Ghost Hunting In San Antonio

Check the centre of this pic?????

By Irene Butler, pix by Rick

Published in Travellady On Line Magazine

Water drips off his wide-brimmed hat and from the hem of his long black coat, though there is not a cloud in the night sky. Seen through the wrought iron side-gate of the Alamo he stands motionless beside the old church, one of the few remaining original structures. Some say as they looked into his shadowy face their eyes fleetingly connected with his chilling black orbs before he vanished. During the last days of the legendary battle of 1836, in which all 189 defenders were killed, Commander William B. Travis reported relentless heavy rains.

My husband Rick and I were gazing at the Alamo from our ledge-seats at the base of the cenotaph in the defender’s honour in downtown San Antonio. With 20 other “real” people, we were listening to (and I was recording with my handy MP3 player) a Ghost-101 tutorial by Martin Leal, our ghost hunt guide whose haunting history precedes him. He has appeared on TV shows in 30 countries, including the History and Discovery channels, and has performed spectre investigations around the world.

“Where people have died tragic and horrific deaths there is a higher incidence of spirits that have not ‘crossed over’,” said Martin. “Cemeteries and historic buildings are also spirit prone.” The Alamo, which previously was the mission of San Antonio de Valero, is known as a hot-bed of paranormal activity to psychics and ghost investigators. Part of the road and plaza in front of the Alamo was once the mission cemetery. Infrastructure repairs in the area still uncover bones and skulls.

“Keep an eye out for ghosts in transparent whole forms, also smoke-like wisps or vortex streaks. Others are hardly distinguishable from us - until they walk through a wall or suddenly evaporate.” Martin further explained how the lingering-departed often move faster than can be detected by the human eye, which explains why people often glimpse these entities in their peripheral vision, which is more sensitive to movement.

Our tour commenced with Martin leading us to nearby landmark hotels where he filled us in on their ghostly “regulars”.

At the Emily Morgan Hotel, a row of gargoyles with pained expressions stared down at us; a caduceus, the ancient Greek symbol of the medical profession, was above where the door once was. Before being turned into a hotel in 1985, it was a hospital and doctor’s offices between 1926 and 1976. Most of its ghosts hover where the old morgue and operating rooms used to be.

We looked up to where Martin’s laser pointer came to rest. “That’s room 8ll – a male ghost has rattled more guests in this room than any other in the hotel. Not long ago, a frantic woman rushed to the reception desk claiming there was a man in her room. A thorough search found no flesh-and-blood being. When told the likelihood of an unearthly intruder, her reaction was to return to bed for a peaceful sleep - not everyone is afraid of ghosts.”

The St. Anthony Hotel (built in 1909) has a variety of resident ghosts. A 9th floor entity plays hide and seek with people exiting the elevator; disappearing and reappearing through the walls of a room directly to the left. Other uncanny occurrences include the roof garden doors opening by themselves and the sound of footsteps passing without an accompanying visible form.
Although most ghosts are anonymous, some can be identified such as Sally White who haunts The Menger Hotel (opened in1859). After being murdered by a jealous husband in 1876, the hotel covered the funeral costs for this dedicated employee. In her maid’s uniform of the day, a long grey skirt and a bandana tied around her head, she has been seen carrying towels down hallways. Guests think her rude for not answering when spoken to – and then freak when she suddenly disappears.

Back at the Alamo, Martin shared some hair-raising tales. After Mexican General Santa Anna defeated the Alamo, he ordered the burning of the fallen defender’s bodies. Although Santa Anna was subsequently defeated by the Texans, he clandestinely sent soldiers back to the Alamo to raze the remaining structures. These men reported six fiery diablos (devils) barring the doorway waving blazing sabers and shouting “Do not touch this place”. A second attempt by another group of soldiers was thwarted by an apparition rising out of the roof with balls of fire in his outstretched hands.

Martin opened his duffle bag of ghost detection equipment for us to try out – gadgets to search for electromagnetic fields and cold spots (based on the theory that ghosts draw energy from their surroundings) and thermal imaging cameras that produce pictures of what the EMF equipment picks up.

Some people raced over to the barred window of the low barracks, the only other original Alamo structure, where a short man in buckskin is often seen. Others, including myself, ran over to the side-gate in hopes of detecting the man in black. Though the entities remained elusive that night, I felt they were no doubt amused by our antics.

A few days later, I downloaded my MP3 recorder onto my computer. At first I was perplexed by the intermittent static; then realized a bizarre pattern. Whenever Martin was sharing general information, his voice was clear, but when he talked about specific ghosts there was a deafening high-pitched static.

I pounded off an e-mail to Martin. He related being involved in ghost investigations where half a dozen pieces of sophisticated equipment shut down, then when his team left the area, all of the equipment started working perfectly again. I listened to the static patterns again… was it a ghost messing with my recorder?….my recorder that has since worked perfectly?

For more info:
Ghost Hunting with Martin Leal – (210) 348-6640
San Antonio Convention & Visitors Bureauhttp://www.sanantoniocvb.com/
The Alamohttp://www.thealamo.org/
PHOTO CREDIT: Rick Butler
TravelLady Magazine

THE EXOTIC ESSENCE OF ZANZIBAR

By Irene Butler, Pix by Rick

Published in TRAVELLADY and TRAVEL WISE E-Magazines

Zanzibar Photo Gallery

Old Stone Town of Zanzibar Island with its labyrinth of narrow streets and alleyways transported my partner, Rick and I back to ancient Persia – that is, until we were jarred back to the 21st century by vehicles passing with only inches to spare between their fenders and our bodies flattened against a wall. Ornate wooden doors entered crumbling buildings, patched many times during the past 150 years of their existence. Mold and mildew in the rainy season and the blazing sun of summer took turns peeling and loosening layers and chunks of stone and mortar. The interiors seem held together with innumerable coats of bright coloured glossy paint.

