Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
the biggest lie ever told...by me
Lately ive been on fire here. Its all about who you know….
My friend, billy, whom most of you know from my previous adventure tales, came into town the other day (and by town I mean he caught a bus to the bustling metropolis that is talek) and came to stay for a few days in the mara.
When he came in, it was night time, and that means no driving in the mara. But like I said, its all about who you know. We gave the sector warden, naurori, a quick ring and since we had already been using his car for the day, he agreed to drive me to talek to meet billy.
Like I said before, the mara is run by a mafia, and this guy, the sector warden, is like the tony soprano of his area. He runs this place and my being in his car at the time was a bit terrifying. I had just started a small tribal war among the masai in camp after a little misunderstanding, and this guy that I was with is pretty much the boss of them all. So when they complained to him, hes the one that had to work it all out. For the first part of the ride I was pretty sure the posse in the back, armed to the teeth with various spears and clubs, was the hit squad. But alas, the drive ended with some nice heterosexual handholding between men. (not my idea, its just the custom here. Still straight.)
Anyways, we collected billy and we were off to a nearby lodge for a free night because I knew one of the balloon pilots. Not only did we get a free night there, we got free food, drinks, and balloon flights in the morning. Roughly about $1,000 in free stuff. No exaggeration, the balloon flight would have been $385 alone. Damn im good.
Then, more free stuff. Three nights at naibor, all you can eat and drink, and we got our hands on one of the company cars for game drives. Not only that, but billy was prepared to take a 8hr bus back to Nairobi when his stay came to an end. Nonsense. If theres one thing ive learned out here, its how to go as many days as possible without showering. If there is one other thing ive learned out here, its how to get free stuff.
I took him to the airstrip on the day of his departure and as soon as I saw the first plane land, I realized it was a private charter. If they are dropping clients, they usually go back empty and if you play your cards right, you can hitch a ride. After a bit of bs and pretending that I actually know the guy who works for the guy that the pilot is friends with, billy was riding shotgun for free. Not totally free though. The clients that had just gotten off the plane had, in effect, paid for his trip to the tune of about $700 since it was a charter.
But the bottom line is…
I have become the king of bullshit. Its great. Now don’t get me wrong, the blog and such is true, but ive become really tired of telling the same stories to clients over the past four months, so every now and then you have to spice things up, you know.
You all remember abbie from the last story. Girl, about my age, managed camp while managers were on leave, etc. well anyways, abbie and I had both become very tired of telling the same story over and over again so, just before lunch, we made a deal that we each had to tell three lies at dinner.
Well, abbie ended up choking on a chicken bone at lunch, getting it lodged in her throat and having to be flown back to Nairobi. So that sucked. She lived and is fine now, but that left me alone for the night. I decided now that I could tell the biggest, baddest and best lie that I have ever even thought of….
Did you know that I once worked for an anti-poaching unit along the congo-rwanda border? Its true. (no, its not.)
I was educated at michigan state university where I majored in zoology, with a concentration in conservation. After my junior year, I decided that I wanted to work in mountain gorilla conservation. My family is very involved in African wildlife conservation because my grandfather, who is german, was actually raised in Tanzania and did some work with the chimps in mohale before moving to Rwanda to work with gorillas. He even worked with dianne fossey. So gorillas were in my blood. (lies, all lies.)
Given our connection to African conservation, I was able to meet a booster who funded the mtn. gorilla fund and in turn, the anti-poaching units that protected them. I spoke with him and told him that, more than anything else, I wanted to work with the anti-poachers. Given my family’s strong connection to African conservation, my wish was met and in june of last year, I was off to Rwanda. (actually, I was in Prague sitting at a pub drinking dollar beers with lots of Americans and Czechs. Details.)
I arrived in Rwanda not really knowing what to expect. But in short, I met up with my colleagues in the anti-poaching school, not far from the border where many of the gorillas reside. Now this lie was timely; if you saw newsweek a bit ago, a story about the killing of 6 gorillas was on the cover, the killings apparently a threat to the warden of the park because of his anti-logging stance.
I spent six weeks in the school learning about gorillas, the habitat and the major threats to them. Not only this, because ‘we’ are never unarmed, I was trained to use an AK-47, the gun of choice in the third world. I learned some basic combat maneuvers, how to use and clean my gatt, and was instilled with the belief that if it came down to it, I had to be ready to die protecting these amazing animals. Wow grant, youre so brave. (and full of shit)
The clients were amazed, aghast and in disbelief. Not so much disbelief that they could not believe be, but just generally amazed at what I had done in life. I am awesome.
