The South Rift Valley, Bomet, Narok, Masai Mara, more.. and Naivasha (4)

The sun rising from behind the hill in the distance still shrouded in grey in the dull light of the dawn was the view that greeted me early the following morning when I partly pulled open the curtains of the window in the room at the guest house. Peter's slow, long steady breaths from under the covers in his bed in this double room we had shared indicated that he was still fast asleep, curled up in the foetal position. Neither of us had had much sleep the night before - there had been so many things to say to each other, to do together; so many things to laugh at and be joyful about; things to express sadness about, that the entire night had been barely enough to get through all of it. So not wanting to disturb him, I pulled the curtains close and stepped out on to the balcony gently shutting the door behind me.

Birdsong together with the fresh still cool highland morning air came as an absolute delight, highlighting for me why the early morning is my favourite time of day. From my vantage point on the upper floor of the building we were in, the views were stunning. I caught a glimpse of the Nyangores River glistening in the early morning light tumbling across the rocky terrain as it made its way towards the Mara River, of which the Nyangores is a tributary. The Mara is the major river in the region hence the famous Masai Mara Reserve. I had read somewhere that "mara" is the Maasai word for "spotted" or "mottled", a reference to the patchy covering of trees and shrubs that cover the landscape.

I was in the Rift Valley and Peter was only a few feet away. The feeling was one of sheer contentment and I couldn't help thinking how far away from the frustrations of job searching in London all of this seemed. If heaven exists, I thought, it must feel something like this. It was a moment in time that will remain with me for a long time.

Breakfast at the guest house was full-English. Toast, bacon, sausage, eggs, baked beans, cereal, coffee, tea, the works. It was the second time I was seated across a table from Peter over a meal, but this time, unlike the excited chatter over our late lunch the previous afternoon, we sat and ate in silent contemplation, staring at each other as we did so.

Perhaps he too was like me, marvelling at just how fortunate we were to be physically present with each other on this day, given that our association had begun when we were each located on different continents, separated by seas and deserts, by forests and mountains and plains, and by thousands and thousands of miles.

The journey from Bomet to Kaboson was done by each of us riding pillion on two separate motorcycle taxis known locally as boda boda, my rucksack strapped to Peter's back as we rode along. The riders manoeuvred the motorbikes down this unsurfaced road that meandered through brushland, farmland, villages composed of traditional homesteads made up of those uniquely beautiful Kalenjin huts, more brushland, up and down and around hills, with a hint of the odour of dung always faintly present in the background. And then there were the cattle, everywhere. Cattle, I was told are a very important aspect of the lives of the Kalenjin people, the native people of this place. Every man, including Peter, owns cattle.

As we climbed off the motorbikes upon our arrival at the family homestead there was a sense of homecoming that I found hard to explain, even though I was quite certain that no person born in Nigeria, as I was, had ever set foot in this place in Kenya that I was arriving at for the first time. The surroundings were unfamiliar, the language was one I did not know, but I felt at home nonetheless. Perhaps it was because I had been born and raised in Africa myself, (even if not in a rural setting such as this), but I was easily able to identify with everything I saw. Things were unfamiliar, but they were not strange. I must admit also that the fact that it was Peter's home made it that much easier.

As is typical anywhere in Africa I was warmly greeted  by those whom we met. I was welcomed and treated with the great respect that is customarilly accorded to visiting strangers. I too am African and the showing of respect and consideration for others, which is customary, came naturally to me also. I was pleased to see that all those decades of living in Europe had not robbed me of nor eroded that respectful nature intrinsic to all who have been raised in an African setting. True, I did not know their language, but they themselves were aware of this, acknowledged it, and spoke only in English whenever they spoke to me or addressed me.

It was easy to fall into the welcoming embrace of these gentle people and enjoy their warm hospitality. I felt almost as if I was one of them, a new member of their family.

We were in one of the several scattered homesteads that surround the small town of Kaboson. We had driven straight to the homestead so I had not seen Kaboson itself. Tomorrow, Peter said, he would show me around his farm (he insisted on calling it a shamba) and we would go and see Kaboson. And of course the Masai Mara  too. The evening  meal was ugali and vegetables with roasted goat meat.

Peter and I settled in for the evening, his room illuminated by the solar powered lamp standing on a small table in the corner. Outside, the evening air had become quite cool, but in here it was warm. And it was very cosy. And it was peaceful. And then we slept. And in this room I felt truly at home.

To be continued 

Tea crop

Nyangores River

Kalenjin hut

Author's note: Although some of the photos in this section are not mine, they are in fact a true depiction of the scenes that I have attempted to describe and are indeed photos of the very same places that I was describing. I experienced some difficulty in keeping my phone/camera well charged while I was in that area, and was unable to take as many photos of my own as I would have wished to. My sincere apologies to those whose photos these are. I did not know how to go about seeking permission to use the photos. But I've only used them to help tell my story.

