- 'But on holidays we rather like just wandering on foot through the town centre, lurching from gourmet meal to bijou caff, looking at life' said a wistful potential visitor in UK this summer.
- 'Not in Nairobi,' I was firm.
- 'Elsewhere in Kenya ok. Lamu, Mombasa, Naivasha. But not in Nairobi.'
But really, truly, ControlFreakHost or not, what most people do in Kenya, even if they weren't that keen on animals when they arrived, is to go on game-drives. Or game-walks. Or tipple sundowners by a waterhole with a game backdrop. I'm not rigid. It could be camel-rides looking at game. Birdwatching. Or snorkelling. Bug safaris or big game fishing. But ubiquitous constant factor, you can't escape the animals.
Apathetic at first, over time I've become a convert. Dawn and shortly before dusk are the best times to spot animals. I don't like early rising. Still less do I like rousing the family at say, 530 am, assembling binoculars (x4), bird book, mammal book, fleeces (x4), i.d. cards and purse, and stumbling into the darkened bush without a cup of coffee. But it's worth it. Worth it as you sneak past the gaggle of luxury safari vans in the carpark waiting for the last three dilatory tourists to make up their complement. Worth it to be first ones in the national park, as the bush turns from pitchblack to purpleblack to grey to orange. As snow-topped Kilimanjaro emerges briefly from clouds. Worth it to drive in the fresh-minted world past families of jackals on watch, to spot strings of elephants plodding silently, majestically, towards their morning drinks, past animals blinking, emerging from their night shelter in the bushes, and well-fed night predators returning home. Get up early and its pure, private magic. Compelling. And each time I discover with surprise, for this at least, coffee can wait.
We've had moments of pure gold. Spotting the stirring in the bushes by the river as a scrawny, motheaten male lion with yellowing teeth, stalks, leisurely, infront of our car, an arm's width away. Cheetahs, a mum and her new cubs, following a warthog, with the youngsters losing focus and going off to play instead. Hyenas playing tag. Early morning elephants at waterholes, standing close to each other, cwtching up, communing at some deeper level in the half-light.
And we've had our dire experiences, ones to be consigned to Room 101 without further ado.
Second week in Kenya, bright eyed, bushy tailed, but not much commonsense. Bowled up for a walking safari to spot the rare elephant shrew in the Arabuko Sokoke forest, - arriving at 1pm in the tropical heat of the day. Forgot to harmonise our aims - a briefish walk to enthuse the kids, with those of the guide - a chance to earn large tips by comprehensive demonstration of his expert tree identification, abstruse wildlife spotting and use of Latin terms.
Eight hot, dusty miles later on the circular loop the family hates each other. The be-blistered seven year old is stomping loud and sullenly at the back, warning any hard-hearing wildlife within two km to flee, now. And they have. The mother is still trying to be cheerily upbeat, but her tone has slipped and she is flailing badly. The ten year old has been the only one to spot a flash of brown fur which the guide SAYS was the elephant shrew we've all been searching for, but which 75% of the party, motivating the seven year old at the back, missed. So she isn't flavour of the month. And the guide is bemused. Adrift. Cannot understand why frequent stops in full sun for expert identification of the only Nature which hasn't disappeared, fall so unwelcome:
This July First-, Secondborn and I have been gallivanting in UK, while Tom has been slogging in the office, conserving his leave. Stakes were high for the week-long family holiday at the coast, to be reached by minor roads through Tsavo East, a national park the size of Wales.
Secondborn has become an enthusiastic gamespotter. He'd really like to see a leopard, so we booked a night game drive in the conservancy at which we were breaking the journey. Not cheap, but since nocturnal animals are hard to spot - its dark, they're predators and so move fast - a guide who knows their territories and lairs plus a spotter with a strong lamp can make it look easy. That was the plan. But think elephant shrews.
Spotter lamps are very powerful. Poor omen one: a burning smell when we got into the landrover. Omen two: the guide's frenzied beating of the car seat with his baseball cap around five minutes later. Spotter lamp, put down by new spotter, had set fire to car seat, and burnt through power lead. Oh dear. High stress conflab between spotter and guide. And another. Decamp to second car.
From then on things went to pot. We've all had bad first days at work, had to retire to the storecupboard by 1030 for some calming deep breathing. Sadly this isn't an option if you're a spotter on a night safari, you've already totalled the lamp, and burnt a large hole in the seat of what was possibly someone else's landrover doing an illicit night tour for a backhander. From then on, for the next 90 minutes, the spotter was as if on acid. Waving the spotter lamp to a rapid nightclub beat, too fast to catch sight of an animal, mostly too high up to catch sight of anything other than a (non-nocturnal) giraffe.
In a 90 minute circuit of the 30 mile square conservancy we saw a herd of gazelles (asleep), a (domestic) cat and a giraffe. That's all. No predators. No hyenas, jackals, lions, cheetahs, leopards. Not even a (nocturnal) spring hare (= the rabbit-related fallback of night game drive guides.) We know game drives aren't about ticking off a list of the Big Five. But that, as a trawl with a professional, in return for $20/head, plumbs the depths. Uncontrollable giggles.
Good humour was restored by our independent drive through the park itself. Vast park, very few people. Stopping on the road by the river, watching two lions 5 metres ahead of us, to discover, turning round, a further two from the pride behind us. Taking the air, walking along the banks of the river, briefly chasing a warthog, then lying down for another nap. Beautiful, powerful, completely unperturbed by us.
