AS THE TACO TURNS - The Lion Sleeps Tonight

     I love road tripping in Mexico, but an African safari getaway had been on my “bucket list” since I saw Mogambo and later Out of Africa. 

     A few months ago, my friend Susan mentioned she was planning to visit her cousin Melissa, who lived in Nairobi, and wondered if I might like to tag along.
     Arrangements were made, and our travel date set for early June.  In preparation for my big adventure, I decided to bone-up for our trip by watching Animal Planet.  As luck would have it, the first episode I watched was about wildlife on the Masai Mara plains in Kenya.  Ground zero footage was chock-a-block full of fast- footed, flesh eating felines.  Cheetahs, leopards, and lions crouched in parched grass waiting to devour something.  A friend also emailed me a YouTube video called Battle of Kruger, an adrenaline popping pursuit filmed by a visitor at an African game reserve.  In it, the camera pans the bank of a river.  On its brow, a pride of lions loll contentedly.  A herd of Cape buffalo meander toward the pride, unsuspecting of the impending danger.  The herd sees them.  Mayhem ensues as the startled buffalo panic and turn, clambering to distance themselves from the lions.  Two lionesses seize a calf.  A third lioness is jettisoned into the air by the horns of the calf’s mother, who returns to protect her young.   In an attempt to hang onto their picnic, they drag the prey into the river. Two crocodiles emerge from brackish water and lock their powerful jaws around the calf hoping to steal a meal.   To the victors go the spoils, and the lionesses manage to extricate the calf from the crocodiles’ death grip. An adult buffalo charges the lions. They scatter, releasing the lucky dogie that walks back to the herd, shaken but seemingly uninjured.  All’s well that ends well; at least for the buffalo.   The film was fascinating and my enthusiasm rose.  I was captivated by its wildness and lack of human interference.  I don’t like to hunt, so I was bewildered by the blood thirst smoldering in my soul.


 Hit Me with Your Best Shot

     “Make sure you get your yellow fever shot early.”  Susan said.
      I made an appointment at the Public Health Clinic.
     After the doctor and I discussed where in Kenya I was planning to travel, she handed me a list of recommended shots and immunizations.
     “Nairobi has no outbreaks, but since you are traveling to the Rift Valley, you will need a yellow fever shot and malaria pills.  Also Hepatitis A, tetanus and rabies shots are not required, but as a precautionary measure, you may want to consider having them.”
     “I had a Hepatitis A vaccination five years ago and as for rabies and tetanus shots, if a rabid baboon bites me, and then stabs me with a rusty nail, I will seek medical treatment immediately.” 
     She regarded me with an uneasiness of mind and left the room.
    When she came back, I was poked with a needle and given enough malaria pills for a week long safari.

 Lake Nakuru

     After what seemed like a week on an airplane, we arrived in Kenya and spent the night at Melissa and Joel’s home in a quiet suburb of Nairobi. The next morning we climbed into their Land Rover for the 160 mile drive to Lake Nakuru and the game park situated on its shore. The area is known for its viewing opportunities of thousands of pink flamingos that feed on the lakes algae population.       
    Melissa, her husband Joel and their two children Amara and Thomas were joining us and we looked forward to our adventure.
     We arrived at Sunbird Lodge, a retreat overlooking Lake Nakuru, our home for the next two nights.  I stood on the veranda looking towards the water and could see clusters of pink cherry blossoms bobbing on the lakes surface.  I focused my binoculars.  The blossoms were cliques of long legged fuschia colored water fowl.
                                                            
