Trekking In the Himalayas

Merry Christmas, and all that!


Quite a different one for us this year, celebrating on Christmas eve to keep the German kids happy, but it was still nice, although slightly lacking in "festive feel", particularly as it was sunny!

The weekend before christmas Mrs Grasshopper and I returned to Mcleod Ganj, a small village just north of Dharamsala, home to His Holyness the Dala Lama, and the Tibeten goverment in exile. As you journey along the 35km road from camp, and up a few hundred meters, you can see the change in the people, the clothing, the dress and features. Traditional northern India seems to melt into Tibet, with a surprising nepalese influence.

Our trip there the previous weekend, after a heart-stopping bus ride along the mountain roads, was to chill out and practice being a couple again. We got a hotel room with a private bathroom, balcony, and found some bars and resturants that both sold meat and were prepared to sell alcohol to Mrs Grasshopper. The vegetarian hindu diet has been really healthy, if a little flatulent, but we were both missing a beer with our curry (women are not permitted to buy alcohol in the rural community were are living in).

Our nice little hotel room with a balcony overlooking the valley was 300 rupees per night, including a heater. Two 650ml bottles of Kingfisher strong also costs 300 rupees...

This weekend however we were driven to Mcleod by Mohan, one of the project executives here at the Idex camp, as we were trekking up the mountain overlooking Dharamsala. Our first night we went out with our room-mate Bethany, who was to be trekking with us, and Greg, an 18 year old public schoolboy, doggedly pursuing his passions of theology, philosophy and Bethany, (a futile pursuit which is often cringworthy if humorous, maybe due to his boarding-school inflicted inexperiance, and his sense of humor failure).

We went to a place Mrs Grasshopper and I found called Excite, a bizare blend of western style nightclub, resturaunt and bar, but with a unique Indian/Tibeten feel. Lots of neon lights, white table cloths and a tape player blaring a mix-match of Steps, Britany Spears, The Eagles and 50 Cent through large speakers. It is so cheesy its actually kind of cool! Before 8pm there is only ever 3 other people in, but after 8 the music somehow gets louder, and the tables and dancefloor are suddenly packed with young and beautiful Tibetens, drinking, smoking and laughing.

The previous friday Mrs G and I were chugging on our Kingfishers after a meal of Tibeten momo's and chilli sauce, when the oldest swinger in town approached. Long black hair swept back into a poytail, and with the characteristic trendy clothing and genuine smile, he leans over to me and shouts over the blaring music "Hello! Want some coke? Ganja? Ecstacy? any thing else you like- I can get, what you want?"

I notice he's proffering a white bag towards me, a trippy pick-and-mix just visible through the open top.

"Nah mate, I'm fine, cheers" I reply, shaking my head, a bit taken aback.

"No problem!" he gives me a big grin, pats my shoulder and dances away, slack jaw and wide eyes suggesting he enjoys his products. 10 mins later he's back, "Can I just leave this here?"- before I can reply, he dumps his bag of drugs at our table and bounces like Zebiddy through the dancefloor crowd.

Shit- I look at Mrs Grasshopper, and we make ready to leave. Thankfully he's back just as Mrs G and I start getting up, giving a thumbs up and mega-grin to me while grabbing the bag and disappearing towards the toilets.

This friday however was a lot more subdued, and knowing we were starting our trek at 7am the following day, we were early to bed, only having a few drinks with our momos and pakoras.

The next morning we were up, rucksacks packed, guides met, Mohan met, and walking up the steepest hill I've ever known by 7.15am.

I swear, it must have been nearly verticle! After 5 mins I had stripped down to my t-shirt, my lungs were burning, legs wobbling and sweat stinging my eyes. We were still getting over bad colds I though to myself. But I looked at our guide Aziz, and noticed he was lighting a cigarette with bored indifference, breathing just fine. Mohan was similerly unaffected, and he gave me a smile as I dripped beside him. I looked behind me and was somewhat relieved to see Mrs Grasshopper and Bethany were also red-faced and wheezing, bent double due to the gradient and magnified weight of our rucksacks. 10 mins later, I looked back to see Bethany turn around and start making down the hill, and I hung back for Mrs G to catch up.

"It's just the two of us" she pants.

"Umf" I manage by way of reply.

An hour later we were wrapped up again in our fleeces, sipping hot chai (Indian Tea) at a mountainside rest point while our breakfast was cooked. Ive noticed so far that in India, dogs are everywhere, both pets and strays, and the mountainside was no exception. A small teddybear-like puppy was the object of our affections through our breakfast of cheese omlette and Roti.

