Veracity in the Dark... Part 4 / The Final

I woke up in a cold sweat, trapped in a Giorgio Armani store, doomed to roam the aisles for eternity in a futile quest to buy happiness by obeying the dictates of fashion. Aimlessly pushing a giant shopping trolley the size of a coal mine truck, overflowing with expensive jackets, sweaters, pants, and shoes, I frantically searched for the cashier—my elusive gateway to eternal satisfaction. Though I had grown old and decrepit by now, I was still grappling with the harsh truth that the pursuit of contentment through buying meaningless items—just to impress people I hardly knew or cared about—had been the great lie of my life…

It took me a moment to orient myself to my new surroundings. A pot of coffee sat next to our bed, placed there silently by Wilson, our butler from the night before. The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee beans filled the room, gently tugging me back from the abyss of despair and the world of utter pain I had just escaped.

A rich breakfast was served on the terrace, offering a perfect view of the lush, green garden sprawling before us. A tortoise ambled leisurely across the lawn, while a striking praying mantis, as large as an index finger, moved with graceful precision along the wooden terrace railing.

The compound comprised two spacious cottages nestled side by side, surrounded by a vibrant mix of acacia trees and lush greenery. Like shimmering stars scattered across the vast sky, a vibrant bed of flowers surrounded us. The place exuded an air of absolute tranquility and profound peace.

Every now and then, Wilson appeared to ask if we needed anything to enhance our already splendid breakfast. We couldn’t imagine a single thing that could have elevated the experience further. The thought of leaving this haven soon felt almost physically painful.

And yet, as the sun began its steady ascent, we reluctantly relinquished our heavenly meal. Raphael, our saviour from the chaos of the previous night, appeared and announced with calm authority that it was time to leave. A long and arduous journey awaited us.

We expressed our heartfelt gratitude to our gracious hosts, assuring them we would return someday—a promise we unexpectedly fulfilled just a few weeks later. With a mix of reluctance and resolve, we bid them farewell and turned toward the road ahead.

The rain had ceased during the night, leaving behind large puddles of muddy water that transformed the gravel road into a treacherous gauntlet. What should have been a scenic drive—at least for an experienced driver—turned into a fierce battle to avoid skidding into the small streams flanking either side. I could tell by the look on Raphael's face that he was struggling to conceal his thoughts—namely, that he considered us a pair of complete dunces. I suspect it was only the intimidating presence of my large Bowie knife that kept him from wresting the steering wheel away by force. I silently vowed to get back at him someday, perhaps by taking him on a plane ride—something I knew the Maasai people were utterly terrified of.

The drive to Aitong was—compared to the previous night—surprisingly short. However, it soon became clear that the Maasai Mara was a place where good deeds could be repaid in unexpected ways. Raphael steered us toward a small Maasai village, consisting of little more than a couple of huts, where a woman holding a very sick child in her arms appeared to have been expecting our arrival. At the time, I had no idea of the intricate network of communication among these people, how they always seemed to know when an opportunity to catch a ride would present itself.

Raphael explained the obvious—namely that the child was in a state of delirium and needed immediate medical attention. As luck would have it, there was a doctor on our route to Ol-Sekis. Taking the two passengers would only add about an hour of delay to our journey, and no, we were not expected to return them afterward.

A big believer in Karma, we gladly accepted, seeing no pressing engagements to attend to anyway. As an added bonus, Raphael promised that the detour would be strikingly scenic. He even suggested we might encounter a herd of elephants along the way. Which, of course, we didn’t. What we did run into, however, was a deep river instead…

The river—now little more than a stream—turned out to be the very one our heroic saviour had swum through the night before. Alarmed, I immediately began scanning the water for crocodiles and other creatures that might pose a threat to my wife’s and my health. Raphael rewarded me with yet another bewildered look, assuring me that crocodiles wouldn’t claim possession of a river that existed only for a few days during the rainy season and was otherwise far from any major body of water.

A little embarrassed I proceeded to fetch my walking stick and started probing the stream in order to find a convenient spot to cross. Now the women and Raphael exchanged confused looks but decided for the sake of continuing transportation to remain quiet.