We began our first patrol in late july. Armed all the while, we protected the border from loggers and poachers wanting to come in from the congo and take the precious trees that the gorillas lived amongst. To do this, they simply shot the gorillas to drive them out, or shot all but the young ones which they would then sell to zoos for a tidy profit. It was my valiant job to accompany these soliders on their mission to protect these gorillas. End of story, but not quite…
‘well I heard that they have a shoot first, ask questions never philosophy when it comes to dealing with poachers in Africa,’ asked one client.
I raised my wine glass, looked pensive for a moment and replied. ‘its more of a shoot first ask questions never, to be honest.’ Little gasps are heard all around the table. This is so fun, and they are none the wiser.
‘so, did you ever actually like, get in any…I mean, have any encounters with poachers?’ asked another.
‘yes, of course, it comes with the territory,’ I answered.
Silence. Everyone wanted to ask the question, but no one was sure how to do it. So I let the story fade away and changed the subject. I could have said just about anything at this moment because they were so captivated, but instead I went to the bathroom to let them mull it over a bit.
After dinner I went to the fire with a young honeymoon couple and after a few drinks, they decided to press a little more into my saving of the gorillas.
‘so let me get this straight, you actually got into fights with these poachers?’ he asked.
‘well, yes. Its inevitable given the state of things in the Congo/Rwanda region and the markets that poaching involves. They are there, and so are we. So we run into each other.’
‘so did anyone ever get killed?’
‘none of the good guys. You know, most of the time you run into them and you cant see them, only hear them. So you get these blind gun battles and you hear all sorts of noises and never really know whats going on. But we weren’t very good with body counts. Bodies equal paperwork, and they aren’t very good at that. No one cares about a dead poacher,’ I told them. ‘the only numbers that matter are the numbers of gorillas in youre area, the rest is just details, details to be swept under the rug.’
They were stunned, and rather gullible. Anyone that knows the first thing about gorillas and their protection would have seen that I was totally full of it, 100% lies. But these were naïve American tourists, still calling lions tigers and asking if a buffalo here was the same as an American bison. But it was great, the most fun dinner I ever had.
Anyways, im off tomorrow and it sucks. Just at the end of my stay have I managed to make a good amount of friends, and now its time to go. But at least I have something I can come back to if I want. A place to live, a job, friends…etc. and theres still so much I want to do in Kenya. The mara was amazing, but theres lots of other stuff out there. Pipe dreams may turn into a reality, and if destiny is kind, ive got the rest of my time to see it through.
So this is my last post from Kenya, for this go around at least. Thank you all for tuning in to the circus that has been my life. I will see most of you very shortly. And if not, well you probably didn’t want to see me either…
My friend, billy, whom most of you know from my previous adventure tales, came into town the other day (and by town I mean he caught a bus to the bustling metropolis that is talek) and came to stay for a few days in the mara.
When he came in, it was night time, and that means no driving in the mara. But like I said, its all about who you know. We gave the sector warden, naurori, a quick ring and since we had already been using his car for the day, he agreed to drive me to talek to meet billy.
Like I said before, the mara is run by a mafia, and this guy, the sector warden, is like the tony soprano of his area. He runs this place and my being in his car at the time was a bit terrifying. I had just started a small tribal war among the masai in camp after a little misunderstanding, and this guy that I was with is pretty much the boss of them all. So when they complained to him, hes the one that had to work it all out. For the first part of the ride I was pretty sure the posse in the back, armed to the teeth with various spears and clubs, was the hit squad. But alas, the drive ended with some nice heterosexual handholding between men. (not my idea, its just the custom here. Still straight.)
Anyways, we collected billy and we were off to a nearby lodge for a free night because I knew one of the balloon pilots. Not only did we get a free night there, we got free food, drinks, and balloon flights in the morning. Roughly about $1,000 in free stuff. No exaggeration, the balloon flight would have been $385 alone. Damn im good.
Then, more free stuff. Three nights at naibor, all you can eat and drink, and we got our hands on one of the company cars for game drives. Not only that, but billy was prepared to take a 8hr bus back to Nairobi when his stay came to an end. Nonsense. If theres one thing ive learned out here, its how to go as many days as possible without showering. If there is one other thing ive learned out here, its how to get free stuff.
