No Stopping for Lions

by Joanne Glynn

  From then on its cheetahs, leopards and lions, and we can’t wait to see what the next day brings. We go out morning and evening and start to feel ownership of the first leopard, magnanimously allowing other guests to follow us to his tree.

  One morning the rain buckets down and the staff are all sunshine and smiles. It’s the first true drenching of the season and it heralds the new season of plenty. Plenty of grass, plenty of wildebeest — and plenty of free time, as the waterlogged roads make it difficult for tourists to get through.

  Our last afternoon drive promises to be a good one with a revisit to a lion kill, but it nearly gets us kicked out of the Ngorongoro Conservation Area. We’re sitting watching happy lions half-heartedly keeping vultures from their buffalo carcass — well, in truth the Troopy was surrounded by lions — when a vehicle full of official-looking people pulls up beside us. The passenger seat holds a woman with a black beanie on her head and a rifle between her legs. The head ranger. In a tirade of Swahili that becomes more and more shrill she berates Hamisi and us for driving off-road and for disturbing the lions at their kill. We have flattened vegetation and flouted the rules. She demands our permit and threatens a big fine. Hamisi is stunned. We fear eviction. Then light dawns as Neil recognises her vehicle as a private one belonging to a neighbouring fly-camp. It’s payback time, as that camp of rival National Geographic photographers had recently received a fine after a complaint about bad park conduct from our friend the filmmaker. Their revenge has been swift.

  It’s wonderful to see this land, as baked and as brown as crispbread when we arrived, come to life after the rains. The landscape of just three days ago is now a shock of green stubble, and waterholes that were hard-cracked have birds dipping and weaving above them. Hamisi tells us that the cheetahs are moving out onto the plains in anticipation of the coming of the wildebeest and, true enough, on our last drive through the grasslands the first of the wildebeest come snuffling over the horizon in a haphazard column, escorted by zebra and followed by a lone jackal. In the lush grasslands that this will soon become, they will graze and give birth and linger until the time comes to continue their journey. The clichéd circle of life — but there’s no finer description.

  Leaving the lodge we drive past a huge herd of cattle attended by young Maasai boys. Such a strange sight in a game reserve, but what is more unsettling is the obvious poverty of the boys. They’re dressed in red and blue rags and have none of the noble bearing of the Maasai of my imagination. Even in their poverty, however, they’re adorned with beads and bracelets and stand straight and proud. One has bone plugs through the lobes of his ears, while another has a stone glued with a floury paste into a lobe already stretched and elongated from the weight. They all carry a stick and a spear, and a dirty plastic water bottle containing the dregs of milk, curdled. They ask for fresh water and accept it with dignity, allowing me to take their photograph in return.

  THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH

  After considerable discussion we decide that we can’t pass the Ngorongoro Crater without visiting it. We’ve been to the crater once before and now we worry that we’ll find it a crowded cartoon of what it was 30 years ago. In addition, we are now in the early days of the wet season and, although we’ve been assured that that means fewer people, it also makes the park roads boggy and impassable. In truth there’s no avoiding Ngorongoro, as the road we must take to Arusha from Ndutu and the Serengeti climbs the south-western slopes of the crater then runs around the southern rim for a distance. Whenever the road passes close to the crater’s ridge, visitors are able to snatch a tantalising preview of what lies below: a crater floor measuring 20 kilometres across, the world’s largest intact, unflooded caldera. Even from up on the rim the large herds of animals it supports can be seen spread across its 200 square kilometres.

  To take advantage of a little-used access road into the crater we book into the Sopa Lodge on the eastern side. This is perched on the ridge opposite most other hotels and we are hoping that it’ll be a little less crowded over here. When we arrive we find busloads of package tourists, and at dinnertime the dining room is packed and noisy. I surprise myself by snapping at the man behind me in the buffet queue, and when we are charged US $25 for a lunch pack of little more than crackers and a boiled egg Neil is mightily annoyed and argues with staff, then management, to have this absurd charge reversed. After months of having to share our lives with no more than a handful of others we’re finding this environment of big business and herded crowds hard to take.

