The Difference Between a Good Safari and a Bad Safari...

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...is about $500 per day. We wouldn't know this though until it was all said and done. Coming off the high of our days at Djuma in South Africa, Gina and I couldn't wait to continue our journey at the Masai Mara game reserve in Kenya. In fact, I felt so confident that Kenya would simply be an extension of our time in South Africa, I told Gina that she had nothing to cry about as our twin prop plane lifted from the dirt runway in Kruger, while Chris, Abraham and a herd of giraffes looked on.

Seven hours and three planes later, we found ourselves at the antiquated airport in Nairobi. Having been warned about the various maladies and cons that plague Kenyan society, we became instantly suspicious of everyone. Had the immigration officer not been wearing a badge, I might have thought he, too, was fleecing us when he asked for a $100 visa fee. It didn't help that the Air Kenya agent in Johannesburg asked if we wanted our checked luggage saran-wrapped for security purposes -- it seems even the luggage handlers have sticky fingers. We decided against the proposition and luckily found our bags unmolested when they popped out on the luggage carousel in Nairobi. Eager to put a hotel room between us and the locals, we promptly headed into the waiting area to rendezvous with our safari agency's agent for our transfer to the Hilton. Due to our late arrival, we were faced with an overnight in downtown Nairobi.

Prior to departing Chicago, I booked our safari in South Africa on a friend's recommendation, but had procrastinated on Kenya until a few weeks before we hit the continent. After several hours of due diligence while in China, I found a camp that not only had high reviews, but also a great location. Several email exchanges later and they requested a copy of both sides of my credit card, a letter authorizing a deposit charge and a copy of my passport. While this should have raised several red flags and set off alarms, I reluctantly complied and envisioned the person on the receiving end of my fax promptly contacting their local Ferrari dealership. Days passed without a confirmation of our reservation and only after repeated emails did the camp respond to inform me that the credit card information wasn't clear enough in my fax.

Another attempt at faxing the information yielded little progress and I eventually concluded the situation was either a scam or a result of incompetence. Either way, I directed the camp to destroy any documentation that they had received as I was going to book our safari elsewhere; I then proceeded to burn several more hours researching camps before I found a decently priced 4-day drive-in safari. Having indulged with our South African excursion, I consulted Gina and she concurred that we should try to save a few dollars where we could. Thankfully, the safari agency's website was e-commerce enabled, which saved me from another faxing debacle and, after a few clicks, everything was confirmed.

We had to laugh a few weeks later when we spotted the man holding the "Gena Sawyer" placard outside of the Arrivals area. I hope this isn't a prelude into the week. Without hesitation, we walked up and introduced ourselves. The representative was congenial enough, shook our hands and even offered to carry Gina's luggage as we followed closely behind him to a curbside minibus that served as our transportation to the hotel. The trip into the heart of Nairobi was nowhere as scary as I anticipated, save several perimeter walls encrusted with broken, jagged glass pieces that seemingly served as makeshift barbed wire and a number of sketchy people walking the streets. Our driver, Edwin, assured us that Nairobi was no more dangerous than any other major city - if you know the areas to avoid.

By the time we arrived at the Hilton it was nearly sunset. When the driver pulled up to the hotel entrance, the compulsory undercarriage bomb-check didn't faze us as we'd experienced the process in Thailand and expected it. What did raise an eyebrow, however, was the metal detector I spotted at the hotel's entrance as we pulled curbside. The driver unloaded our bags and advised us that another representative would be transporting us into the Masai Mara the following morning and that we should be in the lobby at 8AM.

The hotel's porter greeted us and instructed me and Gina to participate in the hotel's all for show security process before checking in. Even though I beeped as I walked through, the woman officer nonchalantly waved me on. When Gina passed through the detector behind me carrying the stuffed animals, the security guard instinctively cringed at the sight of Frog. Not comprehending what she was so afraid of, we continued on to the reception counter where I noticed the sign: “Due to an increase in credit card fraud, the hotel staff can provide you with a sticker to place over the seven digit code on your card’s signature panel prior to swiping it. We advise that you keep the sticker on your credit card until the time of departure.” Comforting.

