Fully refreshed by Shabbos, we excitedly arose on Sunday morning for a two-day safari. Six safari vehicles were parked in front of the hotel at six-thirty in the morning. These seated nine passengers each and they had roofs that could be raised up on struts, enabling us to stand up in the vehicle and look out of the top. They also had their exhaust pipes emerging from the side of the vehicle and leading up to the roof, for reasons that later became clear.
As we were assigned to the vehicles, I saw that the Long Journey Theory was confirmed. This theory states on every long journey, there is one traveler who is extremely, er, interesting. This, er, interestingness varies in direct proportion to the length of the journey on which one travels. Since our journey was to be some eight hundred kilometers through the African savanna, the theory predicted that we would have the company of a very interesting passenger indeed. It was none other than the very large Israeli woman who had fallen off the boat.
Her name was Semodar and over the following two days she demonstrated that her talents ranged far beyond merely falling into the sea. She had a wonderfully rich and benevolent personality; the sort of person who would help a little old lady across the road whether she wanted to cross it or not. Loud and vociferous, she dominated her short and quiet husband Avi. Also sharing our vehicle were a dark-skinned Sefardi couple who laughed hysterically at all of Semodar’s jokes, and Sandy and Marlene from Raanana. Our driver, an African of indeterminate age with some stubble on his chin (Kenyans generally lack facial hair), introduced himself as James.
Loaded up, the vehicle set off along the dusty road. After passing through the city of Mombasa, we joined the main road leading to Kenya’s capital Nairobi. This road, arguably the most important road in the country, was so riddled with pits and potholes that it was often more profitable to leave the road and drive through the countryside.
“James!” growled Semodar. “James Bond!” she added, in an incorrect presumption as to his family name. “I want you to take me to see a leo!”
“I will try to,” replied the driver meekly. “But they don’t always show themselves.”
“James Bond!” roared Semodar. “You will show me a leo, and I will give you food to eat! Here,” – she handed a piece of chewing gum to the poor driver – “have some gum, and take me to see a leo! And I will also sing for you if you want!” The dark-skinned couple laughed like a pack of deranged hyenas. My father, who had the dubious pleasure of sitting next to Semodar, wore a pained expression on his face.
Eventually the buildings at the side of the road gave way to the savanna – endless miles of gently undulating grass, peppered with low bushes and flat-topped acacia trees. The sky was a brilliant blue and flecked with low-lying clouds. The road, and soon the vehicle, was coated with a thick layer of red dust. After about two hours of driving we turned off the road onto a narrow dirt track.
“We go visit the Masai tribe,” explained James. Two of the other vehicles drove with us, while the other three opted to go straight on to the game reserve.
The first thing that I noticed about the Masai village was the termite mound situated outside its entrance. The mound rose some seven feet in height and was precisely the way I envisioned it to look like: a massive orange structure reminiscent of a fortress. It was a spectacular monument, standing against the stunning backdrop of the blue African skies, peppered with crisp white clouds, and the rolling grass of the savanna. I couldn’t see any termites, however; perhaps they remain inside it.
The Masai chief who came to greet us wore a deep red robe fastened around one shoulder. The front half of his scalp was shaved bald; from the back half several braids of dyed-red hair were brought forwards and fastened to the center of his forehead with a white ornament. He also sported several necklaces, bracelets and anklets, and he carried a large black staff. We each paid him five dollars for him to take us around the village; he was the only member of the village who spoke any English. As primitive as the Masai are, they had nevertheless cottoned on to the fact that they could profit from these strange white people who visited them.
Some other tribesmen accompanied the chief as he greeted us. They all had their hair arranged in the same way, and they all wore bright red cloths draped around their bodies. Standing amongst them, I posed for a photograph. (Many months later, when I showed the photograph to someone, he asked me why I stood amongst the African women! They were MEN.)
The Masai houses were around fifteen feet long and ten feet wide. Our guide explained that they were constructed from cow dung. Needless to say, there was no electricity or running water. The Masai, explained our guide, are one of the few African tribes to have retained their traditional way of life.
“I guess you can call them the charedim of Africa,” said someone thoughtfully.