Bui bui (black veils from head to toe) or kangas (brightly patterned cloths, one for a skirt and another for a head and shoulder cover) are worn by women young and old. Papasi (“ticks”- the Swahili name for touts) flooded the streets peddling wares or steering visitors to a commission paying hotel or tour company. “Call to prayer” resounded from the many mosques in this 97% Muslim community. A lively market once dealing in slaves bound for Arabia, Persia and India was filled with heaps of clothing, footwear, fresh produce, meat and the unmistakable pong of fish.

Locally called Unguja, Zanzibar Island is but one of many islands in the Zanzibar Archipelago situated off the east coast of Africa. Their common appellation “spice islands” adds another exotic element. Knowing our visit would not be complete without seeing the source of the little packages that season gourmet concoctions the world over, we joined a spice tour.
Our conveyance was a wacky open-sided truck with bars, extending from the bench seats along the back and sides, to the garish Mac-Tac covered roof. Scrunched in, along with ten other people, we bounced along country roads to visit both government and privately owned farms.
Pepper vines spiraled up the trunks of trees in an epiphytical relationship. Our fingers turned scarlet as we squished the seeds of the Cinnabar or “lipstick tree”; the luscious colourant is used in cosmetics, food, and paints. Pinching the leaves of one-hundred-year-old cinnamon trees released the delightfully familiar fragrance. The bark is peeled regularly, with no harm to the cinnamon tree which has the capability to repair the layer within three months; both leaves and bark are dried and ground into powder.
Most awesome were the thirty-foot giants with clumps of cloves dangling from lofty branches. Tall tri-pod ladders are required to do the frantic picking during the two-week window when the cloves will fetch the best price. Strangest were the jackfruit with their mottled green reptilian skin; some up to 24" long and 8" in diameter. An ambrosial combination of pineapple and banana was released as we sampled chunks of its juicy pulp. The “forty-tree”, as it is known by locals, contains quinine used to treat malaria as well as constituents to cure another thirty-nine ailments. Our minds were saturated at the end of pinching, prying, sniffing, tasting and absorbing facts on over thirty plants and trees.

As a part of the spice tour, our guide, Joey, drove to the slave enclosures at Mangapwani. After slavery was abolished in 1897, the profitable business went literally underground. With only low stone roofs with a few air vents protruding above ground, it was almost impossible to detect the cold grey stone pens used to hold captives until they could be clandestinely transported to cargo ships. Descending jagged rock stairs into a dank, moldy 8 ft x 10 ft x 10 ft high room, we noted a row of gouges half way up the walls along each side.
“After the first 50 slaves were forced in,” Joey explained, “poles were slotted into the gouges, then covered with planks so another 50 men could be crammed in on top.” A second bunker held women and children - a chilling, gruesome sight.

The Beit al-Sahel (Palace Museum) in Stone Town holds a chronology of historical events. Some of the highlights were the drawings and charts of dhow ships that chronicle the 12th to 15th century trade-boom of amber, tortoise shells, and slaves. The sultanate era is detailed with intriguing stories of the Oman rulers and their families. Princess Salme (1844-1924) was of particular interest. In the 1850’s this radical daughter of Sultan Sayyid Said taught herself to write by secretly copying verses from the Koran onto a camel shoulder bone and later scandalously eloped with a German trader. Her autobiography is still read today. In 1964 after the last sultan was overthrown, the Zanzibar Archipelago merged with Tanganyika to form the country of Tanzania.

Nungwi beach, on the north shore of the island, was an excellent choice for our last stop; fine white sand, coral reefs, and turquoise seas glistening in the sun. Access to the beach area was down a ramp of bamboo poles tied together. A rooster with attitude commanded the right of way on the path in front of our cozy beach bungalow. Cows grazed out back. Nungwi was both as rustic and as near paradise as one could get. Nearby restaurants served good basic food, though so “polee-polee” (slowly, slowly) we first thought our waiter should be reported as a missing person, but soon went with the flow. Each evening we watched women meet the fishing boats and load up the days catch in bright red and green five-gallon pails. In an amazing feat, they balanced the weighty containers on their heads to walk back to the village behind the beach area; their life unchanged by the passage of time.

Our reminiscences of Zanzibar flow, like the island’s soft breezes, of days wiled away meandering the streets stopping to haggle over carvings or textiles, and sipping a glass of wine as we watched the munificent setting-sun bleed into the Indian Ocean. From the crumbling mystique and rich Islamic culture of Stone Town, to the tropical beaches, it is a place to slip into a mellower existence.

“Memoirs of an Arabian Princess from Zanzibar” by Emily Ruete (Princess Salme), 1888
When to Go: The tropical climate ranges in the mid to high 20’s Celsius all year round, but rains and humidity vary – July to Oct –low humidity; Nov to Mar – short rains and higher humidity; April to June – long monsoons.