Filled up, we set off, finding we had recovered from the sharp shock of the start and were now enjoying the clean ice-crisp air, taking a brisk but comfortable pace through the changing scenery. Half an hour or so after the cafe, we were joined by a sand-coloured dog, with a pretty bear-like face and sharp foxy snout. I think we passed his owner on the way up, and although "Doggy" (as Mohan imaginativly named him) kept an eye down the path, he walked all the way up the mountain with us. He was great company too, regularly amusing us with a "mad-moment" whenever we reached a snow-covered area under the trees. We threw snowballs at him, which he caught in his mouth or deftly dodged, barking and charging at us, sometimes scaring us by running just inches away from the precipice at the side of the path. We also threw snowballs at each other, fooling around while scrambling up the snow-covered trail.

By the time we reached the final chai-stop, we were often knee-deep in snow. I was glad of it at first, cooling my hot aching feet through the thick leather of my "technical" hiking boots. However, the snow soon started to work it's way down the tops of my boots, soaking my thick socks and freezing my feet. I suddenly understood why the bloke who sold me the boots said "breathability is bollocks, most of the time".

The banter and messing about with the dog soon stopped as we focused on the trail, which had increased in intensity and was virtually invisible under thick snow-drifts. When we weren't slogging knee-deep in ice-topped snow between huge boulders, we were gingerly edging forwards and up, inches from the sheer drop into the valley below. The views, though stunning, made me dizzy, and I started to really worry about Mrs Grashopper, who was complaining of dizzyness, and had developed a nervous jerkyness to her movements as she made her way up.

As we stopped for a breather after a particularly hair-raising section, I asked Mohan how much further to the rest house, where we would be staying that night.

He wobbled his head from side to side in the typical indian fashion. "10 mins"

And it was! The camp area was a wide open area, petering out to a sharp ridge on the southern tip, with three wood and polythene shacks supplying chai, food, and water, and two wooden "houses" on stone foundations.

The views into the valley were amazing- it felt like we were on top of the world itself. In the far distance was a constant smear of light, which Aziz informed us was a masive lake in Punjab, reflecting the afternoon sun.

One thing I have noticed in here in India is how much the men play. Be it volleyball, cricket, badminton, or even cards, there seems a sense of fun which is not as apparent in the english culture. So it was natural, despite being physically shattered, to have a mass snowball fight, playing with Doggy, and laughing till tears came at Mohan and Aziz wrestling and falling over in the snow. We eaten a simple meal of rice and chickpea dal, and settled down in dry socks on the snow-cleared concerete in front of the resthouse. We were all soon snoozing, with the warm sun heating our dark clothes and drying our boots.

There were no toilet or running water facuilities at the top, and I felt my stomach "chunder" as I drifted off to sleep. But I figured I would be fine, there is huge space and only a few of us, so easy enough to go behind a rock to "lighten the load" when neccessary.
I woke up to Doggy licking my face. I pushed him away, groaning at the smell of his breath, and he patiently settled down tight next to me. I looked up, absently stroking Doggy's soft fur, and realised we had company- 45 other trekkers, all settled down around us. No toilet, freezing cold, loads of people and gleaming white snow. Great.

We went for a further walk along the southern ridge, Doggy chasing his shadow in the snow. The view was breathtaking. Mountains, rivers and lakes rolled out below us for 100s of miles, tinted blue under a thin blanket of whispy cloud. As the sun dipped to the western horizon, the world around us turned electric pink.

Shortly after a rapid sunset where the sun appeared to sink into the ground, dinner was provided by the shack furthest from the house. We could see the yellow-red flames of a fire as we approached, and as I ducked into the tiny shack, my eyes stung sharply with the smoke. The inside was a low-ceilinged, dark, smoky grotto filled with bottles of water, chocolate and ciggerettes. A low shelf covered in blankets provided seating for us. I hurriedly sat down in the corner, instantly relieved of the woodsmoke clouding the ceiling, and Mrs G sat tight beside me. The other chaps sat to my left, and tightly packed, with the fire-box close in front, I felt my toes start to thaw. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dark gloom, I noticed there was a tiny cooking area just off to one side, where a tall, by local sizes, man was hunched over a cooking pot. I also noticed a western woman in Indian clothes holding a gangly puppy, sat on the floor next to my wife. Music played from a battered old radio, surprisingly modern western music from a Pakistani station adding a strange twist to the atmosphere.

There we warmed up, played with the puppy and eaten a filling dinner of hot spicy dal and sticky, heavy rice. The girl spoke german to her puppy, who delighted in chewing our fingers, english to us, and hindi to the bloke cooking, who I assumed to be her indian boyfriend, judging by their mannerisms and behaviour. Beedies (an indian ready-made, tobacco-leaf wrapped roll-up ciggerete, which are surprisingly smooth to smoke) were passed round, after which we made our way back to our shared room at the resthouse. Our breath was really fogging, and I noticed the snow had frozen, now offering easy passage where before we had been falling into it knee-deep.
Wearing two jumpers, thermal underwear, micro-fleece, trousers, hat and settled in sleepingbags, Mrs Grasshopper and I snuggled down on a thin floor covering. We soon fell into a hot, fitfull sleep, listening to Mohan and Aziz fart, mumble and snore 'till morning.