The safari company had recommended a 3-star hotel in Nairobi during the booking process that we quickly dismissed in favor of the more expensive, but familiar Hilton brand. Sadly, when Gina and I opened the door to our room that evening, we stepped into the 1970s. Between the dilapidated furniture and moldy shower grout, we half expected to find a family of bugs in the sheets. We made the best of the situation, however, knowing that we’d soon be back in the company of the wild the following day. Even the $40 charge for Internet access didn’t faze me that night.

We were up early the next morning to meet our transport into the Masai Mara. As I checked out of the Hilton, Gina ventured outside to a minibus emblazoned with our safari company’s name to speak with the driver. By the time I joined the conversation ten minutes later, she had discerned that the driver was not only our safari guide but also that the beat up minibus he was driving would function as our vehicle for the next four days. What did I get us into?

I watched as Simon, the guide, loaded our luggage into the back of the minibus and immediately covered it with a blanket and double-locked the door. When Gina shot me a look of what the hell, I tried to make light of the situation by joking that the ordeal would make for a good blog entry - unfortunately, she wasn’t amused. We took the bench seat directly behind Simon and fastened our seatbelts for what he informed us would be a drive of anywhere between 4 ½ to 6 hours, depending on the condition of the road. As Gina unsuccessfully fought to tighten her seatbelt, I watched as the urban core of Nairobi faded into residential neighborhoods surrounded by high walls and barbed wire, then to aluminum shanty towns and finally mud huts.

No less than twenty minutes outside of the city, Simon was fighting the gears to climb a steeply graded hill as Gina and I peppered him with questions. Half paying attention to us and half to his driving, Simon didn’t notice the police officer standing in the highway until it was too late. A stern look and a wave was all it took for our minibus to be pulled over. We sat silently as the police officer and Simon began an exchange in their native tongue, followed by a thorough inspection of documents and finally Simon’s exit from the minibus. Unsure what else to do, Gina and I laughed at the absurdity of the situation. When Simon returned he wasn’t too pleased. After some prodding, he confessed that the officer claimed he’d been speeding but produced no evidence and eventually levied a 1000 schilling ($10 USD) fine - it sounded like extortion to us.

Before long our attention turned back to the spectacular vistas and various animals camouflaging themselves along the roadway. Our earlier interrogation of Simon had revealed that the Kenyan population is comprised of 42 independent tribes, most of whom have abandoned their traditional ways in favor of Westernized society. One of a handful of exceptions was the Masai tribe that inhabits the area around the game park. Famous for their brightly-colored red cloaks that ward off wild animal attacks, the Masai people pride themselves on maintaining their heritage. We began spotting Masai a few hours outside of Nairobi tending to herds of animals and walking along the roadside. It took only a few clicks of the shutter to prompt a warning from Simon that the Masai don’t like their photos taken without permission and have been known to stone passing motorists. I grudgingly lowered my lens and returned to observing the passing scenery.

As the road conditions began to deteriorate, so did our attitudes. Four hours into the ride, our 2-wheel drive minibus seemed to struggle over the lunar-like terrain at extremely slow speed. Gina and I did everything possible to entertain ourselves and tried to ignore the unpleasant situation. Simon sensed our discontent and advised us that “…it wasn’t too much further.”

The last 30 kilometers of road was under construction and difficult to pass. However, unlike the heavy machinery we associate with road paving at home, the Kenyans were using picks and shovels. The remaining portion of the drive took almost another hour. By the time we pulled up to the lodge, Gina wanted to strangle me. Simon deposited us near the reception and advised us to rendezvous with him at 4PM for our afternoon game drive. Neither one of us was in the mood for safari that afternoon and only looked forward to a hot shower and a meal.

On our excursion that afternoon, we realized the game in the Masai Mara is plentiful, but the safari experience was altogether different from what we had in South Africa. Having been on private property in South Africa, there wasn’t an issue when our guide drove over bushes and trees to get near the animals. The Mara however, being a game reserve, restricted our access to roads - with the 200 or so other minibuses searching for animals. Furthermore, our guide Simon didn’t exactly exude the passion Chris (our guide in South Africa) had for his job and functioned mainly as a chauffer.

