Wild Dogs

Lycaon pictus. The highlight of my holiday. I had never seen a wild dog until last month. It was my mission. Usually when you head out into the bush to find an animal, say a wild dog, they elude you. You pass a vehicle and they say, oh, we just saw a wild dog, just down the road. You follow their directions precisely, nothing. Or you return to the lodge and overhear people talking about watching wild dogs make a kill. This time we were lucky. One of the anti-poaching rangers saw the tracks. We radioed, met him on the road, and drove through the bush. There they were. Nine of them. Brilliant white tails. Beautiful patchy black, brown and white patterns. And, best of all, an exceptional head of hair, tawny colored and parted in the middle. Once common, their numbers have reduced drastically over the past years because of disease and persecution. Endangered. Threatened. Rare. In northern Kenya they are rebounding slightly. The scout we were with said “communities know that tourists want to see them, so they are trying to protect them.” I hope he is right.

Road Shopping

Kittens, puppies, adorable white baby rabbits, parrots. A dozen roses. Bannanas. Sunglasses. Phone plugs, cords, jumper cables. Batiks. Skirts, shirts, pants. DVDs. Newspapers, magazines: Vogue, Time, Economist, Good House Keeping. Rainbow colored dusters. A map of Africa. Phone cards. Pictures, paintings. Kenya flag air freshners. Bubbles. Passport holders. Gum, candy. A blow up plastic spider man. Stuffed animals. These are some of the things I can buy on my way to work without even leaving the car.

Lazy Lions

Maasai Mara, southern Kenya. An afternoon rest. Clearly the lion on the right wanted some more sleep, but her mate woke her up.

Maasai Song

It is dark. The elegant, small lodge is lit with lanterns. Lanterns that remind you of the Sultans. The fire roars in the massive fire place. An Irish man plays acoustic guitar and his voice carries off into the hills. The Maasai who work at the lodge listen intently, wide eyed. When the Irish man finishes, the Maasai are asked to sing. In their red shukas they gather and break into song and dance. It is an ancient tradition, a guttural song and pulsating dance. It is a privilege, an absolute privilege to listen and watch. To be a part of such an ancient custom. What will the world be like without these rich tribes? Will anyone notice?

Scars

Agree with me, a scar is never ugly. That is what the scar makers want us to think. But you and I must make an agreement to defy them. We must see all scars as beauty ok? Take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, I survived. -- Chris Cleave, Little Bee

Hippo

One of the greatest things is to see a hippo yawn. Their mouth opens almost 180 degrees displaying a massive throat, tongue and teeth. When god created the hippo, he asked if the hippo wanted to live in the water or on the land. The hippo said the water. God said fine, however, you can not eat the fish. So, the reason the hippo opens his mouth so wide is to show God that he is not eating his fish.

Election 2007 January 2008

Just weeks ago people stood in line to vote. Today they stand in line for food.

The Kenya election took place on Thursday, December 27. Two days after Christmas. According to reporters it was a clean, well run election, until the ballots reached the ECK (the Electoral Commission of Kenya).

We left Nairobi on the 24th. Took the train to Mombassa. To a lovely beach. Soft sand. Blue water. The hotel staff were fired up to vote. They all took shifts and went to a small town near the hotel, to vote. They felt change in the air. They wanted Odinga. It was clear that Odinga was the front runner. The election was his.

The day after the elections people waited for results. As the hours dripped by, people became restless. They wanted results. They smelled corruption, rigging. They took to the streets. By the 28th there was chaos in the streets. Tires burned. Shops looted. Roads blocked. People injured.

We were in a boat. On aqua colored water, cruising the white sands, looking for dolphins. We pulled into a reef. We slathered on sun screen to get ready for snorkeling. The driver’s cell phone rang. It was base. I listened and heard something about a loud noise and we must go back. Thunder I thought? Strange, the sky is clear. Our driver explained that on shore rioting broke out and guns were being fired, he thought it best we go back to the hotel. We agreed.

At the hotel, while people played tennis, sipped pina coladas, we were glued to the TV.

Saturday the ECK held a press conference. The head of ECK took the microphone, said he would report on the four final areas that had not yet been announced and then he would announce the final presidential results. As he read the provincial results “ODM X, PNU Y….” I thought “they are really going to do this.” As you started to tally the votes in your head, it was evident that the four final areas were going to put Kibaki ahead. But before he could even get that far, in front of our eyes, anarchy broke out in the press room. A man stood and challenged the speaker, more and more people stood. People got on chairs. Climbed over chairs. Yelled. Waved their arms. Pushed their neighbors. Remember, this is a political press conference. Soon the Chairman of ECK was escorted out by armed guards while others followed.

Within moments Ralia Odinga entered the room. His gang following. He sat in the chair of the Chairman of ECK. “Rigging,” he claimed. “This election has been rigged.” They would not accept the results.

One hour later, in a closed room, the ECK announced Kibaki the winner. Ten minutes later Kibaki was formally sworn in as President. Kibaki declared the following day a holiday. A friend said to me, welcome to your first African coup. People ran from their radios, phones and TVs and the real mayhem started. 30 minutes later all live media coverage was cut off.

People lit fires, hacked each other with machetes, blocked roads, burned houses. Yelled, screamed, cried and pleaded. Kenya spiraled.

Around us at the beach resort, people swam. The hotel “animation team” held step classes by the pool. The 4pm tea had a line of people.

The next morning we were to head back to Mombassa, but the airport was closed. Mobs had taken over the airport road. Reports in Nairobi were grim. Mombassa was no better. Stay? Go? We called the airlines and the next flight out was January 3. We were stuck.

While going back to Nairobi did not appear to be safe, staying on the coast was worse. Petrol would run out, the town we were in was out of gas. Taxi drivers immediately doubled their price. Food was limited—people stood in line in the next town over for maize. Limited transport, fuel and food, meant chaos. There is only one road in and out, meaning, to get to the airport, we’d have to take that road and a short ferry. Anyone with some boulders and a couple pangas could easily block that road.

We got a flight and left the hotel at 5am in a convoy of eight cars and armed guards to the airport.

We got to the airport fine. However, when we went to pay for our ticket the women said, we need cash, nobody is taking credit cards anymore. We had ventured out the day before to find cash. All banks on the coast were closed and had been for the last four days because of riots and holidays. All the ATMs were dry. We begged, borrowed and finally made it on the plane.