I took him to the airstrip on the day of his departure and as soon as I saw the first plane land, I realized it was a private charter. If they are dropping clients, they usually go back empty and if you play your cards right, you can hitch a ride. After a bit of bs and pretending that I actually know the guy who works for the guy that the pilot is friends with, billy was riding shotgun for free. Not totally free though. The clients that had just gotten off the plane had, in effect, paid for his trip to the tune of about $700 since it was a charter.
But the bottom line is…
I have become the king of bullshit. Its great. Now don’t get me wrong, the blog and such is true, but ive become really tired of telling the same stories to clients over the past four months, so every now and then you have to spice things up, you know.
You all remember abbie from the last story. Girl, about my age, managed camp while managers were on leave, etc. well anyways, abbie and I had both become very tired of telling the same story over and over again so, just before lunch, we made a deal that we each had to tell three lies at dinner.
Well, abbie ended up choking on a chicken bone at lunch, getting it lodged in her throat and having to be flown back to Nairobi. So that sucked. She lived and is fine now, but that left me alone for the night. I decided now that I could tell the biggest, baddest and best lie that I have ever even thought of….
Did you know that I once worked for an anti-poaching unit along the congo-rwanda border? Its true. (no, its not.)
I was educated at michigan state university where I majored in zoology, with a concentration in conservation. After my junior year, I decided that I wanted to work in mountain gorilla conservation. My family is very involved in African wildlife conservation because my grandfather, who is german, was actually raised in Tanzania and did some work with the chimps in mohale before moving to Rwanda to work with gorillas. He even worked with dianne fossey. So gorillas were in my blood. (lies, all lies.)
Given our connection to African conservation, I was able to meet a booster who funded the mtn. gorilla fund and in turn, the anti-poaching units that protected them. I spoke with him and told him that, more than anything else, I wanted to work with the anti-poachers. Given my family’s strong connection to African conservation, my wish was met and in june of last year, I was off to Rwanda. (actually, I was in Prague sitting at a pub drinking dollar beers with lots of Americans and Czechs. Details.)
I arrived in Rwanda not really knowing what to expect. But in short, I met up with my colleagues in the anti-poaching school, not far from the border where many of the gorillas reside. Now this lie was timely; if you saw newsweek a bit ago, a story about the killing of 6 gorillas was on the cover, the killings apparently a threat to the warden of the park because of his anti-logging stance.
I spent six weeks in the school learning about gorillas, the habitat and the major threats to them. Not only this, because ‘we’ are never unarmed, I was trained to use an AK-47, the gun of choice in the third world. I learned some basic combat maneuvers, how to use and clean my gatt, and was instilled with the belief that if it came down to it, I had to be ready to die protecting these amazing animals. Wow grant, youre so brave. (and full of shit)
The clients were amazed, aghast and in disbelief. Not so much disbelief that they could not believe be, but just generally amazed at what I had done in life. I am awesome.
We began our first patrol in late july. Armed all the while, we protected the border from loggers and poachers wanting to come in from the congo and take the precious trees that the gorillas lived amongst. To do this, they simply shot the gorillas to drive them out, or shot all but the young ones which they would then sell to zoos for a tidy profit. It was my valiant job to accompany these soliders on their mission to protect these gorillas. End of story, but not quite…
‘well I heard that they have a shoot first, ask questions never philosophy when it comes to dealing with poachers in Africa,’ asked one client.
I raised my wine glass, looked pensive for a moment and replied. ‘its more of a shoot first ask questions never, to be honest.’ Little gasps are heard all around the table. This is so fun, and they are none the wiser.
‘so, did you ever actually like, get in any…I mean, have any encounters with poachers?’ asked another.
‘yes, of course, it comes with the territory,’ I answered.
Silence. Everyone wanted to ask the question, but no one was sure how to do it. So I let the story fade away and changed the subject. I could have said just about anything at this moment because they were so captivated, but instead I went to the bathroom to let them mull it over a bit.
After dinner I went to the fire with a young honeymoon couple and after a few drinks, they decided to press a little more into my saving of the gorillas.
‘so let me get this straight, you actually got into fights with these poachers?’ he asked.
‘well, yes. Its inevitable given the state of things in the Congo/Rwanda region and the markets that poaching involves. They are there, and so are we. So we run into each other.’
‘so did anyone ever get killed?’