Over the course of the first two game drives, Gina and I tried to make the best of our situation by absorbing the beauty of the animals and Mara reserve. The rain, which started on our first night at the lodge, managed to stop for the morning drive of our second day, but unexpectedly reemerged during the afternoon outing. Simon had driven us to a remote part of the park hoping to find rhinos, but instead found dark clouds cresting the horizon. As a wall of water approached from the distance, Simon pushed the minibus to its limit racing back to a main road before we were deluged. By the time we hit the main road, visibility had dropped to a few feet and Simon was managing to hit every boulder and pot hole on his dash back to the lodge. Suddenly, the minibus began to pull to the side - we had a flat. What next?

Standing in the steady rain, Simon assessed the situation and headed for the rear of the minibus where he retrieved a spare and an inadequately small jack. When I mentioned to Gina that we should get out of the van to lighten the weight on the jack, she promptly responded, “Hell no, we’re paying for this.”

I couldn’t argue. By this point another safari minibus pulled alongside and the driver got out to assist Simon. As we watched patiently, the duo rocked our minibus for five minutes trying to get it on the jack before we finally came down with a thud. Having changed a few tires in my life, I couldn’t help but scratch my head as Simon began to jack before loosening the lug nuts. Surprisingly, as he fought each lug while we were elevated, the jack didn’t collapse. The whole process lasted under half an hour and when Simon climbed back into the driver’s seat he declared, “It’s all part of the safari experience.”

The balance of our drive back to the lodge that evening was uneventful. Due to a lack of hot water in the morning, neither of us had showered and looked forward to cleaning up before dinner. However, as I stood in the shower, I would have sworn that ice cubes were hotter than the water spraying from the fixture. I tried to convince Gina that the water was warm but she wasn’t buying it and decided to forgo another shower. Only after we grilled the reception staff did they admit the water had to run for 15-20 minutes before yielding anything warmer than luke. Obviously, the conservation signs plastered around the lodge must not have applied to water.

As we headed to bed that evening, we weren’t sure what bothered us more, the extremely loud Indian family staying next door or the panicked quack of a nearby duck that was eventually squelched with one final garbled sound. The intensity of the rain increased throughout the night, waking me several times. Daybreak the next morning revealed a muddy mess around the camp and on the roads through the Mara. The rain continued through our last full day in the Mara and when we departed for the evening game drive, several safari minibuses were just making it in to the lodge - about 5 hours overdue. When we questioned Simon about the drive back to Nairobi, he nonchalantly responded, “It could be bad.”
It wasn’t until I found myself and a Masai warrior behind the minibus pushing in an attempt to free us from the mud that evening that I began to worry about the drive back. I did my best to avoid the barrage of mud flying from underneath the tires as Simon spun them and eventually dislodged us. Concerned for our wellbeing and sanity, Gina and I discussed forgoing the last morning’s game drive to get an early start back to Nairobi. Not knowing what lay ahead, we relayed our desire to Simon who was more than happy to comply.

Up at 6:00AM the following day, Gina and I dragged our luggage through the mud laden puddles in front of the lodge to the waiting minibus. The further we got from the lodge, the more treacherous the road became. As the minibus swerved from side to side on the road, I was convinced we’d either flip or get stuck in the mud. About thirty minutes outside of the Mara reserve, Simon suddenly stopped. When we questioned him why, he pointed at several vehicles in the distance, noting that they appeared to be stuck. Not wanting to play the lemming, he began to scan the surroundings for an alternate path before leaping from the minibus. We watched as he began moving stones along a dirt berm that seemed far too high for us to traverse. Prepared for the worse, we listened as he revved the engine and sped us toward the barrier between the road and an adjacent field. The minibus made it ten feet before lodging 3 tires in the mud with the remaining tire elevated in the air.

Needless to say, we were not happy. Simon and I exited the minibus to gauge the mess while Gina remained inside to stew. As he stood silently, it became quickly apparent that he was unprepared for the situation. We tried to shove boulders under the airborne tire and anything else that might offer traction, but unfortunately, the mud was so soft that they just sank when the tires were spun. The predicament looked dire.