Getting there and away: From Dar es Salaam: By Air – ZanAir and Coastal Aviation have daily flights; - Ferry company lists & sailing times obtained at – Tanzania Tourist Board, 1555 Samora Ave. Dar es Salaam Ph: 212-0373

Captivating Cape Town

By Irene Butler, Pix by Rick

Click for South Africa Photo Gallery

Frothing whitecaps of the Atlantic charging the shores, an expanse of rooftops and lush greenery ushered our Boeing 747 into Cape Town at 10:00 a.m. It had been 36 hours since our air carrier had taken off from Vancouver, British Columbia; twenty-five of those hours were spent scrunched into economy class, the remainder in a delightful eleven hour layover in Frankfurt, Germany where taking a sky-train to the city centre for a feed of wiener schnitzel and Bavarian beer was more enticing to us than catching a few z’s.

Although in a fugue of exhaustion we were determined not to let a bright sunny day get away. After securing a room we anxiously made our way to the Victoria & Alfred Waterfront. Tapping sounds and jovial chatter drew us to a fleet of ships in dry-dock undergoing repairs, being de-barnacled and spread with a shiny new coat of paint by crews on scaffolds or draped over the sides in boson chairs. As we neared the wharf jazz musicians, faces glistening with beads ofperspiration, gave “their all” in renditions of old favourites that had folks swaying and tapping. The boardwalks were filled with strollers munching bun wrapped sausages or lapping up a decadent Elmo’s ice-cream from cake cones. More formal diners sat at linen-clad restaurant tables captivatingly facing bays where anchored ships rested from ocean journeys while crews loaded or unloaded goods and looked forward to a little R&R themselves.
We lasted until 3:00 p.m. before wearily heading back to the Carnival Court Backpackers Inn, the only available room we could find in the ‘city bowl’ (as the central area has been dubbed). Nails came through the floor boards of our unheated room and the facilities were waaaaaaay down the hall. But who cared? The bunk beds felt sublime as we lay down for a sleep that lasted 15 hours. Inadvertently we found ourselves on the infamous Long Street where our Inn and numerous turn of the century accommodations are reminiscent of New Orleans hotels with second floor balconies overlooking the lively party scene below.

Snagging a room with both an ensuite bath and a double bed at the nearby Longstreet Inn for the next five days was a stroke of luck. Nicola, Shaun and housekeeper Elizabeth made us feel right at home. Though still unheated, and August being early spring in this part of the world, rolling up in a fluffy comforter after a steaming hot bath feistily combated the chilly nights.

TOWNSHIPS

Thandis, our guide to the townships, started our tour at the District Six Museum for an overview of what we were about to see. The District Six area, inhabited by Xhosa peoples for generations, had become a lively mixed-race suburb when it was declared a ‘white’ district in 1966. Between 1966 and 1982 over 60,000 people were forcibly moved and their homes and shops flattened with bulldozers – though it remained a big empty space, this took care of the uncomfortable proximity of blacks, coloureds and Asians from the ruling whites (politically correct terms in South Africa, “coloured” designating mixed races). Since the end of apartheid in 1991 the new government promised to rebuild the area with multi-family dwellings and relocate the disposed families, but 15 years later only one small section is completed.

The District Six peoples were driven to a barren area that became known as Cape Flats. We visited several sections of the black townships with families living in grim circumstances. Scrap lumber, tin, tarps and most any other material the families could get their hands on were shaped into 8’ x 8’ houses. Sporadic public water pumps and sparse lamp standards and a not frequently emptied line of public toilets (the type we use at construction sites in North America) is their infra-UN- structure. Though the Cape Flats shacks are ever so stagnantly being replaced by new multi-dwellings, this segment of the population is no better off in living conditions than during apartheid, but Thandis says there is one difference – people now have hope. The abject poverty and horrendous living conditions are even worse in rural areas where there is no clean water, no roads, no electricity, no access to education and health care.

There is a strong sense of community in these shanty towns. Children run about laughing and playing, adults bustle about on some mission, lean-to shops are piled high with chickens, vegetables and other commodities. Some resourceful ladies made a business of cooking sheep heads over a barrel of leaping flames and could hardly keep up with customer demands. Stopping at a shanty pub, we had a taste of sorghum beer with a group of mostly old men. Two ladies worked away in the background whipping up the next batch of sorghum and maize which ferments in only three days. The beer sat in half-gallon pails on boards between the imbibers to keep the bottom of the pails off the dirt floor. There is a knack, as my wet shirt front was testimony, to holding the handle in one hand and tilting the vessel upward with precision for a swig of the frothy, slightly fizzy, sour brew.

Next we ventured into a dank, dark cavernous metal shed. Thorny dried branches, thick grasses and twisted roots were stacked waist deep around the entrance. As our eyes adjusted to the weak light, skins of snakes, bats, and other small undistinguishable mammals came into focus; chains of carnivore incisors dangled next to a rip-apart roll of condoms strung above our heads in criss-cross fashion. Dust caked bottles of putrid yellow and mottled fungal green concoctions lined the floor along the sides. This was the domain of the Ix-hwele (herbalist) who as well as curing bodily ailments tends to mental and spiritual maladies as well as the evil caused by witches whose depraved spirits seek people to possess. Though the Ix-hwele had a few patients waiting, he took the time to don his ceremonial fur cap, drape his shoulders with a red shawl, cross his arms across his chest holding feather swatches and chanting words of good fortune upon us.
Crime is low in these townships. Neighbours watch out for one another. Once, upon arriving home, Thandis found his radio missing. He was informed within minutes of the thief’s identity and was able to retrieve the item. For more serious crimes, such as murder or rape, the perpetrator would rather be dealt with by the police than by local justice which still embraces an “eye for an eye” credence.

