to fill your lungs with enough air.

    Africa has taken you in and has broken you away from what you were before.

    This is why you will keep wanting to get away but will always have to return.

    Then, of course, there is the sky.

    There is no sky as big as this one anywhere else in the world. It hangs over you, like some kind of gigantic umbrella, and takes your breath away. You are flattened between the immensity of the air above you and the solid ground. It's all around you, 360 degrees: sky and earth, one the aerial reflection of the other. The horizon here is no longer a that line, but an endless circle which makes your head spin. I've tried to figure out the trick that lies behind this mystery, because [don't see any reason why there should be more sky in one place than in another. Yet I haven't been able to discover what is the optical illusion that makes the African sky so different than any other sky you have seen in your life. It could be the particular angle of the planet at the equator, or maybe the way clouds float, not above your head, but straight in front of your nose, sitting on the lower border of the umbrella, just on top of the horizon. Those drifting clouds which constantly redesign the map: in one glance you can see a rainstorm building up north, the sun shining in the east, and grey sky in the west which is bound to turn blue any minute. It's like sitting in front of a giant TV screen looking at a cosmic weather report.

    You are travelling north, towards the NFD, the legendary North Frontier District, and suddenly it's as if you were looking at the landscape through the wrong side of binoculars. The ultimate wide-angle lens, which compresses the infinite within your field of vision. Your eyes have never cast a glance so far. Flat land that runs all the way to the distant purple profile of the Matthews Range and then, just when you thought you had reached an end to the space, right when you imagined that the landscape would close itself around you again, that you would feel less exposed, another curtain lifts up to reveal more vastness, and your eyes still can't catch the end of it.

    More land stretching obediently under your tires, offering itself to be crossed. Your tracks become the endless flag of your conquest. You fill your lungs with the dry smell of hot rocks and dust, and you feel like you are breathing the universe.

    You see yourself as you are driving into this grandiose absolute geometry: you are just a tiny dot, a minuscule particle advancing very slowly. You have now drowned in space, you are forced to redefine all proportions. You think of a word that hasn't occurred to you in years. It sprouts from somewhere inside you.

    You feel humble. Because Africa is the beginning.

    There is no shelter here: no shade, no walls, no roofs to hide under. Man has never cared to leave his mark on the land. Just tiny huts made of straw, like birds' nests that the wind will easily blow away.

    You can't hide.

    Here you are, under that burning sun, exposed. You realize that all you can rely on now is your body. Nothing you have learned in school, from television, from your clever friends, from the books you have read, will help you here.

    Only now do you become aware that your legs are not strong enough to run, your nostrils can't smell, your eyesight is too weak. You realize you have lost all your original powers. When the wind blows the acrid smell of the buffalo in your nose, a smell you had never smelled before, you recognize it instantly. You know that its smell has always been here. Yours on the other hand is the result of many different things, from sunblock to toothpaste.

    Le mal d'afrique is vertigo, is corrosion, and at the same time is nostalgia. It's a longing to go back to your childhood, to the same innocence and the same horror, when everything was still possible and every day could have been the day you die.

    As I said, I am making excuses for myself.

    I am trying to put everything on a grander scale, in order to feel that I haven't lost all I have lost for nothing. I have been driven out of the Garden of Eden but the apple wasn't something I wanted to eat out of simple greediness. Now I know that no human being will ever resist that temptation.

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Introduction

From the breathtaking vistas of the untamed Masai Mara to the security-gated white suburbs of Nairobi, Francesca Marciano's much-heralded debut novel examines the closely knit social structure and predatory mating habits of a small tribe of cultural outsiders -- the European expatriates living in Kenya. Evoking the literary worlds of Isak Dinesen, Ernest Hemingway, and Graham Greene, Rules of the Wild is a mesmerizing novel of love, nostalgia, and the quest for belonging.
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Reading Group Guide

1. How have Esmé's parents, and her native country, helped to make her what she is? Why might someone from her background be especially liable to see a promise of redemption in the vast spaces of Africa?

2. What do the names of Esmé's two lovers, Adam and Hunter, tell us about them? How does each man's name define his role in Esmé's life?

3. Adam has one view of Africa; Hunter has a radically different one. Which of the two views do you find the most potent and persuasive? Is it possible to hold both views simultaneously; that is, to love and believe in the pristine natural beauty of Africa while also acknowledging its cruelty and inequity?

