The Old Man of Timau

On one of my frequent forays into Laikipia I have the usual craving for roasted meat. The bovines around here are big and healthy. And for a committed carnivore, I know just the place where the nyama choma is to die for. For clueless Nairobians, the secret to enjoying a Nanyuki roast is to travel by road to this pearl of Mount Kenya region. This ensures that you are at the right pitch of hunger to comfortably put away half a kilo of prime roast. And no, friends, please don’t ask again. There is no bump when you cross the Equator!! If your geography teacher didn’t clear that up, there is scant hope for you.

Wafts of ‘meaty’ smoke deliciously assail my nostrils while I wait for my order. It is lunchtime and all around me everyone is engaged in the serious business of meat eating. My quarter pound arrives, straight from the grill, on a wooden platter; the obligatory kachumbari a little mound on the side. For health conscious people this is certainly not the place to patronize. The meat is literally half fat, glistening and dripping on the board before me. A cholesterol-inducing, heart-stopping, delicious piece of heaven. I’ve barely said hello to the meat when I am conscious of a figure looming at my elbow. The waiter, I expect, with the complimentary vegetables. But no. An unkempt old man with a watery gaze asks if he may have a few pieces of my meat. I am furious that the management here can allow this intrusion on their diners. I studiously ignore the old man and after a while he shuffles off slowly to the next table. I rage inside. Such an outrage would never pass in Nairobi. I swear to myself never to step into this crummy joint again. Undeterred my interloper has stopped at the next table. A couple, with a suitcase at their feet, turn as the old man repeats his supplication. The man extends a welcoming hand and pulls up a chair for the old man. Suddenly my meat has lost its appeal. I have read about a meal becoming tasteless midway. It has never happened to me. Well, there is a first time for everything. The casual chitchat the couple and the old man engage in is like a hot dagger piercing my stricken conscience. I leave the meat half-eaten and slowly make my way to the door. I hardly know where I’m going and I know it will be some days before I am fit to live with myself again. I have turned a hungry soul from my laden table. There is probably no greater ‘sin’ that one can commit.

The following morning I am walking towards the library when I spot the old man, blinking in the harsh  glare, standing undecided on a patch of grass. There is no doubt in my mind as to what I must do. It is indeed a friendly universe. Here, barely eighteen hours after my sorry gaffe, is a chance to redeem myself! There is no sign of recognition in the watery eyes. The multiple layers of old and barely serviceable clothing do little to camouflage the thin frame that age and deprivation have sculpted. I extend my hand and the weak handshake is accompanied by a toothy grin. He asks for a few coins for breakfast but I need to know who this stranger is. This man who abruptly came between me and my conscience just a few hours ago. I assure him that I am not a Council employee and we sit on the little patch of grass and he sketches out that age-old tale of a succession of failed crops in Timau, an impatient wife and ingrates for offspring. Nanyuki seemed the last-gasp option; even a job as a night guard would have been welcome. But potential employers cast a jaundiced eye on his advanced age and he has been begging for his food ever since, a twelvemonth and a half ago. Apparently his family has made no efforts to trace him but his will is to return to his land and die there, he tells me. Every wayfarer’s wish, I guess. Friendly watchmen have made him welcome and he always has a fire to warm himself by, come nightfall. I buy the breakfast and a little extra and I promise to be on the lookout for him tomorrow. His effusive thanks embarrass me when I remember yesterday’s faux pas.

Third morning in this delightful town, but needs must. Nairobi calls and I must leave. Crossing the park, the fates decree that I must meet my friend one last time. He is seated on one of the dusty benches rolling a cigarette with a brown scrap of paper. He looks up when I approach and makes a vain attempt to hide the half-made ‘smoke’. I quickly put him at his ease. What am I now? A figure of authority to him that he feels the compulsion to behave? The gods are determined to humble me. I offer to pay a passage to Timau, but the mzee elects to ‘hang around’ for a while longer and head down home when the rains come. I am not sure that I have fully squared my account with the universe. One thing is for sure, though. I will never forget you, old man. I hope you are well and back with your family. I hope the crop has finally come in and you are comfortable in your skin once again. And thank you for lesson.

 

 

 

 

Nairobi to Nanyuki

I am in the Nairobi Central Business District, sitting in a Nanyuki bound shuttle. It is 2 o’clock and the January sun is unforgiving. I am by and large a stoic traveler and I quietly bake while the little bus slowly fills up. Nairobi’s ubiquitous hawkers circle the vehicle like so many satellites, displaying their wares. They’ve certainly done their homework. For a bus headed upcountry the merchandise on display is apt: a set of screw drivers that fold away like a penknife, the inevitable padlocks, and a new addition to the repertoire: a solar-powered cell-phone charger with little detachable plugs designed to accommodate the most popular brands. This last interests me and I bargain the man down to two hundred shillings, from a high of eight hundred and fifty. Good Buy I think. If it doesn’t pack up in a couple of days.

