Kenya: On an Eco Safari, walking with the Masai
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If you’ve ever had the urge to read someone else’s diary, here is your chance. My friend Joe and I went on an “eco safari” in Kenya in the autumn and I jotted down notes from the moment we landed in Nairobi.
In case you’re wondering what makes an eco safari different from a regular one, it’s essentially the “environmentally friendly” version of a safari, and also the truest view you can get of the land and the people. The goal is to make as little impact as possible while you’re among the animal and tribal habitats, and to leave no trace when you depart.
If you prefer to travel in luxurious style, then this probably isn’t for you, but if you want to do a real safari (minus shooting anything), then it’s something to consider. Remember, a safari is as unique as the person who’s on it, so I can’t fully convey Kenya with a few pages — I can only attempt to give readers a glimpse of what I experienced. I hope you enjoy looking.
We arrive
It was midnight in Nairobi and we finally made it to the hotel. The restaurant was still open, luckily, and we sat outside to enjoy the warm night air. I ordered Lobster Thermador (hey, it was on the menu). I got Thai Chicken Wings. At this point, any food that was recognizable in association with its menu name was gourmet to me, but I think I should have picked up that “Swahili for Dummies” book.
Morning came too early, the road came too bumpy and our van seats came with no padding. I’m not positive, but I think I’m now a couple of inches shorter due to spine compaction. But the drive through the Great Rift Valley to our first lodge was worth it: rough roads that wound through the wilderness, offering majestic views of the valleys below and mountains beyond.
We arrived at Nakuru Wildlife Park in the afternoon and did a brief driving safari. What amazed me most was our first view of Lake Nakuru. The shores looked bright pink from a distance, and islands of pink seemed to dot the lake as well. As the van loudly rumbled up to the beach, flamingos filled the sky and we began to finally see the sandy shore beneath all the feathers.
We settled in at Sarova Lion Hill Lodge for our first night and watched a troupe perform traditional music and dancing after dinner. A young man in a breechcloth and beads grabbed me out of the “audience” to join in the Sacoochi Dance. I probably don’t want to know what the greater meaning behind that dance was, but it sure was fun.
Our guide for this thankfully short portion of the trip left a lot to be desired, but after the first few hours we assumed he was just supposed to be our driver (though he wasn’t very good at that, either). I later found out from the travel agent we booked on-line (it was a great deal) that he was indeed supposed to be our guide as well, and was certified to do so, but he had no answers to even the most basic questions, wouldn’t stop where we asked him to for photos and made no effort to keep the locals from harassing us for money. He got two flat tires on our van in two days. I didn’t help change either of them.
At a curio shop (they’re everywhere and all are equally hot and dirty — literally, as in dirt floors) I wanted to buy a fascinating ebony carving, but Joe wanted to do the haggling. Salesmen at the shop kept telling me I should ask my husband to just buy the thing for me, but Joe interrupted with, “Don’t talk to her — it’s my money.” He was getting WAY too into this role-playing thing. Amazingly, I managed not to laugh and walked away with a great bargain (he felt very satisfied with himself, too).
As we headed back to the city to catch another flight, we saw shanty towns lining the roads into Nairobi for miles — it was so strange to see them in real life versus on the Discovery Channel. Kids run around half naked, trash is heaped in the median and on the sides, often burning to make room for more, and everything is for sale. I actually saw a guy sitting on a coffin with a big sign, “Coffins for sale.” Now I know where to go.
Lunch was at the famous Carnivores Restaurant (they’re in Nairobi and South Africa). I ate ostrich, kudu, impala, zebra, crocodile and probably some other unnamed critters. I didn’t want meat for the rest of our visit there. Obviously herbivores (i.e. vegetarians) might want to skip this restaurant.
A twin-engine turbo prop stood ready to take us to the Masai Mara Reservation, and the pilot looked like the lost brother from the band “Hansen,” about 18 years old with long, blond hair — as if the heat, crowds and stench weren’t worrisome enough. He did, however, wait for the gazelles to get off of the dirt runway before taking off, so I know he had our safety in mind.
We arrived in October to track the migration of zebras, giraffes, rhinos, elephants, gnus and other animals from the Masai Mara to the Serengeti Plain. The animals return in July, after the long rains have replenished the grasses.
Driving and walking safaris morning, noon and night gave us plenty of opportunity to check all wild animals great and small off our “seen that” list, but the people we met and the drastically foreign cultures we experienced were what made the trip truly memorable.
Kym, our Masai guide, met us when the plane landed. His ear lobes had been stretched so much that he tucked them above/over his ears. I thought it was just a freaky personal thing for him until I saw that many of the other Masai men did the same. Guess those stretched lobes are like hangnails — gotta take care of ’em lest they get caught on something.
At the base camp (very base) we were happy to get a tent overlooking the river. We could see crocodiles sunning themselves by the banks and were awakened during the night by the sounds of hippos splashing out of the water to feed (nocturnal animals) and then back in later.
We went back to sleep after the splashing, but only briefly because we were re-awakened by baboons grunting and scratching at our tent. One even tried pulling on the door zipper a couple of times. Those dirty apes.
We took a balloon safari at dawn over the Mara and didn’t see so many animals, but the view was still incredible as we stayed low over the savanna and watched the sun rise.
Our guide was an Aussie who does balloon safaris in Kenya half the year and teaches sky diving in Australia the other half. Rough life. We got certificates at the end of the ride saying we were official “balloonatics.” Pretty silly, but cool nonetheless.