 Nakuru National Park
     
      Finally I had an opportunity to view animals of the African savannah up close without peering through a fence or over a moat. I was radiant with anticipation.
     Wildebeest, Cape buffalo, elephants and giraffes were just some of the creatures we spotted as we inched our way through the reserve on a self-drive safari.
     “I feel spiritually connected to these creatures,”  Susan gushed.  “I understand now the powerful emotional bond between man and beast that Dian Fossey and Joy Adamson wrote so passionately about.”
     I thought the animals seemed indignant when they had to step out of the road to allow us to pass, their annoyance akin to my husband’s off putting attitude when I ask him for home project help in the middle of a Seahawks football game.   If they had the opportunity and were equipped to do so, they would have dismembered the smiles of wonderment off our faces.  I was sure of it. 
     Around noon, we arrived at Baboon Cliff, a picnic area with a panoramic view of Lake Nakuru.  This was one of the few areas in the park where visitors were allowed out of their cars.  The picnic tables were empty and soon it became apparent why.  Before we had a chance to unpack our lunches, six vervet monkeys jumped through our windows and commandeered the vehicle.  One little hooligan dumped the contents of my purse on the floor, and shot me a nasty look when he couldn’t find anything he wanted except for a stick of gum.  Their ringleader scored a clutch of bananas from behind the back seat and raised them over his head like a warrior showing off a battle trophy.  Then they were gone. 
     I had to laugh when Amara, Melissa and Joel’s precocious six year old, tugged at her mother’s sleeve and exclaimed with the beautifully modulated diction of a duchess,   
      “Mummy…..those monkeys are maaadddd!!!” 

 Amboseli

     After returning to Nairobi, Susan and I packed a few items and loaded our bags into the car.  George, Melissa’s driver, would be escorting us to Porini, a tented camp near Amboseli Park.  George’s directional instincts and primitive map served us well, and after four hours on the road, we spotted a sign that read Porini Camp.  Once we left the asphalt road and entered the Conservancy, the dirt roads forked and the only signs to guide us to our destination were rocks crudely carved with what looked like hieroglyphics.  We passed two Masai men dressed in traditional robes carrying spears.  Luckily, they were employees of Porini Camp and, under their guidance, we were soon at journeys’ end. 
     Susan and I were shown the tent where we would be staying.  It had two beds, a bathroom with a flushing loo and a sink with running water. There was nothing primitive about these digs.  This canvas accommodation had “eco-glam”. 
     After unpacking we walked to the dining tent where we were served a glass of wine and snacks.
     While waiting to meet the Porini activity director, I picked up a magazine from the coffee table and read an article about a woman, who sought medical attention when, what she thought was a pimple, started to wiggle.  It was actually botfly larva and had to be suffocated with Vaseline, and pulled out of her scalp the following day.   
     “Susan!” I yelped, “My doctor gave me a yellow fever shot and malaria pills, but she didn’t say anything about larva penetration prevention.”
     She grabbed the magazine from my trembling hands, and dismissively cast it back on the table after reading a couple of paragraphs.
     “Don’t worry.  That happened in Sri Lanka.”

 “Are you ready for an evening game drive?”  said Olekorinko, our activity director.  “You can bring your wine if you like.”
     Our safari guide was very knowledgeable and pointed out many nocturnal mammals we probably would not have noticed.  Soon a radio call came in and our driver spun the vehicle around.
     “There is a lion nearby,” Said Gazonga, our driver. 
     It was dark now. The spotlights robbed dense underbrush of color, washing the scrub and grasses sepia, like an old photograph. 
     “Look, there he is!”  Whispered our guide.
     “What’s with the chocker around his neck?” said Susan.
       Explained Gozonga   “That’s a tracking collar.  It makes it possible for researchers to study the lion’s habits.”
       I thought it looked like a pet collar, and wondered if there was a leash tied to a tree out of sight from the tourists.  Even though we were shining a spotlight on Simba, he laid there submissively. The circumstances seemed a little suspicious. But then maybe it was the wine.
     We returned to camp, and after a delicious meal I was ready for bed.  I could hear the sound of cracking branches behind our tent so I popped an Ambian, and put in earplugs to deafen distractions.  The next morning Susan asked me if I heard the lion.
    “No,” I replied “I must have slept through.”
     “Well, it sounded like jake brakes on a semi-truck.  I think it was right behind our tent.”
     My thoughts snagged on the notion of implicit consequences.  Rolling out of bed and, if I was lucky, rolling under the bed in my self medicated state, would have been the best survival tactic I could have managed if the oversized cat craved a midnight snack.  
     The following day we woke early, and drove to Amboseli for a game drive through the untamed savannah.  It is world famous for viewing large mammals in its swamps, where elephants wallow half submerged in tall grasses.
     I knew Amboseli had spectacular views of Kilimanjaro.  I had seen postcard pictures of the alpine marvel taken from Observation Hill, the park’s high point.  The sky was overcast while we were there, but for a brief moment I beheld its majesty.  Gasping for air, the mountain pushed its head through the clouds like a child being born.  Our eyes met.  Its face was that of an old man, carved and craggy with a shock of white hair at its crown.  I hoped that our next visit would be longer. 