Getting out of the NCBD is the usual battle of wits between innumerable taxis, matatus, buses and countless private cars. Our driver is obviously a veteran and holds his own. There is evident relief when we leave the city traffic behind and join the super highway. The infamous traffic gridlock of Thika Road is largely absent at this time and, even on the unfinished sections, traffic flows unhindered. I have not been this way for several weeks. Even a couple of months’ absence from this route and the change is tremendous. Carpet-smooth wide lanes, quite a few flyovers, gleaming guard-rails; motoring has never been sweeter. The first dim spot occurs at Githurai. The driver urgently urges everyone to slide their windows shut. The young men lurking on the curb are apparently ‘snatch and grab artists’ taking advantage of slow moving traffic on this section to snatch phones and handbags through the open windows. Well. You live and learn. On my right many apartment blocks apparently flung down haphazardly ruin the splendid vista. Thankfully, we soon leave the human anthills behind and the scenery changes to open savannah. My fellow travellers, three women, one child, and two men are not the garrulous kind and a blessed silence reigns in the shuttle. We slow down at a road bump and I spot two Muslim ladies dressed completely in black from head to toe. In this blazing sun that’s got to hurt! The Chinese appear to be doing a sterling job on the road construction but ironies abound: the earth movers (Hitachi and Hyundai and Volvo) are from Japan, South Korea and Sweden; the trucks (Isuzu) are Japanese and of course the labour force is Kenyan. Yet when all is said and done and the road finally commissioned, China will bag all the glory! Anyway they built the Great Wall: this should be a breeze. We are moving along at a fair clip but out of nowhere a metallic-blue Vitz zooms past us and we’re all agape: it must be turbo-charged. Or the driver is! Either way there’s a moral there somewhere. If there is a God, He surely must hate donkeys. One grey fellow labours up a steep incline drawing behind him a wooden cart fully loaded with water jerricans. At least one hopes it is water and not moonshine. Along the way, the open grassland gives way to even more unappetizing habitations; grey, squat concrete buildings with not a lick of paint between them.

We drive on towards and past Thika and the very air changes. On the right are acres and acres of pineapples. The management here surely owes me a nod of thanks: I’ve probably drunk a liquid tonne of the stuff in my time. A lonely guard sits alone in a World War II-style watch tower on the lookout for trespassers. The savannah has given way to hilly terrain, still green in spite of Old Sol’s efforts. Past the woods of Makuyu and fruit stalls start to show up regularly: it seems mangoes are in season. The vegetation gets noticeably thicker and the dwellings have taken a decidedly rural air.  Quaintly named bars dot the roadside: Top Life, Budget Inn, Hot Pot Motel and, with a curious nod to Ireland, Shamrock Hotel, and many others. We whiz past bags of charcoal for sale along the route. Soon we are across the Sagana River which is a symbolic divide.  Now we know we are truly on our way to Nanyuki. Rice country, this. The many rice stalls by the road are fair testament to this. This road also serves the Mount Kenya and Isiolo tourist circuit. This explains the sudden appearance of curio shops on the way. Small-scale coffee plantations come almost to the tarmac. The green and grey tarpaulins hanging on lines herald our entry into Karatina with its sprawling, second-hand clothing, open-air market. Into Kiganjo and the air is decidedly cooler. We’ve been climbing steadily for the last two hours, it is early evening, and a slight chill has set in. Nanyuki is a mere 48 km away when we are flagged down by a tall, heavy-set policeman. He has a big, brown jolly face. There is nothing cursory about his inspection of the driver’s licence and the vehicle’s insurance certificate though. Satisfied, he beams at everyone in general and waves us on. The mountain suddenly heaves in sight, the peak shrouded in cloud, the sun dappling the lower slopes. The sight never palls and there is a sense of coming home. I cannot wait for morning to take a peek before the clouds set in. Two of my fellow travellers, bound for Isiolo, are just as spell bound. The others, evidently Nanyuki residents barely give it a glance. It is easy to see why it was once revered as the abode of God by the ancients. There is a sense of uncompromising majesty about the mountain and I promise myself for the umpteenth time that I must make the ascent. Someday. Hopefully before dotage sets in. Three hours, almost to the minute since we left Nairobi, we pull into Nanuyki.

Wisdom’s Bookshop

Whenever I travel I try as much as possible not to carry along any books. Bibliophiles among you will realize how difficult this is. My reason is simple, though. I find that wherever on the globe I may happen to be, I will invariably stumble upon good books, more often than not rare treasures, long out of print. So here I am again in Nanyuki, with nothing to read save a day-old newspaper. But I have no worries on this score. I know an hour’s walk around town, and the peripheries, will surely unearth something.