Across a polluted river the coloureds and Asians fare somewhat better in tenement and small individual homes. Thandis maintains the separation is only due to the comfort of being in one’s own culture; the black townships speak Xhosi and the coloured speak Afrikaans (creolized version of Dutch from colonial settlers and from slaves; made an official language in 1925). Now when blacks marry coloureds they usually choose to live out of both areas and move into a city centre flat.Many such insights were gleaned from Thandis to break down the barriers of misunderstanding and misconceptions.

ROBBENS ISLANDTwenty minutes by boat from the Nelson Mandela Gateway Clock Tower lies 574 hector Robbens Island where thousands of political prisoners were locked away. Their crime - fighting to end the criminal white supremacy laws of apartheid imposed by the Afrikaner National Party in 1948. Just to re-cap the tip-of-the-iceberg in gross injustices against human rights, this legislation allocated eighty-seven percent of the land for use by whites (whites comprising only 16% of the population during apartheid); bans prohibited Africans from obtaining a skilled labour job, and every African and coloured was compelled to carry a pass and obtain a permit if in a white area for more than 72 hours; segregation of schools, health care and even sexual partners.

One side of the island became a caste-away place for lepers, the insane and hard core criminals convicted of murder and rape who were kept in Medium B security. Political prisoners sat rotting on the other side with life sentences in maximum security facilities.

Our guide, Modise, was an X-political prisoner, as are all the guides on the Robbens Island tours. His five year sentence began at the age of seventeen. On his initiation day to the prison, in an attempt to find out his contacts and political activities, he was jolted by electrical prods and beaten until lying in a pool of his own blood he could only blink his eyes at his interrogators for mercy before slipping into the oblivion of unconsciousness. The prison became his university; his teachers the lawyers, professors, doctors and other professionals who were in his cell block and took it upon themselves to educate young prisoners whose education opportunities ended with apartheid. It was a poignant moment when he met the man so instrumental in the fight for freedom - prisoner # 46664 - Nelson Mandela (his assigned number denoted him as the 466th political prisoner followed by the year he was incarcerated). Modise lead us to the cramped 2m x 2.5m cell strewn with the straw mat where Mandela spent 18 of his 27 years of incarceration. As the young Modise sceptically listened to Mandela preach non-violence and to befriend the wardens to improve conditions and treatment in the prison, he thought the great man had been in prison too long, until he saw firsthand this worked in their favour.

At the end of apartheid the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, led by Bishop Desmond Tutu, epitomizes a heroic stance to break the cycle of violence breeding violence. Its purpose was to investigate the gross human rights abuses, awarding reparation to the victims, and granting amnesty to those perpetrators who fully disclosed their actions. I cannot even begin to imagine the spiritual, emotional and physical fortitude it took for victims and their families to re-open the wounds in order to heal. Robbens Island was one of the most moving experiences of our lives.

Waiting patiently for days of overcast weather to dissipate, brilliant morning sunshine afforded us the opportunity to see Table Mountain without the tablecloth of white cloud resting on its flat surface. A three minute cable care ride took us to 1069m above sea level for a spectacular 360 degree view of the coastline, Robbens Island, Lions Head Mt., the 12 Apostles (a group of 18 mountains, none of which bear an apostle’s name), and the city spread directly below. Then hopping on the Capetown Explorer, city tour bus, we saw how “the other half” live along the posh Riviera coastline.

Our Long Street Inn room was only available for five days, so off we trod to the Ashanti Lodge. Three bonuses were: a small heater in the room, leaving the “bar boom” of Long Street behind that lasted into the wee hours, and finding Arnold’s Restaurant on 60 Kloof Street Gardens. In this delightful establishment we were waited on hand and foot by cheery “waitrons” (the old waitress/waiter appellations rendered passé) while partaking in several scrumptious breakfasts and a farewell feast of crocodile ribs, ostrich fillets, gemsbok steak and a complementary bottle of Capell’s Court 2003 Cabernet Sauvignon, a Linton Park Wine.

The promulgated danger on Cape Town streets had been luckily non-consequential for us. In fact, we never felt unsafe walking during the day, and common sense told us not to wander off beaten paths after dark, as in any large city. Security men in black with florescent lime-green vests are everywhere in the city centre and private security stand guard in building doorways. The short “whoop, whoop” of police sirens followed by loudspeaker directives are soon familiar sounds through the night. Iron bars cover windows; many businesses require you to press a buzzer for access. Of course, all these safeguards to thwart off crime undoubtedly confirms its existence.

Our agenda has been decided. We will fly from Cape Town to Nairobi, Kenya and then work our way overland by bus back to South Africa.Meet you in Nairobi!