  In the morning the car park is packed with safari vehicles; it’s a sardine tin of cameras, baseball caps and windcheaters. A sympathetic guide clears a way through for the Troopy and we escape, off down the escarpment. It’s still early and there’s hardly anyone about when we get to the crater floor, and the air is crisp and still. First off we spot one of the remaining big Ngorongoro tuskers mucking about in a secluded forest by himself, then a few zebras wander out of a gully. We see gazelles, hyenas and wildebeest and it’s not long before the track in front of us is clogged with animals and we’re forced to stop. By the riverbed a lion pride ambles from one sleeping spot to another and everywhere we see baby zebras, still wobbly on fluffy uncertain legs. Families of hyenas lie about in puddles, kori bustards strut their stuff, and a yellow-billed kite swoops down from the sky and takes Neil’s sandwich out of his hand. It may be crowded and it may be trite, but it’s still one of the greatest shows on earth.

  En route to Nairobi we spend a night in Arusha. The town is bustling with importance since the UN’s International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda set up shop in her centre, but where we stay, on a coffee plantation a little out of town, is peaceful and quiet. Very quiet, as their generator has broken down and no one seems to know how to fix it. In the dark we sit on the porch of our little chalet surrounded by a true English cottage garden, and later we dine by candlelight on the porch of the lodge’s restaurant. It’s dark and drizzling and not as romantic as it sounds.

  David, our friend from Abercrombie & Kent, has booked us a room in his club for our time in Nairobi. It registers as we drive in to the pampered pink estate that this is Muthaiga Country Club, the home away from home for Karen Blixen, Denys Finch Hatton and a bookful of white Kenyans and associated hangers-on since it opened in the early 1900s. It was infamous as the playground of the Happy Valley set between the wars, and famous as the city bolthole of the Earl of Erroll, before he was shot dead by a jealous husband. It’s a comfortable place of regulations and common values, where friendships are forged and reputations sometimes lost, and people know a good kedgeree when they see one. I study the goings-on at the bar, alert for secret liaisons and indiscreet behaviour, but there is no sign of mischief.

  We’re under David’s generous wing and as well as showing us the sights of the city he fills us in on the gossip and intrigue of the white Kenyan population. It’s a change to hear of accidental shootings, incompetent aristocrats and fallings out over polo ponies instead of political woes and the predicament of the black man in the street. We’re getting an insight into another Africa, one a half step removed from poverty and corruption, and we’re able to forget those for a few sunny days of scandal.

  Roughly 150 kilometres north-west of Nairobi lies Lake Nakuru in the Great Rift Valley. The road to Lake Nakuru National Park passes along the escarpment of the valley, and judging by the wooden lookout points we see set up by the roadside stallholders, the views must be fantastic. But today there’s a heavy mist blanketing everything and for much of the drive it’s hard to see the road in front of us, let alone the valley below. Lake Nakuru itself is a Rift Valley soda lake and the algae it generates attract thousands of flamingos — we’ve been told ‘millions’ — when the conditions are right. These, plus a healthy rhino population, are what we’re hoping to see.

  Naishi House is a stone English country cottage located in a shaded acacia woodland in the heart of the park. It belongs to the Kenya Wildlife Service and is usually booked out
months in advance, but David has pulled a few strings. It has lawn-like grass and ivy on the walls, and smoke from the hot-water heater makes it look warm and inviting. This feeling is confirmed when Irene the caretaker comes out to welcome us. She is gracious and fun and between bouts of laughter she arranges for a ranger to guide us the following day.

  Stanley the ranger comes out to find rhino and lions for us. He is a Methodist and engages Neil in a theological discussion about science versus Creation, whether Muslims believe in heaven and where our souls go when we sleep. I am on his side until he passes on the news that the place of a wife is to cook and clean and cut grass for her husband’s cattle.

  It’s been a lionless morning when I see the telltale ears and twitching tail of a reclining pride. Stanley is excited and relieved and congratulates himself on bringing us to them, when Neil points out that they are in fact warthog. Stanley is not embarrassed but is blameful of Neil — ‘There is one in this car who is not a believer.’ I agree. If Neil had really wanted them to be lions, as Stanley and I did, they would have been lions. Stanley has enjoyed himself very much and reluctantly gets out of the Troopy with a promise to pray for Neil, that he may come to his senses and give up the idea of becoming a Muslim.

