Day 3 in the Mara

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The next day was a full one and one that I will never forget. It was the only day where Fran got cranky and it was one of the best days of the trip.

The day started with an excursion to Lake Victoria, the second largest fresh water lake in the world, after Lake Superior. We were being given the opportunity to go fishing for Nile Perch, which could be up to 70 pounds. We thought we’d be driving there but Godfrey said, no - you have a private plane chartered as this will decrease the time from 3 hours each way to 30 minutes. Good idea Godfrey. Those long drives don’t seem to be a great use of our limited time in Africa.

At 8 AM a fine airplane with a highly qualified pilot landed at the strip by our camp. Bullshit. It was a real piece of crap airplane. Fran took a picture on her cell phone but for some reason it won't upload onto the blog. Probably too ugly for this first rate blogging site. Here's a picture of a 1969 Cessna 206 which is the same model that picked us up. The particular plane bore little resemblance to this very nice photo. This picture looks about 100 times nicer than the one that landed that morning to pick us up. I greeted the pilot with a cheery Jambo and he responded with - actually, he didn’t respond. He looked away and said nothing. It must have been me. I do that to people sometimes. So I sent Fran and Lizzie over to charm him while I perused the 35 year old or so Cessna 206. My cursory inspection revealed that the tires were not quite flat, that the propeller’s nicks and dents were more or less uniform throughout, which is good because at least being uniform they are less likely to cause the prop to spin completely off the plane, and that it sported the original factory paint job. In fact, the plane reminded me a lot of the 172 in which I learned to fly; if that plane were still flying. It was pretty good in 1971 as I suspect this plane was. That’s when I got the first look from Fran. I didn’t know quite what to make of it but it was apparent that Lizzie and Fran were having no luck finding a person inside the pilot, Rick. They did find out he was from New Zealand and has been in Africa for some twenty years; nothing else. Airplanes make me happy and the idea of flying one makes me even happier so, I asked Rick if I could fly right seat. He ignored my question. I took that as a yes and climbed in. Rick never really talked. He nodded and made an occasional hand signal but he never talked. He mumbled on the radio but I could never understand anything he was saying and wondered whether anyone else could either. Radio traffic was sparse to say the least. Rick would say something as he approached a landing area, probably to let other planes in the vicinity - and there were none - know that Rick was here. As I settled into the right seat I noticed that this plane was not set up for two pilots. There were no instruments in front of me. There were a few in front of Rick. I noticed as did Francie that the cockpit had a big hole where the GPS used to be, another one where the second radio used to be, a third one where the ADF used to be and for good measure, all of the fuel gauges all read E. I didn’t want to be pushy but I am prudent so I pointed to the fuel gauges and gave Rick a questioning look. Using looks was more successful in communication than using actual words with Rick. His lack of talking was becoming contagious. At my gesture, Rick nodded. I assumed that meant hakuna matata and he started the engine. I had faith that he actually did put fuel in the tanks or looked into them to insure that there was some. Why, I had this faith, I have no idea. Fran was not so trusting. We sputtered down the runway and actually took off. Immediately Rick looked over at me, took his hands off the yoke and gave a look that, while equivocal, might have contained an element of a smile. I took the yoke. I’m proud to say that I got the feel for it pretty quickly. I was constantly looking at the left side, Rick’s side, for instrument guidance. Rick would gesture in a direction from time to time and I would turn that way. He also motioned that we should level at 7,500 feet, which we did. I struggled with making the plane fly smoothly as Francie is a world class critic of pilots especially when they are me and I already had gotten a quick glimpse of "the look."

The day before there was a fire on the Mara. The Masai started a deliberate burn right outside the park boundary and the wind blew the fire into the grassland in the park. We watched it burn as we drove the afternoon of the crocodile feast. It moved quickly through the grass and extinguished itself in the trees near the river. Godfrey told us that the trees on the Mara have, over the millennia, become almost immune to the fast traveling grass fires. The Masai light them to burn down the tall grass, allowing for new, low green grass for better grazing for their cattle. Before the rainy season lightning starts them naturally. The Masai light fires right before even a little rain when it’s not the rainy season, like now, timing it so that the grass underneath would come up quickly and heartily. The Masai know when it’s going to rain and Godfrey announced that it would rain within a day or two of the fires. There were no clouds and no apparent clues that rain was on the way. Godfrey had no idea how the Masai knew but he was certain that it would soon be raining. On the morning of our flight to Lake Victoria the fire was out but there was haze and there was no horizon to fly to. Not only was I flying, I was instrument flying with the instruments off to the left. Rick kept his eyes glued on the ground, which was apparently his way of navigating. Hey, this village looks familiar! Hand signal go left a little bit. All of which resulted in my not seeing a frigging thing on what was apparently a beautiful flight across the plains, over the ridge, across low hills with farms and Masai villages. A half hour later, Rick landed on an island in the lake on a tiny dirt strip even smaller than the one we took off from.