Recommended Accomodations:
Long Street Inn – 230 Long Street- doubles and dormscontact Nicolette/Shawn tel. 021 424-1660cell. 076 175-8001innlongstreet@ataris.co.za
Ashanti Lodge & Travel Centre11 Haf Streettel. (+27-21) 423-8721fax, (+27-21)423-8790ashanti@iafrica.comhttp://www.ashanti.co.za/

Our African Fantasy Fulfilled

By Irene Butler Pix by Rick

Safari Photo Gallery

Nairobi is a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds swirling in an indefatigable rhythm. Colonial architecture is at a premium having been replaced after “uhuru”, (Swahili for freedom/independence from British rule) by rectangular modern edifices, with both the old and the new manifesting a tired look from years without attention to revitalization. The streets trod on by the 2.5 million inhabitants are outstandingly litter-free, especially considering public disposals are at a premium. Dress is conservative compared to North America; men wear long pants and we did not see bare navels even on teen-age girls. That the whole of Kenya’s 34 million people are almost entirely African, with very small minorities of Asians, Europeans and Arabs is conspicuously apparent in Nairobi’s bustling crowds. High-speed hulks of battered metal on wheels are soon recognized as “matatus” – Kenyan mini-buses driven by madmen. Every “jambo” (hello) is met with a broad smile and a friendly response. Though advised not to go past Moi Avenue to the north and east, Haile Selassie Avenue to the south, and Uhuru Highway to the west, we safely tallied many miles of sight-seeing, scouring for neat restaurants and cafes, and shopping excursions on foot.

After orienting ourselves to the layout of the city from the Terminal Hotel on Moktar Daddah Street, we began investigating various Safari Companies. Anastasia Muthoni from Amicabre Travel won out. She had our customized itinerary set in motion with such ease and expertise we happily parted with our American dollars (the preferred currency of safari companies) for a trip to Lake Nakuru, a 4-day overland safari in Masai Mara National Reserve, and a balloon safari.

Skillful driving over the Kenyan rutt-ways (it would be too generous to call them highways), a wealth of flora and fauna facts, plus a great sense of humour were all attributes of our guide, Joseph Kairu. Joseph was a pro at maneuvering the pot-holes in slalom fashion and staying clear of the collapsed asphalt edges reducing the road into a single lane. When passing oncoming traffic, one vehicle had to straddle the drop off onto a poorly graveled shoulder, which as often as not fueled a game of “chicken” to see who would be intimidated first and pull off the flat surface. Our new friends and safari partners, Paul and Heidi from Calgary (small world) agreed this had to be the worst highway they had ever encountered. But as is the balance of yin and yang; road kill is almost non-existent with vehicles not being able to speed, allowing even the more torpid animals to cross unscathed.

By mid-afternoon, after a hardy lunch, we were off to Lake Nakuru, one of the many soda lakes in the Rift Valley. (The Rift Valley, dominant in Kenya’s terrain, is in totality a 6,500km-long crack in the earth’s crust extending across the African continent from the Dead Sea in the north to Beira, Mozambique in the south.) Poor drainage in the valley, high evaporation and a high alkaline content from volcanic deposits produce shallow lakes with mega-concentrations of sodium bicarbonate. Green algae, tiny crustaceans, insect larvae and soda resistant fish flourish in this environment creating a Shangri-La for the millions of water fowl flocking to its shores. From a distance a thick band of vivid pink separates the powder blue lake from the cerulean sky; as we moved closer the solid pink divides into a multitude of flamingoes standing on one leg scooping up mouthfuls of the rich soupy mix, occasionally taking to wing to establish themselves in a new area to resume feasting. The low rumbling coos of each contented bird magnified by thousands filled the air with a lulling hum. Though at first dazzled by the showy plumage of the flamingoes, we soon noted other feathered friends - an abundance of pelican with their ample yellow beaks, and huge Maribou stork standing like sentinels with their plumage of tuxedo-black wings fronted by a puffed-out white chest below their ever-so-homely noggins. In the surrounding abundant grasslands a large herd of hefty (some weighing as much as 800 kg) African buffalo grazed, occasionally taking time to stare us down. A smattering of zebra, wildebeest and warthogs shared the lush bounty. Baboons sat preening; a fat mama lumbered by with a baby clinging to her belly fur. Spotting both a white rhino and a rare black rhino was a sizzling finish to our day.