‘none of the good guys. You know, most of the time you run into them and you cant see them, only hear them. So you get these blind gun battles and you hear all sorts of noises and never really know whats going on. But we weren’t very good with body counts. Bodies equal paperwork, and they aren’t very good at that. No one cares about a dead poacher,’ I told them. ‘the only numbers that matter are the numbers of gorillas in youre area, the rest is just details, details to be swept under the rug.’
They were stunned, and rather gullible. Anyone that knows the first thing about gorillas and their protection would have seen that I was totally full of it, 100% lies. But these were naïve American tourists, still calling lions tigers and asking if a buffalo here was the same as an American bison. But it was great, the most fun dinner I ever had.
Anyways, im off tomorrow and it sucks. Just at the end of my stay have I managed to make a good amount of friends, and now its time to go. But at least I have something I can come back to if I want. A place to live, a job, friends…etc. and theres still so much I want to do in Kenya. The mara was amazing, but theres lots of other stuff out there. Pipe dreams may turn into a reality, and if destiny is kind, ive got the rest of my time to see it through.
So this is my last post from Kenya, for this go around at least. Thank you all for tuning in to the circus that has been my life. I will see most of you very shortly. And if not, well you probably didn’t want to see me either…
Monday, October 15, 2007
just photos
on the hunt for a warthog. she got it.
rachel feeding a giraffe at hog ranch, where some friends i met live. they come in most nights around 630-7 and just hang out in the yard.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
babysitting...
Sometimes I find myself wondering what im really doing here. It’s a long way for a kid from texas to travel for a bit of life experience, or whatever. Call it what you will. Finding yourself. Defying death. Being totally and utterly lost. Soul searching. Babysitting.
Babysitting?
Yeah, you read me. Babysitting. I feel like that’s sort of what ive been doing lately in this profound, eye-opening quest to discover what exactly is in this youthful soul of mine. So far, ive found theres a bit too much vodka and not enough patience it in. well done, grant.
Patience is necessary when dealing with children, and unfortunately its rarer for me to be patient than it is for an irish dockworker to be sober. It just doesn’t happen. Especially at the end of a four and a half month stay when youre managing and camp and fielding complaints like ‘my bathroom smells.’ To which I answer, ‘when is the last time you used it.’
‘about five minutes ago.’
‘jumpin jesus, you just took a shit and now it smells? Ill get right on that, sir. And while im at it, im gonna recommend you lay off the curry surprise.’
Shoot me. In the face.
But now, not only is it clients that test my patience, it’s the maasai that I work with on a daily basis. For the most part, they are a proud people, a joy to be around and lots of fun to work with. But when they are nearing the end of their rope, they become a bit difficult.
Not difficult in the sense that they are going to yell at you, but difficult in the sense that they will throw down their mighty war toys with which they slew their first lion, (the story of which is usually complete and utter bullshit) and plop down on the ground with their legs crossed under their red blanket/dress-like-thing , and sulk. This tantrum resembles that of a small girl whom you just told will have to miss her ballet lesson, and then thrashes about and throws her toys all over the playroom. It is a hysterical sight.
For being such reputed warriors, they really can be a girls blouse sometimes. For instance, our ‘fearless’ guide petro called me the other day in a state of complete panic. I thought his prized heifer had just died and the family was going to lose the plot. But no. he was a bit upset that I didn’t inform him that he would be packing a sundowner for the day. Tragic.
At the time he called, he still had 2.5hrs before leaving for his game drive. Plenty of time to pack a cooler and throw some chairs in the car. Enough time even for a paraplegic to accomplish the task.
Not only did he complain that he did not receive enough warning, but that he could not possibly fit the necessary supplies in his tank-sized land crusier; he was carrying a nearly full load of 5 passengers. To fit the necessary supplies would have been easier than inserting a baby’s fist into mick jagger’s mouth. But no, he could not possibly be bothered with such a complex task. It was as if you had asked a blind man to solve a rubik’s cube.
Now don’t get me wrong, petro is a smart guy. Its just that like some maasai, he can be a bit lazy. They live a laidback lifestyle. Hell, they live in houses made of poo and sticks. How much more carefree do you get? But they hate when their work taxes them beyond the normal call of duty.
I explained to him that he had no choice, he was taking the drinks with him and he had to make it work. In this business, you cant tell the client no, although at times you might have a slight desire to bring about a more speedy trip to st peters gate for them. Petro whined over the phone to me in maa (their language) and although I don’t understand a lick of it, it sounded much like the equivalent of our ‘but I don’t waaannnnaaaaa!’