 The Porkin Pachyderms Beast Laid Plans

     We tumbled over dirt roads on our way to the swamps.  On our right a ponderous Pachyderm plodded towards the water.
     “That is a young male.  He is aroused by the scent of a female and wants to mate.” Gazonga pointed out to us.
     The elephants I had seen in zoos had only four legs.  This one appeared to have five.
     “Hey Dumbo; newsflash!” I barked “Your prop’s a spinnin’ but your anchor’s a draggin’ and slowin’ you down.  At this rate, trust me; she’ll be cruisin’ an ocean with motion while you’re still puttering to port.”
     We arrived at the marshlands and saw hundreds of elephants and a few hippos.  I didn’t see any Wild Kingdom kills that day. If Dumbo had put more gitty- up in his gait, I might have seen elephants makin’ whoopee, but for now, I had seen enough.

 Meeting our Neighbors

     That evening Olekorinko asked Susan and me if we would like to visit a manyatta and experience the Masai way of life.  A manyatta is an encampment consisting of mud and wattle dwellings surrounded by thorn bromas to protect the villagers and their livestock from wild animal attacks.  The villagers greeted us in their traditional robes and were festooned in elaborate beaded jewelry. They showed us some dances which they set to song.  I was amazed by their physical attributes.  They were beautiful and tall and willowy.   They live on a diet of cow’s milk mixed with blood, and I didn’t see a muffin top in the bunch.  I guess the Got Milk campaign is telling the truth.  Milk does do a body good.
     The village elder invited us to see the inside of one of the huts.  I entered the shelter and was immediately enveloped in the darkness of a windowless labyrinth formed out of mud.  I reached out and touched the adobe walls to keep from falling.  The passage emptied into a small chamber of living space.  A primitive bed, built out of dirt and covered with animal skins, filled up most of the room.  That was it.  There wasn’t the least bit of clutter.  Scant light filtered into the den through chinks above the bed. There were no closets, and I wondered where they hung their clothes and stored all their beaded baubles.    

A Purrfect Ending

     We left Amboseli on a Safarilink bush plane, and headed for another Porini Camp close to the Masai Mara Game Park in South Western Kenya. 
     The Cessna Caravan flew us to Nairobi where we changed planes.  Susan and I placed our luggage next to the plane bound for the Masai Mara airstrip.  When we arrived at our destination, we were greeted by Porini guides. 
     “My name is Thonyaratsengphatraghanh.” The taller of the two said with a smile. 
     I didn’t catch the other chap’s name because it was too difficult to pronounce.
     “Please call me Ben,” said Thon.  “Simon will be driving us.”    
     “Once the pilot unloads our bags, we will be ready to go.” I explained to Ben.
     The pilot looked at us with a puzzled expression on his face.  There were no bags.
      I looked at Susan in disbelief.  How could there be no bags? I had watched them load our suitcases into the bush plane in Nairobi.  The plane did make an intermediary stop to unload four Japanese passengers who were staying at a lodge.  But there must have been a positive bag check before the porter loaded luggage into the van. Then I had a thought.  
      “Call the manager of the hotel,” I told the pilot. “I am pretty sure you will find them there.  In all likelihood, the driver pointed to our bags after they were mistakenly offloaded and asked a passenger if the bags belonged to him. My guess is that he nodded his head which in Japanese means no.”
     Sure enough, our suitcases were located.  They were sitting behind the front desk at the lodge, but in a couple of hours they were safe, sound and unpacked.  I felt relief that our luggage was not abandoned and lost on a tarmac somewhere in the Serengeti.      
      The next morning we departed on a game drive with Simon and Ben.  

