It was the summer of 1986 and Jonathan, my eldest son had just graduated from Harvard. He had a summer job with Let’s Go, Italy in Rome and I would be working in Somalia. Thus meeting in Kenya for a Safari would be easy to arrange, and it would be a pretty special graduation present. Jonathan loved the idea but suggested that he first come to Somalia to see where I worked. We could then travel from there together. I was thrilled as it never occurred to me that Somalia would be of interest for him; that he would want to see where I worked and meet the people I worked with.
We planned the dates for the trip, organizing it around his six -week assignment, before we separated for the summer. We also booked our flights including a Rome-Cairo-Mogadishu leg that would give him five days in Mogadishu before traveling together to Kenya for our Safari.
My time in Somalia passed quickly and as Jonathan’s arrival date approached I provided his flight information to USAID’s expediters. They met all incoming flights to help hapless souls negotiate their way through the chaotic airport. I had planned to go with them to meet Jonathan. On the morning of his scheduled arrival however, I was informed that the flight was delayed, the new arrival time unknown and they would let me know when they got updated information on the flight. Given these new circumstances, I decided to go ahead with my regular weekly meeting with Ahmed Mire Shire, my Somali counterpart.
Ahmed’s office, in a new white two-story building was located in a rapidly expanding area of Mogadishu. New structures seemed to appear overnight providing offices and residences for foreign assistance organizations and their staff. I entered the headquarters of the Somali Family Health Care Association, where Ahmed was the Executive Director. The side-wing, equipped as a Family Health clinic, was eerily quiet. Ahmed was surprised to see me. “ I thought you were meeting your son at the airport,” he said, in his Somali-inflected English, when I stuck my head into his office. I shrugged my shoulders, “The plane is delayed and on Somali time”, I said, shorthand for “arrival time anytime.” Delays and cancellations occurred frequently and we all learned to adapt to that.
Ahmed grew up in Northern Somalia when it was still a British colony and had acquired a number of English sensibilities: timeliness and a fondness for tea among them. I was barely seated at his desk when the tea arrived. Never a tea drinker, Somali tea made from cinnamon bark, cardamom, cloves and sometimes mint, tasting like no tea I ever drank, converted me. Besides the coffee in Somalia was really lousy.
We had just started our meeting when I heard the droning of an airplane above. I listened more closely. Shit, I muttered to myself that has got to be the flight from Cairo with Jonathan aboard. By that time, Ahmed too had heard the plane and we agreed to end the meeting. As I quickly gathered my things, he reminded me of the goat roast to be held in Jonathan’s honor on Friday. Not only a goat roast, but a goat roast in the bush in traditional Somali style; how lucky can one get. “We’ll be there,” I said as I headed out the door and into the jeep. “Inshallah”, (If Allah wills it) Ahmed replied.
I headed for the Project Guest House on Somali Cold Storage Rd., the name I gave our nameless street after the cold storage plant on the corner. It was a short drive from Ahmed’s office and a five- minute walk to the USAID (United States Agency for International Development) compound. It was a new, air-conditioned, comfortably furnished five- bedroom house that I shared with short-term consultants working on the Somali Family Health Project, which I directed.
I shifted into second gear and gunned the jeep up the steep hill, stopping just inside the security gate that the guards had opened when they saw me turn on to the bottom of the driveway. I burst into the house and was so happy to see Jonathan standing there. He had just arrived.
We had a lot to catch up on including our plans for the next few days and the itinerary for the safari. But first I showed him to his room on the rarely used second floor where he had his own bath. I suggested he unpack and that we have dinner in the heart of the city.
Our destination was The Croce du Sud, an Italian family owned hotel, with the owners living on the premises. The hotel was across the street from the city’s only Cathedral with the same name: a reminder that Southern Somalia had once been an Italian colony. I found parking near the hotel quite easily, but no sooner had I pulled into the spot than I was surrounded by scores of kids ranging in age from 8-18 jostling for the few lira they would earn to watch my vehicle. I sought out the older and larger kid in the crowd and let him handle the smaller and often more rambunctious ones. That approach invariably worked and when we returned to the jeep, he proudly showed us that the jeep was unscratched and that the windshield had been cleaned of its sandy film.