Rising the next morning at 6:30 a.m. (the crack of dawn for us) we made our way from our cozy bed to the breakfast room of the Stem Hotel in the town of Nakuru, and soon were bouncing and jostling down the highway en route to Masai Mara National Reserve. We were silly to think the roads could not possibly get any worse. Vehicles were close to loosing their centre of gravity with the tilt of one tire on the narrow strip of asphalt while the other fell into a gaping hollow. On a stretch where the whole road was missing a destitute mother and her three small children threw pails of dirt into the abyss before each vehicle passed in the hopes of being thrown a few shilling for their effort; our hearts pained for their plight, their ghostly forms so frail and covered in dust, only their red weeping eyes showed through. A blast and a wobble heralded a flat tire on the front driver’s side as sharp rocks took their toll. Out of nowhere a couple of men appeared (employment opportunities are never missed in a country where 42% of the population live on 60 Kenyan shillings a day ($1 Can)) and changed the tire for a small fee while our Joseph, who is considered well-off in comparison, leaned on the van and had a smoke. Once through the park gates the dusty dirt roads had even more horrendous dips and dives, but we were soon too engrossed in our surroundings to pay heed. Tawny Thompson’s gazelle flashed their black side stripe and snow white underbelly as they dashed away, Impalas sprang into the air covering 10m in a single bound, dik-diks (antelope the size of large rabbits) peered out from protective foliage, massively built spotted hyenas lazed under bushes waiting to be transformed into efficient predators by night, regale giraffe nibbled the leaves from the top of acacia trees……it was difficult to wait for tomorrow’s sightings as we pulled into camp for supper and bed.
Our tent, set up under a peaked wood and thatch-covered roof, had a large number 5 on the front right flap to differentiate it from its clones. A look inside sent me running to find Joseph, “Why are there no mosquito nets?“There are no mosquitoes now, it is the dry season,” Joseph responded.“What’s this then?” I say, displaying the remains of one of the little bloodsuckers I had just flattened as it was ready to burrow into my forearm.“Oh……. not much mosquitoes,” Joseph jovially emends. Choosing not to take prophylactics, malaria is a concern. Oh, well, we have lots of Deet.As a point of clarification, there are luxury lodges and deluxe campsites around the park; ours was neither, it was the “no-frills” variety. After stowing our gear we were given a tour of the facilities; two squat toilets, plus a “water-heated-in-a-drum-over-a-fire” shower. With no electricity in the camp and our flashlight left back with our stored packs in Nairobi, plus not spotting any biffy-paper in the toilets, we sent the cook on an emergency run over to the nearby village to pick up these two crucial items. A rudimentary wood-stoked stove in the 4’ x 4’ kitchen turned out scrumptious meals of rice with a meat stew, noodles with a meat stew, potatoes with a meat stew, (we thought it best not to know the source of this protein) all served with thick slabs of bread and a grande finale of fresh fruit.

A surprise was in store for us as we mopped up the last morsels on our plates that first evening. Benches and chairs were set around a blazing bonfire in readiness to be entertained by ten tall, lanky Maasi warriors dancing and singing. Taking turns in a display of physical prowess, for which the Maasi men are known, they sprang into the air three times with feet together and arms down by their sides, piercing the night sky like an arrow. In defiance of gravity, not only is an astounding height of three or more feet reached with the final leap, but seemingly their bodies remain suspended for an inordinate amount of time before coming down in a flat foot thud to signal the completion of their aerodynamic performance. Most Maasi today maintain their cultural identity and traditional dress. Dazzlingly adorned with beadwork, a shuka (red-checked blanket) tied over one shoulder falling to knee length, spear and club, with one fellow even sporting time-honoured hair braids with ochre mud applied to the top front of his head. Ears with large gaping loops proudly signify the first born in a family, whether male or female; younger siblings may also have this prestigious ear-piercing if the family should so decide. When first encountering Europeans the Maasi gave them the sobriquet, “iloridaa enjeket” (those who confine their farts), but I noticed these young men now restricted their flatulence with a pair of walking shorts under their red garment. Being in their mid-twenties, these young men had already undergone a public ceremonial circumcision at 18 followed by a five year initiation in which groups of tyros are sent out into the wilderness for months at a time to live off the land. Women are also circumcised in the privacy of their huts. A pastoral semi-nomad tribe, the men travel long distances to find grazing lands for their large herds of cattle and goats, making herd dogs and donkeys valuable resources. There is much wisdom in the old Swahili adage, “A man without a donkey, is a donkey” when we saw the loads of wood and containers of water that must be hauled. Boys are responsible for livestock as early as ten, but we often saw pint-sized tykes hopping and skipping barefoot over the rocky paths prodding a cow along with a willowy stick. The wives (a man may take as many as he can afford, each being worth a 10-cow dowry) take care of chores and children in cow-dung houses within enclosures made of prickly acacia branches (nature’s barbed-wire) that contain the herd when they are not being pastured. The Maasi people pride themselves with living in harmony with nature. Lions are the only wild animal they will kill, if threatening their herds, or ritualistically during a group of men’s initiation. They also do not slaughter their cattle for meat, but shoot an innocuous stumpy arrow at close range into the jugular vein of their cattle to drain a portion of blood which is mixed with milk for their traditional fare. As well today, “ugali” (maize) has been added to their diet (along with western derived “civilized” foods such as coke and chips seen in their village stores). Being cattle rich and cash poor is no longer feasible in today’s society, necessitating the occasional sale of a small portion of their cattle to outsiders. The Maasi are fighting to keep their traditional lifestyle in spite of modern encroachment. Coming to terms with the completely foreign concept of “land ownership” has been most challenging; the tribe is continually being pushed north to find grazing land that is not subject to proprietary rights. Education, new laws and projects gives the youth a choice of going to Nairobi to find employment or like our dancers, to work at one of the many safari lodges and camps.

As night fell and we curled up on the cots in our tent, the yelps, whoops and raucous cackle of hyenas sent shivers down my spine, though we had been warned to expect the night sounds of nocturnal stalkers and foragers. There was even a chance a lion would roar outside our camp enclosure, but if the king of beasts was lurking I was unaware as I drifted off.

Up early the next morning, we were breakfast’d and eager to get in a full day in the park. Down the rough roads we went shooting wild animals with our cameras.

A leopard lying in the long golden-brown grasses was so thoroughly camouflaged only when sunlight danced off his eyes did we know he was there. Wildebeests were everywhere. An estimated 1.6 million were now consuming the short green under-grasses, while other species such as the zebras ate the longer, dry grass, for a harmonious existence. I mused as I watched the strangely proportioned wildebeest which are large antelopes, but very un-antelope in appearance. Possibly a first attempt by the Creator, who then decided the features would be better divided into other animals in a more balanced manner, or perhaps He was being capricious. They have the ears of a donkey, mane and tail of a horse, heavy front flanks and under-chin mass of shaggy fur of our North American buffalo, the gangly long legs of a moose, and horns of an ox. These gregarious beasts migrate into Masai Mara in July and August and being September they were contentedly grazing until their time to return south into Tanzania in October and November.

