God help us all. Somehow I have managed to find myself at the helm of a safari camp here in the mara. (well not entirely, I am working here with a 26yr old named abby that they have brought in to manage as well.) when I was told that I would be managing the place with her, I looked about as confused and dumbfounded as george bush would after being asked the square root of 4. mindblowing, really.
So weve been pretty busy here. Its tough trying to watch three movies a day and beat the heat.
Really though, its actually a ton of work and a big challenge, but im up for it and so far things are going very well. But so far has only been two days. Well see.
But as my departure draws nigh, I suppose its time to tell you all what I have learned here in the great nation of Kenya, in the shitstorm that is the African continent. Kenya has absolutely kicked my ass…but im a glutton for punishment and ive loved every minute of it. Well, almost. I could have down without the face to face encounter with a lion and being charged by a buffalo while half naked. That was a doozy. But, lets get on with the show.
· Sometimes things here make about as much sense as a taxi driver with a seeing eye dog. It really just defies logic and intuition. Take for example my waiting three hours to be fingerprinted to receive a card that will be mailed long after I have left Kenya. Fantastic, genius at work.
· Never drive at night. If you are in Nairobbery, you will be carjacked if you go anywhere outside of Karen. Theres also a good chance of your nightclub, or the one next to you, having some grenades lobbed in through the open front. Luckily, like most things in this country, the grenades usually don’t work. If you drive anywhere in the mara at night, well youre not making it back until sunrise. You will be more lost than a mormon at a porn convention.
· Trust no one. This place is more corrupt than an Italian dive in little italy. The park fees that you so diligently pay for the ‘conservation of wildlife’ usually find their way into the pockets of the tribal chieftan and county council honchos. Amazing how some maasai live in houses made of cowshit and sticks while others tool around town in a new Mercedes slk.
· Again, trust no one. Sadly, the black rhino that I posted photographs of just the other week was found dead, riddled with bullets from an AK and his horn lopped off. The massacre of an endangered species just so the Chinese can feel a bit more confident about their nether regions. Rumor has it the rangers were in on the job and will split the profits from the sale of the horn. But who can you tell? Chances are the person you tell was probably in on it all along, and if you go asking questions, you might just find yourself packaged up in some little bottle for Chinese virility.
· The going rate for an attractive british girl is about 150 cattle. I know this because one of our maasais attempted to arrange the marriage. She respectfully declined.
· When the big bang occurred, it took only a few millionths of a second for our universe to expand to the width of a couple billion light years. Also, it is not possible for us to travel beyond the speed of light. How might I know this? When youre out here, you read a lot, and I just read an absolutely riveting thriller about quantum physics. Fascinating stuff really. So fascinating that it made me want to take a bath with a toaster. If only we had toasters and bathtubs…
· Cheetahs may look quite friendly, but after this mornings adventure, im not so sure. I saw two cubs chase a wounded fawn that their mother had caught and then proceed to eat it alive. Such cute, cuddly little things.
· The absolute worst time to be charged by a buffalo is while wearing a towel at night.
· On that note, there is no good time to be charged by a buffalo.
· I recently broke the world record for the 100m dash. If you don’t believe me, go to hell. You have no idea how fast you can run when being chased by a black mamba. Afterwards, i nearly died from overexertion.
· Not only do some Chinese feel a bit bashful about their willies, they will soon own Africa. Albeit still under-endowed.
· Having your car checked for bombs when entering a hotel or a heavily guarded bar is about the most unsettling feeling ever. But this can quickly be cured by a few beers. Ahh, liquid confidence.
· Whiteboy = sucker.
· Malaria medicine is for the weak. (this will be be quite funny if, between now and the time I leave Africa, I come down with malaria. Im sure ill have a good laugh about that one.)
· Gun safety is not exactly the number one priority for the rangers out here. If you remember from a previous story, I once had a loaded AK bouncing around the back of my land cruiser while the ranger who owned the gun held his head out the window like a dog, taking in the sights and smells of a wondrous car journey. I meanwhile gripped the steering wheel ever tighter, waiting for a hail of bullets to tear me and the car apart. Also, remember the woman guard at the immigration with the automatic MP5? By the way, why the hell do you need guards at immigration?
· Rich people, for the most part, have a lot more money than they do sense.
· There is an entirely new form of timekeeping that ive discovered here. It pretty much consists of outright lies. Fifteen minutes could mean five minutes, or it could mean the day after tomorrow.
· Chefs are one of the most integral, yet quirky people who work in safari camps. Take, for instance, our Naibor chef Richard. Richard cant even tie his shoes unless hes high, much less prepare a three course dinner for twenty-two. The one day things went wrong in the kitchen, I asked what happened: Richard had run out of weed. I promptly sent him in a car to Talek to remedy the situation. He was back in an hour, high as a kite. He then proceeded to prepare one of the best lunches I have ever had, although when I asked him what it was, he totally blanked, looked around the kitchen, and simply pointed at the stove. But damn, that man can cook.
Anthony’s chef flipped one of our land cruisers. Enough said.
The chefs at ilkeliani are constantly hammered, and at least twice a month, a knife fight erupts between the two, one time resulting in six stitches. Amazingly, they are best friends. Imagine that.
As much as I hate going to the airstrip, it does provide me with some endless entertainment. I sit there in my car, watching as departing and arriving tourists simultaneously snap up their first and last memories of Kenya. Then, every once in a while, you get some clients that walk off the plane, and instead of looking like they came off a safari charter, they look like they walked out of the nyc saks fifth avenue. The makeup immediately begins to run, forming a disgusting paste on their fake-bake tan faces. And the hair. The hair, although they are walking through a 100+mph propwash, does not move an inch. Theres enough aquanet on there to immobilize a rhino. I think with enough heat and sunlight it might turn into something resembling the burning man festival out in the Nevada desert. Bottom line: people watching is great in Kenya.
