“Boooom!!!!” We were yanked from our peaceful slumber as if a thermonuclear device had just detonated outside. I nearly launched myself through the roof of our safari tent in sheer shock.
The thin canvas walls of our temporary sanctuary glowed a menacing orange, as though the same meteor that had wiped out the dinosaurs had returned - with vengeance - to finish off humanity.
Compared to this, sleeping on one of Werner von Braun’s Saturn V test sites would have felt downright tranquil.
The explosion shook the forest so violently that the baboons above us nearly fainted like teenagers at a Michael Jackson concert, and almost collapsed out of their trees.
Flames erupted, threatening to ignite the entire Mara-Serengeti ecosystem in one fiery inferno.
We stumbled out to assess the chaos. The culprits were immediately identified. Our hopeless urban neighbours, it turned out, had decided to fight off the rain by dumping an entire jerry can of gasoline onto their fire. The explosion had nearly barbecued them too - only their drenched clothes saved them from going up in flames.
Thankfully, the camp staff - who, judging by their quick response, had been lurking in the bushes all along - rushed in to drag the panicked pair back to safety. It didn’t take long before the night returned to its calm, natural rhythm.
The crickets resumed their cheerful chirping, and we, once again, drifted off to sleep.
What had happened?
The nearly peaceful campground by the Mara River, April 2012
We had barely hung up on James, the camp manager of Ol-Seki, when all of a sudden, two Land Rovers from the neighbouring Governors' Safari Camp came crashing through the woods, bouncing like dairy cows on a trampoline.
The first was a typical open game drive vehicle, with an experienced driver at the wheel, a smug spotter perched next to him, and a collection of camp grunts piled in the back.
The second vehicle, however, was a different story. The driver seemed to be locked in a losing battle with the trail, barely managing to keep the Landrover upright, on course, and out of the trees.
This had to be one of those Out of Africa experiences we’d heard about: the kind where the camp sets up a remote site, leaves you in the wild for the night, and hopes you’re still alive the next morning when they swing by to reverse the process.
Our campground, roughly the size of the Gobi Desert, had ample room for everyone. Yet, the careless caravan practically parked on top of our little habitat to make their dramatic stop.
By the time the shaken couple in the second Land Rover managed to stumble out, the crew from the first had already erected a small tent, set up a collapsible table and stools, kindled a fire, and served dinner. Their efficiency was almost artful, within minutes, the staff vanished into the night, leaving the bewildered city slickers completely alone.
They looked thoroughly out of their depth, helpless, hapless, and hopeless. Textbook examples of how far removed humanity has become from the wild.
We prayed they’d be gone by morning.
Which, mercifully, they were, though not before nearly turning Western Kenya into a smouldering pile of ash.
Good fortune was on our side.
We woke the next morning to a bright blue sky, the night’s vicious rain having washed away all traces of the mayhem caused by the urban dwellers - a chaos that had come alarmingly close to ending us as well.
After a hearty breakfast by the fire, we packed our belongings, leaving the tent behind for another night, and set off to explore the marvellous Maasai Mara. Lacking even the off-road driving skills of a five-year-old, it took us a solid three hours just to escape the campground and reach the nearest road.
Oh dear, the road… Out of the trees and into the bushes we skidded. The soaking wet mud, combined with our threadbare tires, was a recipe for disaster waiting to unfold.
And it did.
We somehow managed to break free of the lush green vegetation, only to promptly back ourselves into a trench on the other side of the road. In hindsight, a weekend course in off-road driving wouldn’t have been such a bad idea after all.
To this day, I can still picture the bewildered expressions of our innocent onlookers, gazelles, zebras, and buffalo, staring at us as if we were the strangest creatures they'd ever encountered.
Apparently, they had been spared the spectacle of the fire-starting couple from the previous night, only to be subjected to the tragicomedy of our struggle with the treacherous road.
It dawned on me, with a sudden and humbling clarity, that we might not be as far removed from the forlorn city slickers as I had smugly assumed.
Still, it was a glorious day to be out in the wild among God’s magnificent creatures, and we thoroughly savoured every moment.
Every once in a while, James would call to confirm that we were still among the living and not in need of a full-scale rescue operation.