As we exited the plane, Fran gave me the look once again. I chose to not know what it was all about. Meanwhile, Rick silently led us to a thirty five year old beat to crap boat with twin two-stroke 65s from the 1970s. Our boat captain, Steve, was gregarious, friendly and talkative. He took the four of us, plus Rick, to our fishing camp, about 20 minutes away. The camp was beautiful, with gardens, a bar, and a pool and our host said that they had a spa with massages. That’s all Fran needed to hear. Off the three of us, Greg, Lizzie and me, went to catch a Nile Perch. Fran would catch a massage and maybe a Tusker.

Captain Steve was born on the island. His father and grandfather were fishermen. He loved to fish. Now this might - almost certainly will - be a bit tedious for you non fishermen but there are readers that care, and this paragraph is for them. If you want to skip, go right ahead. You won't hurt my feelings. In fact, I'll never know and I promise there will be no tests on the subject.

We trolled using old Penn reels with the spoke drags. The noise made when pulling drag was zeeeee, hesitate, zeeeee, hesitate, zeeeee. These were not exactly smooth drags. There was no leader but a double line was tied using a couple of square knots. Attached to one of the three rods was a brand new six inch Rappala diving plug with two sets of treble hooks. The other two rods were set to pull other well-used diving plugs, each of which originally had treble hooks now, only singles or doubles. After we got going, Steve prepared the Kenyan downrigger, which consisted of a big rock, tied to a line at the back of the boat and from which a piece of wire draped over the line. It worked just fine. But then, zeeeee, hesitate, zeeeee, hesitate, zeeeee, hesitate. We had hooked something. It was the bottom. We swung around but failed to free the lure. That’s when Steve brought out his special tool. Lures are precious on an island in Lake Victoria. Fishermen don’t give them up easily. His tool consisted of a three foot piece of pipe with a grappling hook welded to one end. The other end of the pipe was attached to a rope. Also attached along the length of the pipe in two places were 1 inch steel rings that were not completely closed. As we got over the stuck lure, Steve lowered the contraption into the water feeding the fishing line through the split rings all the way to the bottom. He jerked the rope and up came a rock with some old fish net and the lure in the middle. Pretty cool. We fished along the rocky shore for an hour without a bite. As we came around the corner we saw six foot monitor lizards sunning on the rocks, waiting for anything dead to float by. Monkeys appeared in the trees. We saw egrets, herons and eagles of every variety and enjoyed being on the water. Then a real strike and Greg fought a hard fight until Steve gaffed the bugger and put him in the boat.

The Nile Perch weighed in at the dock at 7.2 Kilos, the biggest caught there since early June. How about that? We returned to camp for lunch and then back into the boat for a return trip to the “airport.” Flying home was much more of an adventure. We had a takeoff delay. It wasn’t air traffic control or a mechanical (how could you tell if there were a mechanical anyway?). What there was were cows grazing on and along the runway and nobody much cared about getting them off. Steve jumped on a bicycle and rode down screaming and waving his hands at the cows but the cows were not to be bullied. Finally, cash was passed and the herdsman was persuaded to move them out and away we went. The weather, though, had deteriorated. Clouds were all around as were showers; real showers, as predicted. I looked for the weather radar. Whoops, no radar. It’s ok, we’ll divert around them, use the GPS to find our way back. Whoops, no GPS. And it was bumpy. I was flying as Rick was looking on the ground, apparently trying to figure out where we were. Rick pointed left. I said, that’s where the dark cloud is. He pointed left again. Hakuna Matata. Ok, I thought. He’s the real pilot. I’ll do what he says. And we proceeded to fly just under a moderately developed cumulus. Boom, boom. We went up about 500 feet, then down again. In unison the chorus in the back chanted, "whoa!" And then we were through. Rick pulled the throttle back. Ahead was the airport. Landing without incident was a great feeling.

