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 African Continent |
| "My East Africa," 1972 An American family of four discovers East Africa in 1972 on a once-in-a-lifetime safari adventure. Mom keeps a diary: PART 1... By Mary Ashcraft and Rod Lopez-Fabrega |
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Enthralled by Joy Adamson's "Born Free" vision of the vanishing magic and mythology of East Africa and its endangered game parks, the four members of an American family of moderate means decide they cannot afford not to see this wonder for themselves. Tony Austin, 42, a recently self-employed professional, Grace Austin, suburban housewife just turned 40, and their two children, Rick, 17 and Corinne 14 make their plans months in advance. They will fly from New York to Nairobi via Paris and Rome, spend three weeks in East Africa touring on their own in a rented minivan and then return via Athens. Grace keeps a diary: |
 Sunday, July 23, 1972: We leave from J.F. Kennedy Airport in New York. We still think of it as Idlewild Airport. We are nervous about the airplane hijackings that have been reported in Europe--especially with the children along--but you can't stop living. Anyhow, it's the first time we've had to pass through a metal detector and have our carryons checked for weapons. The plane is only ¾ full, so we have enough room to spread out. The movie is "Cabaret," but I find it more relaxing not to watch. It gives me a chance to think of how long we've waited for this trip. Everyone added to the "kitty." Rick and Cori contributed from their allowances and babysitting earnings to pay for some of the costs. We all stashed away every extra dollar for months--the airfare alone from New York to Nairobi is costing $838 for the four of us. Ouch! But everyone contributes. It's a family thing. The marvelous guide book the East African Automobile Association sent has been a huge help to us in planning it all out. First Stop: Paris for one night, then another jump to Rome for three days before heading for Africa. |
 Thursday, July 27, 1972: We hated to leave Paris and we hated to leave Rome, but at last we are on our way to Africa. At the airport, we are again searched thoroughly and put through a metal detector before boarding Ethiopian Airlines. The plane is so hot, I can hardly breathe. I try to sleep –unsuccessfully. The kids call us to the windows as we cross the Mediterranean and then pass over the great Sahara desert. From this altitude, the sand dunes look like waves stretching endlessly to the horizon. The first stop is Asmara in Ethiopia. It's very cold and rainy. We are made to get off the plane here and herded to a waiting room where all transit passengers must wait. There is a civil war brewing here in Eritrea, the home of the rebels, and all traffic passes with strict precautions. When we first step off the plane, Tony kneels and pats the ground, our first actual contact with Africa. We are fed a hasty breakfast and, after a couple of hours, take off, flying over Addis Ababa, headed for Nairobi. |
 Friday, July 28, 1972: Approaching Nairobi, we huddle at the window to take photos of Mount Kenya below. Very exciting! We land and go through the formalities. One of the first things we notice is that we are the minority here in our pale skins. It's a beautiful day in Nairobi, and we have very nice rooms at the New Stanley Hotel. Though we are jet-lagged, we go down to the outdoor café and have a drink in the shade of the hotel's famous Thorn Tree. In the old colonial days of British East Africa, friends left messages for each other stuck on the three-inch-long thorns covering its branches. We look for Gregory Peck and Ava Gardner, but they probably haven't been here since they made "Snows of Kilimanjaro" twenty years ago.  We walk to Ahmed Brothers, 22 Kenyatta Boulevard to buy some classic safari clothes. We all try on safari jackets, and Cori and I buy khaki pants to match. Ahmed's has supplied white hunter safaris since 1903, and now the likes of us who want to look the part but love the romance of East Africa without the killing. The four of us stroll through Bazaar Street where shops are filled with exotic things like elephant hair bracelets and the spicy smells of hemp bags filled with grains and edible roots. The most unexpected sights are the Woolworth's Five and Dime across from the hotel and the Xerox office down the street. |