I am walking along headed towards the Dol Dol stage, as it is known locally,  when I spot a rack of magazines at the door of what proves to be one of the more interesting bookshops it has been my joy to patronize. I stop to glance through the magazines and the selection is quite eclectic: National Geographic, Soldier, People, Getaway, Men’s Health, Drum and dozens more. Wisdomlink Bookshop is located in Nyakio Building, squeezed between a butchery and a grocery shop. Blink twice and you will sail right past, totally missing the door. The shop has a quaint air, and I immediately think of Dickens’ Ye Olde Curiosity Shop. The proprietor, a bespectacled, scholarly-looking gentleman is behind the counter browsing through what appears to be a carton of new stock. The shelves are literally overflowing with books: Michael Crichton’s Jurassic Park is cheek-by-jowl with J.G. Ballard’s Empire of the Sun. I spot Esther Njiro’s A history of Africa in the 19^th century right next to farming tracts, some dating back to the fifties. This is a veritable treasure trove and certainly a must-visit for any book lover in Laikipia and beyond. Intriguingly one wall is adorned with kangas. This garment proves to be very popular with the women folk and, during the course of our conversation, he sells quite a number. Indeed at one point he is obliged to call his wife to assist him when the traffic threatens to overwhelm.  Stationery items, also in stock, appear to be in high demand as well. The bulk of sales, though, appear to be on used and new primary school textbooks. Mr Charles Njenga is not averse to a chat and I make myself comfortable in the spare chair, prepared to spend a pleasant hour talking books with the genial bookman. Our chat is interrupted several times, mostly by anxious parents looking for textbooks; my host is up to the task, and there is hardly a textbook in demand that he does not immediately produce.

Mr Njenga started dealing in books in 1973. For the historians, this is the year of the Yom Kippur war, in the United States of America Nixon was rapidly sinking in the Watergate scandal, independent Kenya was just ten years old, and the local airwaves were solely the province of the state broadcaster, The Voice of Kenya. After Mr Njenga completed his formal education, his father took him into the business, the then United Stores. He eventually branched out on his own setting up shop in the current premises in 2007. It is a business that he appears to be comfortable with. I feel a tinge of envy; I really wouldn’t mind spending my waking hours surrounded by books. In answer to my concern that novels and non-academic works appear to hardly move, my host laments the decline in reading habits, especially reading for pleasure. This is a worldwide phenomenon and electronic entertainment probably takes the lion’s share of the blame. The proliferation of cheap dvds, the Internet, 24 hour television, innumerable video games have spelled a near death knell to the book industry.  That and sheer laziness from the educated who stop reading anything more challenging than a restaurant menu the minute they step out of school. But there is a significant minority that does treasure books. One that reads regularly enough for Mr Njenga to keep the faith. He remembers a time when his entire sales came from novels but now it seems that the majority of people will read only if there is an examination involved. In addition to outright sales he also offers that uniquely Kenyan ‘library’ system: buy a book outright the first time around; return it when you are done and exchange it with a fresh choice for a fraction of its cost. For readers who do not necessarily want to surround themselves with books this is a most convenient way to support a reading habit. Others like me find it well-nigh impossible to let go of a book, once it lands on my bookshelf. Mr Njenga sources most of his book from Nairobi and supplies come in at least once a fortnight. Readers around Nanyuki also drop off their ‘reads’ especially those leaving Laikipia altogether. From an economic standpoint Charles Njenga does not appear to have too many grave worries. The textbooks alone easily make it worth his while for his days at the shop. It is clear however that his first love remains novels. Sifting through them is a joy only a book lover will understand. This is a dusty area and this is probably the driest month of the year. But the dust only adds to the air of antiquity. The sense of stepping back in time is heightened by the coolness of the little room and the shadows in the far corners. I come up with a rare collection of short stories by W. W. Jacobs and a 2006 copy of Wanderlust. Pure gold. . So if your taste runs to conservation or maybe you enjoy the twists in the tale from Jeffrey Archer, Charles Njenga has just the article for you.

 

Murumbi and the Lions

On January 31^st 1973, on the occasion of the opening of African Heritage Ltd by Her Worship the Mayor of Nairobi, Ms Margaret Kenyatta, Kenya’s greatest patron of the arts, Joseph Murumbi gave an interesting three minute speech.  Long out of the political limelight, the one-time Vice President of Kenya urged the Mayor to use her considerable clout to persuade the Council to buy works by local artists for display in the City Hall itself and, more significantly, in city streets. One particular larger than life head and torso wooden sculpture by the Ugandan artist Francis Nnagenda recently caught my eye at the National Archives. The only surviving piece in what must have been a magnificent quartet; it still cuts an imposing figure.  That Mr. Murumbi’s proposition was never picked up is an indictment on the churlish fashion we have always treated our artists. Every parent bridles when their child declares they want to ‘draw’ or ‘sculpt’.  The old man, were he around, would be delighted at the efforts of the Born Free Foundation. The strategic placing of multi-coloured , fiberglass lion sculptures in various city streets was a brilliant, if iconoclastic idea. In an effort to save the King of beasts from extinction, unorthodox methods might just be the catalyst to trigger action. From Simba Mfalme, to Sibuor Profesa, Joseph Murumbi‘s proposal has finally been accepted. You were truly ahead of your time, Sir. Rest in Peace.