     “Look up in that tree.  It’s a Secretary Bird.  It builds its nest high in the acacia tree to avoid predators. Lions hunt them."  Ben said while offering me his binoculars.

     I had seen this bird earlier strutting amongst the grasses looking for food.  Its legs were crane like with black feathers half way down its thigh resembling short pants.  Grey plumage distinguished its lanky upper body and the crest of black feathers at the back of its neck looked like quill pens.

 Perhaps today would bring a twist of good fortune and we might see a kill.  It didn’t have to be a leopard attacking a zebra or a gazelle.  If a cheetah pursued something less spectacular; a mongoose perhaps, that would be fine.  If the mongoose escaped down a hole, successfully evading the cheetah’s death grip or we happened upon a bloated body of an Oryx ripped to shreds by hyenas, that would be okay too. 
     We saw bones scattered on the plains, bleached white from the sun.  They appeared to have been lying next to the road for a long time.  Didn't carnivores devour meals regularly?  I paused and reflected; were they props?  Or was I becoming a devout skeptic?


The radio crackled.  Ben picked up the walkie- talkie and spoke in Swahili.
     Simon spun the vehicle around and we made a beeline north.  Ben offered up a nugget of knowledge.
     “Lions are mating nearby.” 
     We arrived at a knoll where the wagons circled two lions. By the time we arrived they had finished their lovemaking and the male was lying on his back smoking a cigarette.
      In one of the vehicles a lanky woman with black Capri pants and a grey blouse poked out the sky roof to take pictures.  Her hair was clipped up in a ponytail.  She looked like a Secretary Bird.
    “Let’s move our car back so that woman can get closer,” said Susan. “Maybe great sex makes lions hungry.”
     The lions were disinclined to rouse out of their stupor, so we decided to set up lunch near a creek where we could view pods of hippos.  As the Land Cruiser crossed the creek, Ben pointed to a large male frolicking in coffee colored water. 
      He is enjoying sex with a female.”
     Susan grabbed her camera.  The water in the creek was murky and we couldn’t see the other hippo. 
     “How long can she hold her breath?” asked Susan.
     “Up to five minutes.” Replied Ben.
     About two minutes later, two nostrils surfaced and quickly disappeared.
     “I think she just said “Help me.”  I mumbled to Susan.  “I am not sure the sex is consensual. And look, there’s another hippo floating behind the humping hippo waiting for his turn.  It looks suspiciously dysfunctional to me.”
     Susan shrugged her shoulders and snapped a few more shots.

 Out of Africa

      Our trip was over and I packed my suitcase with sadness in my heart.  Although I had not witnessed a kill, I had seen hippo kink and all of the Big Five animals. A friend of mine made a perceptive comment when I told him that the wild animals were more passive than I thought they would be.  He said that when he went to Hollywood for a week, he was lucky to see two stars. The chance of seeing Sean Penn kicking paparazzi ass using the reporter's camera as a billy club would have been a long shot.  I could see his point.
    

Susan asked me which animals were my favorites.  I think the baboon wins my rave review for top mammal because of its cheeky disposition and my favorite avian was the Secretary Bird.
    Where else in the world besides Africa can one see so many animals grazing together, each offering the other species protection and support, free to roam thousands of acres without fences?  I saw a side of life that could not be shared through the pages of a book or in a movie.