 Saturday, July 29, 1972: Early Saturday morning the VW minivan we rented via our many mail exchanges between the United States and East Africa is delivered to the hotel. The driver from the Hertz office in Nairobi proudly leads us to a brilliantly zebra-striped minivan that might just as well say "Tourists Here" in neon lights. Somewhat embarrassed, we resign ourselves and load our puny gear--no high-powered elephant guns, no pith helmets, just four suitcases and some camera bags. Tony cautiously and nervously drives us through the city and on our way, easing quickly into left lane, British-style driving. Very soon, city streets give way to a rural countryside--flat and vast and the air filled with clouds of dust. We are on our way north on route 816 to Nyeri. The roads are good, and when we pass children, they wave. Truckloads of farm workers pass us, and we are struck by the bright blue-green clothing most of the women are wearing. Is it an antidote to the dust? Dryness gives way to the Kenya highlands and well-kept small farms. We drive through Thika without stopping (only to learn later that we zipped through the town that had been home to writer Elspeth Huxley) and get to the Outspan Hotel in Nyeri just in time for lunch. We stay in one of its quaint cottages nestled among trees. The main building looks like a old English country house, complete with manicured lawns and beds of European flowers. It is cold here in the highlands, and we didn't come prepared for cold, but our cottage has a fireplace, and we make use of it. Behind the cottage, Rick and Cori find a huge grandfather of a fig tree with a tangle of aerial roots and are told by a caretaker that it's a favorite hiding place for cobras |
 Sunday, July 30, 1972: Early in the morning a van comes to pick us up and transfer us to Treetops Hotel, built on stilts on the shores of a waterhole where the animals come to drink. Our van is met by Colonel Hayes-Newington, every inch the White Hunter, armed with a no-nonsense rifle to protect us with if we should be charged by a lion or rhino. We sprint the few yards between the van and the stairs leading up to Treetops. I suspect it's part of the show, but we do see baboons, bush bucks and wart hogs along the way. It's exciting: our first sight of wild African animals. Treetops is rustic elegance up in the trees. We climb stairs to the entry. It's all wood and thatching, and parts of trees are incorporated right into the walls. Wood smells are fragrant. After settling in, I go up to the rooftop where the view of the waterhole is best. The children join me, and we look hard to see more animals, but it's the wrong time of day, except for several baboons that have joined us on the far end of the deck. A shy, uniformed hotel attendant comes by with a tray of fresh-sliced pineapple and I help myself. Before I know it, a large baboon has rushed me and landed on top of me and is wrestling me for the slice of fruit. Tony shouts at me to give the animal the pineapple, for God's sake! I do that, and the attendant chases it away. I'm shaken but unhurt. Have you ever seen the fangs on a baboon? A lesson learned: in Africa, baboons are always right during close encounters.  We simmer down before dinner with sherries all around. Dinner is family style with us and several dozen other guests seated at two long tables. After, we all adjourn to an enclosed porch with narrow widows, a sort of blind, to wait for dark and the coming of the elephants. The waterhole is dimly illuminated with a spotlight, and we do see rhino and many Cape buffalos, but no elephants. The four of us are dead tired, so a bit disappointed, we go to our rooms and to bed. It seems like only moments when we are awakened by the whispers of the hotel staff. "The elephants are here, the elephants are here." As quietly as we can in our excitement, we rush to the enclosed porch, and there they are down below, shadowy giants in the late night mist. It's a magical moment for us. |
 Monday, July 31, 1972: By now, we are getting used to our garish zebra-striped minivan. It seems strangely out of place as we drive through the highlands and their lush, green meadows and acres of tidy crops. It looks more like the English countryside--not so long ago these were great farms owned by Europeans but now expropriated by the newly independent government of Kenya. We stop to see Thompson's Falls, the most beautiful waterfall I've ever seen. A bit later we cross the Equator and pose for the obligatory photo. Then, we head south to Nakuru and a lake that is Mecca to millions of flamingoes. Nakuru is a fairly large city, crowded, and not quite so friendly. It seems like a different Africa. There are fewer black and more Middle-Eastern complexions. We drive right on through the city