A Hot Minute in Mombasa

The Dalai Lama is shorter than one would imagine. Did I expect a colossus? Such is fame’s exaggerating influence. There are three people in the queue. A kikoied white lady, also diminutive, has the door of the ‘cooler’ open. She is clearly overwhelmed by the large selection of coloured drinks on display. The atmosphere in the convenience store, at one of those ubiquitous service stations, is as cool as a shake on the beach. For one used to cooler climes, if Nairobi can be so described, the searing Mombasa heat can at times disconcert. I am impatient for my turn at the cooler to get an ice cold bottle of good old aqua. I have long discovered that fizzy drinks only serve to make me irritable.  His Holiness / Eminence is more impatient still. He reaches over the lady’s shoulder and I’m ridiculously pleased to see him grab hold of a small tub of yoghurt. It would have been something of an anticlimax to watch him swig from a bottle of some popular soft drink. The kikoied one, with what look suspiciously like bangles doing duty for earrings, is however less than impressed with the brown arm snaking over her shoulder and turns around angrily, finger raised in reprimand. Coming face to face with the world’s most celebrated Tibetan is enough to throw anyone off. Our aforementioned friend proves to be no exception. It is always a fascinating experience to watch the blood drain from the visage of the light skinned. She does not disappoint. The raised finger remains raised. She makes as if to genuflect and Tenzin Gyatso, for such is the appellation that the eminent one was saddled with at birth, lets out a roar of laughter that is deafening in its intensity. In confusion the mzungu lady rushes at the exit and rams into the glass door, as we used to say, ‘full tilt boogie’. She predictably bounces off the door, careening into a snack-laden shelf. For what appears to be a full five minutes, but is more likely three seconds, there appear to be raining potato crisps in the area around the open-mouthed counter girl. The mirthful monk is not through with his merriment. Another roar sends in a pot-bellied personage, biro swinging importantly in his hand. “Iko nini?” he demands, “wapi security?” Through the louvers I can see ‘security’, blue-trousered, white shirted, the inevitable rungu swinging from his hand, in a dead run towards the commotion. I guess everybody so inclined gets a moment when they can play Rambo. The lady is lying still, covered with bags of crisps. The manager, biro an extension of his hand, heads for the famous monk demanding to know what is going on. The guard bursts in just then, sees the boss with arm raised at the now hysterical celibate and rushes at the enemy, now clearly identified. The crack as the rungu lands on the skull of the spiritual leader of all Tibetan Buddhists sets off the counter girl, screaming and out running into the hot car park. The manager horrified at his charge’s enthusiasm lands one on Rambo’s jaw and sends him sprawling down an aisle where he in turn brings down an entire shelf of toiletries. Meanwhile we have a new guest. This last is a dreadlocked young man in a tight black T-shirt with ZION emblazoned on the front. He kneels by the unconscious lady and incredibly begins to wail loudly. Thinking perhaps that his lady has succumbed, he loudly laments the cruel fate that has robbed him of his meal ticket. Not to be outdone the manager is making squealing noises and wringing his hands.  It is now about a minute or so since the Troubles started. Have I just witnessed what might turn out to be the most infamous homicide in my favourite city? Not really. The cold Nairobi air rouses me from my slumber as visions of the drama disappear like snow-wreaths in thaw.

The Professor, his lunch and the medical bill

Professor Anyang’ Nyong’o and his Serena lunches have been much in the news lately. That he has the good of the country at heart in seeking to midwife a universal health care scheme is not in any doubt. It is an old, open ‘secret’ that people prosper when governed by an enlightened elite rather than under the disastrous, ‘representative’ system known as democracy. Ask the subjects of the Sultanate of Brunei and their counterparts in Oman and the good citizens of the principalities of Liechtenstein and Monaco. You’d be run out of town if your democratic instincts, as we understand that word, dared to find expression within their borders. The good professor has been a democrat of long standing. But he knows very well that a good shepherd does not consult the sheep on their preferred grazing grounds. Engaging in a spot of hubris en route to making his point is his prerogative. If such deeds and utterances are called to account that will be his case to answer.  That universal health care is sorely needed by the citizens of this nation is a no-brainer. We have all seen the medical notices in the dailies, put in by desperate, at-the-end-of-their-tether citizens, asking for financial assistance from people who are essentially strangers. Others have been forced to sell off their precious parcels of land to cater for emergency medical bills that threaten to render them destitute.

