Friday, July 01, 2005

On Safari

I just got back from three weeks traveling in Kenya. Here’s a post card from one part of my trip, to the Masai Mara game reserve, which straddles Kenya’s south west border with Tanzania.

On safari: You get up before dawn, drink a cup of tea with hot milk, and stumble out to the waiting van. The driver is already there, as are most of your fellow tourists. You all wait impatiently for the last of your group to emerge from the lodge. Your driver gossips in Swahili over his walkie talkie, as he drives out onto the grassy plains dotted with acacia trees. All the side windows of the jeep are open for a clear view of any wildlife, so it’s cold before the sun comes up. It’s clear your driver is following some tip about where to go from another driver, but you aren’t in on what he hopes you’ll see.

The dirt roads of the game reserve are deeply rutted: it’s the rainy season and the black cotton soil of the Masai Mara turns potholes into great mudslides that can swallow even vehicles with 4 wheel drive. The jeep shudders and jounces from pothole to rut but the driver keeps headed towards his rendezvous with Nature. The passengers are jolted up and down, but no-one pays attention. You are eagerly scanning the horizon with binoculars, eyes adjusting to the brightening day.

The plains teem with animals: herds of impala, zebra and delicate Thompson’s gazelle graze on every side. On your first day, you are astonished by this richness. You take photo after photo of these animals you’ve only ever seen on TV or in the zoo. Then you spot six, seven, no eight, eight, giraffes, crossing the road ahead. There’s something prehistoric about those tiny horned heads on long, brontosauran necks: from a distance, they look like giant angle-poise lamps come alive.

Soon, you start to take this background wildlife for granted, becoming blasé about just another zebra foal. A latter-day Big Game hunter, you start to hunger for the trophy sightings, the National Geographic shots. Your driver knows all about western tourists and our appetites and is headed towards some definite gratification.

And then someone shouts: “Hyena, over there, in the grass.” The vehicle stops, and a barrage of glinting camera barrels swivel around, seeking our photographic prey. “Where?” “Where? .... Oh there!” You squint and scan and focus. Someone wails, “I can’t find it!” – “It’s there, three o’clock.” There, indeed, slouching through the long grass, is a spotted hyena, with its great, bone-cracking jaws and bully’s gait. There is an explosion of shutters and digital chirps. A pause, and the driver inquires, “All OK?” and the jeep moves on. Your driver points out other, lesser sights: a herd of hulking Cape buffaloes, a trio of ostriches, curly-tusked warthogs. You offer an improvident fellow tourist a turn with your binoculars to view a fish eagle perched in an acacia tree.

It’s getting warmer, and the sun is now quite high. It must be about 7:30. The Mara is bathed in an extraordinary golden light. In the distance, the Rift Valley escarpment glows purple along the horizon. And then you see a magnificent lion about 200 feet away, couched in the tawny grass. Your driver swings the jeep off the road and drives directly towards the lion. You stand up, head and shoulders out of the sunroof, knees flexed against the bouncing jeep. You can’t believe how close you’re getting. The lion raises his heavy-maned head, and notes the vehicle’s approach. He blinks a couple of times, stretches and yawns like a house cat in the sun. Your fellow passengers jump up, too, and start taking pictures frenetically. After five minutes on display, the lion yawns again, his tongue clean and pink as a slice of ham, and walks off slowly into the bush. 

Broadcast by Louise Collins on July 01, 2005
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