I think of Africa and I think of huge, open spaces covered in the sparse stubble of a barren land, waiting only for the change in the breeze and the rain. The sunsets are bright orange and red with the dark haunting shapes of the fragile trees silhouetted against the glow.
The slowness and speed of the many species that inhabit this expanse both terrify and amaze me with their gentleness and destruction. Giraffes with their lumbering height can stun with their intelligence, while the zebra rise and flow in a stream of black and white sameness. Wildebeest cover the land in an immense growth of movement; all individuals yet an entity as one. Lionesses caress their young with a delicate and tender devotion, yet fiercely protect them from the numerous marauders of the bush; always ready to pounce, and tear into warm flesh with smooth, white teeth. The stereotypical scene is real, and so are its extremes.
I am staying in the home of a British gentleman who has spent most of his 79 years in the womb of Africa; feasted on her spoils, supped of her juices and employed her people. He once owned and ran a safari company which his son now manages. In his youth, he and his friends were comfortable with their use of weapons to kill anything that moved. The big ‘game’ of lions and rhino were their main targets; killed for fun in limitless numbers.
His home is comfortable and large, and holds a languid charm that pervades his universe. The elderly man, with a family who choose to live in the mother country, employs a house ‘boy’ named Thomas, and a garden ‘boy’ named Miyaai. Both of these local men are 50 years old. Even though Thomas has been with the old man for 13 years, the gentleman doesn’t know that he has a wife and children. Thomas lives in a small cabin at the back of the house. He is loyal and hardworking and although he speaks no English, it takes only a little understanding to read the smile on his sad face.
My two companions and I arrive at the house amidst much excitement. Preparation is underway for the evening meal. All are cooked meals which Thomas prepares with directions in Swahili from the gentleman. Once the table is set, a buzzer is rung to alert Thomas to his duties while my vegetarian friend, in this meat eater’s paradise, states her rapture at the lettuce leaf on her plate. Afternoon tea is always served in the drawing room at four, with fine china, silver service, and serviettes laid delicately upon the serving trolley.
Once we have eaten, an early morning journey to Lake Nakuru is organised for the following day. As we pass through the Kenyan countryside and approach the magnificent Rift Valley, I understand the indescribable charm of Africa. The land beckons with its warmth and expanse, and the people merge into their environment with a silent understanding.
We come to a popular stopping place for photographs overlooking the expanse which is the Rift Valley, and are surrounded by wood statue sellers and the hands that push the sheepskin hats into our faces. We pass Lake Navaisha and on to Nakuru and its National Park. The park is a huge area covering about 80 square kms and contains the beautiful Lake Nakuru with its myriad wildlife.
Along the dirt tracks, the first waterbuck dart through the foliage. Following the track around, we travel over the sun-dried, mud-encrusted earth to Lake Nakuru. In the distance is a long, bright strip of pink shimmering colour on the blue of the water, which is flamingo. We move closer to watch these colourful cormorants. Around the lake are more waterbuck and reedbuck, until we drive onto the road again.
Our gentleman, clad in khaki long shorts, safari jacket with pith helmet and long socks, shouts ‘Twiga’ as a Rothschild giraffe emerges from behind a tree. Graceful impala and aggressive warthog frolic, and families of baboon watch us from the side of the road. ‘Didn’t bring the rifle, girls!’ he chuckles.
The land is green after fresh rains and filled with candelabra cactus, a magnificent structure enveloping the plains. After a picnic lunch, we decide to make our way home. Along the Cape de Cairo road from Nakuru to Nairobi, we see food stalls, baskets and sheepskins being displayed for sale. Young boys hold out rabbits by their ears, in an effort to make us stop and buy the poor wriggling creatures. A human body distorted and twisted, lies on one side of the road surrounded by impersonal viewers after a hit and run accident; nobody seems to care.
We decide to explore Kenya outside the boundaries of the home of our host. Thomas offers a sad goodbye. I imagine his life spent in servitude to a man who has no thought for the feelings, hopes and dreams of his servant. I can see Thomas’s glistening eyes and finally, as we move further along the winding driveway, he disappears. The gentleman has stated that he will accompany us to Nairobi in our attempt tobuy train tickets to Mombasa. He is adamant that we travel first class to avoid any contact with the local people.
The railway station at Nairobi is a teeming nucleus of black faces. The mothers and children are especially colourful, and even in this oppressive heat, are adorned with traditional jewellery on top of their many layers of clothing. Some of the men prefer a Western style of dress, but most wear a mixture of several cultures. The masses push in an interminable effort to be noticed, get tickets, meet friends, sell their wares or find their children. Everywhere is a feeling of excitement; everywhere except their faces.
After waiting an hour for a ticket, we come to a compromise with our gentleman, and settle for a second-class journey. The train to Mombasa takes 13 hours so there is plenty of time to enjoy the passing landscape inhabited by railway villages and running children. A long way from our window, the horizon is dotted with lion, giraffe and zebra.
Once in Mombasa, after much discussion with taxi drivers, we encamp at the Cosy Guest House in the main street. The heavy heat of night increases with the onset of dawn and we are told there is no water. The rooms are bare and dirty with no bed covering or fan. But the day brings us the street markets selling our favourite wooden animals, Fort Jesus by the sea, and three-course cordon bleu meals for a few US dollars.
We have heard of an island called Lamu on the north coast of Kenya. Mombasa, in all its dusty, waterless glory, helps us to decide, so at five o’clock the next morning we embark on a day’s bus trip to investigate the coast of East Africa.
Long dusty uncomfortable roads give way to the brown waters of the river crossings by barge. We sit three people on a seat built for two, dust entering every window opening amidst the enervating heat. I pity the Muslim women in their thick, long, black garments and watch bananas swinging from side to side above someone’s head. After the ferry ride to the island, we land at the jetty and are greeted by crowds of hoteliers grasping for the patronage of the famed dollar-laden travellers.
We choose a quaint guesthouse on the track by the sea, and much to our pleasure discover the cool, running waters of its shower. Draped over our beds are the mosquito nets of a bygone age.
An ancient Muslim community inhabits narrow, winding and cobbled streets, fortified by old stone walls. The people happily coexist with donkeys, standing side-by-side in frozen poses on every street. The centre of the town is small but the island stretches with its soft, white beaches nuzzling the deep blue waters of a largely, undiscovered Africa.
On a long walk around the beach, a young Muslim boy named Chui offers his dhow for an afternoon of sailing. We board the ‘Fartahani’ and sail through the mangrove area, home to the black and white eagle. The sail is felled and we rely on Chui to punt to the shore. He explains to us that Manda Island, an hour’s sail from Lamu, once held a 15th century walled Arabic town. The town is now in ruins and surrounded by baobabs. We roam through the ruins and I buy some smooth perfect cowrie shells. The tide will shortly be out so, not wanting to be stranded, we board again. Chui makes his bird like sounds and says he is ‘calling the wind’. Hoping for a large tip from his foreigners, Chui tells us that ‘if you make the cows happy, they give you plenty of milk’. Poor Chui doesn’t realise that these cows don’t have much milk.
Sunrise on Lamu is from our balcony, with the pale sun frosting the surface of the undisturbed sea. But soon a fisherman’s wade causes the ripples to break the surface, and splash against the side of his moored boat. The harsh sun of late morning, green waters of the island coast, noisy gathering markets, animals at home on a wandering land, and people as different, cruel, naïve and brave as their wild neighbours; these are the images of Africa that I will remember.
