Whistle in case of an emergency!

Sundown in the African savannah possesses the kind of timeless beauty that inspires even the most poetically-challenged to pen a verse or two. We had just disembarked from our light aircraft and had about 3 hours to go before dusk, so breaking into Frost or Wordsworth could wait.

No sooner did we collect our luggage, which was simply stacked within an elastic, netted contraption at the back of the plane, our guide and driver, a strapping young man from the Masai tribe, greeted us with a cheerful hello. 

“Let’s head straight for the game-drive,” he said as he loaded our bags into the Landrover. 

“Huh? Aren’t we going to the camp first to freshen up?” I questioned, quite aware of how I must look and smell after not having showered in the last 24 hours, since leaving India.

Scarface and I

He grinned, shook his head, and convinced me that the wildlife won’t mind the occasional unshowered, disheveled human. I agreed sheepishly, unable to refuse his offer to drive through the vast grasslands that stretched endlessly and invitingly ahead. So, it began, our very first game drive through what I believe to be one of the most beautiful places on this planet.  

We made a beeline to a scrub that housed a massive, male lion, aptly christened “Scarface” inspired by the battle scars that ran across his massive face. At first, I was stunned to be so close to this magnificent beast with his shaggy, thick mane, and paws the size of dinner plates. Scarface couldn’t care less and continued to alternately gnaw at the wildebeest remains and yawn lazily as the tiresome flies buzzed around. Once the shock waned, the awe took over. I was at once overwhelmed and mesmerized by his presence. My first lion in the wild and it was Scarface... I just couldn’t believe my good fortune!

Scarface after a good meal!

The rest of the evening was a blur of many firsts, each one more amazing than the next. My first cheetah in the wild, first hippo, first giraffe, first river crossing in a Landrover, I was simply flabbergasted by the sheer species of wildlife that lived within minutes of each other! 

“There’s your first Ostrich!” shouted our guide to make himself heard against the wind as we sped towards our camp. 

The memory is as strong today as it was on the day I saw the silhouette of the magnificent bird as it walked seductively against the backdrop of the setting sun. The engine turned off, I stuck my head out of the sunroof, savoring the moment, as dusk set in, bringing the eventful day to an end. 

It was time to head to the camp.

The night had set in by the time we reached our camp. Truth be told, I had no idea how our guide knew one track from another, especially in the dark. Everything looked the same to me...a combination of vast plains, dotted by scrubs, and the occasional river crossing, which I will come to later. But I reckon, having driven across the same tracks for years, posing this question to the guide would only invite a quizzical glance, followed by a well-rehearsed, obvious answer to a very silly and unnecessary question. So, I refrained. 

We were exhausted to the point of collapse and wished we had more energy to fully appreciate the welcome dance that the staff so graciously put up for us. Tired and hungry, we swallowed the hot meal that was laid out and headed to our tent, after being warned several times over not to venture out alone after sundown. 

We are warned of running into ill-tempered Cape buffaloes or highly territorial Hippos that ventured into the camp that was set up in the middle of the Mara. Point taken. I didn’t fancy a clandestine tête-à-tête with either beast in the middle of the night and assured the accompanying tribesman of my noble intentions, which involved a wash and bed. 

He nodded agreeably and handed us a whistle each. Once more, I raised an eyebrow, which seemed to be a regularly used form of expression ever since my arrival a few hours ago.

“If you need us,” he clarified, grinning ear to ear. 

“A Masai guard will be posted outside your tent. Use the whistle if there’s an emergency,” he continued as he dropped us off. 

He disappeared before I had the chance to ask him what qualified as an emergency. I stared at the tiny whistle and hoped I’d never had to use it. My imagination ran wild, with images of angry hippos tearing through the tent while we slept, or snakes slithering into the blankets for warmth. Who knows, maybe a curious hyena might make an appearance. 

I don’t know if any of this happened, for I slept right through everything. I remember the snorting of hippos as they splashed around the river by the tent, the call of the hyenas, and several other sounds as they lulled me to sleep on my first night in Africa. Maybe a lion or two sniffed around, deciding unshowered humans were not worth the trouble! 

Nevertheless, exhausted as I was, I couldn’t wait to jump into the Landrover the following morning. We were going to see the mighty elephants! 

The beginning of an African adventure: A perilous plane ride

Nothing prepared me for this. I had only seen it in movies before, and I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Here I was, flying in one of those small, limited-seater, light aircraft, gazing out of the window at the tower of giraffes as they gracefully trotted across the great African Savannah. I couldn’t wait for us to land!

To be honest, my hurry to land had other reasons. Besides the excitement that was building up in my belly, the stale muffins that I had gorged on at Wilson Airport in Nairobi had started to make their presence felt. As the adorable little plane bobbed and swayed each time it got a little windy outside, my belly threatened to bring up the muffins, tea et all; and boy was it windy! 

I panicked, looking around for one of those bags they have on all flights for the passengers to empty the contents of their stomachs. On a related note, I wonder what happens to the bags once they are full? Is one expected to call out to the flight attendant and politely hand it over, reaching over your fellow-passengers as they cringe and gag reflexively, hoping the bag is leak-proof? Thankfully, I never have had the opportunity to find out. Coming back to my current predicament, the plane was no larger than a sedan, and my poor knees knocking against my collar-bone were testimony to that. So the possibility of a sick-bag simply did not exist. I just had to hold it in.