The brigade that is busy shouting down Peter Anyang’ Nyong’o totally misses the point. This is not about the professor and his lunches. He can obviously afford to dine pretty much wherever he likes, every day of the year, should he so choose. He sits at the high table by virtue of sticking his neck out when it mattered. His record as a democracy campaigner is unblemished. Anyone begrudging him the delicacies served in five star hostelries should instead work towards attaining their goals and actualising their dreams.  That the professor later hitched his political wagon to the Raila juggernaut is neither here nor there. Sometimes to serve, one must needs sacrifice something. Recognising too that there can be only one rooster in the yard is a common sense piece of wisdom. A purely moralistic leader is as much use as a priceless Van Gogh to a starving man on an island. Unpopular but potentially beneficial projects should be rammed through regardless of the wailing beneficiaries. Professor Anyang’ Nyongo’s ideals as a social democrat may long be out of the window, but this is by no means criminal or even reprehensible. The benefits accruing to the populace under the proposed scheme will remove the burden of worry from people’s minds. Some of those championing workers’ rights can easily afford the fees charged by ‘5 star’ hospitals. The majority of the loudly moaning workers would be reduced to paupers if even the simplest of medical operations were deemed necessary for a family member. Most domestic tensions of a financial nature are brought about by unexpected and stratospheric medical bills. In most developed countries for instance, the first thing new employees are keen on, save the salary of course, is the in-house medical scheme. Where this is deemed inadequate an employee would rather seek less lush pastures that have a solid scheme in place.

So push the scheme through, prof, the rabble-rousing notwithstanding. Even Michuki was initially met with unreasoning resistance.

In the meantime, bon appétit!

Nanyuki to Nairobi

I occasionally tenant an old farmhouse whenever I’m in Nanyuki. The only disturbance, if it really merits the name, is the rhythmic tramping of the 10th Engineers, jogging and singing their way past, at five am. But I begrudge the Army little. I know that were it not for these boys (and girls) we would long have been overrun by certain expansionists in the region. A pleasant surprise, this time around in this military town, is the wi-fi at Sherlock’s Den at the Nakumatt complex. A wake-up call, surely, for all the hostelries in Nairobi. And a big thank you to Boniface, the manager on duty then, for technical advice, gracefully extended. And gratefully received, I must say. It is time to say goodbye to this fascinating town on the equator, though, and head back to Nairobi. We dodge our way past the ubiquitous scooter, known everywhere as boda boda, gas up at a nearby service station and we are soon on the road.
The seven-seater shuttle from Nanyuki to Nairobi is solitary on the tarmac. The driver knows a good thing when he sees one and he takes advantage of the clear asphalt to floor the pedal. Fast as we are, though, some are faster still. A white British Army Land Rover Defender, whizzes past and our driver grunts in exasperation. We watch as it disappears out of sight, the trademark black-handled, white bladed crossed pangas set in a red background swiftly dwindling in the distance. It is a clear run, at least as far as Naro Moru. Should we get a puncture, there’ll be at least eight wakes over the coming week. My thoughts are put into words by the plump, curly- kitted lady seated next to me, lightly perspiring, hogging at least a quarter of my seat. She loudly informs the driver that, in case he was not aware of it, he is in fact carrying people and not sacks of miraa (khat). The driver is sufficiently good humoured to accept this assessment. He slows down but infuriates the lady throughout the journey by constantly referring to her as ‘mummy’. She throws him the occasional barb, but soon settles down to the main business of the morning which is, apparently, to feast. She fishes around from a multi-coloured bag and comes up with an assortment of ‘queen’ cakes. She makes short work of these. Three medium-sized meat pies are next on the menu. She occasionally sips from a bottle of mineral water. We enter into the realms of surrealism when she next produces a tub of yoghurt, (which comfortably feeds four), which she dispatches with relish. She is not yet done. As a local television host is fond of saying: you can’t make this stuff up! She produces a huge, juicy mango and now I really do salivate! Thankfully she calls a halt to the feeding frenzy and succumbs to a light doze, occasionally muttering to herself as we proceed. Meanwhile the gentleman on my right proffers the newspaper that he has been reading. Unbidden! It certainly wouldn’t happen in Nairobi. Every male passenger is reading a newspaper. I rarely see women reading dailies, anyway, but maybe I’m looking in the wrong places. In the seat ahead a lady reads a photocopied document peppered with words like DNA, soluble vitamins and the like. Quiet clearly not something that I would enjoy reading. I concentrate on the newspaper and marvel at the impossible prices of Nairobi ‘real estate’. Out of Naro Moru, we join the main highway which will eventually take us to the capital. People in these parts must be extremely devout (or pious) given the inordinately large number of churches that dot the roadside. The solid, stone–built traditional churches compete for souls with tin structures emblazoned on the roof with the words ‘Full Gospel’, almost without fail. We catch occasional glimpses of the railroad, running parallel to the tarmac for long stretches, but never once spot the ‘iron snake’. It is scandalous that such a relatively cheap and generally safe mode of transport is not in regular use. If a passenger service is not viable then surely cargo should comfortably pay for itself! A red-shirted cyclist suddenly appears ahead, on the wrong side of the road. Our intrepid driver, definitely on loan from the Safari rally, hoots him out of the way and he goes flying into the ditch, still clinging to his machine. This is met with some hilarity by the passengers with the unfortunate (if careless) cyclist being labelled ‘wazimu’. There are a goodish number of seedling nurseries all along the highway, which must make Wangari Maathai, the indefatigable life-force of the Green Belt Movement, beam with joy. The soil is a deep red, the colour of ochre. I’m surprised to see Flame trees in full bloom in Makuyu. I’d erroneously assumed they were indigenous to Thika, thanks to one Elspeth Huxley. In and around Makuyu too, are large numbers of fair-sized, fenced-in copses of what I assume are fig trees, standing ramrod straight. Two hours into the journey the gently undulating hills give way to flat grasslands. At the Kahawa Garisson gate a lady soldier sits atop a water bowser, both resplendent in Army jungle colours. She smiles broadly, at nothing. Or, perhaps, at everything. On we move past the regal Safari Park Hotel, now finely coated with a film of rich red dust, courtesy of the Chinese managed road works. We join the inevitable gridlock at Pangani and it is one solid hour later, instead of the fifteen minutes it would ordinarily take, that we snake our way into the green city in the sun.