Monkeys, while on the surface might seem very nice a sweet, are vicious little bastards. The other day, while walking to the bar at intrepids, a nearby lodge, a vervet jumped out of the bushes and latched onto my leg. He pounded away with his fists and just as he was preparing to sink his teeth into my leg, I was able to shake the little shithead off. Oh and also, they have neon blue balls, which is funny.
Blood diamond makes me want to kill tourists. If you remember, there was a phrase in there, ‘TIA’, meaning this is Africa. It was said in relation to the slaughter of thousands and the enslavement of a people to harvest precious natural resources. Now, it’s the tourist catchphrase. The matatu is not on time? TIA. Theres a fly in your water? TIA. Your flight is inexplicably cancelled? TIA.
NO! Its not at all. And people sound so damn stupid when they say it. I once played dumb and asked a girl ‘do Africans really say that over here?’ ‘Oh yeah’, she replied, ‘all the time.’ That’s funny. The only people ive ever heard it from are idiot Americans. Now, when I hear of a tourist drug from a rented car, beaten on the side of the road and then mugged, I might say ‘well shit man, that’s Kenya.’ But I swear, the next person I hear say TIA, im going to stab them in the jaw and really give them something to say TIA about.
And that’s all for now. I hope that you have found my life lessons entertaining. I will soon be leaving Naibor and heading to climb Mt. Kenya with my friend Billy. The plans are tentative, but assuming that the dates work out for climbing the mtn and being back in time to leave on the night of the 17th , ill get to climb. Then its off to London for a weekend to see friends from school as well as some people that I have met here. Back to work now.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Monday, September 17, 2007
the real world: naibor
I dont usually like to write this sort of blog, but on this occasion i could not resist. This past night at naibor had all the makings of an episode of the real world: sex, drugs and rock and roll.
Ok, well there wasn’t much rock n roll, but we can pretend. If I had to pick a soundtrack for the night, it would have to be the Buckcherry song with the chorus line ‘I love the cocaine, I love the cocaine. As for the sex and drugs, no pretending necessary.
Now I wont say who the clients were that caused all this drama, because, well that would just not be very professional. All I can say is that it was an inidan guy named anuch, who was friends with one of the directors, and two girls that he met in a bar in Nairobi, who he subsequently invited down for a night to impress them. Well I guess that about says it. Oops.
All we knew before their arrival was that two people were arriving that are friends with someone on high and we were to treat them accordingly. There was a rumor that it was even one of the sons of one of our illustrious directors. This suspicion was immediately invalidated as two young American girls climbed out of the land cruiser and presented themselves as our newest guests.
We, the management, exchanged some confused looks, speculated as to their connection with the directors, and went about our business. I was given the task of briefing and welcoming them. This involves your standard ‘watch out for the animals and don’t get eaten’ speech. During this little chat, I tried to glean as much information as possible as to their origins and connections to naibor, but I failed miserably.
An hour or so later, after they had been settled in their tent, we received a call that the third member of their party was arriving in his own car. The plot thickens.
From a two-door blue range rover emerged anuch. He exuded an undeserved sense of entitlement and an air importance usually reserved for heads of state….or extremely arrogant assholes. He explained that he been driving around the mara, scouting out locations for two luxury camps that he was planning on opening in the future, all the while sparing no expense. I though to myself how lucky I might be to get the chance to shine this man’s Gucci boots. Little did we know at the time, this guest had been airmailed to us direct from hell.
But this was not the only story of the night set to unfold; a few hours before the arrival of our three esteemed guests, some clients of ours, both with irish ancestry, set off for a balloon ride. A balloon ride entails a 430am wake up followed by a 5am departure to make it to the launch site in time for a 630am liftoff. The flight lasts an hour to an hour and a half and upon landing, the clients are treated to a champagne breakfast. The champagne does not stop flowing. In short, they began drinking at 745am and did not stop for the entire day. But well come back to them.
Intrigue was abound once our three guests, anuch, reim and Christine settled in. there was clearly something between anuch and Christine, but as the wine began to flow, the interest of anuch shifted towards her friend, reim. Drama was on the horizon.
In the meantime, our Scottish guests departed for their evening game drive around 4pm, having arranged for a sundowner; basically a picnic cocktail party. This arrangement was made after they spent the afternoon by the river drinking wine as if it was their job. These people, by the time of their departure, were not safe within 100ft of an open flame due to the high likelihood of spontaneous alcohol-induced combustion.
The afternoon passed uneventfully as our three guests drank and anuch, our new resident playboy, worked his magic on his two little birds. He kept the wine flowing and asked that the tab for the three person party be placed on his room, and his room alone. The joke here lies in the fact that they were drinking house wine, which, as the name suggests, is on the house. He knew this, I knew this, but his guests did not. So I let him play the part and inflate his small-man ego.
I went for a shower around 645pm and returned to the campfire around 715pm. Reim, anuch and Christine were still sitting by the fire downing wine (free, house wine) as anuch ordered bottle after bottle, requesting that it all be billed to him.
Our Scottish couple rejoined us a little later, we went to dinner, and our guests showed no signs up letting up. About halfway through the appetizer, anuch and reim disappeared for about ten minutes. They came back with fresh faces and a case of the sniffles. Not to mention the personality of someone jacked up on some fine china. Their mouths ran at ninety-to-nothing and small beads of sweat dripped down their foreheads as they sniffled away, suddenly losing interest in their roasted red pepper and tomato soup. All this despite having drunk enough wine to poison a small elephant. Patrick and I exchanged a suspicious look.
This little disappearing act was repeated about 3 or 4 times during dinner, but they never all disappeared together. Most of the time anuch went with one or the other, and one occasion the girls went off together. My favorite was their excuse used for the third departure from the dinner table; ‘im going to get a book, well be right back.’
A book? A little light reading at dinner seems like the perfect thing to complement to some lively conversation and wine drinking.
The night proceeded as our three guests continued to inhale copious amounts of cocaine and our Scottish friends kept right on drinking.
