KENYA

Three times in the last six months I have met men from Kenya. They are surprised when I tell them I know this. I play that I recognize their accents (I don’t) but mostly it is the bracelet worn with the Kenyan colors that give them away. Every interaction has been excellent. I pepper our conversation with, “Jambo” a Swahili greeting I learned when visiting Kenya in February of 1994. That visit was rich with experience.

Mombasa was our entry point on the SS Universe. We were some ten days out of Cape Town and always within view of the African coast. The college students and I joined in on the core class which introduced us the history, politics, economics, and current events of Kenya. Just before our docking, I was charged with my portion of “pre port tips” which largely consisted of my warning college students to take their medications, avoid mosquitoes, take care when eating and drinking, and avoiding stupid behavior (pack your kit, don’t get bit, don’t eat shit, and don’t do “it.”). I was on a fool’s errand. Each port found me looking for the exotic disease of the locale and the one I found for Kenya was a beach chigger that was notorious (in an obscure tropical disease book) and nasty. I exaggerated the danger and precautions to be taken. I like to make an impression to solidify the larger message. At lecture’s end, one of the Kenyan students confided that after twenty years of living there, he had never heard of such a chigger.

We docked to a wharf whose surroundings were very typical of the third world: faded cinderblock buildings with tin roofs, minimal vegetation, barbed wire fences, and rusting hulks in the surrounding water. Looking down from the promenade deck, the warehouses facing us had a sea of cardboard squares against the walls identifying the shops of people selling goods as we came off the boat. The pent up need to get moving on solid ground found us all avoiding eye contact as the vendors begged us to, “come to my shop….”

The walk to the security perimeter and exit from the docking facility was a quarter of a mile and as I strode with Kernie and the girls, a dignified young Kenyan walked up to us and making good eye contact, said, “Welcome to Kenya Doctor. I have a number of things I can offer you while you stay here in Mombasa.” I was surprised. How would this random guy in port know I was the ship doctor? I took this to be a warning and to be on guard. I made my excuses and we joined the throng of college students lining up to get out and into the country.

Most the students would leave Mombasa and travel to Nairobi where they would disperse and spend a lot of money on Safari. We would eventually hear stories of champagne breakfasts after sunrise hot air balloon rides over the Masai Mara looking at the country and wildlife. Many upon landing would to call home at exorbitant rates to tell mom and dad what a rich cultural experience they were having and yes, thank you very much. The time zone difference, from Nairobi to New York was seven hours. Most parents had just fallen asleep when that call arrived.

Our trip was a bit more modest. We explored Mombasa and the surrounding area for a few days before taking our one overnight Safari at the National Park at Tsavo. Amber and Darby were troopers as we explored the central city and later the waterfront during Ramadan. We appreciated that tourists were not especially welcome in non-touristed areas and withdrew. We found a zoo that allowed us to clamber up ladders and hand feed giraffes. We experienced Hippos ( statistically the most dangerous vertebrates for humans on the African continent) pooping. You might ask, “Why mention that?” The answer is obvious once you experience it—-a large noise that rivals a lawn mower and a rapidly rotating curly-cue tail that distributes the feces efficiently over a broad area. It has to be seen to be believed.

Amber was coming of age this trip and in one interaction, demonstrated that she was no longer the withdrawn shy girl from Junior High. We were in a central plaza where the taxis congregated to pick up tourists unsure of where to go or how to get there. There was intense sales of handicrafts and for the first time in our lives, we faced really aggressive salesmen. A handsome young man almost went nose to nose with Kernie and took a pen out of her pocket and tried to negotiate a barter. He would not give the pen back and insisted on a deal. Amber put herself between them and told him to back off and return the pen. He did but we then had a discussion that had never happened before and has not happened since. He negotiated a follow up the next day with clothes we did not want and in exchange would barter for hand-made products in the market. All items were fair game and my boxer shorts were in high demand as were our T shirts from our Royal Caribbean cruise the year before. I scored a hand- carved chess set and felt terribly guilty about it despite the seller looking like the Cheshire Cat. Travel in-city was inexpensive and accommodated by London styled black taxis. Our travels eventually found us purchasing an overnight Safari to the park and a stay at the “Salt Lick Hotel.”

