“You are white,” said the Gatekeeper of the Maasai Mara National Park. I admired his firm grasp of visual details but decided not to respond.
“So, you are a tourist, which means that the entrance fee will be $80 per person per day,” he pressed on.
I remained silent. I had a strategy.
Maasai Mara National Park, Musiara Gate, April 2012
When entering negotiations - anywhere in the world, by the way - on a mediocre scale with mentally sub standard humanoids but involving considerable amounts of bribes it is best to keep your mouth tightly shut.
This, I learned, plants the seed of insecurity in the intellect in question and shake the frail foundation of his "self assumed" authority. By letting his announcements fruitlessly linger in midair without gracing them with your attention you slowly gain the upper hand of the upcoming debate.
Basic human psychology dictates that people who make a verbal statement expect to elicit a reaction of some sort from their opponent.
If they fail to achieve their desired results by not receiving any response, naturally, doubts and the fear of overreach start to creep into their minds.
“The car will cost an additional $30 a day,” he added weakly. By now, the guard was visibly shaken by my open defiance of his dominion and apparent lack of cooperation.
I decided it was about time to acknowledge his presence at least.
“Who is in charge here? It obviously can’t be you, so where is your superior?” , I demanded.
The guard helplessly pointed to a small office behind the massive entrance gate.
I slowly opened the door and stepped out of the car. A group of Maasai women, babies in their arms to empathise dire needs, swarmed our vehicle in hopes of selling us horribly overpriced souvenirs and supposed antique heirlooms, which had, in all probability been manufactured just yesterday in North Korea.
Confident in my wife’s capabilities to face hardship I left her to deal with them while I turned my attention to the Head Guard, who cautiously observed me as I approached his office - more of a shack with a desk, really.
On that desk, the only official item in sight was a well-worn receipt pad with not too many pages missing. Clearly, most of the entrance fees never found their way to their designated destinations, i.e. the federal government. Instead, a big chunk of the money was distributed in unequal shares among whatever motley crew was in charge of harassing the tourists.
This was the point where I adjusted my mental assault to throw my opponent into confusion.
“Officer!” Recalling my extended time in the German Navy, I addressed him in the most commanding voice I could muster. He bolted out of his chair and almost snapped to attention in astonishment. Greeting him as an Officer broke the ice immediately.
“Boss, what seems to be your boggle? Are you unsatisfied with how my guards outside were treating you in any way?”, he inquired.
“No, I am not: They are sufficiently kind, but I would have wished they were better trained in distinguishing tourists from residents.”
“Do you have a residency card, Sir?”, the guard carefully asked.
“No, I don’t have it on me, but the car is registered in my name. How do you think I managed that without being a legal resident? By sending flowers to the president's wife, perhaps?”
I didn’t want to give him time to rattle his brain and come up with a questionable outcome, so I delivered the final blow:
“Listen up, General! This is my Kenyan Pilot License. I am flying in and out of this place by plane every other day, and as you are surely aware, pilots don’t have to pay any entrance fee.”
For reasons unbeknownst to me pointing out that you are an Aviator is an awe-inspiring statement that for most people with rather limited educational training, places you on par with the likes of Batman. To be fair, this prime specimen of an “officer” was not the crispest shirt in the closet and likely wouldn’t have known his receipt pad from a rubber doll anyway, so everything was working as I had anticipated.
I deliberately neglected, of course, to mention the trifling technicality that typically only pilots who arrive by plane qualify for fee exemptions. To help him arrive at a mutually beneficial conclusion, however, I offered him $30 in exchange for a week's ticket for me and my wife.
I generously included the car as well, with an additional personal "gratification" of $10. As he opened his mouth to respond with something trivial, I swiftly informed him that I wouldn't trouble him with the strenuous task of writing a receipt either.
This did it!
He smiled at me, shooed away his overeager colleagues - who surely weren’t about to see a single dime of the money I had just handed him - and wished us a pleasant journey and a happy life.
Outside, I dashed into the crowd of passionate Maasai merchandisers, still keen to convince my wife that her life would be incomplete if she left without acquiring anything from them. I believe, for the sake of peace of mind - our mind, that is - she eventually purchased a non-Korean, high valuable version of a wooden trinket.
From the gate, we took off and headed for the Campsite near the Governors' safari Camp by the Mara River. Along the way, we passed the Musiara gravel airstrip - a place where I would land and take off countless times in the near future. If I had known then of what a tremendously exciting future God had in store for us - given the dire straits we were in at the moment - I probably wouldn’t have believed it.
Shortly after, we arrived at our final destination for the day. Utterly exhausted but happy, we climbed onto the hood, made ourselves comfortable for a few minutes, and took in the spectacular scenery. Most of the campsite was populated by a herd of elephants, but none of them paid us any attention.