The Croce was a gathering place for the foreign community of business, government and development workers where they ate and stayed. The rooms on the second floor overlooking the interior patio were clean and pleasant. There was a working fountain in the patio that muffled the street noise, especially if you sat near it. The home-cooked and simple Italian cuisine was another attraction as was its easy laid-back ambiance. After dinner, we walked around the small downtown commercial area, weaving our way around the sidewalk vendors with small lamps lighting their displays, careful to avoid the broken or missing pavement in most of the downtown streets.
It was already dark when we returned to the Guest House. With just a few working street lights I drove slowly to avoid huge potholes while also watching for Somalis, more used to the desert then city traffic, darting into the street without looking. We had a big day ahead of us so we retired early.
We left for Sharks Bay early in the morning to avoid the heat of the day. It was a popular destination for the expat community and about a 45- minute drive on a mainly unpaved and sandy road. One of Somalia’s many ironies was that though it had a coastline of 3000 kilometers it had few places safe from sharks to swim. Sharks Bay, as the name suggests was no exception, but it was popular among the expat community because it was fairly close to the city and an unusually pretty u-shaped Bay. And if we needed reminding about the dangers, a Somali vendor with only one arm walked the beach hawking lobsters. On his belt he carried a shark’s jaw. We never got the full story of his encounter with a shark, but clearly he had survived.
We poked our toes in the shallow water as we walked the perimeter of the Bay. The sky was a clear and brilliant blue and we savored the sand dunes and the quiet beauty of the place.
The lack of shade, however, ultimately persuaded us to return to the city and we headed to the American golf club to eat, swim, and lounge by the pool. The club was a new addition to the American community’s recreational facilities, and this was only my second time there. Although I had heard that our military presence in Somalia was growing, I was struck by their predominance at the club. I felt that a subtle shift from a development assistance mission to a military one had occurred. Still in the throes of the cold war, America’s response to Soviet support of Ethiopia, Somalia’s neighbor, was to flex American muscle on behalf of its ally, however fickle and unstable it might be. Struggling to create a grass cover on just a few holes of the desert golf course seemed like a perfect metaphor for America’s involvement in Somalia; we were using money and power to try and change the realities on the ground.
I took Jonathan downtown to the old harbor the following day. The Juba Hotel where I stayed during my first trip to Somalia occupied a prominent place on the bay, across from a bullet-pocked fortress built in the early 1900s to protect the entrance to the city. I remember my six- week stay there with mixed feelings. I should have been warned about the accommodations when I checked in and was offered either a room with air-conditioning or a view of the Bay. Concerned about the heat at night I chose an air-conditioned room only to discover that I felt the AC only when I stood next to the unit. The balcony and view of the Bay was far superior because it provided cooling sea breezes. I switched rooms within a few days. The room décor was rather ugly; a purple satiny material covered the bed and draped the windows. The bathroom tiles were unmatched combinations of designs and colors and all the areas around the fixtures were left bare and unfinished. The upside of the Juba Hotel was that I met local Somali businessmen and guests from the Arab world in the restaurant and on the premises; people I rarely met in the course of my job. I shall never forget my conversation with a local Somali, who upon learning that I had come to work on family health and child spacing proudly told me he was one of 16 children. “From two mothers” he replied to my query. On only my second day in Somalia, the daunting challenge our project would face was neatly summarized.
Our harbor tour included a market where one could buy freshly-caught fish right off the boat and where Somalis haggled for the best fish at the best price. We again walked the beach, but this one was in-town and frequented exclusively by Somali men and boys who came to play soccer rather than swim. A Russian built abattoir about a mile down the coast had polluted the water, so swimming was not advisable.
In the early afternoon Jonathan joined Mohamed our project administrator/expediter for a soccer game at the National Stadium, and I returned to the Guest House to relax and get ready for the big evening event, a garden party at the home of Duc Nguyen, in-country project adviser to the Ministry of Health. Duc, a refugee from Viet Nam whose family immigrated to the states while he was still a child was serious, hard-working and determined to succeed in his job. His parties were organized with the same diligence and attention to detail. His wife served amazing Asian dishes, which was only possible if she ordered the food from the commissary several weeks in advance. Some fastidious hostesses even traveled to Kenya on the twice -weekly flights, to buy their food.
