Notes from Samburu…
Nov. 12, Samburu, Kenya…
The airplane was small enough that, in a pinch, I think Ezra (16 years) with his current level of training, could have flown it.
I thought we’d set the low bar for landing strips and airports when we touched down to deposit the first two passengers in some dried up corner of Kenya. I was wrong. It was, in fact, our “airport” that set the new low bar as we landed in what I’m pretty sure is the geographic center of nowhere and rolled to a stop in front of a thatched, open-sided hut filled with women wearing stacked collars of coloured beads, hawking their wares, our driver (standing beside a dusty van), and an outhouse.
The pit toilet, on a scale from one, being that particularly bad gas station in Tunisia, to a ten, being the Four Seasons in Hawaii, was a solid “one.” Hover. Shake dry. For god’s sake don’t touch anything you own to any surface of the interior. Welcome to Africa. We’re definitely here now.
The dust is iron red and everywhere…
… in billowing clouds behind the tiny aircraft as it lifted into the blue, leaving us to our fates. Glistening in the wet of puddles left by the morning’s rain. Dripping in long, rust coloured paths down the forehead and trunk of our first elephant. Ground into my shoes forever. A protective coating over Bone Rattler, which is what we’ve affectionately named our trusty safari steed for this portion of the journey. A van much like a Central American collectivo, only with a pop top lid.
If our driver, Nicholas, has anything, it’s absolute confidence in his vehicle and the singular sort of fearless approach to driving only those in countries with analog road rules have. He heaves his chariot through crowds of goats, cows, oryx, traffic, or little boys with equal (gleeful) abandon. I noted the location of the “tyre repair” station as we hurtled through the rubble that passed for a road, tumbling through potholes big enough to hide a hippo, over logs, through knee deep mud ruts, and charging through herds of impala and ostrich, scattering them in our wake. In actual fact, Nicholas seems to know exactly what he is doing and never fails to stop the vehicle with careful regard to the best photographic angle and lighting for the particular creature that has presented itself.
Today’s short list includes:
- Oryx
- Impala a plenty
- Zebra
- Warthogs and babies
- Baboons and babies
- Ostrich and babies
- Giraffes
- Gazelles
- Bustards
- Guinea fowl
- Yellow throated fowl
- Crocodiles
- Elephant
- Dik dik
- Snake eagle
- Rabbit
- White tailed mongoose
Oh yes, and we heard a lion roar, although he did not present himself for inspection.
We are alone in Bone Rattler, with Nicholas, so there’s no need to jockey for position with other animal stalkers. This suits us fine, as we have complete control over our schedule, and we’re free to giggle around in the back, sticking the giraffe finger puppet on my longest toe to take a picture while we’re trundling through the wilderness. By far the best part for me is watching Mom hang on for dear life, standing up (front and center) in the van with her hair flying in the dust as we tear through the countryside in hot pursuit of… we’re not sure what. Occasionally she ducks, like a gopher into a hole, to avoid the lash of a spiky tree branch and has acquiesced to Nicholas’ wish that she wear the ball cap he gave her “for the sun,” which hasn’t actually been that bad.
We were pleased to find our room free of baboons when we returned from our first game drive. The admonition of the staff, and the additional sign on the door to, “close your windows (the glass, not just the screens) when you leave your room,” had us wondering just how resourceful the little bandits are, particularly as the biggest two appeared to be casing the joint as we packed our things after our nap.
The camp we are staying at is a good one. Very comfortable. Very clean. Mosquito nets. Fans. A bathtub. Hot water. Wifi. A buffet of ridiculous proportions at every meal time. All the comforts of home. With the bonus material of baboons in the trees (there are fellows stationed with sling shots to “retrain them”) and crocodiles, laying fat and sassy on the river bank, just a few meters past the electric fence and the sign that reads, “don’t cross the fence… crocodiles.” Thanks for that.
My dad’s parting words of wisdom, “Don’t stand too close to the river,” seem salient.
We’re tucked in for the night under our princess netting… aka mosquito netting (Mom has been faithfully taking her malaria pills). The fan is chugging away. I’m wondering what creature will wake us from our slumber in the middle of the night.
Here’s hoping it’s neither large, nor in our room.