But sometimes these guys have balls the size of Bombay. Just last night, as a night askari escorted two clients back to their tent, number seven, which lies on the very edge of camp, they came upon a full grown male leopard. (his name, thanks to the bbc show big car diary, is golden boy. But that sounds gayer than rainbows). hes huge. ive seen him hang a full grown wildebeest in a tree.
He came across the path about 3 yards in front of them and the askari froze. The clients shit themselves, and then began to run. He reacted in an instant and had both of them by the collars as the leopard tensed and crouched on the path before them. He kept them calm and shown his light right in the leopards face. After a brief stare down, the leopard uncoiled, strode quietly away and took up a place near tent one. Had those clients and the guard run, they would have been goners. You become, to use an earlier analogy, like a giant ball on a string if you run. They will chase and then maul you.
By the way, tent one, that’s mine. Awesome. So at the time our leopard is traipsing through camp, im filling my soul, which if you remember contains no patience, with vodka, lime and soda around the camp fire with a group of five from costa rica. My Spanish is flowing as smooth as tap water in Honduras; a bit rusty and coming out in sputtering gasps. It doesn’t really help that when I cant remember a word in Spanish ill throw in the Swahili equivalent. It makes absolutely no sense to these people, but it makes me seem worldly and sophisticated, so I go with it.
About this time our trusty night guards inform me that there is a leopard just beyond the veranda of my tent. More exciting animal encounters in store?
Id rather there be lions or buffalo, because at least you can see those. If a leopard wants you, the last thing youll see is its open mouth flying at your throat. I better have another vodka.
While having our last drink around the fire, the clients and I hear something that resembles the sawing of big, heavy logs. This is a leopard.
‘ay dios mio,’ says the tica, ‘que es eso.’
‘no te preocupes, es un…mdawadawa.’ No idea how to say leopard in spanish, but they think I have just told them that a popular Kenyan cocktail (a dawa) is making all sorts of noise in camp. As im sure you can see, I have just said, ‘don’t worry, it’s a leopard.’ Good thing they didn’t understand, because I think leopard would, in fact, inspire a great deal of worry.
Confused, the conversation fizzles and I do not elaborate on the subject. Its time for me to return to my tent. Leaving the fireside chat, I hear that terrible cocktail roaring away again, and he is right next to my tent. But I cant see the bastard.
So heres the visual. I have a terrified maasai on my arm, spear thrust out in front of him, creeping back along the path to my tent. We are constantly turning circles with our backs to each other, flashlights scanning up and down, all the while our legs are a bit bent at the knees and we are stepping so as to make as little noise as possible. The slightest creak makes us jolt and this guy is grabbing my arm so tight that I now have fingernail scratches.
Now I have a question: what the hell is the, the goat herding, lion killing, spear toting warrior, doing holding onto me? Shouldn’t I be the one grabbing at him? I mean hell, im the one that’s been sitting around the fire sipping vodka and he just stared down this thing not 15min ago. All of the sudden, im around and now hes back to infantile form.
It seems I have once again found myself babysitting.
Babysitting?
Yeah, you read me. Babysitting. I feel like that’s sort of what ive been doing lately in this profound, eye-opening quest to discover what exactly is in this youthful soul of mine. So far, ive found theres a bit too much vodka and not enough patience it in. well done, grant.
Patience is necessary when dealing with children, and unfortunately its rarer for me to be patient than it is for an irish dockworker to be sober. It just doesn’t happen. Especially at the end of a four and a half month stay when youre managing and camp and fielding complaints like ‘my bathroom smells.’ To which I answer, ‘when is the last time you used it.’
‘about five minutes ago.’
‘jumpin jesus, you just took a shit and now it smells? Ill get right on that, sir. And while im at it, im gonna recommend you lay off the curry surprise.’
Shoot me. In the face.
But now, not only is it clients that test my patience, it’s the maasai that I work with on a daily basis. For the most part, they are a proud people, a joy to be around and lots of fun to work with. But when they are nearing the end of their rope, they become a bit difficult.
Not difficult in the sense that they are going to yell at you, but difficult in the sense that they will throw down their mighty war toys with which they slew their first lion, (the story of which is usually complete and utter bullshit) and plop down on the ground with their legs crossed under their red blanket/dress-like-thing , and sulk. This tantrum resembles that of a small girl whom you just told will have to miss her ballet lesson, and then thrashes about and throws her toys all over the playroom. It is a hysterical sight.
