Bush Tales

It’s past midnight at the farthest end of Maasai Mara. Right next to the Serengeti. I have several shots of Smirnoff inside my system so it feels pretty awesome writing this. The funny thing is that I did dream of writing the same depressing/motivating sentences a few weeks back in the sweltering Nairobi heat. It’s cold here. Freaking cold considering I am lodged up in a tent. The vodka in the system wishes that a scrawny underfed lion would brush past the tent and say hi. No fangs. Just hi. Well, the coward homo sapien in me is scared and tipsy wishing Kalawa Jazmee  compilation playing on my laptop does not bring a bull buffalo to the tent. Curious on who is stupid enough to disturb it’s night of after mating beauty sleep.

Let me tell you a short story about buffaloes. These herbivores have the rage of an enraged Leopard. Top this up with a horny and clueless rhino. You have the recipe for a disaster. Buffaloes can maul you in a second. No, they don’t care that you are erect on two feet and holding a gun. They come full speed aiming for your frail body. A good natured, respectful bull will not stop stomping until the grass is gone as well as that deep red colour associated with blood. Your dermatologist would be disappointed. All those years of caring for your damn skin and the good old buffalo won’t stop for how good and blemish less it looks. The bush is just fantastic.

Yesterday driving here I got stuck in Sand River. Sand River is the imaginary or physical border between Mara and Serengeti. Whichever way you look at it. I was driving to my favorite camp as well as my workplace. Cottars 1920s Camp. It’s really exclusive. I won’t delve in to the details. I found the usually dry river flooded. A result of torrential rain I encountered between Mahi Mahiu and Narok. The thick smog did not allow me to see 3 meters ahead and I am 100 percent convinced that fate had to do more with how I got here than precision driving. Fate and coffee from the square. (Remind me to blog about the square and their meager servings of potato chips next time, I have a huge bone to pick with them)

There is a rustle of leaves outside. If I happened to be of a Buick derivation my long Vulcan-like ears would prick up. They don’t, just my heart racing up to my mouth. They have come for me. The elephants I cursed and recursed when they filled my path yesterday and trumpeted arrogantly to the annoyance of my spotlights and my ears. They have come for the revenge. (It’s amazing what good old vodka can do to your brain). The camp was abuzz today with the Masai warriors reporting that the Eles are chasing herders sheep away in various parts of the conservancy. For some reason I don’t know elephants don’t like sheep. I think it’s their ovine characteristics, brainless and trudging along to the unknown. They will chance upon a herd of elephants and keep moving rather than taking a u-turn. If you were several tons in weight and a brainless simpleton brushed at your gigantic feet you would resist the urge to trample them just long enough until your patience wanes. Then go all bulldozer over the feeble backs. Maasais don’t like this prospect. They must protect the sheep the only way they know. Their arrows are poisoned with a powerful concoction which can bring down a bull elephant easily. It’s not poaching. They have no interest in the ivory. Rangers were send to drive away the elephants to a safe distance. I hoped in to the jeep looking forward to the action.  As I said, elephants are not scared of bipedals, or any quadrupedal  for that matter. It takes a lot of effort to scare one off. One is finding a beehive and setting angry bees upon the herd. They will run like hell. This option is just as hard as walking up to them and nudging them while imitating Ludacris  ‘move bitch, get out the way…..’’ You get my drift. The second is shooting in the sky, which is what happened. It is a good thing that they are afraid of gun shots as this enables them to escape the murderers we all loath. Poachers looking to make a quick dime out of flourishing Sino-Kenya partnership. We moved the away from the Maasai herds and I have a feeling several of them earmarked me as the chap who sat there looking out of place. They understand that the rangers were doing their job, but who was I? They have come for me in order to necessitate interrogations. Once again, vodka.

I have to go pee. It’s the thought that comes to my brain. My bladder backs it up.

A brief description of my tent. This is no ordinary camping. I am lying in a four poster bed in a luxuriously furnished bedroom. The decor is of the old. I bet my long gone grandpa would really hate it because of the period it is derived from. I love it, and I bet you would. It throws you to all those history classes you attended in high school and campus. Bringing them to life and if you loved them like me you would not just like it here, you would love. Love it to the extent of wishing you lived here, rolled you bacon here, and sun downed watching the sun set over the hills in Loliondo. The large orange ball is mesmerizing but I digress.


The right side harbours the wash-rooms, fully integrated. The other side separated by a tent wall has a living room. Luxuriously equipped than the one you would find in a high end apartment. The doors/entrance? You zip it up. Sort of an old school STD commercial.

The rustle, the scuttle, really hoping that it does not grow in to a commotion.  Maybe they have sent an armature who is not sure if I am that clueless chap unless he finds a way to peek in. This is a small consolation. My heart, or rather the feeling of a lump steadily makes it’s way up my oesophagus. I am not about to throw up but I am sure about to give birth with my mouth. To a timid infant called fear.


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