  In the park there are lots of white rhino, magnificent and huge and apparently happy to share their home with ogling tourists. One youngster who is barely a half-metre tall seems to have mistaken the Troopy for an admirably proportioned relative because he comes galloping towards us at full speed, a little grey barrel with a smile on his face. When his mother takes off after him Neil throws the Troopy in reverse and we beat a hasty retreat, forgetting for the minute that white rhinos rarely charge. We stop, they stop, then on they come again, and it finally occurs to us that the mother is just playing chasings, urging the little guy on to stretch his legs.

  David has arranged for us to stay next with friends of his at their lovely old farmhouse on Lord Delamere’s ranch, further up the Rift Valley. A succession of Lord Delameres has farmed in the valley for just over 100 years and at the estate’s peak it covered 300 000 acres and employed hundreds of the local Mau. Currently held by the fifth Lord Delamere, it’s still a formidable holding and the Delamere name continues to be prominent in the agricultural history of the country.

  Neil and I arrive rather late in the day to be greeted by YoYo and Grahame, a bottle of rosé on ice by their side. Also there to meet us are several geese, five Jack Russells and Wellington the Rhodesian ridgeback. Wellie is still bearing scars from the night he was dragged off the front verandah by a leopard. The leopard was scared off by staff but they couldn’t find Wellie, who had run away in panic. Hours later he was discovered a few kilometres away, weak and bleeding, and unable to breathe properly as the leopard had torn his throat. He was waiting at the end of the airstrip for his master to fly back to his side.

  We spend the first evening with our hosts walking the fences and confiscating snares. Poaching for bushmeat is a huge problem, and the next morning we come across the filleted carcass of a gazelle quite near the house. We later dismantle more than a dozen snares in the space of an hour or two.

  After a late lunch and a number of chilled rosé wines we decide to go for a spin in Grahame’s plane. At the airstrip he is just starting on his pre-flight check when he jumps back from the plane in alarm, an arm over his face. Then we hear it, a low drone coming from the cockpit — it’s as though the plane has started itself without us — and when Grahame shouts ‘Bees!’ the situation becomes clear. Sometime during the night a swarm of bees snuck into the plane and they’re now having a fine old time, buzzing about and wedging their way into any available space they can find. They form a solid block in the cockpit and are emerging by the dozens from the engine and the wingflaps. It sounds and looks as if the plane is about to lift off. Grahame has already phoned to the house for cans of Doom and we proceed to spray every accessible nook and cranny until we’re confident not one bee remains buzzing. The bodies are swept out, Grahame completes his check and soon we’re in the air, soaring above the lakes and old volcanic craters of the Rift Valley accompanied by the lone drone of a concealed survivor. When we reach Lake Nakuru Grahame dips and banks over Naishi House to attract Irene’s attention, and I wave like mad.

  We are still in bed when Grahame flies off to work early the next morning and, just as the sun comes up, he dips down low and loud over the house in farewell to YoYo. It’s a sweeping, soaring goodbye, somehow personal even though the roar must be heard for miles around, and I can understand how Denys Finch Hatton captured Karen Blixen’s heart.

  It’s a long drive today to reach our home for the next few days, a Maasai concession bordering Amboseli National Park. The only road we can take is back through the centre of Nairobi, and as we pass the university we get a flat tyre at the same time that we notice there’s a graduation day celebration in progress. The highway is a busy one and Neil pulls onto the verge as best he can. Two young men immediately approach with offers to assist and they help me position the safety triangles so that oncoming vehicles don’t ram into the back of us or, worse, run over Neil’s legs as he’s stretched out under the Troopy. Another man motions from the bus stop that he’s available if needed, but there’s really nothing anyone else can do so Neil declines all help. I stand at the back, waving off any cars that seem to be approaching too fast or too closely, and I notice other cars pulled over, all with flat tyres. There are four of us in total, but the Troopy appears to be the only one carrying a spare. The other drivers all stand about on the highway guarding their rear tails and making calls on dodgy mobiles for someone to come and get them out of there.