Our guide took us into one of the cow dung houses. It was utterly dark inside as we listened to his explanation of the Masai way of life. The Masai are circumcised at eighteen years of age – both men and women. The wound is patched up with cow dung (obviously a material with many uses). They nurse their children until the age of three.
After this we went outside for a display of another aspect of the Masai way of life. From a herd of cattle and goats they selected a young and thin cow. Two of the Masai held its head firmly while another crouched with a bow and arrow. With a loud thwap he shot the cow in the neck. Instantly blood began to spurt in a fountain from the wound. A Masai woman stood ready with a mug in which she collected the dark blood. After collecting a mug full of the blood, they patched up the wound on the still-living cow. Then the mug was passed around for all the Masai to drink from it. They slurped it up greedily, blood dripping from the corners of their mouths. (Apparently, the Masai were aware that man is supposed to drink something that comes out of a cow, but they were slightly confused about what that something was.)
“Now, there’s something you don’t see every day,” I commented. A woman from Bnei Brak turned green and started to throw up in the bushes.
“One for the road, dad?” I asked my father.
“Shaken, not stirred,” he replied.
With that pleasant memory of the ancient traditions of the Masai, we returned to the vehicles to continue our journey. Meanwhile, Semodar was demonstrating her remarkable knowledge of the animal kingdom.
“I want to see puma,” she boomed happily. “Puma is a type of bear.”
“No, no,” said her friend, “it’s a type of tiger.”
“How can it be a tiger?” frowned Semodar. “Tiger is a leopard.”
I sighed to myself and looked out of the window.
Eventually, after some six hours of driving, we reached an impressive-looking gatehouse. A large sign in front of it read, “Tsavo West National Park.” Before entering, all three vehicles parked in front to use the conveniences – “the last ones for a long, long time,” James explained.
Our group being ready first, we paid the entrance fee and drove through the huge gate, decorated with the skulls of various creatures. It was straight out of “King Kong.” After driving through the gate, James stopped the vehicle for a few moments while he spoke to the rangers. We all peered forwards, looking for animals.
Suddenly there was an unearthly growling and shrieking noise and something slammed against the windows. In terror we whipped around to look at the beast that was attacking the vehicle.
It was Manny, now doubling up with laughter at the shock he had given us.
With our heartbeats slowly returning to normal, we drove into the reserve. Almost immediately James pointed out a herd of small deer-like creatures moving slowly away from us. “Impala,” he said. Gracefully, they walked along, seemingly unconcerned by the large safari vehicle. This was in stark contrast to the gazelles of Israel, which flee like the wind as soon as they notice you.
For the next hour or so we saw nothing, save for large ground squirrels scampering across the track. We to a waterhole in the hopes of seeing animals coming to drink, but there was nothing there. Unfortunately, however, the waterhole was home to a considerable number of insects, most of whom took the opportunity to pay us a visit.
“Ima!” screeched Semodar, “I’ve been stung!”
“Nonsense,” I replied, “they’re just harmless flies.” The insects looked like large bluebottles to me. “Just ignore them,” I instructed her; but she continued to wail, “Ima! Ima!”
A moment later I felt what appeared to be a red-hot needle being inserted into my arm. With a yelp I looked down at one of the insects inserting its mouthparts into my skin. I slapped it away and put on another layer of insect repellent.
Soon the entire vehicle was screaming and yelping as the giant mosquitoes drank their fill. To my horror, I found that the repellent that I had put on my skin was no solution: these giants simply bit me straight through my clothing. I quickly coated my entire body with repellent.
Meanwhile, I had another foe to contend with. Semodar was wearing skin-tight leggings, unfortunate not only from the viewpoint of tznius but also from the viewpoint of mosquito bites. Suffering from particularly nasty attacks by the creatures, she was swiping them all in a mad frenzy of panic and rage. This crusade against the enemy was not limited only to those mosquitoes that were on her body, but extended also to anyone in the vicinity. This meant that every few moments she would give me a hefty thump on whichever part of my body she saw a mosquito.
“Miss,” I pleaded, “please stop hitting me.”
“No, but there are insects!” she screamed, “I must kill them!”
