TUESDAY. AMBOSELI NATIONAL PARK.

Egyptian goose at a watering hole.

You must be in a covered vehicle to visit Amboseli National Park. Ol Donyo Wuas has one covered Range Rover so one group will visit every day for a week. Hilary and her pals were the first to go and reported that giraffe and elephant walk right up to the jeep. They had a wonderful lunch that Moses prepared on the top of a grassy hill overlooking the park.

Our day came and Ron, Michael, Paul, Kip and I set out for the two-hour drive to Amboseli after breakfast. We were familiar with most of the drive after visiting a town near the park a few days earlier so the trip doesn’t feel very long.

Our guide, Jonathan, informs us that we can’t get out of the jeep for any reason once we enter the park. Not even to pee. That news delights me because I hate peeing in the bush. The other rule is that you must stay on the road. No off-roading is allowed.

We stop inside the gate so Jonathan can pay. A few Maasai are ready to trade or sell. Michael buys a few bracelets. Jonathan returns and we drive into the park. Not far in, we see three small giraffe on the side of the road, their legs akimbo drinking out of a small watering hole. It was the first time that I wanted to get out of the jeep.

The land is more what I expected Africa to look like; dusty roads and flat, dry land surrounded at great distances by mountains.

There’s a herd of elephant heading our way. Jonathan stopped the jeep on the road and we wait. The elephants get closer and closer walking in single file or in pairs just like in Dumbo. They get closer but not louder. There’s barely a rustle as they pass in front of us, tusks rocking back and forth, feet padding along the ground. There is a baby surrounded by older elephants in the middle of the pack. We coo and purr over it. Several young males are trailing behind protectively. The last elephant passes silently in front of us and we drive to a palm tree grove.


We all have to pee, so Jonathan turns onto a path with a “do not enter” sign through thick trees whose palms stretch in all directions.

After a few turns we enter a clearing of neat tents with elephant skulls lining the paths between them. Jonathan parks and two men approach and welcome us. After taking care of business, we are given a tour of the Elephant Rescue camp.

It’s a 30-year-old project and each elephant in Amboseli has a name and is watched and protected by the organization. The elephant skulls are from animals that died naturally, even the tiny skulls. On one of the biggest skulls you can see the honeycomb cartilage that houses their brains. That's why the elephant’s head is actually very light. They don't have a heavy skull.



We leave the elephant preserve camp and drive around the park. Jonathan slows at a pond with reeds and stops. The boys and I are talking and comparing binoculars when Jonathan turns around and says, “Pea-pole. Hip-owe time.”

We look at the pond and a largue head with tiny ears appears above the water’s surface. Hippos.

It’s dusty and we’re getting hungry but Jonathan keeps driving around the park. We help a white mini-van stranded on the road by pulling it until the engine starts. Maybe they’re Germans. Possibly English. Their teeth are pretty bad but their clothes are kind of hip.

Once the van disappears, Jonathan turns off the road and across a bumpy patch of ground. He says it’s an elephant crossing. The mud with deep elephant tracks has hardened into ruts, making the jeep jostle and bounce so much that we have to hold on tight so we don’t fly out. I was getting annoyed and a little sick when the ground evened out and we stopped bouncing.

I said, “Jonathan, shouldn’t we have lunch?” with a whine that I couldn’t cover.

Spying a lone tree in the cracked, dry desert, Jonathan drives toward it. It is the only thing standing as far as we could see, even in the wavy marsh heat of the day. Jonathan stops under the little shade the tree provides and quickly unpacks lunch and opens a bag with cokes and ginger beer telling us the tree is called “fever tree,” a special tree that has survived the destruction of the elephants.

Jonathan puts the makings for sandwiches on the hood of the jeep. I’m opening containers with Focaccia bread and sliced ham and cheese. The guys are a short distance away taking pictures.

I walk to where Ron is standing and whisper, “Where’s my mountain picnic with tree-trunk seats and a view of the park Hilary told us about?”

From behind me, Jonathan says, “I see movement.”

I run to the jeep and hand Jonathan my binoculars. Putting the glasses to his eyes, he scans the horizon.

“Cheetah,” He says. “Pack up.”