The morning we left was bright and surprisingly warm, making the snow slowly recede from the rocks, where we ate a bowl of hot spicy noodles and watched Doggy play with the puppy from the night before.
The descent was just as treacherous in the icy stages as the ascent, but soon the trail eased, allowing a fast yomp that quickly took us back to Mcleod Ganj by early afternoon. We said our goodbyes to Aziz in the main square, and after a beer and a plate of pakoras, I was able to buy a few christmas presents for Mrs Grasshopper. I knew from the shopkeepers expression that I smelt bad, real bad, having sweat so much and not washed, and I looked awful, sun-burnt, muddy and unshaven. But it was worth it, the best time in India so far.

Living and working

The camp already had 10 other volunteers living there, whom we met the night after our arrival, as they were on an excursion to Amritsar.
The camp itself comprises of three bedrooms, with a lad from Denmark in one, and two girls from Germany and Switzerland in the other. Mrs Grasshopper and I took the third room, with a 17 year-old girl from Glastonbury we met up with our first morning in Delhi (despite a 9 year age difference, she's became one of our good mates, sharing in Mrs Grasshoppers love of all things "hippy").

The bedrooms, like the 2 bathrooms, open onto the recreation room, a large open room covered in a carpet of foam mattresses. The shelves are lined with bookcases, stuffed with teaching books, materials, boardgames and travel books. There is also a TV, DVD player and 2 computers that provide Internet access most of the time.
The camp also has an outside row of toilets, Indian-style washrooms, and a dining room. At 2,400 meters above sea-level and in the height of the Indian winter, it's cold here. REAL cold sometimes, and there is only one heater in the recreation room, so meal-times and comfort-breaks are usually hurried affairs after sun-down!

We are by far the oldest here, with some of the volunteers coming straight from school, fully paid-up and funded by their affluent parents. So we feel a little out of place, and having booked this course from "gap-year for grown-ups", we were not really prepared for the youth-camp environment. It has seemingly condescending rules posted on walls ("clean-up day" Wednesdays, lights out at 11, tell a project executive if your not eating etc) and we have had to do simple jobs like cleaning the bathroom and toilets, as the other volunteers seemingly have not the whole time they had been there (by god did they need cleaning!).
Differences aside, they are nice enough, even some do ask us to wake them up in the morning, and one complains about public-school prefects and the "unfairness" of wearing a school uniform.

On our first morning we were shown around the different work placements. It was a jeep ride "death-race" zig-zagging up and down the mountain roads, making hairpin turns above sheer drops, crossing bridges over rocky-rivers, and speeding through streets filled with cows, people and rickshaws (amazingly never actually hitting any- occasionally just brushing them), with the horn constantly blaring, mixing a funky tune over the bollywood music that always blares from the jeeps tape-deck.

Mrs Grasshopper and I both chosen to work at the school for mentally challenged children in the mornings, and assist at the Orphanage in the afternoons. Both work placements were at the same site, run by the Rotary club some 30 minutes deathrace from our accommodation.

Working hours were nothing like we expected from the information we were given, only leaving camp at 10am, arriving about 10.30, and leaving at 12, to arrive back at camp for 12.30. The afternoons were also short, leaving camp at 4pm, arriving about4.30, only to leave again just after 5pm. Most afternoons the kids at the orphanage were doing school exams, or it was raining so we couldn't go (wtf?!), so I only actually spent two afternoons there.
1.5 hours in the morning and an hour in the afternoon was, somewhat, erm... disappointing?

The work itself though wasn't.

The first day we were introduced to the children we would be teaching for the next three weeks. The headteacher, a small attractive lady who was responsible for the 30 children and three teachers at the school, introduced herself to me, asked what I was doing in the uk, and then called one lad over. "Here is the boy you will be teaching. He is very slow, he does not like women, and he can be quite violent sometimes. But if you show him love, he will slowly respond I think".
Aged 15, stocky, with thick arms and muscular shoulders, my new mate Anuj stared at me. He looked very unimpressed with his new mentor as I smiled idiotically and chirped "namaste!". And prayed to god he would never get violent with me.

The headteacher explained she wanted me to teach him to count 1-10, write his name, and teach him fruit in english.

