Laid low by a cold for much of my first week, I’ve managed to spend a full ten days in Nairobi - an accomplishment that, I’m certain, will warrant a commemorative t-shirt before I go. Back on my feet at last, shaking a metaphorical fist at the gray winter skies, I pack my bags for a week in the bush - a stay with a Maasai chief who, incidentally, has a profile on CouchSurfing. When I tell Khadija, the receptionist at my hostel, that I’m heading to Narok in the afternoon, she shakes her head and says, “You’re going to the middle of nowhere.” When I tell her my final destination is actually twelve kilometers from there, a strange silence passes between us: a moment that snugly fits into the space between ominous and foreboding. I’ve
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