Eventually, after dinner and some time by the fire, the requests for the johnny walker black label came out. This, unlike the house wine, is not complimentary for our normal guests. Anuch sensed this after the third or fourth glass ordered by his female guests, and pulled me aside. He asked how much each tot was and sat back down, knowing full well that he would not be paying a dime.
A short time later, as one more black label was ordered, he said, above normal conversational tone, that it should be placed on his room bill. This was really starting to get to me. Not only did he pretend to pay for everyones free wine, but he loudly proclaimed that he would pick up the tab for the whisky as well. Idiot. As a guest of one of the owners, he wasn’t paying for a damn thing. He was getting everything comp’d. he knew this full well, but like I said, small-man ego.
As the night drew on (much like this story, but sorry, I gotta write to stay sane) anuch’s interest had switched entirely to reim and, sensing this, Christine, the original object of his affection, became disgruntled. So what did she do? What any sane, healthy girl would have done to soothe her emotions; lots of cocaine. Now they weren’t telling us that they were doing this, but youd have to be an idiot not to figure it out.
Meanwhile, our Scottish guest, mark, and his new wife jillian, were getting piss drunk. The request came out for campfire songs and I sat back to watch the magic unfold. Christine launched into some smoky-sounding jazz numbers, her voice with some nice whisky gravel in it. Mark thought he could top her and began to serenade us with some nice, family style tunes; these happened to be folk songs of the IRA. I shit you not. They were about setting up bombs and blowing away british soldiers, with a nice chorus of ‘o mama, help me’. Touching, really.
His wife did not like this. At this point she began to try and drag him away, forcefully at times. She pleaded with him to shut up, as some of our guests happened to be from England, which have traditionally not been the strongest supporters of their friends across the straits, in this case the IRA.
He then went on to rant that these men who had planted bombs and shot up soldiers were not terrorists by any stretch of the imagination, they fought for religion. Sounds familiar, no? I wonder what his take is on the bombers that drove a flaming truck into Glasgow airports.
The love triangle plot was growing by the minute. Anuch’s attention was now fully on reim and Christine, feeling rejected, turned to talk to me. I guess the cocaine had run out. She made a point of letting anuch know that she was now talking to me, who up until this point, had pretty much remained silent and enjoyed the show. I didn’t really entertain this new conversation; I hated her for using me as a pawn in this whole drug-alcohol fuelled love triangle.
We have now reached the boiling point of this story. It was the end of the night, and time to go to bed. But two questions remained; who would anuch try and go home with, and how the hell was this poor Scottish newlywed going to get her husband to shut up about the IRA and get him back to the tent. Judging by the hushed answers given in response to how he knew these IRA songs, im pretty sure they had some IRA background in the family, at least on the husband’s side. In fact, im pretty sure that we had the son of a former IRA soldier on our hands, judging by his take on the ‘freedom fighters’ and his intimate knowledge of their songs and customs.
Mark was drug home by myself, his wife and one masai askari. I usually don’t stick around with clients this late unless theyre my age, but in this case it would have been a bit of a liability to abandon them this drunk. I, on the other hand, was dead sober; I made one glass of red last me through most of dinner and the proceeding camp fire. Earlier in the night, after the repeated incantations of IRA songs, mark mused that he might not be getting any honeymoon action tonight. Im pretty sure he was right.
Anuch, reim and Christine had now become a full-blown disaster. As they prepared to head to their tents, anuch had his arm around reim and was asking her which tent they should go to. At this point, Christine had had enough and demanded that anuch stay behind and talk to her. This was too good to miss. Myself and another masai walked reim back; she seemed dejected, but nothing that a little nose candy couldn’t fix for her. Im pretty sure that as I walked away from her tent I heard some loud sniffing sounds.
Now I don’t usually like to eavesdrop, but this one was not to be missed. I pretended to help the staff clean up around the fire and messtent as the argument began to rage.
‘I came all this way to see you, and you ditch me for my friend!’ a female voice yelled.
‘well, uhhh.’ Drunk. ‘I didn’t see the problem, you were, uh, talking to that grant kid.’
‘only because you weren’t talking to me.’ Ah, what a self-esteem boost.
‘well im sorry.’ At this point he tries to pull her close, and she recoils.
‘what did you expect from us, a threesome!?!’
this was a loaded question that required a delicate answer, which did not come. After a little too much wine and whisky, our friend anuch was feeling a little too honest at exactly the wrong time.
‘well the thought crossed my mind….’ Idiot.
After this, he had totally lost the argument, which had now been raging for about an hour. The above is simply an abridged version. They set off for their respective tents and upon arrival outside of anuch’s tent, when he asked her to come in (this don juan simply did not get the point) the argument began anew, and this time it could be heard around camp. I had to intervene. I politely asked them to choose a tent, as they were in danger of waking up our sober clients. Not only that, but there were elephants around tent 6, and an elephant is not something you want to piss off in the middle of the night.
She rejected his advances, and he stormed back to the bar to berate our innocent bartender, joseph. He demanded two bottles of wine to be opened. Joseph politely advised him that he would open only one, and then if he still needed another, then a second would be opened. He did not like this at all. He became irate, at which point we had to shut him up again. Finally he got the point, grabbed his bottle and left. Cue the eric Clapton song ‘cocaine’.
Instead of going for the sure thing, our little playboy had pissed off both his guests and managed to wind up drunk and alone. Sweet revenge for us, the management, who will now surely have to field complaints from playboy as to why not enough wine was served, not enough women wanted him, and not enough drugs were on hand.
This was the first time, in my knowledge that drugs had come through naibor, and hopefully the last. Policy dictates that, if we have proof, such guests are asked to leave. But in this case, all we had was speculation, and the guest in question was a friend of the owners, so we could do nothing.
Ok, well there wasn’t much rock n roll, but we can pretend. If I had to pick a soundtrack for the night, it would have to be the Buckcherry song with the chorus line ‘I love the cocaine, I love the cocaine. As for the sex and drugs, no pretending necessary.