Everyone’s in motion throwing meat and bread back into bags and drowning our drinks as we pile into the jeep. Jonathan jumps behind the wheel and we takes off across the hot desert. The tires loose traction as we drive onto a moist watering hole and pass one, two, three, four, five, six cheetah. They walk single file, hunched over looking at us drive right next to them. There’s just enough moisture on the ground to send us swerving in front of the cats.

“It’s a mother and her cubs,” says Jonathan coming to a stop a couple of feet away from the animals. They stop and look at us, panting. We don’t have good cameras but we try and get off a few shots as the cheetah family turns away and slowly bounce back the way they had come. When they reach a grassy area with cape buffalo and impala, one by one they sit down in the tall grass. We follow slowly and stop a short distance away.



“Wow,” is all any of us could manage.

The mother moves ahead of her cubs into the tallest grass in the area. The cubs watch the impala and cape buffalo. We watch them. And the mother watches everything. Unable to shake us, she stands and walks away. The cubs follow until she stops at a fallen tree, its white branches bare and bone-like against the grass.

Lunch is a distant memory.

All six cats drape themselves across the branches and turn to look at us.

Ron says, “An art director’s dream.”

MORNING GAME DRIVE.

Clare wants to see a lion and asks Jonathan to find her one. He laughs. The lion researcher, the defeated Shamus, has given us the sad statistics on the disappearing lions of Kenya.

We drive through the open plains, the tall grass disappearing under our wheels as if we are the sole people on earth. A tiny black cloud appears in the sky.

“What’s that?” asks Clare.

“Vultures,” says Jonathan pointing.

“I want to see,” says Clare.

As we draw near, we see the birds. Their wings span 8 feet and the shadows darken the ground. When they spread the tips of their wings it looks like fat fingers are tearing at the sky. They circle a spot below.

“What is it?” Clare whispers.

Without replying, Jonathan drives closer and stops. He turns to us.

“Take out your cameras now,” he says. “Once we get closer, the vultures will take off at the same time.”

He drives forward and dozens of huge birds reluctantly leave the ground with one flap of their wings.

There seems to be nothing where the buzzards were but swirling dust. Then a reddish spinal column emerges as the air clears. The ribs are stunted along the spine and completely disappear the further away they get from the column. There’s a head.

Jonathan, Pamela and Craig jump down from the jeep. Jonathan picks up the horns of the perfect head for us to see, the bloody spinal cord hanging to the ground.

“Grants gazelle,” he says. Clare and I look away.

Pamela tells Craig they should take the head back for the skull.

“In a few days, animals and ants will pick the skull clean,” she says.

Clare and I peek through our fingers. Jonathan has a machete at Pamela’s throat. Craig takes photos and everyone laughs.



I feel sick but can’t take my eyes off of the gazelle. Jonathan holds up the head with its light brown coat and black markings. Even the horns are intact. Only the hollow eyes tell you it’s dead. That and the skin of the neck hanging loose around the spine. It looks like two animals: the body eaten to nothing but bones and the head a fresh kill.

Jonathan starts hacking at the spinal column at the base of the head with the machete.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

“Ew. That’s disgusting,” says Clare. We both stand up and turn around. There is another jeep pulling up behind us. This is the big event on the game drive today. I wave and saw my hand over my neck pointing at the activity on the ground behind me.

It seems to take a long time to cut the head away from the bones that are left of the gazelle.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Pamela takes an empty box from the back of the jeep and Jonathan places the freed head into the box.

“You can’t put that in here,” says Clare.

“Ok,” says Pamela cheerfully. “We’ll put it in their jeep” and walks to the Range Rover behind ours and puts the box under the back seat.

“That was disgusting,” says Clare as Jonathan, Pamela and Craig step into our jeep and sit down.

“Do you still want to see a lion?” Pamela asks Clare.

“Yes!” says Clare.

“Be careful what you ask for,” I say.

BOMA.

The local Manyatta is a semi-permanent place where young warriors live with their mothers. We drive inside the enclosure and park right in the middle of the Boma. Dung and stick buildings surround an open area covered with cattle and goat dung and flies rule. The cows and goats are grazing so a lone dog is the only animal in the compound.

Jonathan invites Le Doux and I into his home. It’s very small and we duck and squeeze through the curved entryway. It’s dark inside. I can’t stand up and almost step in the glowing embers of the fire between two tiny rooms. My eyes adjust as light filters through small holes in the walls. I’m getting anxious and feel claustrophobic until the smoky warm smell from the embers relaxes me.