A pride of lions languidly sprawled two meters from our raised-top mini-van. Our cameras clicked rapidly as the King, of daunting size, and three fully grown females gave us an occasional glare. An adolescent swatted a paw teasingly at a couple of roly-poly cubs wrestling non-stop in the grass nearby. Birds suddenly began a strident squawking. One of the lionesses slinked slowly forward, the other two fell in stealthily behind her. Like a shot we saw a small furry animal, not even appetizer size, run for his life dashing under our van with the three large cats so intent on pursuit they almost collided with the side of our vehicle. The thick mane of the male bristled as he rose and walked right up to our van, his chilling, luminous eyes focused on the gaping 24-inch-viewing-slit and 5 human heads. Joseph hollered, “Down! Watch out! Get down! He can jump.” Luckily this massive beast with paws the size of shovels and four-inch claws did not consider us worth his while, as not one of us ducked afraid to miss this unbelievable photo-op.

The hippo pods were the next day’s quest. Joseph drove the van to the Mara River, where since we were walking in wild animal territory, James, an armed guard in military fatigue, met us to take us along a path at the water’s edge. He said he had never had to use his riffle in the five years he had this job, it was just a precaution. Bubbles, eyes and the odd snout raised to snort spurts of water and take in some new air was the only movement in the river……..just about when it was time to leave a humongous waterlogged hippo decided he was not going to wait until dusk to satisfy his hunger and lumbered out of the water for some tasty leaves on an adjacent bank. Then things began to happen all around, an old crocodile crawled slowly onto a log to sun himself, and an incredible high point for me - a family of three elephants crossed downstream from us. I am particularly fond of these matriarchal diet-scoffing pachyderms that ingest about 250 kg of vegetation a day.
More lions - this time a lady courting a fine gentleman with a fiery golden-orange mane ruffling in the breeze. Joseph said they don’t feed during the 7 to 10 days of mating, and the King of the Beasts is at the whim of his lady friend who decides when to accept or reject his attentions. Three and a half months after a successful rendezvous, 2 to 4 cubs are born. The father lays around pretending to keep an eye on the kids while mama, after nursing the young, goes out to bring home the bacon, which literally might mean a warthog as lions will devour anything, though zebras, buffaloes and wildebeest are their mainstay. After a kill and the lions have gorged, circling vultures and all manner of four legged scavengers move in to pick the bones clean.

Joseph’s eyes take on special effulgence as he speaks of the cheetah, “They are more particular about what they eat preferring smaller game like antelope and gazelle. And they drag their kill up into the tree branches and eat it slowly instead of gorging themselves…..and this streamline predator can reach speeds of up to 105 km an hour in spurts of a few hundred metres”. We were watching a mother cheetah and her six fur-ball week old cubs leaving a roadside puddle where they had been quenching their thirst and were now proceeding to find a more sheltered area. Guides contact each other by walky-talkies when “a spotting” of some animal occurs and soon the area looked like a parking lot. The mother was understandably jittery and confused as to how to get her babies to safety. We were very much against the lack of rules in Masai Mara about roaring the mini-vans off the roadways, crushing vegetation and adding extreme stress to the animals. Other people who have gone on safari in neighboring Tanzania or in South Africa said that there are strict regulations about staying on designated routes in these country’s parks and though you do not get as near to the animals, it is nothing binoculars and a zoom lens can’t take care of.

In the crepuscular dusk on our way home, on the last evening of our overland safari, a tree began to shake and shimmy a few feet from our van. A massive male elephant was wrapping his truck around a branch and with a swipe cleaned the branch of leaves which he gingerly transferred to his mouth. Joseph estimated his weight to be 6,000 kg and his shoulder height was at least 4m. Eureka! On the opposite side of the road, two females and a rambunctious baby were dining on bushes; our cameras focus on this delightful scene. Without warning, Joseph takes off wheels spinning, sending us flying in all directions.“Is he coming? Is he still coming?” a panicky Joseph shouts but he does not take his eyes off the road as sinking to the axles in a pot-hole would not be a good idea right now. In terror we watched as the humongous male came charging towards our van and seemed to be gaining……six feet…..four feet….but now Joseph was getting up speed on a flat stretch. The hefty trunk rose upward and a ferocious trumpeting filled the air.“Okay, okay, Joseph, he’s stopped,” we hollered. His pursuit probably ended with him feeling his family was out of harm’s way or possibly because he lost sight of us in the volume of dust spinning up from our wheels. Though we had no intention of infringing on their territory, we would have been like a tin can filled with sardines had he caught up to us. Kudos to Joseph, our man at the wheel.