James advised us to open the windows, and eventually the mosquitoes were blown out of the vehicle.
“I wish I hadn’t come,” sniffed Semodar. “This is not fun.”
Then we noticed an improbably large creature rising above the plain at the side of the track just in front of us. We pulled up right next to the giraffe and stood up in the vehicle, looking out through the roof. It regarded us with a baleful eye as it continued eating from its tree, pulling the leaves off with its long, dexterous tongue. We spent several minutes happily snapping away with our cameras.
“Magnificent,” I said. Of course, I had seen giraffes on many occasions at zoos. But there really was something very different about seeing it in the wild, and I’m not being pretentious. I don’t know exactly why it was so special; whether it was the spectacular backdrop of the savanna, the hunt that had led to our sighting the giraffe, or the knowledge that this was a wild animal. Perhaps these things merely helped us to appreciate the beauty of a sight that we take for granted in a zoo. Now that’s a thought.
After a few more minutes gazing at the giraffe, we drove on. Again, endless savanna with no animals in sight. Actually, during this stretch the bushes were high and the trees more frequent, so it was difficult to see very far.
“Stop the car!” yelled Sandy suddenly. “Go back! Go back! Elephant!”
Quickly, James applied the brakes, then reversed the vehicle several yards. Through the trees on the right we saw a large brown shape. It was definitely an elephant; aside from the fact of its size, we could just about make out its ears and the top of its trunk. But we couldn’t get a better view than that, so after a few moments we drove on.
“It’s suddenly gotten a lot more exciting, hasn’t it!” laughed my father. It certainly had. It became even more exciting a few minutes later when, stopping by a water hole, we saw a large male elephant walking towards it. We had a clear view of the ponderous pachyderm, which was considerably larger than the Indian elephants usually seen at zoos. It approached the edge of the waterhole and drank its fill. Then, as we held our breaths, it walked straight across the track in front of us. The driver carefully kept his distance, elephants being one of the more dangerous animals in Tsavo. The elephant slowly crossed the track – “Why did the elephant cross the road?” chuckled Sandy happily – and disappeared into the bushes.
Apart from another sighting of giraffes, this was to be the last animal we saw for the moment. We drove through the countryside, now becoming more hilly, as the sun began to sink towards the horizon.
“Where’s Mount Kilimanjaro?” my father asked James. Kilimanjaro is the highest mountain in Africa.
“There,” said James, pointing at a mountain in the distance. Although it was certainly tall, it was not quite as gigantic as I had imagined it would be, and I said as much to my father.
“No, no,” he replied, “ there , behind the cloud.”
It was with shock that I suddenly saw what he was talking about. Above and behind the mountain at which I had been looking was a bank of cloud, and rising up above and behind that, rising impossibly high into the sky, was Kilimanjaro. I gasped – I had never imagined that something could be so mindbogglingly huge.
As the sky began to turn dark, we reached our accommodation for the night, Kilaguni Lodge. I walked into the lodge on a path which bore the footprints of a lion (cast in cement, I later discovered, from a lion in the Nairobi zoo). Entering the foyer I saw that the entire far wall of the lodge was non-existent. In its place was a veranda overlooking a waterhole situated on a large plain. At the water’s edge were herds of impala and waterbuck; in the distance the clouds burned a deep red over Kilimanjaro. It was a surreal sight. It was on this veranda that we spent most of the rest of the evening. Watching the sun set behind Kilimanjaro was one of the more memorable moments of our lives.
Even after dark we were still able to watch the waterhole, thanks to the floodlights that the lodge had placed there. We saw an elephant approach the waterhole, a ghostly white shape that moved in absolute silence despite its tremendous size. Those who stayed up saw more animals; my father and I retired to our rooms, exhausted after twelve hours of traveling the bumpy tracks.
Hanging from the ceiling over my bed was some sort of white blanket tied in a knot. After examining it in puzzlement for several moments, I suddenly realized what it was: a mosquito net. I untied it and carefully tucked it in around the edges of my bed. Then I crawled inside this tent and sank into a sleep so deep that I wasn’t even able to dream of elephants.
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