It was time to head back to the tented camp for a break before our afternoon game drive. This time there was no mistaking Fran’s look. She was, I think the term is, “pissed.” At me none the less! What did I do? That’s like the woman in labor being pissed at her husband for getting her into this mess. It’s not that she didn’t have the opportunity to participate in the decision making. No, she said. If she had said something then I would have gotten annoyed. She preferred to be a martyr until she decided that this wasn't a very good idea. I think what was really going on was that she got nervous, wound up, and was basically pissed off at me for having so much fun flying while I was taking her life in her hands. She complained of a headache. She threatened not to go on the afternoon drive. I, being the wonderful husband that I am groveled appropriately and not wanting an extended afternoon of her wrath, said that, that would be fine. "Here, let me bring you an Advil." Ten minutes later she said, it’s ok, I’ll go. That’s my girl. Got to love her. How many of you have a companion that gets pissed then gets over it quickly? I'll entertain comments on that one. Careful. The comments might just make it back to the blog.

We left the camp at 4 and drove through the smelly sulfur pond to look for what he hadn’t yet seen, the real migration; you know, where the live Wildebeests cross the Mara River, drowning each other in the frenzy and being eaten by the giant crocodiles before they could get across. Sounds like heaven doesn’t it? But soon we spotted (no pun intended) another leopard. This was a male and he was much larger than the female we saw the first day. We watched him for a while then moved on.

On the way to the river we kept looking for the one animal that we still hadn’t seen, a big maned lion. We had seen others, males and females but the males were young, some not at maturity. We were looking for the real King of Beasts. In the distance, we saw a lone car off the road and we drove to investigate (this is the primary hunting technique in the parks). In the car was a woman alone with a big video camera mounted where the seats were supposed to be. The sign on the car said Disney. She was filming a big male lion lounging in the grass. He was fully mature with a full dark mane. Two females were with him, one on each side, each about 50 feet away. He was an elegant and graceful guy, well fed and mature, but he still was looking confused. Two females. He didn't know what to do.

Soon, one of the females approached him. He played hard to get, sort of.

Then, you probably figured out what happened. I have it on video but this blog site won’t let me upload video. Many of you say, thank goodness. It is a short video, surprisingly short. If you really want to see it, let me know and I’ll email it to you but know that I will know that you’re a real perv. Anyway, he did his manly lion stuff. Greg named him Two Hump Chump. How cruel! I hope he doesn’t read this and get embarrassed. The lion, not Greg. Here’s a photo after the fact. What you can’t see in the photo is the cigarette he’s smoking. Notice his head is turned away. And about the lioness, clearly she doesn’t look impressed. And I think he’s a little embarrassed. Don’t worry she’s saying. It happens to the best of lions. I think he needed some Liagra.

We headed to the river but were detoured by six giraffe's, a boy's club, according to Godfrey and according to Greg who was our resident sex identifier. Identifying the sex of a giraffe isn't so difficult, but for animals like Hyenas where the female had

Back at the river we saw Wildebeests and Zebra congregating near a place called Paradise. It’s a crossing area and I can only assume that the crocs named it. We waited. We checked the tire pressure. We had a Tusker. The Zebras moved toward the water. Some waded in and then retreated. There were no crocs. Why? Nobody knew. It was cool out. It had rained. The river was flowing fast. Maybe it was too cold. Maybe the river was rushing too fast. But they were not there. It was getting late. We watched for 15 minutes. The Wildebeests that had bunched up next to the river started to retreat back up the hill. We almost gave up, but then, one Wildebeest, just one, jumped in the river and began to swim across and others followed. And then the Zebras began to cross. The Wildebeest herd, as if by some magic signal turned back toward the river and began running, stampeding into the water. They crossed in mass, jumping into the river from the elevated bank, landing on top of one another, swimming, and mooing. The Zebras were barking and yelping, calling to the small ones. They started to come out on the other side, leaping up the opposite bank and congregating, reforming the herd. On the new side mothers and their calves reunited or didn’t and when they didn’t the calls were loud and plaintiff. This went on for 45 minutes and we watched every second. It was an amazing sight. Tens of thousands of Wildebeests crossed and thousands of Zebras crossed too while we watched. They came from all over, called by the stampede. Words can’t do it justice. I have it on a video clip and if you want to see it, let me know and I will email you and this time, I won’t think you a perv. Eventually it was over. There were no more Wildebeest to cross. Not one Wildebeest seemed to have been injured. Not one drifted downstream. They all appeared to make it across. The rest of the Zebras turned around. But it wasn’t over. There were lions on the other side of the river, waiting. Out two hump chump friend would try to redeem himself. We saw them spreading out. It was getting dark and we had to leave. No one is allowed in the park after dark. The Wildebeest were exhausted. There were small ones without their mothers. The lions would have a feast that night. Nature is unbelievable.

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