Our balloon safari was scheduled for the next day. Heidi and Paul
would go out again with Joseph in the morning and we would meet again around noon and all head back to Nairobi together. We were by this time pretty grubby, since after the first day we decided to forego showering as we kept getting back to camp after dusk and did not want to chance baring “our all” to mosquitoes sinking their malarial probes into our hides. Rising in the pitch-black of 4 a.m. we just had time to pat our hair down before being transported by Jackson, in an army jeep (for an hour and a half) to a five-star lodge to join others signed-up for the same excursion. When we met the soap-scented, neatly coiffed bunch, we knew we would have to stay down-wind. We watched the giant balloon fill with hot air and gently rise into the early dawn. Sixteen people clambered into each of two balloons. A totally different perspective unfolded below us - floating silently over the broad expanse of savannah and seeing the animals roaming, grazing, leaping and hunting from our lofty vantage point was exhilarating. The necessary intermittent blasts of fire to keep us above the trees had the effect of scattering the wildebeest in a mini-stampede. Andrew, our English bloke balloon operator, kept us amused throughout with his dry humour and landed us with hardly a hitch. Jeeps transported us to a portable kitchen set-up on the grassy plains sizzling with pots and pans of tantalizing fare; the air wafted with strong, freshly brewed coffee, and champagne was being served in pewter goblets. In the shady canopy of a giant acacia tree, served by formally attired white-gloved attendants, we partook of a feast on tables replete with mustard yellow table clothes, bowls of flowers, fine china and an array of silverware. Our appreciation of this lavish splurge could not help but run deeper than those around us after our three days in the bush.

Good old Joseph took a detour on the way back to show us brilliant emerald tea fields and expansive coffee plantations. He stopped to bargain for fruit at local stalls close to where his home was; needless to say we got a lot for a few shillings; Heidi and Paul gave him triple the amount of shillings that we did. It was a hilarious sight seeing Joseph hand them a sack so stuffed with bananas, grapes, oranges, and mangos they would be eating it for a month. Parting to go our separate ways was a genuinely heart-felt moment, our new friends were all a part of our safari being more awesome than we could ever have imagined.

BACK TO THE REAL KENYAN WORLD

Out of the fantasy world of the Safari, we are once more reminded of how the peoples of this amazing country are sadly yoked with adversity - poverty, poor or total lack of infrastructure particularly in rural areas, disease and corruption.

Together with malaria, AIDS is the leading cause of death in Kenya (as in all of sub-Saharan Africa). In Kenya with a population 33,829,590 there are 1.2 million people infected with HIV; an estimated 160,000 people die annually from the disease; and currently there are 650,000 HIV/AIDS related orphans.

In the competition on the African continent for which country can hold trophies for the most corruption, Kenya is a definite contender. One thing for sure - the highways have not seen a tax dollar for decades. Though Kenyan’s are fighting back, the struggle is tantamount to a toddler scaling Mt. Kenya’s 5,199m peak.

“Sixty-five MP’s (including some cabinet ministers) to face court charges over concealed wealth. Also targeted for prosecution are three high court judges, 2,543 senior civil servants and 389 councilors.” (Front Page of the Daily National – Sept.16/05)

“The city of Nairobi collects taxes from 100,000 not the 500,000 properties that should be counted. Where does the money from the other 400,000 go? Not in the city coffers. The difference in currency equates to eight billion Kenyan shillings. The city counselor who did the survey was said to have obtained the information unlawfully and was thereby suspended from duty.” (East African News – Sept. 16/05)

The corruption not only filters down to affect every life in general, but also in direct transactions with government personnel. Pointing to a skyscraper a few blocks from Amicabre Travel Agency, Anastasia told us the story of a man who recently climbed the outer orange metal railings to the top. Crowds gathered. The police were called. He dropped a shoe down with a suicide note inside. The government had commissioned him to build 50,000 Ksh ($833 Can) worth of office equipment and after a year of pleading he still was not paid causing him to go bankrupt and to lose his family – he had nothing left to live for. The police convinced him to come down and the publicity worked – he got paid. There are others beside the government in power positions taking advantage of the less fortunate. Plantation owners and big business need not pay a fair wage – employees are expendable with the high rate of unemployment. The list goes on.

Once settled back at the Terminal Hotel in Nairobi, our first order of business was to obtain Tanzanian visas. Off we went to the Tanzania High Commission the next morning, filled out papers, paid our money, and made a second trip back at 1:30 for the completed documents. The furthest thing from our minds was to change hotels with just a few days left, but loud jack-hammering outside our window plus the strong smell of gas fumes throughout the night was unbearable. The hotel staff asked that the construction be stopped after midnight, but the company refused, the only option left to the hotel management was to get a court order, which would take days. They graciously got us an inner court room at the Downtown Hotel next door; after climbing 82 steps with our backpacks to get to room #307 I did not care if a few cockroaches scurried away to make room for us; it was quiet.

We frequently talked to James and Willis, security guards for the Terminal and Downtown hotels respectively. Ten thousand Kenyan shillings ($167 Can) a month is what it takes to pay rent in a descent accommodation and be able to feed a small family; they worked twelve hours shifts, six days a week for 3,000Ksh a month and feel they are lucky to have any job at all. James walked us to the bus depot (one of the areas that degraded the city’s moniker to “Nairobbery”) to purchase our tickets to Dar es Salaam a few days ahead.

On our departure day, when our taxi arrived in the wee hours of the morning to take us to the depot, Willis was there to bid us farewell, but there was no sign of James who should have just been getting off shift. After our backpacks were stowed in the trunk, we found James sitting quietly with a beaming smile in the front passenger seat of the cab; he would ride with us and make sure we got on the bus safe and sound. Just more instances of beautiful, hospitable, friendly, caring Kenyans touching our lives.

Meet you in Dar es Salaam,Irene & Rick