Now I wont say who the clients were that caused all this drama, because, well that would just not be very professional. All I can say is that it was an inidan guy named anuch, who was friends with one of the directors, and two girls that he met in a bar in Nairobi, who he subsequently invited down for a night to impress them. Well I guess that about says it. Oops.
All we knew before their arrival was that two people were arriving that are friends with someone on high and we were to treat them accordingly. There was a rumor that it was even one of the sons of one of our illustrious directors. This suspicion was immediately invalidated as two young American girls climbed out of the land cruiser and presented themselves as our newest guests.
We, the management, exchanged some confused looks, speculated as to their connection with the directors, and went about our business. I was given the task of briefing and welcoming them. This involves your standard ‘watch out for the animals and don’t get eaten’ speech. During this little chat, I tried to glean as much information as possible as to their origins and connections to naibor, but I failed miserably.
An hour or so later, after they had been settled in their tent, we received a call that the third member of their party was arriving in his own car. The plot thickens.
From a two-door blue range rover emerged anuch. He exuded an undeserved sense of entitlement and an air importance usually reserved for heads of state….or extremely arrogant assholes. He explained that he been driving around the mara, scouting out locations for two luxury camps that he was planning on opening in the future, all the while sparing no expense. I though to myself how lucky I might be to get the chance to shine this man’s Gucci boots. Little did we know at the time, this guest had been airmailed to us direct from hell.
But this was not the only story of the night set to unfold; a few hours before the arrival of our three esteemed guests, some clients of ours, both with irish ancestry, set off for a balloon ride. A balloon ride entails a 430am wake up followed by a 5am departure to make it to the launch site in time for a 630am liftoff. The flight lasts an hour to an hour and a half and upon landing, the clients are treated to a champagne breakfast. The champagne does not stop flowing. In short, they began drinking at 745am and did not stop for the entire day. But well come back to them.
Intrigue was abound once our three guests, anuch, reim and Christine settled in. there was clearly something between anuch and Christine, but as the wine began to flow, the interest of anuch shifted towards her friend, reim. Drama was on the horizon.
In the meantime, our Scottish guests departed for their evening game drive around 4pm, having arranged for a sundowner; basically a picnic cocktail party. This arrangement was made after they spent the afternoon by the river drinking wine as if it was their job. These people, by the time of their departure, were not safe within 100ft of an open flame due to the high likelihood of spontaneous alcohol-induced combustion.
The afternoon passed uneventfully as our three guests drank and anuch, our new resident playboy, worked his magic on his two little birds. He kept the wine flowing and asked that the tab for the three person party be placed on his room, and his room alone. The joke here lies in the fact that they were drinking house wine, which, as the name suggests, is on the house. He knew this, I knew this, but his guests did not. So I let him play the part and inflate his small-man ego.
I went for a shower around 645pm and returned to the campfire around 715pm. Reim, anuch and Christine were still sitting by the fire downing wine (free, house wine) as anuch ordered bottle after bottle, requesting that it all be billed to him.
Our Scottish couple rejoined us a little later, we went to dinner, and our guests showed no signs up letting up. About halfway through the appetizer, anuch and reim disappeared for about ten minutes. They came back with fresh faces and a case of the sniffles. Not to mention the personality of someone jacked up on some fine china. Their mouths ran at ninety-to-nothing and small beads of sweat dripped down their foreheads as they sniffled away, suddenly losing interest in their roasted red pepper and tomato soup. All this despite having drunk enough wine to poison a small elephant. Patrick and I exchanged a suspicious look.
This little disappearing act was repeated about 3 or 4 times during dinner, but they never all disappeared together. Most of the time anuch went with one or the other, and one occasion the girls went off together. My favorite was their excuse used for the third departure from the dinner table; ‘im going to get a book, well be right back.’
A book? A little light reading at dinner seems like the perfect thing to complement to some lively conversation and wine drinking.
The night proceeded as our three guests continued to inhale copious amounts of cocaine and our Scottish friends kept right on drinking.
Eventually, after dinner and some time by the fire, the requests for the johnny walker black label came out. This, unlike the house wine, is not complimentary for our normal guests. Anuch sensed this after the third or fourth glass ordered by his female guests, and pulled me aside. He asked how much each tot was and sat back down, knowing full well that he would not be paying a dime.
A short time later, as one more black label was ordered, he said, above normal conversational tone, that it should be placed on his room bill. This was really starting to get to me. Not only did he pretend to pay for everyones free wine, but he loudly proclaimed that he would pick up the tab for the whisky as well. Idiot. As a guest of one of the owners, he wasn’t paying for a damn thing. He was getting everything comp’d. he knew this full well, but like I said, small-man ego.
As the night drew on (much like this story, but sorry, I gotta write to stay sane) anuch’s interest had switched entirely to reim and, sensing this, Christine, the original object of his affection, became disgruntled. So what did she do? What any sane, healthy girl would have done to soothe her emotions; lots of cocaine. Now they weren’t telling us that they were doing this, but youd have to be an idiot not to figure it out.
Meanwhile, our Scottish guest, mark, and his new wife jillian, were getting piss drunk. The request came out for campfire songs and I sat back to watch the magic unfold. Christine launched into some smoky-sounding jazz numbers, her voice with some nice whisky gravel in it. Mark thought he could top her and began to serenade us with some nice, family style tunes; these happened to be folk songs of the IRA. I shit you not. They were about setting up bombs and blowing away british soldiers, with a nice chorus of ‘o mama, help me’. Touching, really.
His wife did not like this. At this point she began to try and drag him away, forcefully at times. She pleaded with him to shut up, as some of our guests happened to be from England, which have traditionally not been the strongest supporters of their friends across the straits, in this case the IRA.
He then went on to rant that these men who had planted bombs and shot up soldiers were not terrorists by any stretch of the imagination, they fought for religion. Sounds familiar, no? I wonder what his take is on the bombers that drove a flaming truck into Glasgow airports.