Gina was given a crash course in manual transmission as Simon and I tried to rock us free. We didn’t budge. Then suddenly, two minibuses departing from the Mara stopped at the other side of the adjacent field. Simon went to plea for assistance and before we knew it the entire contents of both minibuses, male and female Indian tourists, were walking across the field to our position. The group heaved and hoed for several minutes, but the minibus went nowhere. Just when we were about to abandon hope, a large bulldozer covered in local Kenyans arrived on the scene and freed us from the mud purgatory. I couldn’t have cared less that I was covered in mud.

Relieved to be back in forward momentum, Gina and I bit our nails for the next hour as Simon drove off-road trying to dodge trees, rocks and other obstacles. Each time the undercarriage scraped along something, we cringed. The roughness of the ride back to Nairobi that day made the drive in look like it was done on a Cadillac suspension. We braced ourselves with one hand on the roof and the other on our minimally functioning seatbelts. When our wheels finally hit a paved road, I think all three of us shared a simultaneous sigh of relief.

Battered and sore, we pulled off at a shopping kiosk for beverages and a bathroom break. Gina perused the crafts for sale in search of a makeshift Christmas ornament before finally settling on a small wooden Masai warrior figurine. Expecting to bargain for the nick knack, our jaws dropped when the man offered it to us for $50 US. Pissed that he would even attempt such highway robbery, we excused ourselves and retired to the unlocked and unguarded minibus. Dumbfounded that Simon was nowhere to be seen and that our possessions were left unattended, Gina and I had to fight back the urge to wring his neck when he later returned.

The charlatan from inside wasted no time tracking us down and wanted to continue bartering for the wooden statue as we sat in the minibus waiting for Simon. We politely declined as his asking price was halved, then quartered. Perplexed by our unwillingness to participate, the salesman changed his tactics and asked whether we had any magazines to trade. Answering in the negative, he then turned his attention to my mud laden shoes. “How about those?” he inquired.

“Then what would I wear?” I retorted.

“OK, OK, then how about your socks and 300 Schillings?” his final attempt to win us over.

Concluding the conversation in her sternest voice, Gina proclaimed, “We’re not interested.”

Simon knew we weren’t happy when he returned to find us in the minibus. We did eventually calm down, however, when our inventory resulted in no missing items and asked him to pull off at a church we’d seen on our way into the Mara. According to Simon, Italian POWs built the 4-bench Catholic Church during their internment in World War II and we wanted to see their handiwork. Several photos later, Gina and I found ourselves back in the minibus asking Simon if he had any music. To our surprise, his one cassette was a compilation of Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton that kept us thoroughly entertained for the remainder of our drive into Nairobi. Somewhere between The Gambler and Coat of Many Colors, we found ourselves being pulled over again. This time, no fine was levied and after a brief discussion with the police officer, we were back on our way.

The Hilton was a sight for sore eyes. We exchanged goodbyes with Simon and ran the security gauntlet, where several Kenyans again flinched at the sight of Frog. Instead of dismissing the occurrence this time, we inquired why people were offended and determined that Kenyans are frightened of frogs. Lions aren’t scary to Kenyans, but frogs are - the absurdity made us chuckle. Worn out by the day’s events, Gina and I fell fast asleep that night.

On our way to the airport the next day, we drove past a minibus accident. With one minibus on its side, the other smashed in front and motionless bodies in the street, Gina and I couldn’t help but count our lucky stars for making it to and from the Mara in one piece. We boarded our flight to Egypt a few hours later, taking one last liberty with the Kenyans. Gina, observant of a male steward’s cautious stare as she boarded with Frog in hand, jostled him back-and-forth in the man’s face while making Oooga-Booga noises. By the way he jumped back, you would have thought he was being attacked by a lion. We laughed and gave our little green friend a new title: Guard Frog.

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Comments

[Tamisha]

Who knew...
...frogs could be so frightening! Think of how much more fun you could've had on your safari if you'd found that out on your first night at the Hilton! I bet Gina would've gotten that ornament for free! :o) Miss you guys.