From our latest issue: An excerpt from “Actor Killed by Stupidity.” by Jameson Parker
Allan Seager once wrote that time makes fiction out of our memories. That would be a fine thing if time made us all heroes, courageous and stoic, solitary and enduring, riding off into an endlessly vanishing horizon to new adventures, new triumphs.
Unfortunately, time seems to regard me as a sort of slapstick comic figure, Don Knotts with no Sheriff Andy to back me up, Stan Laurel without the dignity of a stunt double.
Hollywood agents aren’t quite as venal as politicians, and Hollywood producers aren’t quite as morally bankrupt, but after you’ve said that, you’ve heaped more praise on agents and producers than they can stand. So I was not entirely surprised to find myself standing alone with an uncommonly pretty girl on the airport tarmac in Walvis Bay, Namibia—not pleased, but not surprised.
We had just arrived, the girl and I, on location, and there was no one to greet us, no one to take us into town, no indication of where we should go next or what we were supposed to do. In fact, since the little private plane had taken off, there was no one there at all. The only two humans visible for miles were two men in janitorial uniforms who came out of the little building that appeared to serve as a terminal, locked the door, got on bicycles and rode off in opposite directions. After that flurry of official excitement, there wasn’t anyone around who could answer a direct question. Walvis Bay is not exactly the center of the known universe.
The only good part of the whole affair was that the girl really was exceptionally pretty, and she brought out all kinds of manly protective feelings in me. Completely wasted, as I found out later, because she was about ten times more competent and resourceful than I was, but for those few moments of solitude, I longed to protect her, though death from dehydration seemed to be the most immediate problem, and I wasn’t quite sure what to do about that.
As we stood there, I thought at least I was getting all the bad that was going to occur on this movie out of the way right at the get-go. I thought to myself that things couldn’t possibly get any worse than this.
I was wrong. Looking back now, I realize that moment with our suitcases in the sun on an empty strip of asphalt in the middle of the Skeleton Coast, the area affectionately known by Portuguese sailors as The Gates of Hell, was one of the shining highlights of that particular job, because things went downhill from there—spectacularly downhill.
About three weeks later, the entire production company ended up on a 100,000-hectare game ranch several hours’ drive outside Windhoek. Unfortunately, we were not alone: a party of European tourists was there, taking up all the available rooms. Our producers, a spectacularly sleazy and oleaginous Cockney and his obsequious and parasitic American partner, told me and the girl that it was all the fault of the ranch owner, that she had screwed up the reservations, and that they, the producers, would drive back into Windhoek to see what other arrangements could be made. Apparently no arrangements could be made, because they never returned from Windhoek until after the tourists left, three days later.
The owner of the ranch, a very gracious German lady who was delighted to discover I spoke German, told me what had really happened—that no reservations were ever made for those three nights. She would have been well within her rights to throw the girl and me out, but since we had no means of transportation, she kindly turned over her study to the girl, who slept on the sofa. I opted for a tiny pop-up, canvas-sided camper that was part of the equipment the producers had abandoned in the parking area a few hundred yards from the compound.
When I told our hostess my plan, she hurried into her study and returned a moment later with a Smith & Wesson Model 27 in .357. She told me they were having some trouble with a leopard, and she advised me to sleep with the gun under my pillow. Ah, the glamor of show business. I was so rattled by this tidbit of information that I forgot to ask exactly what kind of trouble they were having. Instead, I dozed fitfully for three nights, periodically touching the revolver to reassure myself. As if it would have done me the slightest bit of good.
On the second or third day, reading one of the ranch’s brochures, I discovered there was a cave decorated with paintings similar to those in the famous cave at Lascaux. Since I am one of the very few people alive today lucky enough to have seen the paintings at Lascaux, shortly before the cave was closed in 1963, I was intrigued, and told the owner I would like to hike in to see the paintings.
It turned out the cave in the brochure was a phony, that she had arranged for some fake paintings to satisfy the tourists, and that the real cave was much farther away on an unmarked trail. She gave me a hand-drawn map, with careful instructions, a sandwich and a bottle of water. I set out with only a pocket knife for protection, and carrying Clive Walker’s Signs of the Wild: a Field Guide to the Spoor and Signs of the Mammals of Southern Africa, illustrated with the author’s paintings. I was still very young and had hopes of someday hunting in Africa, and I thought it would be fun to learn something about its wildlife. I hadn’t yet read Peter Hathaway Capstick’s excellent advice about never going for a walk in Africa without a gun, and one of the things I did not have with me was my hostess’ revolver. I was about to learn more than I intended.
The hike out was uneventful. There were tracks everywhere, and I lollygagged along the trail, trying to distinguish between the prints of the common duiker and the steenbok (I couldn’t), happily identifying those of blue wildebeest and springbok and, once, what I am certain was a solitary gemsbok’s track.
Where the trail left the main valley and passed through a narrow, rocky gorge, I had my first encounter with wild game. A lone warthog came trotting toward me down the valley, and we spotted each other at the same instant, about 50 yards from each other. We both had the same reaction, which was to freeze, so I had plenty of time to examine him. He was not a thing of beauty, but he was impressive, with the massive forequarters and tapered rear of a pit bull or middleweight boxer, and a very awe-inspiring set of tusks curling out on either side of a face only a myopic mother could love.
We watched each other cautiously for about 30 seconds, and then he snorted once and spun around, running back up the valley and finally vanishing from sight. A few weeks later, in honor of that encounter, I bought a green Verdite sculpture of a warthog from a native who was selling his creations by the side of the road. It still sits on my desk as a sort of memento mori, a reminder of the dangers of being young and stupid.
Read the ending of Jameson Parker’s exciting and humorous story along with other great reading in the September/October 2018 issue of Sporting Classics. Look on newsstands now or visit sportingclassics.com to start your subscription today.