Our guide drove a Toyota mini van with an open canopy on the roof so we could stand while he drove (slowly) in the park. Our guide was Kenyan but his ancestry was Scottish. Andrew’s father had done safari’s in Hemingway’s time and those times were gone. His touristing business was heavily regulated. Along with this insider’s look at business in Kenya, we got our geography lessons driving out from the coast and up a long incline to higher elevations. Along that two lane highway, we witnessed mini-wonders: The earth was red! There were grasslands and occasional scrubby trees seen along the highway. There were huts with doorways that had large thorn-bristled shrubs that served as doors. Children ran along the road to school and were dressed in what I took to be traditional British school uniforms: blue skirts and shorts with starched white shirts that were immaculate. The smiles were large and the teeth as white as those shirts. Kernie was in awe: “How would you wash those shirts to keep them that white with no electricity or running water?”

We entered the park and the pre-port education had the kids alert to the kinds of animals we might see. Ostriches were high on Darby’s list but within a half day, she had lost count and no longer would stir if one was sighted, running or not. A number of interesting things never to be seen again by us in the wild: we saw giraffes and a number of antelopes. We saw a dik dik. We stopped on the edge of a cliff and looked over a broad plain that had just below us, muddy water and elephants bathing. The light and stillness of sound made that plain seem to go one and on—a distance I had never appreciated before or since.

Of course, everyone wanted to see big cats and sure enough, we rounded a curve in the path and came upon an acacia tree with a pride of lions asleep in the shade below it. We stopped a respectful but still fairly close distance and took our pictures from the open cockpit of the van. I felt vulnerable. I mentioned this to Andrew who with confidence told me that cats had never leaped onto vans and pull tourists out. However, before the industry was regulated, tourists were allowed to drive private vehicles on the path we had taken. A German couple, he related, had stopped at just such a site as we were in, and with the cats looking so placid and sleepy, the male driver ventured out of his car with his wife taking a video only to be taken down quickly by the pride. He had taken his keys with him……and it was a half day before another traveler came upon the wife and children, stuck in the heat with their husband’s slowly disappearing body just beyond the car.

Moving on, we came to a lodge, English style, for lunch where German tourists made short work of the buffet table. We were not there for a meal and sat by the pool. A waiter in spotless white uniform approached us: “Would you like something from the bar?” he asked.

Darby, all of nine years old spoke up, “Yes, I would like a pot of tea please.”

We were dumbfounded. We did not order anything and observed the presentation of a pot of tea with cookies. Darby took her time but enjoyed the scene and her treat. As we rounded ourselves up to continue, I found a rhino beetle on the grass and scooped him up. He resides to this day in our library.

The afternoon found us at a clearing filled with a family of baboons. This was a most impressive part of our safari. I don’t like baboons. The feeling was reinforced as I watched a cranky male baboon slap a couple of breast feeding mothers around and hurt a small baboon who scurried off yelping loudly. We took pictures and I suddenly heard a scream. Darby had been standing next to me and was holding on to a bag of Cheetos that she had been feeding on. Behind us was a large baboon who was hanging on to the same bag. When I turned, we were eye-to-eye with not more than two feet between us. Darby was not letting go of the bag. I did what any well-trained physician, knowledgeable about the diseases that can be transmitted by African baboons would do: I raised my arms up high and shouted at the top of my lungs and struck the animal in the chest. He escaped with the bag and with disdain, slowly ate the contents in front of the van. Darby was in tears and terrified by the experience. Andrew at first laughed uncontrollably and then considered what might have gone wrong. He sobered and let us know, “you know, I have never heard of that happening before……” That made me think of the lions…….

My response? “You know Darby, we can’t just leave the litter on the ground there.” It was not my best moment. Our mini safari ended that afternoon at the Salt Licks, a hotel built on raised platforms over a watering hole; each unit was connected to others by a series of suspension bridges. We were in awe as we drove up to the lobby and unloaded our overnight luggage and noted that there was no fence around the hotel, and that there were wild animals everywhere. Kernie and the girls, through a large window, saw a mother elephant with baby holding on to her tail with its trunk slowly walk away from the watering hole as the setting sun changed the colors on the animals and foliage constantly.