to find Lake Nakuru. It's a stunning sight. From a distance, the surface of the lake appears to be covered with pink scum. Up close, there are hundreds of thousands of chattering birds wading and feeding in the shallow waters. We shout at them to get them to fly and some do in a great pink streak. Also, there are many pelicans, cormorants, storks, and on shore, waterbuck, impala and monkeys. We check into the Midland Hotel. It's a long, low, cement building, very spare. It looks like it might be a hideaway for thieves somewhere in the Moroccan desert. Our rooms are bare and dark with only one light bulb hung center ceiling. Small windows open to a narrow alleyway, but we decide to keep them closed for safety. The entire building smells of curry and other spices. The dining room is furnished in Dinette Modern, and the tablecloths are oilcloth, but the simple meal is good. |
 Tuesday, August 1, 1972: Nakuru is behind us, and we head south toward the town of Narok at the northern end of the Maasai Mara Reserve. It is a bright morning, and we pass children on their way to school. We wave at them and they all wave back and giggle to each other at the sight of our conspicuous zebra-painted chariot. This section of the road down from the highlands is dirt and deeply rutted and progress is slow. We are driving down the Mau Escarpment into the Rift Valley, headed for the vast East African savannah. The thought that, not so many years ago, this was Mau-Mau country is a bit unsettling. Suddenly, our road improves, and we see our first Maasai man followed by his two women. Trudging along in single file, they are a marvelous sight in their saffron-colored robes and beads. The man carries a spear. Soon, we drive into Narok. There doesn't seem to be much there besides a few cement buildings, a gas station, and a field where Maasai youngsters quickly set up blankets and bring out crafts to tempt the tourists. Soon we are surrounded by youngsters shouting, "USA, USA." They all know Apollo 11 landed on the moon just three years ago, and all Americans are heroes. One youngster asks Tony in good English if he has an American 50-cent piece. Tony looks at me knowingly. The boy just wants a handout. But no, he is interested mainly in the Kennedy portrait on the coin. The four us pile back into the van, ready to move on. It's a long drive and we are headed for Keekorock Lodge inside the Maasai Mara Reserve. The van won't start. After a moment of panic and the usual poking around under the hood by Tony, who only has the sketchiest idea of what's going on in there, my husband goes to the single service station to find help. The East Indian mechanic is out to lunch--a long East African lunch. We sit glumly in our failed zebra van. Our young admirer of Kennedy coins sees our predicament and introduces himself. His English name is Jason. He is almost the age of our son, Rick, but about half his size. I ask if there is some place to buy something for us to eat. He takes me to a tiny store to buy oranges and bread for our lunch. Maasai ladies are there, and they are curious about me. As I stand there, deciding what to buy, I feel a delicate touch on my arm. One of the ladies is curious about the simple gold bangles I always wear and wants to touch them. Like most of the Maasai ladies, she is wearing many lovely and intricately constructed beaded necklaces and jewelry. We smile at each other, and there is a cross-cultural connect.  When our van is repaired, Jason invites us to visit his family's Boma before going on our way. We come to understand that his father is so committed to preparing his sons with a good education to ready them for their rapidly changing world that he has sold his cattle herd--the birthright of traditional Maasai culture--and moved his entire family close to Narok so the sons can attend the mission school there. It is a stunning commitment in a society that has valued cattle ownership above almost everything else. The Boma is a compound of dome-shaped sapling and wattle huts completely enclosed inside a fence of thorn tree branches to keep out lions at night. Jason asks us not to take any photos, and, of course, we comply. How rude that would be. We are invited by Jason to enter his family's hut and we have to stoop to enter. The ceiling is too low to stand upright, and the space is dark and filled with smoke, lit only by the vent hole in the roof and a low-level hearth fire. The room is filled with people, and we sit nervously for a few minutes, not knowing how to communicate with them. Jason whispers to us that 'how are you' in Maa language is Suba when asked of a man and Ta kivenya when asked of a women. We mispronounce both. They stare at us, smiling and probably confused, and we stare back. We crouch down on our heels and sit for a few minutes, eyes burning with the smoke. Then, we excuse ourselves and leave much too quickly--a great opportunity lost just because everything is so strange. How stupid of us. These people want the same things we want: better opportunities for our children, a good life. |