On Safari

Maasai Mara

I stand on hallowed ground. Teddy Roosevelt, Ernest Hemingway and Gary Cooper have stood here before me. I am in the Maasai Mara having landed a few minutes before from Nairobi. I clamber onto the rugged open-sided Cruiser and we head to the Karen Blixen Camp. Located in the Mara North Conservancy (home to the famous Leopard Gorge), the sense of stepping back in time is heightened when forty five minutes later we pull into the camp grounds. Rachel Davies the relief camp manager is on hand to receive me. The embodiment of the perfect hostess, she immediately puts one at ease. In my luxurious tent, I meet another first: on the dresser is a personal welcome letter to the camp. The tent itself (one of 22) is a luxurious en-suite setup with an open sky shower at the back. Sepia tones and shades of green predominate. It is like stepping into an old print albeit with all modern conveniences at hand. Going Green The Karen Blixen camp is set along the banks of the Mara River with the Oloololo escarpment looming opposite. Lunch on the camp lawns is a game viewer’s dream. Less than twenty metres away is a family of hippos, half-submerged. At the far river bank three Maasai giraffe come down to drink, performing their usual leg splits. Later a noisy clan of olive baboons comes down to the river, sending a little group of the gentle Grant’s gazelles scampering away. An elephant on the slopes of the escarpment reaches up into a tree, the fore limbs on the trunk, to pull down a bunch of twigs. Even Rachel admits this is a first for her. I decide to tour the camp in the afternoon and go for a game drive later. Rachel graciously shows me around the expansive site. The reforestation project (where they plant more than 10 000 indigenous trees a year) is nothing short of amazing. The exclusive use of generators for lighting and the use of gas burners for heating water minimises the camp’s carbon footprint.

Into the Wild

The afternoon passes quickly and the game drive is a short one. In the distance a pair of warthogs, tails flagpole-straight are in full flight. A herd of Grant’s gazelles, their little tails penduluming furiously, stop their grazing to watch as we cruise by. Early on the morning of the 26th of November I meet up with Fredrick Emacar, the private silver safari guide. I also meet Jorgen and his wife Anne, the Danish couple who will be my travelling companions for the next few days, and John, also from Denmark. Today we will have breakfast in the bush. We drive to the spot and Jorgen is certain that he has seen the terrain in the movie ‘Out of Africa’. Fred confirms that this was indeed one of the shooting locations. A sudden squall threatens to ruin the party and sure enough the rain comes. We huddle in the car to wait it out and half an hour later it clears. We embark on the game drive shortly after. The Mara plains are expansive with huge escarpments. Everywhere there is evidence of the elephant’s passage. Medium sized trees broken in half, the bark peeled off. We get firsthand experience of this when we spot a herd in the distance and on approaching we find them in a sparse copse uprooting and breaking off branches. This is to get at the nutrients in the bark and freshly denuded trunk. One elephant lies asleep on its side while the others feed. Driving on we see a pride of lions in a thicket and my neck hairs are instantly erect. Two hundred metres away a Maasai herdsman grazes his herd. We approach two buffalo and one of them is instantly on its feet staring at us. The cardinal rule is not to disturb the animals so we move on passing along the way, two stout hyenas, one asleep and one sitting up, probably on the lookout for danger. Throughout the drive we see many herds of the ubiquitous Wildebeests with their top-heavy lope. These are Mara residents and do not take part in the world-famous crossing into the Serengeti. We head back to camp for lunch. The day is galloping by and Amboseli awaits us this very afternoon. Amboseli I meet James Davies, the chief pilot of Severin Air Safaris at the airstrip on the afternoon of the 26th. We have checked out of the Karen Blixen Camp after a short but memorable stay. James is an affable, South African-trained pilot with an easy, friendly manner. Behind him on the sidelines of the airstrip is a Cessna Caravan, gleaming white in the hot sun. The custom-made craft is the last word in luxury. Comfortably sitting eight passengers, the leather seats can swivel creating a roundtable effect. Headphones allow everyone onboard to communicate easily. There is an under-belly cargo pod where our baggage is stored. Severin Air Safaris pride themselves on ‘making your journey as exceptional as the destination’. It proves to be no idle boast. We fly low over the Mara heading towards Amboseli. Elephants on the move, giraffes standing still and smaller game crisscross the plains. It is certainly a novel experience for everyone onboard and a unique way of viewing game. We fly over Lake Amboseli, dry this season, and in the distance we can see Lake Natron and its faithful sentinel Mt Ol Donyo Lengai. The eruptions of this same mountain caused a lot of grief in Kenya almost three years ago; earth tremors kept many awake waiting for the ‘big one’ that happily never came. We land in Amboseli a short while later and drive into Satao Elerai camp, set in its own private conservancy, just as dusk falls. A quick shower and we settle down to dinner.