We found a fine spot to set up our new Safari Tent near the Mara River, not so close as to bother the Ellis, the Hippos or Crocodiles.
Right away, we started a fire, broke out our camping gear, wine and food, and, being simple folks with even simpler tastes, we wholeheartedly indulged in a soul-nourishing evening in paradise - i.e., the wild.
Something that has never ceased to astonish me is how curious animals are in their natural habitat. Contrary to the highly inflated tales on National Geographic about resentful rhinos, hostile hippos, heinous hyenas, and vengeful vipers, the truth is ,that as long as you don’t impose on these critters, little to nothing will happen.
By and large, if you simply sit still for an extended period, chances are that many of these beautiful animals will approach you - stopping just short of their genetically ingrained safety distance.
This is why I would, in all likelihood donate vital organs just to do a horseback safari. No other means of transportation allows you to get as close to a herd of wildebeests, zebras or even giraffes as sitting on a horse does. On top of that, you will get to spend your days in the saddle - one of the most heavenly and uplifting places for me to be.
It is far better than flying air planes or even helicopters most of the time, unquestionably better than driving a Landrover, and perhaps only on par with riding my motorcycle. No, hiking ( i.e. strolling with a geriatric stick and a serious look on your face) doesn't even qualify in my world.
Back in our cozy camping chairs, we watched the gentle group of elephants peacefully shuffle off into the sunset.
Could life possibly get any better?
Wasn’t this the very meaning of life?
By all means, how could you transcend the feeling of sitting by a warming fire, out in the open, with the one person you hold most dear?
What could be more soul-rewarding than to identify as an essential part of this stupendous scenery around us, not an alienated visitor peering through the windshield of a fleeting car, nor a silent spectator from outer space, in front of a TV screen watching these natural wonders through someone else’s camera lens? A lens manipulated into perfection by a photoshop program, like a cheap Chinese Ramen noodle dish that tastes like faded grey wallpaper?
What could be more desirable in life than doing what you love with the person you love?
I realize, of course, that lounging in the warm living room, cuddling under soft duvets in a comfy kingsize bed, the smell of new leather seats in a flashy car, and a cinema-sized home video setup, are far more luxurious than sitting in damp clothes with cheap red wine by the fire, swatting at irritating mosquitoes.
But life is not all about prosperity and comfort, is it?
It is a pity that so few people ever discover that comfort and “security” dull the senses and are, therefore, cheap tickets to depression.
Pleasure is even worse - it's never enough. It is like a mystical cup in your hand that you intend to fill, but it has no bottom.
I believe it was the legendary Gus D’Amato, the renowned trainer who forged the nearly indestructible “Iron” Mike Tyson, who once said this:
“The more pleasure you get out of living, the more fear you have of dying.”
Reflecting on my life, I can’t help but agree!
No man could have beaten Iron Mike in the ring. He was too fast, too ferocious and possessed an unconquerable will to prevail at any cost.
It was only after Mike had tasted the poisonous fruits of fame, money and easy women that he lost his focus, ultimately casting away his career.
Sadly, the norm that shapes the character of our society is the Mode of Having. People judge one another by their possessions. Perhaps it is human nature to compare - I don’t know.
What I do know is this: whatever you are aiming for, no matter how big, fast, expensive or exclusive the item that promises you pleasure and peace, there will always be something bigger, better, larger and faster on the horizon to drive you mad.
I apologize for deviating off course again, and since no spectacular point is likely to emerge from my chatter any time soon, I might as well return the subject at hand: Nicole and me, sitting by the fire, enjoying ourselves.
And just then, in our best moment and right on cue, the thunderclouds rolled in. And as if that weren't enough, my mobile phone started ringing - which was far more surprising.
Now, I'll admit that the event of a ringing telephone isn’t exactly a breathtaking subject to elaborate on, not even on a remote campground in the Maasai Mara.
But hear me out, because this was about to become another life-changing occurrence.
On the line was James, the Camp Manager of our final destination, Hemingways Ol-Sekis Safari Camp.
Henry had arranged with him in advance to prepare for our arrival and to guide us to Ol-Seki Camp, located a few miles outside the main National Park and far afield from our campground.
This was Jame's initial call to establish communications with us - the beginning of what would become a beautiful companionship. We agreed to keep him in the loop on our whereabouts and hung up.
As we directed our attention back to the peaceful fire, a band of Land Rovers suddenly approached.
Bringing up the tail of the little caravan was what appeared to be a honeymoon couple in a Land Rover camper van. They were dressed to the nines, resembling a mash-up of Reinhold Messner, the Himalaya Slayer, Crocodile Dundee, Karen Blixen and perhaps a bit of Jane Goodall - all rolled into one.
They could not have looked more out of place if they had ridden in on a Diplodocus….
But more about them - and how we eventually made it to Ol-Seki - will have to wait for tomorrow’s tale.
Lights out
Marcel Romdane
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