Once outside, Le Doux and I are bombarded with flies so we climb into the top seat of our jeep to watch our friends bargain with the Maasai women or play with children. Ron and Hilary are swinging laughing kids around in circles and Paula is buying an enormous shield and a mask surrounded in feathers.

The young warriors are sitting and leaning on the hood of a jeep. Their arms and bodies are draped around each other. It’s the first time I’ve seen a group of Maasai men together since we arrived. They are usually alone with their cattle and goats along the side of the road or in a distant field. The warmth of these young warriors toward each other is a surprise.

There were tons of flies driving us crazy. Every day there’s something to bombard you. Good and bad. Tiny purple butterflies like flying lights. Brilliant blue starlings sitting on tree branches eating the fruit left from breakfast and hundreds of moths swarming the porch lights.

TUESDAY. LATER.

Impala.

There are impala at the watering hole in the clearing below the lodge. Moses calls impala “one eleven” because of the three black stripes that run down their butts. Even when the tail is up, there’s a middle stripe. One Eleven.

Game Drive.

There are so many animals today. Kili’s snowcap is visible. The moon is still in the bright sky and the base of the red and orange boulders of the granite kopies are surrounded by grazers: gazelle, zebra, hartebeest, and wildebeest.

Just as quickly as Kili reveals himself, he disappears behind the low clouds that always surround him.

Paula sits in the front seat next to Daniel. She’s wearing a safari hat, sunglasses, and her shirt collar is around her ears. The strap of her hat is pulled tightly around her chin.

Daniel says, ‘Paula, you look different today.”

“In a bad way?” Paula asks.

LATER.

Swimming. Cool water and hot sun. The pool is perfect so the guys and I take a dip and talk about Fire Island and Provincetown.

MONDAY, EVEN LATER.

We’re playing a drinking game called “I never.” If you have done the suggested thing, you drink. Annie drinks the most. Water, since she’s dry, but a lot of water because she’s done almost everything we “I nevered.”

Most everyone else have been drinking dark and stormys (rum and ginger beer called Stoney Tangawizi) or gin and tonics. We end the night before dinner playing “Celebrity.” Everyone writes celebrity names on pieces of paper and puts them into the celebrity keeper, an empty cereal box.

I write “Lord Chamberlain” and “Patty LaBelle” and put them in the box with several more popular choices.

It was my turn after Cher, Princess Di and Michael Jackson fall easily out of people’s mouths. I reach in and read “Lord Chamberlain” to myself in the dim lantern light.

“For the Nazi’s in WWII” I scream.

“What?” from the crowd.

“My Blank and Ladies,” I try again.

Everyone’s yelling but not what I need to hear.

“Gay actor who played the priest in the Thorn Birds-”

Someone shouted “Richard Chamberlain.”

“Yes!”

“Time!” Yells Ron.

In the fog of alcohol I realized that I’ve picked names to stump others that have stumped me. I can’t remember a Patti LaBelle song but know that I’m going to pick her name out of the box for the next round.

MONDAY. AFTERNOON.

Playing dirty scrabble with Hil. Our best game yet. There aren’t enough “c’s” to play dirty scrabble well so we cheat to stretch the game out.

Hil gets up and goes to the bathroom. Sandor walks to the couch where I’m sitting and leans over the board. I cover it with my hands.

“You don’t want to see this,” I say with a shy smile. “We’re playing dirty scrabble.”

Sandor sits on the edge of the couch and picks up letters. Looking at the board, his only concern is that we aren't playing by the rules. We put letters on top of others not caring if they make sense up and down.

“It would be a very short game if we played correctly,” I explain to Sandor.

Hil walks back into the room and mouths “w h y i s h e h e r e?” pointing at Sandor who’s concentrating on the board.

I shrug as Hil sits down. We smile at each other as Sandor sets his word down on the board.

I wish I'd have thought of it.

SUNDAY - Africa redux

Relaxing day sleeping in. Clare makes Aztec soup for lunch. It's made with a broth that she put chicken, avocado, corn, tomatoes, onions, homemade chips - pretty much everything that you have in the kitchen. It's an as-you-like-it soup and we like very much.