Tribal life
That afternoon we finally did the one thing I wanted to do most — a visit to a Masai village.
The Masai’s huts are made from sticks and dung (it’s waterproof when it hardens, so remember that if you ever become homeless).
The Masai men herd cows, carve wood and protect the village and livestock at night from lions (they built a fence around the village made of thick, thorny plants). Women cook, help build, make beadwork to sell for money since they can’t do any herding, and raise their children until they’re 5-6 years old. Once the kids reach this age, they go to live with their grandmother. (I’m pretty certain this is one tradition my parents are glad we don’t have!)
All Masai wear red to show unity, and men hunt and protect with spears, machetes and scepter-like whacking sticks called Oringa in Masai or Rungu in Swahili. I bought one in the village with spikes on the other side of the hammer-like part. The spikes are supposed to represent the lion’s teeth, but I just think they make me look tough. The Masai men seemed very amused that I carried it with me everywhere, as women do not usually handle a Rungu.
At the sunset game drive, we saw a pride of lions feeding on a relatively freshly killed zebra. We pulled up only a few feet from them and watched for almost an hour, mesmerized. There were three females and six cubs, one of which kept trotting around with a zebra leg in his mouth and tripping over it because it was too long for him. It was grotesquely amusing.
On the drive back to camp, our two Masai guides subconsciously began chanting tribal songs. It was amazing the way their voices wove in and out of one another’s, each alternating singing and using his voice like some eerie instrument. It seemed as though singing was as natural and comfortable to them as speaking.
The next day we left to do the “Survivor” portion of our safari and hike to the bush camp (even more base). Our guides kept pointing out droppings and telling us how we could distinguish which animal they came from. I wasn’t feeling particularly chipper that day and told Joe I didn’t feel like playing the “Who pooped where?” game. Joe said he hadn’t played that since college and was quite enjoying himself.
“Besides,” he said, “everybody poops. The gazelle poops. The lion poops … the lion poops gazelle!”
Ick.
It took an hour and a half to walk across the rocky terrain and crunchy grass that had been nibbled to the nub. If it hadn’t been for the tents, we wouldn’t have known we made it to the bush camp.
We took field showers, which essentially entails standing in a smaller tent on a rock, to keep your feet from getting dirty, lathering up, and pulling a cord to dump a bucket of cold water on yourself to rinse. Afterwards we sat around the fire with several Masai, including a couple of bushmen.
Culturally speaking, bushmen are Masai as well, but they live off of the land versus having herds of goats or cattle, and they roam, so they have no homes, possessions or families. The sang and told stories, such as when a Masai boy turns 18 he must help kill a lion to prove he’s a man. He does not have to kill one in order to become a man, but if he wants to get the girl, it’s in his best interest.
After all of the Masai warriors’ tales, I finally understood why owning cattle is such a sign of prestige. Apparently the cow is the all-around perfect animal — you get your milk, your meat, your leather, and you can use their poop to build your house.
Dinner was very “Out of Africa.” A table was set with a white tablecloth and three courses were served under a ceiling of dark blue clouds outlined by silvery light. Very dramatic and strange.
During our return hike one of the bushmen kept sneezing. I thought it was funny for a bushman to be allergic to the bush.
I went shopping in the local “town” (which hardly qualified as a village) for traditional African dress. I saw a picture of a girl wearing Masai head gear of a leather strap with intricate beadwork and told our guide that I would like to find something like that. He said it was only worn by girls on the special occasion of their circumcision. I opted for a head scarf. He was very surprised to learn that most western cultures do not circumcise women.
Our flight from the Mara back to Nairobi was a luxurious one, boasting four engines and even some air conditioning (first we’d felt in a week — so nice). The apparent return to civilization was welcome until we spent some real time back in the city.
The streets and markets were cluttered and filthy. Everything was for sale, whether you wanted it or not, and many of the shops were shady to say the least. Haggling is a way of life there, so you either learn the art or lose your money. Luckily, I like to haggle and there was an abundance of treasures worth taking the time for.
Madcap marketplace
After several hours of being harassed by salespeople following us around begging for bargains, I needed a rest. Finding no place that offered solitude, I opted for some bench space in the middle of the market.
My senses were buzzing with raw emotion as I watched all of the wheeling and dealing fluttering about me, when I caught something out of the corner of my eye. Apparently a sales agreement had gone awry in one of the stores on the balcony level, and a shop owner stormed out after a prospective customer, the owner’s face contorted with rage as he drew a knife from his belt. The other salesmen snatched him in the nick of time and held him back as the lucky would-be customer escaped. I took that as my cue to leave.
It was now no wonder to me that the Masai would rather risk the wild bush than etch a living out of the city. If you crave an African adventure but are hesitant to pursue it for fear of the constant violence you see on the news (the embassy bombing in Mombasa happened only a couple of months after we left), then a word to the wise: You are safer amongst the wild animals than you are in the city, as is generally the case with rural versus urban areas.
Take your safari — just skip through the city airports and leave “civilization” for when you get back home.
The more foreign the experience, the more exciting and affecting it tends to be, but it also tends to be more exhausting, so I can tell you that I breathed several sighs of relief when we touched down at Heathrow. I love all of the memories and souvenirs I brought home with me, but I think I’ll take a couple of decades to rest up before I do my next safari!
Capt. Erin Bradley is a public affairs officer at Third Air Force at RAF Mildenhall, UK. You may e-mail her at erin.bradley@ mildenhall.af.mil.
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