As I pulled the jeep into Duc’s driveway, we could see the string of Christmas tree like-lights illuminating his garden. They looked bright, festive and inviting even though it was only July. A variety of dishes were beautifully laid-out on the tables, the food was plentiful and Jonathan and I filled our plates more than once, pigging out on the fresh shrimp, a rare commodity in Somalia. The liquor, tax-free and extremely cheap also flowed, though we nursed our one glass of wine for most of the evening. As we circulated through the crowd, mostly people from the development community, I was proud to introduce Jonathan. They were warm and welcoming in their response. At the goat roast on Friday, he would meet my Somali colleagues.
The next morning I rose early and waited for Jonathan for breakfast. I was actually surprised that he wasn’t already downstairs as he was typically an early riser. I waited a while longer and then decided to wake him. I knocked on his bedroom door and heard his faint reply. I opened the door and immediately saw that he was out of sorts. “ I have been throwing up all night and I have diarrhea. It was probably the shrimp,” he said. “ I’m sorry”, I said, “I will bring you some tea,” thinking, I hope it’s not the shrimp and there goes the goat roast.
When I reported Jonathan’s condition to my colleagues at the Guest House, I was reminded that we had a stash of Oral Rehydration Salts in the refrigerator and that I should give him some. We all had taken it at some point and knew it worked. It was also widely promoted in the developing world for diarrheal disease especially in children. As the day proceeded Jonathan began to feel better, but there was no way I could take him into the bush, (and away from a bathroom) and feed him goat meat. That was our one disappointment in an otherwise full, interesting and enjoyable visit.
The next morning we left for Nairobi to begin our safari.
Our first stop was Treetops Lodge, a renowned site in Aberdare National Park. Built in 1932 it was known as the place where Princess Elizabeth arrived a princess and left a Queen. The observation deck, built on stilts above the trees was a hallmark of Treetops, which is how it got its name. A water hole and salt lick attracted a wide array of animals to the site where tourists could observe them in comfort. This was a different from other parks, where you had to go out and find them. Sitting on the deck we were mesmerized by a non-stop parade of groups of elephants, warthogs, wildebeests, baboons, etc
waiting to approach the water until it was their turn, although I never figured how the animals knew that. But, we couldn’t get too absorbed in watching the animals below to forget the monkeys on deck. Small and mischievous, they grabbed anything that wasn’t tied down or tightly held: hats, purses, cameras, drinks and the stray jacket lying on the ground were all fair game. Their audacity and showmanship made them as much a show as the thirsty animals below. And if you didn’t get your fill of watching animals during the day, a night buzzer was sounded when animals were sighted at the salt lick during the wee hours of the morning.
I was delighted to discover that Treetops staff kept a daily log of animals sighted each day. Organized by year the books lined the library bookshelf. Having been there 10 years earlier I excitedly pulled that year’s book off the shelf and flipped until I found the page with the animal census of the day I was there. But then my jaw dropped. Surely there had been a mistake. Someone must have fallen asleep on the job. I swore that I saw many more than had been noted. In my excitement of that novel experience, could my memory have exaggerated the numbers I actually saw? It seems probable, but my mind still fights that possibility.
On our way to the next park on our itinerary, we stopped at a Masai encampment. A number of tourist groups were already there, waiting for the jumping dance to begin. The tall lean Masai men dressed in red robes formed a semi-circle. Necklaces dangled from their long thin necks, earrings from stretched extended lobes and white paste decorated their faces. They held spears and chanted as they demonstrated jumping 2-3 feet into the air. The dance, which demonstrated Masai agility and prowess, had once been part of a manhood initiation ceremony. More recently, however, it became a money-making stand-alone performance for tourists. When the demonstration was over, the male tourists were invited to join the dancers. The uninitiated and short white men could not come close to the height reached by the Masai. It was hard not to laugh at the contrast.
The safaris at Tsavao, Ambosselli and Masa Maru were still ahead of us and we looked forward to experiencing each park, known for its unique landscape and predominant animal groups.
The drill in each place, however, was similar. We departed early each morning for a game run with several other travelers in a specially equipped jeep with a retractable observation roof. Noontime, we returned to the lodge for a luxurious buffet lunch. As we filled our plates to overflowing with a great variety of foods, we looked at each other, shook our heads and said, “life in the bush is really hard”. We recited the ritual with laughter, hardly believing the comforts available in the middle of nowhere. The day’s second game run took place late in the afternoon; avoiding the heat of the day and maximizing the variety of animals we might see.