For being such reputed warriors, they really can be a girls blouse sometimes. For instance, our ‘fearless’ guide petro called me the other day in a state of complete panic. I thought his prized heifer had just died and the family was going to lose the plot. But no. he was a bit upset that I didn’t inform him that he would be packing a sundowner for the day. Tragic.
At the time he called, he still had 2.5hrs before leaving for his game drive. Plenty of time to pack a cooler and throw some chairs in the car. Enough time even for a paraplegic to accomplish the task.
Not only did he complain that he did not receive enough warning, but that he could not possibly fit the necessary supplies in his tank-sized land crusier; he was carrying a nearly full load of 5 passengers. To fit the necessary supplies would have been easier than inserting a baby’s fist into mick jagger’s mouth. But no, he could not possibly be bothered with such a complex task. It was as if you had asked a blind man to solve a rubik’s cube.
Now don’t get me wrong, petro is a smart guy. Its just that like some maasai, he can be a bit lazy. They live a laidback lifestyle. Hell, they live in houses made of poo and sticks. How much more carefree do you get? But they hate when their work taxes them beyond the normal call of duty.
I explained to him that he had no choice, he was taking the drinks with him and he had to make it work. In this business, you cant tell the client no, although at times you might have a slight desire to bring about a more speedy trip to st peters gate for them. Petro whined over the phone to me in maa (their language) and although I don’t understand a lick of it, it sounded much like the equivalent of our ‘but I don’t waaannnnaaaaa!’
But sometimes these guys have balls the size of Bombay. Just last night, as a night askari escorted two clients back to their tent, number seven, which lies on the very edge of camp, they came upon a full grown male leopard. (his name, thanks to the bbc show big car diary, is golden boy. But that sounds gayer than rainbows). hes huge. ive seen him hang a full grown wildebeest in a tree.
He came across the path about 3 yards in front of them and the askari froze. The clients shit themselves, and then began to run. He reacted in an instant and had both of them by the collars as the leopard tensed and crouched on the path before them. He kept them calm and shown his light right in the leopards face. After a brief stare down, the leopard uncoiled, strode quietly away and took up a place near tent one. Had those clients and the guard run, they would have been goners. You become, to use an earlier analogy, like a giant ball on a string if you run. They will chase and then maul you.
By the way, tent one, that’s mine. Awesome. So at the time our leopard is traipsing through camp, im filling my soul, which if you remember contains no patience, with vodka, lime and soda around the camp fire with a group of five from costa rica. My Spanish is flowing as smooth as tap water in Honduras; a bit rusty and coming out in sputtering gasps. It doesn’t really help that when I cant remember a word in Spanish ill throw in the Swahili equivalent. It makes absolutely no sense to these people, but it makes me seem worldly and sophisticated, so I go with it.
About this time our trusty night guards inform me that there is a leopard just beyond the veranda of my tent. More exciting animal encounters in store?
Id rather there be lions or buffalo, because at least you can see those. If a leopard wants you, the last thing youll see is its open mouth flying at your throat. I better have another vodka.
While having our last drink around the fire, the clients and I hear something that resembles the sawing of big, heavy logs. This is a leopard.
‘ay dios mio,’ says the tica, ‘que es eso.’
‘no te preocupes, es un…mdawadawa.’ No idea how to say leopard in spanish, but they think I have just told them that a popular Kenyan cocktail (a dawa) is making all sorts of noise in camp. As im sure you can see, I have just said, ‘don’t worry, it’s a leopard.’ Good thing they didn’t understand, because I think leopard would, in fact, inspire a great deal of worry.
Confused, the conversation fizzles and I do not elaborate on the subject. Its time for me to return to my tent. Leaving the fireside chat, I hear that terrible cocktail roaring away again, and he is right next to my tent. But I cant see the bastard.
So heres the visual. I have a terrified maasai on my arm, spear thrust out in front of him, creeping back along the path to my tent. We are constantly turning circles with our backs to each other, flashlights scanning up and down, all the while our legs are a bit bent at the knees and we are stepping so as to make as little noise as possible. The slightest creak makes us jolt and this guy is grabbing my arm so tight that I now have fingernail scratches.
Now I have a question: what the hell is the, the goat herding, lion killing, spear toting warrior, doing holding onto me? Shouldn’t I be the one grabbing at him? I mean hell, im the one that’s been sitting around the fire sipping vodka and he just stared down this thing not 15min ago. All of the sudden, im around and now hes back to infantile form.
It seems I have once again found myself babysitting.
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