The South Rift Valley, Bomet, Narok, Masai Mara, more.. and Naivasha (3)

An hour after leaving Narok we descended a hillside as the road wound its way steeply down into a broad valley. Down below in the valley ahead of us was the sprawl that was Bomet. I knew this because a few minutes previously, the young man seated next to me had in response to my query informed me that we didn't have much further to go. Approaching Bomet, we pulled up at a police checkpoint where a stern faced policeman clutching his rifle, paced down the side of the vehicle peering through the windows, strangely staring down towards the feet of the passengers, probably searching with his eyes for some contraband that may be concealed beneath a seat. But this didn't interest me as much as the conversation that was taking place up front between the driver, still seated in his cab, and a policewoman, who, also armed, had sidled up to him. I observed the driver hand to her for inspection a small bundle of documents, which I presumed to contain his driving licence and other official documents for this commercial vehicle.

The policewoman shuffled through the documents, seeming to closely scrutinise one or two of the papers. Then a currency note suddenly slipped out from the bundle and dropped to the ground. It was clear that the driver had placed some money among the documents to be discreetly extracted by whomever it was who was police officer who asked to inspect them. This policewoman seeing that her treasure had dropped, moved her foot gently to step on the currency note, moving her leg as little as possible. A fairly strong breeze was blowing so I understood why she would have been determined to keep the money firmly pinned down with her foot until we had driven off. Seeing this, I chuckled involuntarily, and I saw that some of the other passengers too had noticed what had happened, given that the man seated behind me had gone very quiet. He had since the commencement of this journey been talking ceaselessly into his phone, but now with stretched neck, he too was silently watching through his window to see what this policewoman would do next. 

And then, as if to get us out of the way, the policewoman quickly handed the papers back to the driver, and with a wave of her hand signalled that we were free to go.

So we drove on further into this valley, surrounded on all sides by hills splendidly covered with neat farm terraces that made for some spectacularly beautiful scenery. I was somewhat annoyed that by this time the battery power on my Blackberry, which had so far doubled faithfully as a camera, was so low that recording these lovely scenes in pictures was no longer possible.

Shortly afterwards, finally, we entered into the quaint little town of Bomet, the capital and largest town of Bomet County. This seemed a smaller town than Narok, but it exuded an aura that accords with its importance as an administrative capital. Just a few hundred metres down the one main road in the town and the bus turned left into the crowded bus station. We had arrived at last, this was where I would be getting off the bus before it continued on its journey to Litein and then onwards to Kericho. And Peter would be here somewhere close by, awaiting my arrival.

Except that he wasn't.

It was only after a nervous 30 minute wait seated on a bench outside a cobbler's stall by the dusty roadside that I spotted Peter in the distance approaching. He had seen me before I saw him, I could tell this from his intent stare in my direction. The battery on my phone was now completely flat, and it had been impossible for me to inform him of my arrival, and of my location. In truth he had arrived at the bus station even before I did, but he had been waiting at the opposite end of the bus station from the end at which I was seated. He had been waiting at the exit, while I was seated by the entrance, across the bus station from where he was.

We were meeting for the first time, but it felt more like meeting a long-lost old friend. The handshake was firm, the smiles were warm, the glint in the eyes was exciting and told of many exciting experiences ahead to be shared. But first things first.

I had omitted to make a certain payment at the hotel in Nairobi before I left, and had received notification of this by text message during the journey. I was to make this payment by M-Pesa, the mobile-phone based money transfer service pioneered in Kenya with which I was unfamiliar. It fell to Bernard to put me through my paces, so the first thing we did together was to cross the road and enter into the Bomet branch of the Agricultural Finance Corporation, the government credit institution in Kenya that provides credit solely for the purpose of developing agriculture. They are also a M-Pesa agent. Having successfully carried out the transfer, there was the opportunity for me to have what turned out to be a very informative chat with the official who had attended to me. In our conversation he gave me some real insights into the work that they do financing local small-scale farmers. It was a predominantly agricultural community, he explained, and I left  his office with a greater understanding of the agricultural scenes that I had observed on my journey here.

When this was all sorted out it remained for us to find a place to retire for the remainder of the day. The plan was for us to spend the next several hours in town here.  Tomorrow, we would relocate to his home in a small community off the main road about  43 kilometres from Bomet, close to the Masai Mara Nature Reserve. So we checked into a guest house in town that Peter had recced beforehand, but found to my mild annoyance that on arriving at the room we had been allocated, the cleaning lady was still in the process of completing her task. Proceedings, therefore, were to be postponed until later, so we put down my rucksack and set out to find lunch.

Saruni Camp Masai Mara

(To be continued)