The driver/ guide was an experienced animal spotter/tracker knowledgeable about animal habits and habitats and expert in spotting animals at great distances, distinguishing them from their natural cover. When he saw an animal in the area we would head to those spots for photo-ops and a chance to observe them in the wild. In the course of a few days, our observational skills grew sharper and we were able to spot animals, yelling “there’s a giraffe at 2 o’clock”, distinguishing them from the rocks and grass that gave them cover.
The high point of a run was to see animals in action: catch a scent, stalk a prey, make a kill, eat its catch. We also saw animals primp for a mate, fight their competition, and win the prize in courting pursuits. Most beautiful of all was watching the young being cared for: a nest being built, the babies feeding, being groomed and imitating their elders. One lucky day we came upon a mother lion and her cubs in a camouflaged lair. The jeep approached slowly. The Lioness looked up and watched us for awhile. We were alert, quiet, and barely breathing. Eventually, she felt safe and let the cubs climb and clamber around her. She reached out her paw playfully to them, and picked up any cubs that went astray. We sat there for quite a while; a fierce animal being maternal at rest and play. The clicking of cameras was the only sound that could be heard.
A night run, which we took in Masa Mari offered a different kind of drama. We went out into the pitch-black night with a spotlight mounted on the roof of the jeep. Nothing could be seen in the darkness until suddenly the eyes of a jackal, impala or a hare were captured in the light’s reflection. The jeep stopped and the disoriented creature froze like the proverbial deer in the headlights. We stared at each other for a few seconds then seeking safety, the animal scampered back into the bush where the light couldn’t reach it. This repeated itself several times; only the animals were different.
The safari ended all too soon and we were back in Nairobi, where it all began. We had a day and a half before we parted ways: sufficient time to shop and have a celebratory dinner.
There were two major options for shopping in Nairobi: the jewelry, craft and fabric stores and the open market stalls. We explored both. We looked at art and carvings, indigenous and adapted to the Western market and amazingly colorful fabrics sold by the yard and as finished shirts and dresses. Gems such as malachite, amethyst, quartz, tourmaline, were available loose or in necklaces and earrings. The choices were almost endless and the looking kept us busy for much of the day. Both Jonathan and I observed that in the stores the helpers were African, but the White or Indian proprietor always handled the cash or credit transactions, a clear sign of who was up and who was down. Perhaps it has changed since. Africans, however, ran the stalls.
Our last dinner in Kenya was a celebration and a chance to eat at a widely touted game restaurant in Karen, a Nairobi suburb. The place was crowded when we arrived, mostly with tourist groups, perhaps also celebrating the end of their safari. The tables were family style and ran the length of the room. When two seats opened up, we were seated at a long table with others. A variety of salads were on the table and waiters carrying large spits of meat circulated through the room. As the waiter approached, he would announce the meat he was offering: gazelle, impala, zebra, hare, or boar and cut slices for us at our request. By the end of the evening we had tasted a lot of what we had seen in the bush. We didn’t give much thought to the contradiction of eating what we had seen and which had given us so much pleasure. Ten years earlier when I went on my first Safari I faced a similar dilemma.
I arrived a day before the Safari was to start so I spent my free time wandering in Nairobi’s downtown shops. In one store I came upon a rug made of squares of zebra skins, artfully arranged as in a quilt. The arrangement emphasized the pattern of each . zebra’s markings and its uniqueness. I had never seen a piece like that before; it was the right size and I could visualize it in my study. The price was also reasonable for such a beautiful item. But I hesitated. Though the storekeeper would hold it for my return, if I bought it, I didn’t feel sure about the purchase. I demurred and said I would be back when I returned from my safari. I never did. I simply couldn’t buy it for a floor in my house after seeing the majesty of zebras in the wild.
So I ponder how I could have eaten zebra meat so unthinkingly while ten earlier I couldn’t buy a rug of zebra skins. Is it the difference between a one night- “done and over” experience and an on-going reminder? Or seeing something versus eating something that in no way conjures up a zebra? Or have my sensibilities about the beauty of nature and the need to conserve the natural world changed in the last in 30 years? .
As our trip came to an end, we both felt really pleased. We had fun, memorable times and many interesting experiences. We prepared to separate. I was going home and Jonathan would leave one day later to Paris for a job interview with a French bank. My adventure was over. His would begin again by spending a year in Paris.