A few minutes later, I declared that I had found a safe spot to cross but—uncertain of my Land Rover's capabilities—suggested that all passengers, apart from myself, should leave the vehicle. After all, it was my responsibility to shoulder this dangerous task, and there was no need to put anyone but myself at risk.

While bracing myself for the upcoming challenge, I couldn’t help but notice that Raphael had taken charge and led the group across the stream. I was embarrassed to watch as they effortlessly waded to the other side, barely sinking more than knee-deep…

I put the Landrover into gear and cautiously descended into the ravaging river, always alert for any amphibious reptiles, snakes, or hippos. Fortunately, none of these creatures seemed to be around, so without any dramatic incidents, I emerged on the other side and invited my passengers back into the vehicle—if they could perhaps be bothered to give their feet a quick rinse somehow…?

A few miles later, all passengers were required to leave the safety of the vehicle again. This time, a flat tire had caused our unscheduled stop, conveniently providing us with an opportunity to fill up on gas as well. By now, we had burned through all our reserves, a fact I pointed out to Raphael. He assured me that help would be imminent once we reached Ol-Sekis.

He did have to admit, though, that given the decrepit state of the Landrover—lacking any horsepower worth mentioning—he was astonished at how much fuel it consumed.

We reached the doctor’s office shortly after—a place that made me silently pray to never fall ill in these parts. After handing over $10 to cover our ill passengers' medical bill, we left them there, wishing them all the best and continued our journey.

It was only a few hours later, after crossing a handful of streams and honing my off-road driving skills, that we finally reached our destination: Ol-Seki.

As we entered the camp premises, passing by a few curious antelopes, gazelles, and zebras, we came to an abrupt stop in front of a dark shipping container that seemed to serve as some sort of office. And there he was: James, the camp manager who had sent us Raphael and had been our guardian angel on the phone.

Smiling broadly, he welcomed us with open arms, as though we had known each other for years. James was one of those rare individuals whose kindness radiated from the heart. His patience was almost tangible.

Nothing in his gaze hinted at judgment or disbelief that we had undertaken such a journey with so little experience to guide us. If he suspected us to be cut from the same cloth as the moronic city dolts we’d encountered at the campground, he was masterful at concealing it.

The camp was—unexpectedly for us—completely empty, likely because safari camps are rarely visited during the height of the rainy season, a time when even the animals seem to flee the scene or take their own holiday to get away from the floods.

However, with no other guests around, James graciously assigned us the most stunning accommodation Ol-Seki had to offer—the Simba tent—complete with our very own private butler.

The place was utterly breathtaking. Though constructed from heavy canvas, it bore no resemblance to any traditional tent. It boasted two bedrooms flanking a spacious central living room. Each bedroom came with its own bathroom and closet, ensuring ultimate privacy and comfort. At the back, a private kitchen allowed for complete seclusion, sparing us any interaction with other guests.

Of course, given the time of year, there weren’t any other guests to be found.

Out front, a sprawling wooden terrace offered an unparalleled view of the savannah, where elephants, wildebeests, zebras, antelopes, and gazelles grazed peacefully in the golden sunlight.

Of all the safari camps I’d visited—and there had been many across sub-Saharan Africa—this place stood in a league of its own, unmatched in both beauty and serenity.

That evening, we invited James to join us for dinner, marking the beginning of a unique friendship that, much like our bond with Henry, has endured despite long periods of little contact. Perhaps it is an African hallmark of friendship—that no matter how much time has passed, when you reconnect, you simply pick up where you left off. It's a sentiment I deeply cherish and am always eager to embrace.

Come to think of it, perhaps this isn’t exclusively an African trait but rather a rare kind of heart feature.

After all, there are two other remarkable individuals in my life—very different, yet equally kind—whom I’m fortunate enough to sincerely call friends.

One is an old friend who lives in sunny California, and the other is a fellow aviator from Colorado, but a true Wyomingite at heart…

But thats perhaps another story to tell…

Marcel Romdane

Payback time for Raphael, he was terrified!      Simba tent at Ol-Sekis.                   Our Cottage with Wilson, the private Butler.        Hemingways, Ol-Seki Camp