The love triangle plot was growing by the minute. Anuch’s attention was now fully on reim and Christine, feeling rejected, turned to talk to me. I guess the cocaine had run out. She made a point of letting anuch know that she was now talking to me, who up until this point, had pretty much remained silent and enjoyed the show. I didn’t really entertain this new conversation; I hated her for using me as a pawn in this whole drug-alcohol fuelled love triangle.
We have now reached the boiling point of this story. It was the end of the night, and time to go to bed. But two questions remained; who would anuch try and go home with, and how the hell was this poor Scottish newlywed going to get her husband to shut up about the IRA and get him back to the tent. Judging by the hushed answers given in response to how he knew these IRA songs, im pretty sure they had some IRA background in the family, at least on the husband’s side. In fact, im pretty sure that we had the son of a former IRA soldier on our hands, judging by his take on the ‘freedom fighters’ and his intimate knowledge of their songs and customs.
Mark was drug home by myself, his wife and one masai askari. I usually don’t stick around with clients this late unless theyre my age, but in this case it would have been a bit of a liability to abandon them this drunk. I, on the other hand, was dead sober; I made one glass of red last me through most of dinner and the proceeding camp fire. Earlier in the night, after the repeated incantations of IRA songs, mark mused that he might not be getting any honeymoon action tonight. Im pretty sure he was right.
Anuch, reim and Christine had now become a full-blown disaster. As they prepared to head to their tents, anuch had his arm around reim and was asking her which tent they should go to. At this point, Christine had had enough and demanded that anuch stay behind and talk to her. This was too good to miss. Myself and another masai walked reim back; she seemed dejected, but nothing that a little nose candy couldn’t fix for her. Im pretty sure that as I walked away from her tent I heard some loud sniffing sounds.
Now I don’t usually like to eavesdrop, but this one was not to be missed. I pretended to help the staff clean up around the fire and messtent as the argument began to rage.
‘I came all this way to see you, and you ditch me for my friend!’ a female voice yelled.
‘well, uhhh.’ Drunk. ‘I didn’t see the problem, you were, uh, talking to that grant kid.’
‘only because you weren’t talking to me.’ Ah, what a self-esteem boost.
‘well im sorry.’ At this point he tries to pull her close, and she recoils.
‘what did you expect from us, a threesome!?!’
this was a loaded question that required a delicate answer, which did not come. After a little too much wine and whisky, our friend anuch was feeling a little too honest at exactly the wrong time.
‘well the thought crossed my mind….’ Idiot.
After this, he had totally lost the argument, which had now been raging for about an hour. The above is simply an abridged version. They set off for their respective tents and upon arrival outside of anuch’s tent, when he asked her to come in (this don juan simply did not get the point) the argument began anew, and this time it could be heard around camp. I had to intervene. I politely asked them to choose a tent, as they were in danger of waking up our sober clients. Not only that, but there were elephants around tent 6, and an elephant is not something you want to piss off in the middle of the night.
She rejected his advances, and he stormed back to the bar to berate our innocent bartender, joseph. He demanded two bottles of wine to be opened. Joseph politely advised him that he would open only one, and then if he still needed another, then a second would be opened. He did not like this at all. He became irate, at which point we had to shut him up again. Finally he got the point, grabbed his bottle and left. Cue the eric Clapton song ‘cocaine’.
Instead of going for the sure thing, our little playboy had pissed off both his guests and managed to wind up drunk and alone. Sweet revenge for us, the management, who will now surely have to field complaints from playboy as to why not enough wine was served, not enough women wanted him, and not enough drugs were on hand.
This was the first time, in my knowledge that drugs had come through naibor, and hopefully the last. Policy dictates that, if we have proof, such guests are asked to leave. But in this case, all we had was speculation, and the guest in question was a friend of the owners, so we could do nothing.
Monday, September 10, 2007
the height of inefficiency
The height of inefficiency
A visa renewal; an easy task, right? Well if ive learned one thing since ive been here, its that nothing is as easy as it should be in Africa. This ended up being a battle, and a near defeat for yours truly, the intrepid traveler.
I arrived in Nairobi on Friday afternoon after another month long stint in the mara, splitting time between naibor and anthony’s camp on the mara river. I wasn’t really looking forward to the stay; my time in Nairobi is about as enjoyable as a walk through downtown Baghdad without a flak jacket. This being said, this go around wasn’t all that bad and boring.
Friday night, after putting in some QT with the clients during the day, I went over to the hyena cottage. (I refer to them as the hyena girls for lack of a better term. I would use names, but I have a feeling that would just confuse yall.) we laid low, watched a movie and ate some take out dinner, and although it was a low key night, it was nice to be around someone my age again and relax without being bombarded with questions from clients to the effect of ‘what do we do if a lion comes into camp tonight? Can we go outside and look at it?’ yes, please do. why don’t you give it a little pet as well.
But Friday night was about the only good night so far. The next morning, after a breakfast with Danielle (ill give the name thing a try) and sarah, i said bye to them as they set off for a conservancy near the Tanzania border to research striped hyenas. Well that’s cool, see yall in a few weeks. They will eventually return to the mara in not too long, or so they’ve said, but who knows. Shortly after their departure I became sick, very very sick.
At first I thought it was malaria, but then the whole stomach business started, so I chose to blame the duck that I had for lunch the day before. That was much easier to do than rush off to the doctor for a malaria test. How, you might ask, can you get malaria while youre on malaria medication? Well, you cant. But I quit my medication about three weeks into the trip. The main warning on the label said avoid prolonged exposure to the sun. that’s a bit like telling an Eskimo to avoid cold weather. It just wasn’t an option. So I quit, and became an expert mosquito killer. So I quit, and became and expert mosquito killer.