So, returning along the same road a week later, hopes were high. Would we spot the same lions? Till an ominious grinding from the car. Louder. Louder still. Wheels locking. And a minute later, thankfully just over a small bridge, a definitive full stop in the middle of the road, some 15km from our entry at Sala gate, 87 km from our planned exit gate. Oh dear.
It was midday. Two hours later no one had passed us at all. No number on our ticket, in our map or in our guidebook so we could contact Kenya Wildlife Service at the gate. And only 10km from where we'd seen the pride of lions the week before.
-'Yes you can get out to do a wee. But stay very close to the car or to your dad. And don't shut your eyes.'I phoned the lodges closest to the KWS gate, to see if they had the number. Thank you Buffalo Safari Camp, who spoke to Sala gate, AND phoned me back. Sala gate phoned. They were sending someone to help. And we all settled down to carry on with our holiday reading.
By 4pm the afternoon safari vans were starting up again. We flagged down the two that passed us, and sent messages to Sala gate ('Don't forget us we're still here, and see, we can launch an effective advocacy campaign if you are tempted to forget us').
Three Italian tourists panned their camcorders over us.
- 'I wonder if they're still there...' caring aunts will say at the showing in November. A passing competent white Kenyan gave his assessment.
- 'Its the front diff. Big job. Get a towtruck.'
At 5pm - 90 minutes till dusk - we got a call from KWS park headquarters, 80km away. Still no sign of the promised cavalry from nearby Sala gate.
- 'No, they haven't got a car there. They told us about you. We're leaving now.' We gave, again, precise instructions. - '15km from Sala gate on the C103 main road, driving towards Lugard Falls with the river on our right, opposite Koimbo.'
At 6pm, returning safari vans started showing concern. Offered lifts to get some of us out of the park before dark. But how would we reunite the family if potential towtrucks were in Voi, and the rest of the family on the other side of the park? Surely in the car with windows wound up at dusk we'd be safe? Was it wise to place our trust in the KWS cavalry, who had said they were coming at 2? Warmest thanks to Tropical Ice, luxury elephant tracking on foot camp in the park, who stopped, and returned leaving their mechanic plus a Samburu guard with gun as darkness fell. He did major work in the dark. Removed the drive shaft. But we still couldn't get the wheels to unlock and now it was pitch dark. Where did we put those nuts? Remember that pride of lions. Hmmmmm.
And then the KWS pickup arrived. Had misunderstood the instructions, taken a 50 mile detour. But better late than never. Impossible to shift the car. But they gave us a lift - a special night game drive - through the now closed park to Voi. (Hyena, jackal, wild dog, spring hare.) And next day we hired their mechanics - trained for a year by Toyota in Japan - to return to the car to continue the major open heart surgery.
Yes, there were misunderstandings. There were Europeans waiting, poised for action, rucksacks on laps, at the hotel reception at 730am as agreed. And there were KWS coordinators, who knew that there was paperwork to be done, signed and countersigned; that the proposed transport while theoretically 'ready to leave' as proposed, in practice would be better prepared if it had four wheels, - and these would need finding, assembling and then putting on the truck. There were hourly tetchy phonecalls. And KWS managers counselling patience while implying that the pickup had already left. And in the end a departure five hours later than expected.
There were mishaps too. Highly trained mechanics who got to the scene, but once there, realised they'd forgotten the key spanner, and had to return 80km to pick it up. Highly trained mechanics, who then realised they would be starting the job very late, bowling along through the national park very fast, driving their pickup off the road and into the bush. Mechanics then needing to change their wheel - their fifth that day - but now without the benefit of their jack, which was under the original broken down car, 50 km away. Minor miracles, and a second day where major repairs really only started in the dark, this time without a guard with a gun.
And a major miracle. They sorted it. They removed three major parts in the pitch dark in the middle of a national park, unlocked the wheels, and reattached the gears to other parts. Or similar. And we drove it out of the park & home to Nairobi. Thank you thank you thank you thank you all.
And how was the gamespotting as you waited with the broken down car? Hmm. Sadly where we stopped you couldn't see the river - which would have been an amazing viewpoint. We were passed by more elephants than cars - 16 vs 7 - but anything smaller than elephants sneaked past us, unnoticed.
On Day 2 Tom had heroically volunteered to go to sit under the tree in the bush with the KWS mechanics and the broken down car without the rest of the family, while I and the children played Consequences and rummy by the watering hole in the lodge just outside the park. Fleeing another round of Cheat I discovered the lodge's Hindu temple, a marble chapel to Lord Ganesh, the elephant god. 'Ganesh is the Hindu god of success, who sweeps obstacles to one side' said the sign. In I went, and thought of towtrucks in the national park (460 KSh/km), the availability of spare parts for front diffs, supply lines, aged automobiles, skilled mechanics, prides of lions & of hitching lifts back to Nairobi with luxury safari vans. And of elephants in their bush environment, their beauty and majesty, their imperturbability as they plod along the river.
-'ThresholdMum, be patient!' had counselled, more than once, the somewhat imprecise but ultimately rabbit-from-hat KWS tourist breakdowns coordinator. But it's hard for a European, thinking timelines and spare parts and which garage is more reliable and are you just hoping I'll forget and go away and what is a front diff anyway. But the message from the elephants for me is just be where you are, make your case but don't worry too much. Be opportunistic but go with the flow. Stuck in the bush, miles from anywhere, miles from people, miles from garages, within two days, amazingly, our car was back on the road, where in BigCityNairobi taken in for a routine service at the authorised dealer it had been left languishing for a week, engine dismantled by mistake and unput-together-again, till the competent mechanic returned.
OMG, what a story. And what *is* a front diff?
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