Pachyderm parade

Early on the 27th I step out of my tent and Mt Kilimanjaro looms up, impossibly big and majestic. On your own private veranda, viewing Africa’s most romanticized mountain. I tear myself away and we head for the Amboseli National Park. En-route we spot several Maasai giraffe who lope away easily at our approach. Once inside the park we spot a herd of elephants in the distance, trekking towards us. We wait to watch them cross the road. A quarter of an hour later they are distinctly visible. At least 400 elephants file past taking little heed of us. They are escorted on the sidelines by white cattle egrets which feed on the grasshoppers that are thrown up by the passing of the jumbos. It is remarkable to relate that animals weighing over five tonnes have such soft footfalls. If the wildebeest is king of the Mara, then surely the elephant is the rightful landlord of Amboseli. We watch spellbound until the last elephant crosses the road. An unlikely trio of a lone wildebeest, gazelle and eland stand transfixed. We are clearly not the only ones in awe. We move on and farther down the road a flock of crown birds peck at the marshes. Farther on the carcass of a buffalo lies not thirty metres from the road. Fred does not think it is a fresh kill. A little way off two lions keep guard. It has been an incredible morning and we head back to camp suitably impressed.

Sundowner in the Bush

After lunch we are informed that we will have a sundowner in the wild. A half an hour’s drive away we arrive to find the place already set up with chairs and low tables, and the distinctive Maasai wraparound is thoughtfully provided to ward off the later chill. Richard the barman proves to be no mean hand at whipping up that uniquely Kenyan drink called Dawa (Swahili for medicine). A little vodka, lime and lemon wedges, honey and crushed ice never tasted so good. There is easy banter as the evening closes with champagne. On the way back to the camp we do a night game drive with a spotter on the open roof. My eyesight is notoriously weak at night so I lean back and let the conversation wash over me all the way back to Elerai. Tsavo West We fly low over Amboseli looking out for game and the elephants and giraffes don’t disappoint. The view of Kilimanjaro is obscured by the haze but the lesser mountains are clearly visible. Flying in to Tsavo West National Park the landscape is markedly different from the Amboseli. This is very hilly terrain and it is much greener than either the Mara or the Amboseli. We land outside the gate of Tsavo West National Park and it is noticeably hotter. On the ground the hills are even more imposing and the terrain quite bushy. We drive into the Severin Safari Camp. I am welcomed by Juergen and Manja the managers. This is a bird watcher’s paradise and the plethora of our winged friends is amazing. I am later taken on a guided tour of the camp by Manja. Everything here is run with clockwork precision. Later in the evening my companions and I meet up for dinner and it’s a night of amusing anecdotes. Anne recounts how she once danced with Ringo Starr unaware that he was one of the Beatles, and how she once persuaded the imperious Orson Welles to give her an interview in a restaurant in old Yugoslavia. Whereupon the waiters fled in terror fearing the wrath of the great man. James tells of one time in Botswana when elephants had blocked the runway preventing a brother aviator from landing. James, whose plane was already on the apron, had to start up his plane and taxi to the elephants revving his engines to dislodge them from the airstrip! Jorgen tells us that self-important people in Denmark are always reminded that the last shirt has no pocket. And so it goes. It’s been a beautiful evening at the Severin Safari Camp. Good food, great company and it’s over all too soon. The following morning we start early for the game drive. We easily view elephants and the Maasai giraffe here. The shy and diminutive dik dik darts in and out of the shrubbery. We drive back to camp in time for lunch. It is a relaxed afternoon and most guests opt for a cooling swim in the pristine pool. We later pay a visit to the famous Mzima springs. These are underground springs which rise above the ground. The water is sparkling clean and is a major source of Mombasa’s drinking water. Two machine-gun toting female rangers are part of the Park security around the springs. The evening sundowner at Poacher’s Lookout is a relaxing affair and we wind down the day with champagne.