I spent pretty much all of Saturday and Sunday on the couch. I watched cricket, rugby, soccer, read and drank tea. Now those are some activities that really get your blood flowing. It was exhilarating. The only thing that interrupted the monotony was little oscar rushing into the den to see if I wanted to kick the ball around with him or watch some high quality bbc kids programming. I wanted to do neither, but I didn’t really have a choice.
Around last night I started to feel better, which was good because I knew that Monday was going to suck; it was time to renew the visa. This process took no less than five hours, and cost me about 19 burst blood vessels in my head.
I had been warned by Fiona that the Nyayo immigration house downtown was a place where logic failed, but this didn’t really set in until I arrived at the place, which is smack in the center of downtown Nairobbery.
I set off from Karen with Francis, a messenger from Fiona’s office, Francis, as my guide. We drove along smoothly for about 22 seconds until we turned a corner and hit bumper to bumper traffic on the Ngong Rd. leading to downtown. I was stuck behind a city works vehicle that put out enough black smoke in one belch to give the entire city a right case of the black lung. I was miserable, it was raining and I still felt a bit sick. The matatu (bus of death, in cast you don’t rememeber) behind me started blaring on his horn, and then attempted to slip around me on the outside, in this case being the left since these silly people drive on the wrong side of the road. But no, I wasn’t having any of this today. If I was waiting, so was this asshole. I pulled the car on the shoulder, much to the dismay of the expert driver behind me, who nearly relieved me of the back third of my little Subaru. I held strong, withstood the verbal abuse, stones and insults being hurled at me and kept the matatu at bay.
Not long after he began to lay on his horn for no less than five minutes. This, combined with the stress of traffic and the lingering effects of some vicious peking duck, cost me the first ruptured blood vessel in my head. My temperature was rising, my eyes were filling with fire and I began to chew a hole in my check. This was not going to be a good journey. Francis, meanwhile, was singing away, fascinated by the wondrous contraption plugged into the cigarette lighter whose screen glowed white and filled the car with all sorts of tunes.
Traffic crept along at a blistering pace (all of 2mph) and we inched our way towards the city. At one point, we passed the Nairobi hospital. Francis was keen to point this out and said if I ever needed it, it was right here. If this was a movie, this would have been some very austere foreshadowing. I just hoped that life didn’t imitate art in this particular instance.
I finally arrived downtown and parked across the street at the intercontinental hotel. Upon entry into the parking garage, two men scanned the inside of my car and then passed a mirror attached to a large metal pole underneath the undercarriage to check for bombs. (you think im joking?) nothing like the feeling of safety in downtown.
As I entered the immigration house, my spirits immediately lifted. Contrary to what I had been told the scene was going to be like, the building was empty and so was the line marked visa renewal. I happily strode up to the desk, presented my passport and application to the waiting lady and said nothing.
She finally spoke. ‘what are you doing here in Kenya?’
‘Working for a safari-‘. Not good, wrong answer. Without a work permit, the word work should never leave my mouth.
‘but you don’t have a work permit.’
Shit. ‘right…I know. I didn’t mean working, I just meant that ive been down at a safari camp that is owned by a friend of mine. He works there. Or owns it, whatever’
‘and what have you been doing down there?’
‘driving around, watching animals’
‘driving? Driving a safari car?’
no, its actually a BMW M3. god I hate people. ‘yes, a safari truck, the ones clients use.’ Oh crap, I did it again. I wasn’t really at the top of my bullshit game here and I was quickly digging myself in a hole.
‘how have you been driving, you do not a PSV license to operate a safari car?’
er. ‘I didn’t mean that ive been driving, ive been driven around, you see. around the mara. By people, people with work permits and licenses.’ Im flailing.
‘why have you stayed so long?’
‘they need me there.’ Ive done it again. Im done, kill me now. I was quickly heading up shit creek with a turd for a paddle.
‘if you are not working, why do they need you there?’
‘they are my friends and have been there for a long time. Sometimes its nice to have someone new in camp, they like having me there. Did I mention im their friend. The unemployed, nondriving, legal immigrant friend?’
Within 15 seconds I was dismissed and, judging by the look on her face, judged to be a complete idiot. I could not simply renew the visa since my original stay was longer than 90 days, but rather, I had to apply for alien status. This required me to return with two passport photos and a fistful of cash. I had lost the first battle, brining the running score for my trip to: Kenya 1,682 – Grant 0.
I returned about 15 minutes later and was crestfallen. During my short absence, every single immigrant in Kenya had decided that it was time to renew their visa as well. My once empty line now contained the entire population of India. The place was becoming hot and stinky. Not quite as stinky as the paris metro, but it did smell like food poisoning coming out the wrong end. Blood vessel number two was gone.
So I took up my place in line, waited and then eventually arrived at the front. About 30 seconds and 2,200 shillings I was cast back out to wait amongst the masses. At this point I accidentally got in the way of a soldier guarding the building.
Now im not really sure why the guards are here at all; at the entrance to the building was a metal detector, but with no one supervising it. People walked in and out at will, the detector constantly beeping away warning people about imminent threats such as loose change and key chains. To be honest, I was more scared of the guards than I was of the people. Most had AK-47s (which ive come to fear after my last encounter with one) and one had an HK-MP5.
not to get all Tom Clancy on yall, but the MP5 has a slector switch as a safety. There are three settings; safe, three-round burst, and full automatic. As the guard with the MP5 approached from my blindside, she (yes, she) proceeded to ‘accidentally’ dig the butt of her gun into my ribs and ‘politely’ ask me to move out of her way. All the while, her finger rested just behind the trigger of the weapon, and when I saw this, I also noticed that her selector was on full automatic. Now the gun was either unloaded and this was all a show, or she was the best damn gun safety expert ive ever seen. I spent the next 3 hrs. dodging the swinging barrel (which was at any given time pointed directly at someones chest given how she held the gun) of her gun while she strode around the building on some very official business. This marked the rupture of vessel three.
I waited. And waited, and waited even more for….shit, I had no idea what I was even waiting on. I had a little piece of paper in my hand after forking over my passport and lots of shillings, but I had no idea what I was doing.
