Introduction to Kenya

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I really enjoy writing about our travels, but I have this fear that readers; my friends, family and colleagues, find the postings, boring or narcissistic. I’m not paranoid. The fear reflects the fact that blogging is narcissistic and often it’s boring. So I humbly acknowledge that the writings are for me and not for you. However, I will do my best to provide some semi-accurate information and something that might interest some of you , at least. This blog will be different from the one that I did from India in that I didn’t, as John Steinbeck termed it, write hot. My writings and descriptions of this trip were made after reflection and after having subsequent experiences that had to influence my perceptions of the earlier ones. I hope you enjoy them.

After four days in Amsterdam and an eight hour flight from what seemed to be the cleanest, most efficient, esthetically pleasing airport in the world, it didn’t take long after our arrival at Jomo Kenyatta International airport in Nairobi for us to realize that, quoting Greg to Lizzie, “we’re not in Kansas anymore.” As we stepped out of the 747 and into the throngs of the mostly Africans and Middle Easterners vying to get through the immigration morass, we knew that the trip would be about more than landscape and wildlife. Kenya is a developing country with an overdeveloped bureaucracy, a legacy of its British colonial heritage. This is not a good combination as Kenya’s growth, its tourism focus, and its building economy are in direct conflict with their 1960s infrastructure and 1930s record systems. Yes, they have begun using technology; scanning our passports, our fingerprints and photographing us as we reached an immigration officer. But it was painfully slow. There seemed to be no concern with moving the line along and when the technology didn’t work very well - a fingerprint reader that was finicky - the bureaucrat showed no interest in addressing the problem. He just made everyone put their fingers on the glass again and again and again. It was stifling standing in line fifty deep shoulder to shoulder hundreds of people who had just arrived at the International terminal. Not everyone in line smelled like he or she had just come from a long soak in bubble bath, if you know what I mean. In fact, more people than you might imagine smelled like they had just come off an eight hour flight - after chasing their goats around the pasture on a 90 degree day and having gorged themselves on spoiled meat soaked in garlic juice. And those were the ones that weren’t suffering from ailments from drinking the water at their departure city. Enough said about that. Children were crying and old men and women were sitting on the floor or struggling with their hand luggage. I did neither. Fran, the most accepting person in the world, sauntered on without the first vocalized complaint though there was something in her eyes. I might have been “get me out of here and back on the next plane to Paris, Mr. Macho,” but she never actually mentioned it. I was not badly behaved, if I say so myself. I did not try to explain to the immigration officer how she could be more efficient. I smiled and answered her questions without betraying my hostility, but all the while keeping an eye on Fran. I didn’t know what she was thinking but I had an idea. It took us an hour and a half to get through immigration and retrieve our bags. The Kenyan bureaucracy that we were introduced to that night we saw often over these two weeks. We saw the same bureaucracy in Tanzania; lots of paper, very little purpose, and a complete disregard for the plight of their customers. However, the bureaucracy did not represent the vast majority of people we would meet. The Kenyans and the Tanzanians are open and welcoming, friendly and warm. They are clever and very funny. And they hate the bureaucracy as much as anyone as they are their primary victims, but they accept it as they do most things in life, with a mild comment, a joke and then compliance. After a short drive to our hotel and a hot bath, we were ready for the next morning.


Our early morning flight on a Kenya Air Twin Otter to Amboseli Park in Kenya was only eventful in that it enabled us to see that Nairobi, a city of 6 million, is a city of contrasts. As we left the ground we flew directly over Kibera, a slum of enormous size, rows upon rows of unroofed and tin roofed shacks with a smoke haze from the charcoal fires used for heat and cooking. Perhaps as many as 1 million people live in Kibera, a place divided by the main rail line with dirt streets and no services. Then, as we banked right we few over large houses, mansions that would not be out of place in Boca Raton or Palm Beach, manicured lawns and a golf course. Further to our right, the downtown with skyscraping office buildings of steel and glass. Then, the plane headed west, over Nairobi National Park, and we saw, within, an arm throw of the city, herds of wild animals peacefully grazing in their natural habitat. Forty minutes later we landed on a tiny dirt strip in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere. There was a small house and a sign identifying the airport and in the distance a ridge. Wildebeest could be seen a couple of hundred yards away. I know that because I brought out my camera and zoomed in on the dots near the horizon. From then on we kept our binoculars with us. Good binoculars, we learned, are an essential tool for safari. But as long as I had my camera,


She’s already looking pretty cute and ready for some safari action. Our driver, David, meets us at the airport and after “doing some paperwork” (The National Park service has its own bureaucracy) we left on our first game drive.
Everyone that knows Fran knows what a good sport she is. They also know that sitting is not her strong suit. She is on her feet all day, from her exercise walks to her photo shoots, to her chasing after her grandchildren, she just doesn’t sit well. She has two speeds; fast and stop. Slow is not in her makeup. Relaxing is not something that comes easily to her. All of these things combined on this trip to challenge her. We sit for hours in the Land Cruiser bouncing on rutted dirt roads. We sit at meals. We don’t walk much because walking on safari requires either a very low IQ or a companion with a big gun. Now I know that some of you, one person in particular, is reading this and thinking something untrue and you think clever about some of our biggest cities in the U.S. You’re not funny. Fran hardly ever complained and she did every game drive, every village visit, sat through every meal, and throughout was in good cheer and kept us smiling. This was a trip that I wanted to do, not Fran, but she was a very good sport. Thank you Francie.

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