4. Frustrated with her life as a white person in Africa, Esmé complains at one point: "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" [p. 10]. Do you agree with this general assessment of the various characters' lives? If not, in what way is she wrong?

5. Esmé asks Nicole, "why is it that after so many years we don't have any African friends" [p. 10]? Does that question get answered during the course of the book? What is the answer?

6. Esmé and Nicole look at shopping as therapy, "frivolity as the ultimate form of rescue" [p. 42]. Yet when they come home, they guiltily remove the price tags from their purchases so that the servants won't compare their employers' spending power with their own. If Esmé and Nicole feel so uncomfortable, why don't they simply pay their servants more? How have they allowed themselves--liberal Europeans--to take part in an economic situation that might once have seemed exploitative to them?

7. How does the white Kenyans' awareness of the atrocities taking place in nearby Rwanda affect their lives and their consciousness? Do the events provoke in them fear, pity, terror, disgust, or denial?

8. How have the experiences of Hunter's parents affected his life and his attitudes? Is it because of his unusual history that he seems more caught up in the human tragedies going on in Africa than most of his friends, or even than his colleagues?

9. The novel's characters occasionally talk about an Out of Africa fantasy that many of them are trying to live out. In what does this fantasy consist? Is it based on real life in modern Kenya, or is it an anachronism? If you have read Out of Africa, how does Isak Dinesen/Baroness Blixen's real story differ from the fantasy to which the characters refer?

10. Esmé is initially attracted to Kenya by what she calls the "absence of intellectual criticism" [p. 79]. What does she mean by this statement? Does this aspect of the culture continue to appeal to her throughout the novel? If not, how does she resolve her ambivalence?

11. Iris and Hunter argue about the future of the African pastoral tribes [pp. 115Ð116]. Iris mourns the loss of their culture and traditions; Hunter says that this is no time for sentimentality--the Samburu and other tribes must modernize if they are to survive at all. Which of the two attitudes do you sympathize with?

12. Esmé remarks that Claire instantly perceives "what this place is secretly all about: sexual tension" [p. 70]. Why does Africa, and the situation of the white characters within it, produce this tension? Do you understand Esmé's observation that the proximity of violence and death is in itself erotic [p. 81]? How is Claire different from the Esmé who first arrived in Africa?

13. Unhappy in her half-relationship with Hunter, Esmé wishes that she and Adam could be as content together as they were early on. "Being in love with [Hunter] had only meant insecurity, nostalgia, fear of losing him.... Suddenly it all seemed luminously clear. Love had very little to do with fear and emotional sabotage; love had to do with trust" [pp. 251Ð252]. Is this evaluation of love accurate or true? Does Esmé come to change her ideas about love by the novel's end?

14. Hunter accuses Esmé of being too calculating and practical--"the way you evaluate all the risks, the costs, the consequences" [p. 251]. Is this an accurate assessment of her character? Why does Esmé make the decision she does when Hunter asks her to go away with him? Does she regret her decision in the end?

15. "It wasn't just the beauty of Africa, it was its moral geography that I wanted to be part of" [p. 52], Esmé says early in her story. What does she mean by "moral geography"? Does she eventually attain her ideal? What does her talk with Peter at the end teach her about the country, and about herself?

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
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Sort by: Showing all of 6 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted December 26, 2012

    Amazing

    Amazimg book. One of the best ive ever read

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted December 14, 2004

    It changed my life

    I read this book when I was going through a period in my life where I was so confussed and irritatted by very similar things as Esme, and reading this book opened my eyes to a lot of things. I've been reccomending this book to all of my friends and each one has turned back the same opinion: that they loved it.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 16, 2002

    I absolutely loved this book!!

    Extremely well written, Marciano's use of language evokes such passion between her characters and for the places in which they live. I found myself completely engrossed in this book and longing for my own African adventure. A must read for anyone who has a desire to explore and a passion for living.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 26, 2002

    A Remarkable Feeling for the "Real Africa."

    If you've ever been to Africa, you will know that it is not any ordinary place. Marciano uses superb language and beautiful images along with captivating storytelling in her novel, making it a true pleasure to read.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 12, 2012

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted July 15, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

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