 Tuesday, August 1, 1972: We reach the Maasai Mara National Park. It is really the northern end of the Serengeti National Park. We stop at the entrance kiosk to check in with the authorities. The guards are courteous and look very official in their crisp uniforms. We can hardly contain our excitement, along with a bit of anxiety. This is as much wild animal country as we may ever experience again in our lives. The African savannah opens out before us, and it is difficult to keep our eyes on the potholes in the dirt road as we lurch along. Rick points excitedly, it's an elephant herd in the distance, almost too far away for photos, but we stop and get out the cameras. We're afraid to get out of the van--there's high grass all around--but the van has a lift-up roof panel, and we stand there clicking away like National Geographic pros.  We spend the night in Keekorock Lodge. It is spare but comfortable and surprisingly "civilized" for our first night in the bush. Flowers are everywhere, and small monkeys cavort around the swimming pool. Dinner is excellent. This is roughing it? Evening comes quickly, and the sky looks like a giant fistful of diamonds had been tossed across the black velvet African sky. A great bonfire is lit in a pit in the center of the lawns. We are told it's to discourage the nocturnal prowlings of big cats. Comforting! I think about our two pussycats at home, Playful and Cracker. Later, safe in our cabins and tucked under the covers, we feel we are really here. We listen to grunts and coughs of lions close by and hear heavy rustlings just outside our thin walls. |
 Wednesday, August 2, 1972: This morning we sign up for a ranger to ride with us in our own van to tour the park. It's required. We cannot be allowed to wander about by ourselves. Peter is our ranger, and he is sullen, aloof, very military and armed with a rifle for our protection. Tony sits in the "death seat" and Peter takes over the driving. Rick and Cori and I sit in the back, and we are off into the plains of East Africa. The landscape is vast, and the views seem endless--nothing but grass and sky and thorn trees. Peter finds us our first kill. A male and two females have just finished off the carcass of an impala or perhaps something bigger. It's hard to tell as there is only a ribcage and bits of flesh left. The lions are so stuffed, bellies distended, they don't even look up when we drive within just a few yards of them. The male lion dozes off, every inch the overindulged patriarch. One of the lionesses is still at the kill, though she looks as though she couldn't eat another bite. Her face is flecked with blood and gore. The scene that pops into my head is Thanksgiving dinner, when it's time to carry out the turkey carcass and start the cleanup.  Later, Peter finds us zebra, buffalo, impala, an elephant herd up close, Topi, two hyenas, a Secretary bird, and several hippos bobbing about in a river. Peter guards us well. Once, when Tony has to take a pee, Peter gets out with him and stands guard, discreetly staring off into the distance. That night, after dinner at the Lodge, our young waiters laugh and toss Frisbees on the lawn, white teeth gleaming against black skins in fading light. |
 Thursday, August 3, 1972: This morning we are on our way again. We leave Kenya and cross into Tanzania. More border guards, this time looking a bit tattered. We are about to enter the main part of the Serengeti, the largest refuge of wild animals in the world. Did Osa Johnson feel as excited back in the 1930's when she and husband Martin first flew over Tanganyika in their zebra-striped flying boat? They landed their bizarre amphibian aircraft in rivers and lakes. She wrote about it and called her book, "I Married Adventure," and later a movie was made about it. Well, here I am trying to make notes as we bounce down a dirt park trail through the African bush country in our zebra-striped VW minivan. It isn't quite a flying boat, but Hollywood, here I come.  