I approached the counter numbered 3, I started at number 7, and asked the lady what I was waiting on. She asked for my little slip of paper and told me to take a seat. Defeated, once again. I was fuming. I heard a little pop in my head as the fourth vessel went bust.
I toughed it out for about 20 more min when I went back up to her. She gave me a look as if I was the last person on the face of the earth she wanted to help. In fact, she stared at me, then went back down to her paperwork as I stood before her. I cleared my throat, tapped a finger, and did pretty much everything to let her know I wanted he attention.
Finally, she looked up. I once again asked what I was waiting on. She said it was to be fingerprinted. Fingerprinted? Are you kidding? When I was arrested, the whole arrest, booking, printing, mugshooting and cell assignment went so fast it made my head spin. And here I was waiting on a f***ing fingerprint for three hours for a card that I would get right around the time of my departure from this great nation. This was a futile exercise exacerbated by a level of inefficiency never before seen with mine eyes. That was then end of vessels 5-17. I was well on my way to a coronary.
But alas, I finished. I was passed along between 5 different desks for over four hours to sign a little form, pay a little money and have a little fingerprinting. Francis came back to collect me after his errands and was surprised to find me just exiting the building. We had agreed that if I was done before him that I should not wait, but my lighting fast round through the immigration office gave him enough time to run a telegram to Tanzania on foot. he came back anyways just to make sure it had gone well and that I wasn’t getting screwed. (im sure I got screwed somehow…at least it felt like I did.) for his help and troubles I bought him lunch at the java house.
That’s it for my immigration story. All in all, it sucked. Hope you like the pictures below.
A visa renewal; an easy task, right? Well if ive learned one thing since ive been here, its that nothing is as easy as it should be in Africa. This ended up being a battle, and a near defeat for yours truly, the intrepid traveler.
I arrived in Nairobi on Friday afternoon after another month long stint in the mara, splitting time between naibor and anthony’s camp on the mara river. I wasn’t really looking forward to the stay; my time in Nairobi is about as enjoyable as a walk through downtown Baghdad without a flak jacket. This being said, this go around wasn’t all that bad and boring.
Friday night, after putting in some QT with the clients during the day, I went over to the hyena cottage. (I refer to them as the hyena girls for lack of a better term. I would use names, but I have a feeling that would just confuse yall.) we laid low, watched a movie and ate some take out dinner, and although it was a low key night, it was nice to be around someone my age again and relax without being bombarded with questions from clients to the effect of ‘what do we do if a lion comes into camp tonight? Can we go outside and look at it?’ yes, please do. why don’t you give it a little pet as well.
But Friday night was about the only good night so far. The next morning, after a breakfast with Danielle (ill give the name thing a try) and sarah, i said bye to them as they set off for a conservancy near the Tanzania border to research striped hyenas. Well that’s cool, see yall in a few weeks. They will eventually return to the mara in not too long, or so they’ve said, but who knows. Shortly after their departure I became sick, very very sick.
At first I thought it was malaria, but then the whole stomach business started, so I chose to blame the duck that I had for lunch the day before. That was much easier to do than rush off to the doctor for a malaria test. How, you might ask, can you get malaria while youre on malaria medication? Well, you cant. But I quit my medication about three weeks into the trip. The main warning on the label said avoid prolonged exposure to the sun. that’s a bit like telling an Eskimo to avoid cold weather. It just wasn’t an option. So I quit, and became an expert mosquito killer. So I quit, and became and expert mosquito killer.
I spent pretty much all of Saturday and Sunday on the couch. I watched cricket, rugby, soccer, read and drank tea. Now those are some activities that really get your blood flowing. It was exhilarating. The only thing that interrupted the monotony was little oscar rushing into the den to see if I wanted to kick the ball around with him or watch some high quality bbc kids programming. I wanted to do neither, but I didn’t really have a choice.
Around last night I started to feel better, which was good because I knew that Monday was going to suck; it was time to renew the visa. This process took no less than five hours, and cost me about 19 burst blood vessels in my head.
I had been warned by Fiona that the Nyayo immigration house downtown was a place where logic failed, but this didn’t really set in until I arrived at the place, which is smack in the center of downtown Nairobbery.
I set off from Karen with Francis, a messenger from Fiona’s office, Francis, as my guide. We drove along smoothly for about 22 seconds until we turned a corner and hit bumper to bumper traffic on the Ngong Rd. leading to downtown. I was stuck behind a city works vehicle that put out enough black smoke in one belch to give the entire city a right case of the black lung. I was miserable, it was raining and I still felt a bit sick. The matatu (bus of death, in cast you don’t rememeber) behind me started blaring on his horn, and then attempted to slip around me on the outside, in this case being the left since these silly people drive on the wrong side of the road. But no, I wasn’t having any of this today. If I was waiting, so was this asshole. I pulled the car on the shoulder, much to the dismay of the expert driver behind me, who nearly relieved me of the back third of my little Subaru. I held strong, withstood the verbal abuse, stones and insults being hurled at me and kept the matatu at bay.
Not long after he began to lay on his horn for no less than five minutes. This, combined with the stress of traffic and the lingering effects of some vicious peking duck, cost me the first ruptured blood vessel in my head. My temperature was rising, my eyes were filling with fire and I began to chew a hole in my check. This was not going to be a good journey. Francis, meanwhile, was singing away, fascinated by the wondrous contraption plugged into the cigarette lighter whose screen glowed white and filled the car with all sorts of tunes.
Traffic crept along at a blistering pace (all of 2mph) and we inched our way towards the city. At one point, we passed the Nairobi hospital. Francis was keen to point this out and said if I ever needed it, it was right here. If this was a movie, this would have been some very austere foreshadowing. I just hoped that life didn’t imitate art in this particular instance.