It was my first night ever under a mosquito net. It was OK!

In the morning, we had breakfast in a common room; midway, a young German woman came running in and whispered to a friend who in turn, repeated the whisperings and soon six or seven young people were heading out the door. We of course, could not contain our curiosity and followed. A pride of lions had staked out the watering hole below us and a number of animals, including antelope were agitated and seeking a way out. Darby said excitedly, “Oh, I can’t wait! We are going to see a kill!” It occurred to me that watching television somehow does not communicate adequately the difficult scene we were likely to see. I warned her that it was not going to be cool and might be upsetting.

The game found an opening and the last antelope made it out of the trap. An adolescent male lion had been sleeping on the job allowed for this. I imagined the conversation when they got home. Quite possibly, he was the one who later got stuck on a fire escape ladder leading up from the ground to the series of platforms that were our hotel. The locked ironwork did not allow forward progress and the narrow passage was making it hard to turn around. We got our photos done and made plans for moving on.

The land and the animals continued to delight us though by afternoon. The girls, if I am honest, were a bit habituated to the sites. It was time to head back. Andrew responded to our questions about living in Kenya and we learned that most technology was taxed heavily. He leered at my Casio watch ($20 at Costco) and it was a pleasure to get him an athletic watch ($45 Costco) when we got home and mailed it to him. He had delivered a wonderful and personal experience to us.

Idle time in Mombasa found us taking bus to a hotel up the coast. We enjoyed the water, braved a broken-down Dhow, and walked a coral reef. We stayed peripheral to an expensive hotel that was the magnet for a number of beach services like the boat. We were on a budget, though. No tea time today. We waited under a shade tree by the road on the way back into town, waiting for a bus. A taxi came by and offered us a ride; his cost was ten times that of the bus. We declined. He came back ten minutes later and told us he would take us for the amount of the bus fare. Despite wanting the bus experience, it was hot and we got in. He took us downtown and suggested the Hard Rock Cafe for lunch. I had never been to one, but the notion of a hamburger at this point, was overwhelming for all of us. We had a nice meal, saw our first televisions in awhile, and as we departed, Darby took on the appearance of someone afflicted by a Tse Tse fly: she was sleepy, and barely arousable until she confessed that she had left her backpack in the taxi. Her backpack had the boarding pass for the SS Universe, a wallet with her money, books, and who knows what else. And her passport? Was that in the backpack? We developed a plan and walked to the central square where besieged by street hawkers, I stood erect and gazed at black taxi after black taxi, trying to make eye contact with the drivers. They of course thought I was seeking a ride and all I wanted, was the recognition of one particular driver. Suddenly, there was a light tap on my shoulder. I turned around and a young black man in “taxi” garb made that eye contact and asked, “Is it possible you left this in my taxi?” He had Darby’s backpack in his hand.

Nelson, Taxi #38. It is hard to express the flood of emotions all of us had in this setting. We had lived for months with entitled adolescents whose budget on land was far greater than that of this doctor’s family. We had had things stolen from us on the ship in this setting. And here, in Kenya, where a taxi driver who would bargain his fare down to match that of a city bus, was returning lost property under impossibly crowded circumstances. Kernie took command: “Darby, I don’t know how much money is in there but it all goes to Nelson.” Darby had no problem with that and promptly handed over about $20 in Kenyan currency. Nelson did not want to take it but we all insisted noting he had done us a great favor. That favor was not only a material one, but one that would echo over the years as each and every one of us considered human nature.

Post Script: the legend of this story is that Darby had her Passport in the backpack. The story has been told many times with that nugget for emphasis. Every parent’s nightmare, losing your kid’s passport in a third world country when you are on a budget. Reading the journal of that trip, no mention is made of the passport being in the pack and on reflection, as much as we believed in and modeled independence in our children, a fourth grader carrying her passport around in Kenya is a stretch and I admit, we got that one wrong. I stand by an old family adage, “Don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story……”