“No worries, James! Everything’s peachy, except the spark plugs keep fouling up, so I’ve been stopping every five miles to dry them out.”
“By the way, that lever next to the gear shift—is it just for show, or does it actually do something?”
An awkward silence lingered on the other end of the line. I believe I detected mild amusement when James finally decided to come up with a response.
“Actually, that lever engages the lower gears, which help with climbing steep hills,” he explained matter-of-factly, as though addressing someone who couldn’t tell a fruitcake from a flat tire.
“Alright then,” I responded slightly embarrassed, “I’ll try that some time…”
The rest of our day’s journey passed quietly, free of further mishaps, until we returned to our campsite and found a Maasai warrior sitting cross-legged, his hunting spear resting calmly beside him.
His name was William, and he introduced himself as our host.
“Jambo Bwana,” he greeted us, his expression betraying no emotion. “I am the host of this facility, and I’ve come to collect the camping fee.”
Until that moment, I hadn’t been aware of any "facilities" in the area—let alone anything resembling a campground. The only faint suggestion of such was a weather-beaten wooden sign, precariously nailed to a rotting stick, standing upside down in the far distance.
“Swell,” was all I could think of in return. “Nice to meet you. How much do you want?”
“$25 the night is the fee.”
Clearly, this was his opening move for what promised to be intricate negotiations.
“Listen up, William, for $25 a night, I could’ve booked a honeymoon suite at the Four Seasons—minibar included. Don’t you think this price tag is a bit inflated for hosting us on a patch of dirt?”
He looked at me blankly, as if he’d just been asked to explain quantum physics.
“I’ll give you $2 per night, which I’ll generously round up to $5 since we’re staying two nights in total.”
I could almost hear his brain grinding into gear, furiously trying to engage with the arithmetic of my proposal.
“$40 for two nights, Bwana,” he countered.
"William, don’t you think that’s a little excessive? For $40, I could have built a cabin here myself—with a driveway for the car!”
Again, he stared at me, much like a teenager gawking at the centrefold of a Playboy magazine.
In the end, we settled on $8 for our stay. With his spear in one hand and the money in the other, William happily shuffled off into the distance.
We ended the day with dinner and wine by the fire, when shortly after it began to rain. But for once, we managed to sleep through the night without major catastrophes—unless you count being forced to move our tent out from under the trees after baboons began pelting us from above with what we desperately hoped was fruit…
A potpourri of heavy rain, muddy roads, and drowning in a stinking hippo pool without a life vest swirled through my dreams until I woke the next morning. To my surprise, a group of hippos had made themselves comfortable right in front of our tent, leaving behind their unmistakable footprints filled with droppings—a not-so-subtle reminder of who truly owned this place.
I called James to let him know we were finally gearing up to head for Ol-Seki.
“Any tips on which route to take?” I asked. After all, the torrential rain had turned most roads into impassable swamps—not exactly ideal for our questionable driving skills.
James suggested we start by heading east and see how far we could get. Given the Land Rover's recent bouts of unpredictability, he stressed—rather firmly—that we should under no circumstances stray from the main roads.
Which we didn’t—mainly because we never even made it to the main road in the first place.
I should probably explain here that I’ve never been a fervent fan of Land Rovers.
There are reasons.
For starters, I like fast cars. A Land Rover isn’t. You’re more likely to die of old age than to reach your destination.
I also appreciate vehicles that reliably start when you turn the key—a Land Rover often interprets this as a polite suggestion rather than a command.
And, call me picky, but I enjoy staying dry inside a car, protected from the relentless elements outside. A Land Rover has no such ambitions. Its seals leak like a teabag, so it keeps raining inside no matter where you are.
Finally, I prefer cars that don’t leave half their engine’s fluids on the ground overnight, forcing me to wake up in a panic, wondering if the Americans have invaded the parking spot.
Now, don’t get me wrong. The Land Rover Defender is a marvel of engineering—a cornerstone of the off-road car industry. It’s rugged, dependable, and exudes character. Truly, it’s the trusty companion you’d want by your side in the wilderness… which is precisely why I’ve decided my next expedition vehicle will be a Toyota Land Cruiser.