We check into the Seronera Tented Lodge. It has been here since 1932, and was the first and, sadly, may be the last tented lodge in the Serengeti. They say fancy lodges are being planned. Our "suite" is a three-room tent permanently erected on a concrete slab. There's a small porch with two fold-up camp chairs and a crude wooden table, Walk through the tent flap and there is a section with an aisle down the middle and cots on either side. Go through the second flap and there is another much smaller space which is a sort of dressing room. Go through yet another flap and there is the "bathroom." The shower is a large empty Cottonseed Oil canister hung overhead and with a spray attachment and pull cord. Our porter explains it is filled with water on demand for bathing: cold but refreshing. Tony and I sit on our little porch for a bit, and there on the far horizon, almost always cloud-covered is the mountain. The clouds part for a minute and we see its snow-covered peaks. Tony wonders if there's the carcass of a leopard up there in the snows of Kilimanjaro. |
 Friday, August 4, 1972: This time the ranger that rides with us in our car is Lemeck. Cori knows from our pre-trip planning charts that she helped to pay for his services. Lemeck is friendly and talkative and really knows where to find the animals. He starts right off by finding us a young leopard high in the branches of a tree. The leopard seems to be guarding a kill that dangles from a lower branch. It is a very dead Impala. Lemeck says the youngster is probably waiting for Mom. A mature leopard can carry three times its own weight up a tree to protect it from hyenas and other predators. It's a thrilling sight. Tony and Rick get out their telephoto lenses and bring the leopard child up close.  Later that morning Lemeck pulls the van off the dirt track and into the high grasses. He's spotted something. We go past a herd of buffalo some distance away, but Lemeck drives on to a clump of trees where there is a pride of lions: six males and about 25 females, all lying in the shade and looking very scrawny. We drive right in among the pride, and they show little interest in us. Lemeck has been keeping track of this pride, and he knows it's been a while since they've made a kill. He explains that lions are not great hunters and often go hungry. He asks us if we would like to help them catch their dinner. I'm not at all sure I know what he means, but we agree. With the van and us in it, Lemeck steers toward the herd of buffaloes, swings around behind them, and begins herding them toward the lions. We're like cowboys herding cattle, but this isn't Texas. Lowing and complaining, the lumbering beasts form a tight circle, bulls on the outside, cows and calves on the inside, and they move toward the lions, more concerned with our zebra-striped, noisy monster than with anything else. My family and I look at each other and there are questions in all our eyes. What are we doing? We can see the lions moving now, focused on the coming herd. We stop. The herd stops moving. The lionesses begin to circle the herd, and the drama plays out. The cats feint at the tight circle of beef on the hoof, but the huge bulls keep them from getting too close. Then, the herd begins to move, breaking formation. A wide-eyed and terrified calf is left behind, and the lions close in. Quickly, they bring it down. Immediately, the scene turns into a yowling, screeching mountain of cats, all fighting to get a share. It's a small calf, and clearly not enough to feed thirty hungry lions. We stand there inside our lift-top van, stunned and mesmerized. We've managed in the excitement to jam all our cameras. It's a sobering moment for the four of us. Did we do this? It's the way things are--the law of the jungle.  Later that night, safe inside our tent back at Seronera camp, we sleep fitfully. In the middle of the night I hear heavy clumping sounds right around the tent. I wake Tony up, and we decide against all logic that it's probably nothing, though I know we are both wondering if it's the ghosts of those buffaloes. Come daybreak and Tony, who hasn't slept much, finally gets up courage to open the front flap of the tent to see what is still thumping around out there. He comes face to face, almost touching distance to four giant knees attached to four huge splayed hooves, big enough to squash a mere man. They move, and we see they are attached to a full-grown giraffe grazing the branches over our tent. The sky-high beast looks down on us placidly and goes about its business. Later we learn it is George, a well-known regular around Seronera and friendly. I think we've been forgiven for our part in the buffalo kill. |
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