I finally arrived downtown and parked across the street at the intercontinental hotel. Upon entry into the parking garage, two men scanned the inside of my car and then passed a mirror attached to a large metal pole underneath the undercarriage to check for bombs. (you think im joking?) nothing like the feeling of safety in downtown.
As I entered the immigration house, my spirits immediately lifted. Contrary to what I had been told the scene was going to be like, the building was empty and so was the line marked visa renewal. I happily strode up to the desk, presented my passport and application to the waiting lady and said nothing.
She finally spoke. ‘what are you doing here in Kenya?’
‘Working for a safari-‘. Not good, wrong answer. Without a work permit, the word work should never leave my mouth.
‘but you don’t have a work permit.’
Shit. ‘right…I know. I didn’t mean working, I just meant that ive been down at a safari camp that is owned by a friend of mine. He works there. Or owns it, whatever’
‘and what have you been doing down there?’
‘driving around, watching animals’
‘driving? Driving a safari car?’
no, its actually a BMW M3. god I hate people. ‘yes, a safari truck, the ones clients use.’ Oh crap, I did it again. I wasn’t really at the top of my bullshit game here and I was quickly digging myself in a hole.
‘how have you been driving, you do not a PSV license to operate a safari car?’
er. ‘I didn’t mean that ive been driving, ive been driven around, you see. around the mara. By people, people with work permits and licenses.’ Im flailing.
‘why have you stayed so long?’
‘they need me there.’ Ive done it again. Im done, kill me now. I was quickly heading up shit creek with a turd for a paddle.
‘if you are not working, why do they need you there?’
‘they are my friends and have been there for a long time. Sometimes its nice to have someone new in camp, they like having me there. Did I mention im their friend. The unemployed, nondriving, legal immigrant friend?’
Within 15 seconds I was dismissed and, judging by the look on her face, judged to be a complete idiot. I could not simply renew the visa since my original stay was longer than 90 days, but rather, I had to apply for alien status. This required me to return with two passport photos and a fistful of cash. I had lost the first battle, brining the running score for my trip to: Kenya 1,682 – Grant 0.
I returned about 15 minutes later and was crestfallen. During my short absence, every single immigrant in Kenya had decided that it was time to renew their visa as well. My once empty line now contained the entire population of India. The place was becoming hot and stinky. Not quite as stinky as the paris metro, but it did smell like food poisoning coming out the wrong end. Blood vessel number two was gone.
So I took up my place in line, waited and then eventually arrived at the front. About 30 seconds and 2,200 shillings I was cast back out to wait amongst the masses. At this point I accidentally got in the way of a soldier guarding the building.
Now im not really sure why the guards are here at all; at the entrance to the building was a metal detector, but with no one supervising it. People walked in and out at will, the detector constantly beeping away warning people about imminent threats such as loose change and key chains. To be honest, I was more scared of the guards than I was of the people. Most had AK-47s (which ive come to fear after my last encounter with one) and one had an HK-MP5.
not to get all Tom Clancy on yall, but the MP5 has a slector switch as a safety. There are three settings; safe, three-round burst, and full automatic. As the guard with the MP5 approached from my blindside, she (yes, she) proceeded to ‘accidentally’ dig the butt of her gun into my ribs and ‘politely’ ask me to move out of her way. All the while, her finger rested just behind the trigger of the weapon, and when I saw this, I also noticed that her selector was on full automatic. Now the gun was either unloaded and this was all a show, or she was the best damn gun safety expert ive ever seen. I spent the next 3 hrs. dodging the swinging barrel (which was at any given time pointed directly at someones chest given how she held the gun) of her gun while she strode around the building on some very official business. This marked the rupture of vessel three.
I waited. And waited, and waited even more for….shit, I had no idea what I was even waiting on. I had a little piece of paper in my hand after forking over my passport and lots of shillings, but I had no idea what I was doing.
I approached the counter numbered 3, I started at number 7, and asked the lady what I was waiting on. She asked for my little slip of paper and told me to take a seat. Defeated, once again. I was fuming. I heard a little pop in my head as the fourth vessel went bust.
I toughed it out for about 20 more min when I went back up to her. She gave me a look as if I was the last person on the face of the earth she wanted to help. In fact, she stared at me, then went back down to her paperwork as I stood before her. I cleared my throat, tapped a finger, and did pretty much everything to let her know I wanted he attention.
Finally, she looked up. I once again asked what I was waiting on. She said it was to be fingerprinted. Fingerprinted? Are you kidding? When I was arrested, the whole arrest, booking, printing, mugshooting and cell assignment went so fast it made my head spin. And here I was waiting on a f***ing fingerprint for three hours for a card that I would get right around the time of my departure from this great nation. This was a futile exercise exacerbated by a level of inefficiency never before seen with mine eyes. That was then end of vessels 5-17. I was well on my way to a coronary.
But alas, I finished. I was passed along between 5 different desks for over four hours to sign a little form, pay a little money and have a little fingerprinting. Francis came back to collect me after his errands and was surprised to find me just exiting the building. We had agreed that if I was done before him that I should not wait, but my lighting fast round through the immigration office gave him enough time to run a telegram to Tanzania on foot. he came back anyways just to make sure it had gone well and that I wasn’t getting screwed. (im sure I got screwed somehow…at least it felt like I did.) for his help and troubles I bought him lunch at the java house.
That’s it for my immigration story. All in all, it sucked. Hope you like the pictures below.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
just photos
not the best pic, but i still like it. shes in full stride after a tommy with her cub off to the side. the gazelle won
some very thoughtful looking young lions.
cheetah mom w/ cubs seen below
7mos old cubs playing
young leopard crossing the talek river. we had just watched her hunt gazelle. she lost
black rhino on the ongata possee. only 20 in the mara, very rare. the second one ive seen in three months
a very hungry looking lion walking towards my car
my favorite bird; lilac-breasted roller
lion cub in a tree. they are terrible climbers. she fell out soon after this photo
mom her young cub. sadly, this cub has since been killed by a lion. not the same cheetahs from above
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