  Thirty minutes later and we’re back on the road. At the next intersection there are dozens of street vendors moving along the median strip and between vehicles, selling anything from jump leads to soccer jerseys. We stop for the lights and one ambitious chap with a broad smile has several types of hats for sale, all piled on top of each other on his head. Neil has a brilliant idea and we quickly agree to give the vendor the electric jug and hair dryer sitting in our glove box, still unused and still impractical. He could surely make a few bob on those. But he understands little English and appears confused by our gesture; he seems to think that we want to exchange these for a couple of hats. Or does he know that they are pretty useless items to the bulk of the population who have no need for a hair dryer? Other sellers have gathered around, curious to see what is going on, but they show great restraint and don’t interfere. The traffic lights turn green and the cars in front are moving off. At the last minute our friend spots the cigarette lighter lead dangling from each appliance and their potential dawns on him. He accepts them with a big smile as we start to pull out, and we can see him in the side mirrors waving and calling out, ‘Asante! Asante sana mzuri rafiki!’, ‘Thank you, good friend’, and he waves so vigorously that his hats topple off his head while his friends laugh and laugh.

  RiNGS ON THEiR FiNGERS AND BELLS ON THEiR TOES

  We arrive late in the afternoon at Porini Camp, located deep in the Selenkay Conservation Area bordering Amboseli National Park. This huge private reserve is owned by the Kisonko clan of the Maasai people and it is reputed to shelter a great diversity of wildlife. Amboseli is known for its elephant herds as well as its great views of Mount Kilimanjaro, just over the border in Tanzania, but there are plans afoot to downgrade it from a national park to a reserve, which will allow for limited use by humans. In effect this new arrangement means that the Maasai will be permitted to seasonally graze their cattle within the boundaries, something which is, in fact, already happening.

  The Maasai we’d previously come across were children herding cattle and old ladies on the side of the road, so driving into camp to be met by a half-dozen Maasai warriors wearing shukas and jewellery, and leaning on tall thin spears is awesome, in the true sense of the word. Their welcome is formal but friendly and there’s a definite sense that we are invited guests in their domain.


  I drag Neil along to anywhere I can ogle the warriors. Smoothskinned and as lean as a bullrush, they are truly vain and exotic creatures. The spotter on an evening game drive spends most of the time looking at himself in the rear-view mirror and he isn’t at all embarrassed to be seen doing so. Sexy too: a soft red shuka draped over the shoulders to expose a V of bare smooth back; a beaded bracelet slid over the wrist with fingers as slender and as fine as an artist’s; a direct gaze with watchful eyes. They consider themselves to be the only true men on earth and I believe them, travelling companion excepted.

  I’m keen to visit the Maasai’s enkang, their homestead, a few kilometres from camp and Neil reluctantly agrees to come too. A handful of warriors are our escorts, and one who speaks a little English answers questions with reserve. I ask him why he doesn’t have stretched earfuls of bright beaded jewellery and he responds snootily that he is educated. I’m beginning to see the dilemma for these proud young men: they are keen to embrace the modern world of wealth and opportunity, but are still deeply rooted in the conviction that they are a race apart and that their culture is vastly superior. In Arusha we came across an example of this split personality. We’d been directed to a carwash attached to a large modern hotel/casino complex and noticed that the Maasai watchmen there were much older and fatter than those normally employed as security guards. Oh no, we were told, these are the wealthy owners, and they sit around their city property every day in their red shukas and sandals just as they would sit around their homestead in the bush, watching for anything suspicious.

  We arrive at the enkang and are greeted formally by the chief, a surprisingly small man compared with the others. He has a charismatic demeanour and magnetic eyes, and I’m sure he’s flirting with me. We’re relieved when he tells us that they will not try to sell us jewellery and trinkets, and that he will let us know when it’s unacceptable to take photos. We’re introduced to many women and more warriors, and all the while children in a mix of ragged traditional and Western clothes follow our progress shyly. Flies hang around their eyes and mouths but they seem not to notice. One little girl finally musters enough courage to touch Neil’s hand and then sticks by him like a prize for the rest of our visit. There is evidence of cattle and their by-products everywhere: in the walls of the houses, in the calabashes of curdled milk, in the dung which we step in more than once. The whole place smells like a cross between a barnyard and an old yoghurt carton but it’s homey, not unpleasant. Without understanding each other’s language I learn from a mother who looks old but is probably in her late twenties that she is treating her sick baby with a herbal mixture, and so that I can appreciate it she rubs a little onto my arm with the same tenderness that she administers to her little boy. We leave with a farewell from the ladies, a half-hummed, half-sung chant that wafts and weaves in my mind and is still there when I wake late in the night.