Tsavo East

We fly out to Tsavo East National Park on our last leg of our safari. It is a short hop and we are in the Tsavo East airstrip in no time. And there’s a welcome twist to the refreshments we are offered on arrival. Tasty vegetable samosas and crispy, fresh spring rolls are appetisingly laid out on the tray. They go down really well with the fresh juice. Tsavo East has very red soil. The major difference between the two Tsavos is that here the terrain is largely flat and the soil is a deep red. Kudus cross the road ahead at a dead run. Here too we meet the Maasai giraffe. Here even the jumbos are a deep red hue. The evergreen Shepherd tree stands proud among dry shrubs. We check into Satao Camp, Tsavo in time for a sumptuous buffet lunch. The luxurious tents overlook the busiest waterhole I’ve seen so far. Eland, Zebra, Gazelle, Impala, Water buck, Dik Dik and Antelope all make our acquaintance. Later in the afternoon a tower of giraffes stroll around ignoring the heavy grunts of the hippos. Time is flying incredibly fast now and I am one sundowner away from bidding farewell to the bush. The site of this sundowner is under a big acacia tree. We drink our dawas and champagne, totally at peace with the world. Fredrick suggests a six a.m. game drive. Six o’clock on the nose we drive away leisurely and we are met by the welcome sight of four lions by the roadside. Two couples actually; each on either side of the road. Twenty minutes later and we would have missed the show. One of the males is mane-less and Fred assures us this is their natural habitat. The dominant male gives us a free demonstration on how to mark off one’s territory before all four wander off. Definitely a fitting climax to an unforgettable seven-day bush safari. The Cessna Caravan awaits us when we finally check out of Satao Camp. We get to see the terrain and spot game from the air as James flies low when in the Park. This is it. We are heading to Diani. The Ukunda airstrip comes up to meet us barely thirty minutes later. I stand on the hot tarmac, bidding farewell to my new-found friends and finally head into the building to confirm my flight home.

The Speakeasy

Speakeasy: an establishment that illegally sells alcoholic beverages.

As the Mututho law continues to bite, the Prohibition era in the United States of America comes to mind. Often referred to as the Noble Experiment, it was the culmination of decades of pressure from the Temperance movement that had earlier pushed for moderation in alcohol intake. The 18th Amendment to the US constitution was ratified in 1920. It prohibited the manufacture and sale of alcoholic beverages. Then, as now, alcohol was blamed for many of society’s ills. Speakeasies sprouted in practically every State in the Union. Gangsters cashed in on the high demand for alcohol and one Al Capone rose to prominence as a bootlegger in the early twenties. The anti-Prohibition movement came into being almost immediately arguing that the consumption of alcohol was not a matter for the Constitution. When the promised Utopia, envisioned by the Temperance movement, failed to materialize it paved the way for the 21st Amendment of 1933 which repealed the 18th Amendment, effectively making alcohol legal once again. This marked the only time in US history that an Amendment has been repealed.

The middle class bar

The Alcoholic Drinks Control Act 2010, better known as the Mututho Law, is in its infancy. Though not as sweeping as the American Prohibition of the twenties it is nevertheless viewed as draconian in nature both by those who imbibe and by those who sell the beverages. It is thought that Mr. Mututho, the Naivasha legislator who sponsored the bill, had in mind the ‘lower class’ drinker who indulges in what is known in the local parlance as “illegal brews.” Indeed the Bill came craftily disguised as a tool to legalize chang’aa, sanitizing its production and controlling its distribution and eventual sale. By the time the middle class caught on to the fact their drinking hours were to be severely curtailed, the President had already signed the Bill into law. Mr. Mututho comes from a region notorious for both the manufacture and consumption of dubious alcoholic drinks. Nobody can fault his intentions. That the Act is being implemented selectively is a loophole that the MP either overlooked or deliberately ignored since his target transgressors are already severely hit. I once in a while frequent a hostelry in one of Nairobi’s suburbs. The clientele is middle class and above; at least two pilots, a doctor, a bottled-water magnate, a telecommunications engineer and other local glitterati are regulars. The Mututho laws are a passing curiosity here: nobody over drinks or dances on the tables. And certainly nobody cares to drink before 2pm on a weekday. If occasionally people drink after 11pm it never degenerates into early morning sprees. It is a decent outlet that regulates itself admirably. There are probably scores of others like it scattered throughout the country. The Law is definitely aware of this establishment and others like it and could be said to be turning turn a blind eye. Other places, of equal and perhaps better appointment, whose clientele is maybe not that ‘elevated’ find themselves bearing the full brunt of the law. Is this selective application of the law fair? Of course it isn’t. The Police are not stupid though and know when to let well enough alone.

The Kenyan Speakeasy

The middle class establishments facing the unwelcome attentions of the law are mainly located in Eastlands and other peri-urban areas. Typically the affected customers tend to be young professionals and university students. If ever there was a market for the speakeasy, this is it. The bar at least provides a regulating environment; it is a public place and sets a minimum standard of behavior that everyone is bound to. Speakeasies on the other hand tend to be private houses and with the regulating influence of the ‘pub’ removed and inhibitions cast aside, what goes on in these establishments is anyone’s guess. And your guess right now is probably not too far from the truth.

The Solution

The Mututho Law requires an amendment that will allow middle-class establishments more flexible hours of operation. The danger involved in observing these restrictive hours is manifestly greater than any good derived from the new law. Bars should be graded according to class. If you want to have a beer at midday you should be prepared to pay a premium in a high-class establishment or wait for Mututho compliant hours. If you are a patron of a middle class bar it is more than likely that you are never available before 5pm anyway.