Anyway, the car refused to start, delaying our departure by an hour and redirecting my attention—once again—to the eight soaking wet spark plugs.
Eventually, we left the campsite in a cautious crawl, trying to follow what remained of the main road beneath the pools of water left by the night’s relentless rains. Every hundred meters or so, one of us would leap out of the car, armed with a long stick, to probe the depths of the next puddle we were about to wade through.
To be fair, most of the puddles were only ankle-deep. But given our mediocre understanding of Maasai Mara road conditions during adverse weather—and how to properly handle them—we decided to play it safe. Anything to avoid the indignity of needing a rescue.
By late afternoon, we were out of options—not because of our ineptitude at manoeuvring a four-wheel drive, but because we needed something closer to a swimming vessel to continue. Only one road remained passable, and, unfortunately, it led straight out of the park.
We gave James a call to consult on our predicament.
“Where are you guys?” He requested.
“Well, I think we’re back on what’s left of the main road leading into the park. It might even be the same one we took to get here, but honestly, who can tell? They all start to look the same after a while, don’t they?”
Judging by the pause before his reply, I was certain: James must have been utterly convinced that we were complete morons...
I couldn’t really blame him. After all, we had ventured into the Maasai Mara in the middle of the rainy season without so much as glancing at a map beforehand, leaving us with only a vague idea of the road layout—or lack thereof.
“This is what you are going to do, my friends,” James began, his patience unwavering, his tone suggesting he was well-practiced in handling dunces.
“There’s a small village nearby called Aitong. It’s roughly 10 kilometres from where I assume you currently are. Please head there, and I’ll send a guide with one of our vehicles to meet you and lead you to Ol-Seki. How does that sound?”
“Sounds great, James! Thanks a bunch! What’s the guide’s name?”
“It’ll be Raphael who comes to get you,” James replied. “It might take him a while to reach you, so just sit tight in Aitong once you get there. You should be safe—usually, nothing bad happens in Aitong. Just, uh… avoid getting out of the car after dark.”
If James had intended to reassure us, he had categorically failed. Nicole and I exchanged mildly alarmed glances. I instinctively fumbled for my Bowie knife, just in case.
However, we managed the 10 kilometres to Aitong without any major mishaps—if you don’t count stopping halfway to once again wrestle with the drenched spark plugs, or the customary flat tire.
We informed James of our arrival at Aitong’s “city center” after darkness had set in.
“Raphael is on his way. Sit tight!” He assured us.
This was where we went full circle, back to the moment when I had almost stabbed our unsuspecting, dripping wet saviour with my Bowie knife.
“Raphael! So glad you managed to get here! Please do tell me, why are you so wet? It’s not even raining anymore…and, where is your car, by the way?”
“I apologise Marcel, but I had to leave the car behind. The river is too high to cross today. We’ll have to try tomorrow again. I had to swim to get to you.”
For a split second, I was tempted to ask what brand of vehicle James had chosen to send to our rescue, but I thought better of it. We had more pressing matters to deal with—like where we were going to spend the night. I hadn't seen Raphael bring a sleeping bag along with him.
It turned out that James was clearly more attuned to nature's challenges and better trained in dealing with precarious predicaments than we were. He had wisely anticipated this dilemma and had arranged for safe, comfortable shelter at a nearby safari camp.
Raphael guided us safely through the night to a luxurious camp run by a charming French couple. We were warmly welcomed and set up in a cozy cottage complete with a private butler. Despite the late hour, Wilson, the butler, graciously served us an excellent dinner course, leaving us feeling utterly spoiled.
A clean, warm bathroom with a hot shower awaited us after the ordeal of our journey. Soft, cozy duvets and a king-sized bed, complete with the customary hot water bottles, invited us into the most restful slumber we’d had in ages.
We would need it. The journey was set to continue the following morning. Would we finally make it to Ol-Seki? Would we manage to cross the swollen rivers in our path? Would we be able to avoid unhappy encounters with crocodiles and hippos? Is there life after death?
Time would tell… tomorrow, that is.
GN8
Marcel Romdane
Testing rather awkwardly the waters...... "Crocodile Romdane" A bathroom and luxury at last....
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