Well, this is supposed to be a blog about my trip to Africa, specifically the Masai Mara in Kenya. So let me get back to the wildlife. I tried to distract myself by gazing at the large herds of elephants, followed by the delightful hippo family bathing in a waterbody far down below. From the airplane, the hippos and the elephants looked like minuscule blobs moving lethargically in the vast, green plans of the Mara that were occasionally dotted with Acacia. The Mara river soon came into view, our plane gliding over the muddy brown waters gracefully snaking below. The waters alternated between silver and brown, turning silver whenever the sun peeked from behind clouds, casting its powerful rays down below, and of course, baking the 6 passengers and the two pilots within.

The heat did not help matters, and I was reminded once again of my protesting stomach. We still had 20 minutes to go. 

“Why doesn’t everyone have some mint, it helps with nausea,” the strapping young pilot announced as if sensing my discomfort. He then turned to face us and handed over a box of mint. 

“Jeepers! He needs to look ahead, not at us!” I whispered urgently in my husband’s ear. Come to think of it, my husband appeared a little green himself, having partaken the muffins a couple of hours ago.

The pilot overheard me, considering there wasn’t much room to whisper aboard the itsy-bitsy cabin and smiled benevolently. 

“Don’t worry, she’s good! We’re gooo-oood!” he assured grinning ear to ear, as he tapped on the paraphernalia that kept us inflight.

I smiled back, popped a mint, and kept my eyes closed until we finally began descending. 

I looked outside expectantly, naively assuming there was a runway ahead. The “runway” was but a muddy clearing in the jungle, prepared before each landing by the rangers, who chased away curious zebras and wildebeest herds, making space for the planes to land. Awestruck and amused, I watched the beasts make a run for it, as the landrover drove them off the airstrip, and moments later we landed with a loud “thud” followed by short,  jerky movements, and then an abrupt stop.

I was the first one out of the plane, pretty certain of desecrating the airstrip by getting sick all over it. Nope, just nausea that soon disappeared after I gulped in the clean, fresh air in the Masai Mara Reserve. I staggered a little uncertainly, swallowed some more air, and in a few minutes, I was as fine as a flea on a butcher’s dog!

“Okay, let’s get back into the plane, everyone!” shouted the pilot, clapping his hands impatiently.

“Excuse me, what?” I enquired wondering if I had misheard.

“This isn’t your stop, it’s where he gets off,” the pilot responded, flashing a smile that would have passed off as charming if not for the impatient tone of his voice. 

I glanced at the man he was pointing to and saw that it was the bloke who had occupied the seat behind me. He was now walking away, shaking hands with his guide, driver, and companion for the next few days.

“You get off in 20 minutes. So come on in, you can have another mint,” said Mr.Pilot man benevolently.

I followed him and my husband back into the plane, taking him up on his offer for the extra mint. My husband, whose pallor was nearly back to human and less Kermit-the-frog, helped himself too, as did the remaining passengers on board. And so, we covered the next 20 minutes in relatively good spirits.  The break had helped, and I seemed to enjoy the breathtaking scene beneath me, as we descended once again, the airstrip cleared off the herbivores. 

The Masai Mara… we were here at last! A dream that my husband I nursed for many years was finally real. I couldn't believe it... our feet were planted firmly on African soil, the savannah stretching endlessly ahead and our hearts bursting with excitement in anticipation of the game drives and adventures in store!

The adventure continues in my next blog, which will follow soon.

Blame it on the virus!

I don’t know why I took a long break from writing. It has always been so therapeutic to translate my thoughts into words, and words into stories and experiences. Was it the convenience of Instagram that allows me to add a couple of lines against a picture and hit “post” or simply the sheer apathy brought on by the pandemic? I’d like to blame both, but deep down I know that I’m guilty of a rather common ailment that afflicts writers… distraction! 

Documenting stories of my travels has always been a passion. That said, with no travels to document post-COVID, I let my passion wane. I convinced myself that most of 2019 was spent preparing for my travels to the Masai Mara Reserve in Kenya. Meanwhile, the lure of the Bandipur Tiger Reserve, which was fast turning into my home away from home, meant that I was too busy packing my bags just as fast I’d unpack them upon my return. When was I to write?

Excuses, excuses, right? This time around, I made up my mind to pull myself out of the impassivity that has clouded my mind, especially ever since the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic.

So, what next? Well, I’d like to spend a few moments lamenting on the lack of travel in 2020. As someone who made a beeline to the nearest jungle at the drop of a hat, being trapped indoors for months together is, for the lack of a better word, rather suffocating. One might argue that everything in India is opening up, including the safaris and there’s nothing to stop me from embarking upon another one of my wildlife trips. That’s not entirely true… there is something that stops me from finding material for my next article, and that is the rapidly spreading virus that seems to completely disregard humanity’s patience. 

Can you imagine, the impudence of these “invisible to the naked eye” organisms that appear to have overstayed their “unwelcome”, in this case? Patience everywhere is running thin, and I’m no different. I would like to pretend that the homemade concoctions of garam masala and turmeric will render me invincible to the Coronavirus or be like the neighbourhood uncle who firmly believes it’s all a hoax; but better sense prevails and I realize that the possibility of contracting the infection, if I were to tempt fate by traveling for pleasure, is very high! 

So, reminisce I will, by getting back to writing my travel experiences from the good old days when catching a cold was what it was...very common! When running temperate was nothing more than a mere inconvenience that was in most cases resolved by a couple of over-the-counter antibiotics, liberal doses of paracetamol, and of course, “mummyji ki khichdi”. 

I’m going to sign off on that note, and promise to be back soon with a blog on my 2019 trip to the Masai Mara.