As it happened, Anuj never got violent with me. I soon found he needed to learn how to count 1-10 in hindi first, and that achieved, he slowly started in english. Sometimes he would lose interest, giving me a death-look before standing up and walking off. Others he would ignore the teaching aids I had bought or made, steadfastly shaking his head and complaining about the cold in Hindi.
But as one week became two, his indifferent ambling in my direction when I would first arrive became an excited walk, while flashing a sun-beam smile at me as we found somewhere to sit. Sometimes in would be in a classroom, others outside if the sun was out. I don't think I taught him much, sometimes he would recognise numbers, others not one, sometimes he would write his name, other times miss letters out.
But whenever the headteacher asked if I was making progress I would say yes, simply because he was starting to want to learn. He preferred counting, his favorite number being 3, and if he rolled a three on the dice, or got a number 3 flash-card, he would bounce with excitement and give me high-5's, keeping hold of my hand and smiling.
At 11.30 we would go to playtime in the yard. Come our final week I was giving him piggy-backs to the yard, I choking and heaving under his weight, and him screaming with excitement and happiness. He even started playing games, starting with simple catch and progressing to bowling in cricket.

Unfortunately, our time was cut short. Despite being told we would be working over christmas, we were told at the end of our second week, that there would be no more schooling. Just like in the UK, they close over christmas, only no-one told us that- in fact the opposite.

Anuj was absent on my final day at the school, and as I played with Sagar, a tiny little deaf boy who we all fell in love with, I really hoped he would get another volunteer. Looking at his work book, it appeared the only proper schooling he ever got was us volunteers. Quite strange, in a school with so many teachers, but then, that is why we were there.

India

We left Nairobi after a mooch around the public parks with Alice and Shirley (who had returned from climbing Mt Kenya they day before), arriving in Dubai around midnight. Our flight was at 5am, so that's when I posted most of my previous blog entries, after something to eat and a quick shop for essentials- hence the poor quality of writing. I uploaded some pictures from my camera-phone, but they took so long that I ran out of time.

We arrived in Delhi around mid-day, having had no sleep for about 30 hours and the worst breakfast in the world (it takes a very special airline to cock-up an omelet ready-meal!).
Just before meeting our Delhi contact at arrivals, Mrs Grasshopper and I cashed some travellers cheques. As I distributed my rupees into different pockets and money belt, I noticed Mrs G's money belt was outside her trousers, just visible below her t-shirt.
"Aren't you going to tuck that in?" I ask
"I'm not sure it's appropriate for me to be messing with the front of my trousers in public" she says.
"Fair enough", and I think nothing more of it.
We meet our contact, who escorts us through the busy airport carpark to a battered taxi, and we set of for the hotel.

Now, if I thought the traffic in Nairobi (and Kenya in general) was crazy, Delhi is off the scale! It was like the rules of the road, or even human self preservation, had been entirely replaced by hitting the horn.

Give way? Nah, just hit the horn and go! Check mirror, signal, then change lane? Nope again- hit the horn and go! Traffic stopped? Hit the horn and make a space!
Words cannot describe the traffic and road use. The road markings are never used, ever, and although India theoretically drives on the left, in reality it simply doesn't matter as long as your moving forwards. If in doubt-hit the horn!.
We got to a hotel, possibly the worst I've known , and the rudest porter in the world took my bags up to my room (despite my forceful protests). While scowling and shaking his hand at me for a tip, Mrs Grasshopper goes a peculiar colour.
"Grasshopper- my money belt has gone."
"Huh?"
"It's not there".
The porter was no help until I gave him some rupees, and only then we were able to run downstairs, checking the lobby, street, taxi, lift... before realising realised her money belt was definitely gone, containing among other things, her credit cards and all our travellers cheques.

After frantic (and expensive) phone calls to home and AmEx (who by the way, are amazing at being completely F--king useless), and we were on the craziest rickshaw trip into the city center, in an attempt to find the AmEx office and a police station (a police report was needed to replace the travellers cheques), and somewhere to buy some jeans.

Our rickshaw driver was reserved by Delhi standards, only putting us in fear for our lives a few times. However, he was insistent on dropping us off at 5 different spice, silk, tea and "tourist-gift" shops, despite clear instructions of where we actually wanted to go.

Thankfully we were prepared for this, but upon stopping outside yet another Indian silk shop, I was starting to get irritated.
"Police station, PLEASE" I ask
"I take you to place better than police station, they find anything you lost"
"No. Police station."
"You sure?"
"YES. POLICE STATION!"

The police report was nothing, what-so-ever, like what actually happened. However, upon explaining to the sub-inspector what Mrs G and I do in the UK, at least we got the report for free like it should be (and I made a new best friend out of the Inspector, who took our photos, gave me his mobile number and asked me to contact him when we are back in Delhi for a night out "without the wife-much better he he he"!). It was actually really interesting to be shown round the nick, and we were treated like honoured guests with tea and lots of laughing and chatting, although a correct report would still have been nice.

That night we ate chicken biriyani in our hotel room (the traditional way- using hands and not knife and fork- we're quite good at this now after Kenya), and done our best to keep the porter from constantly barging into our room unannounced and for no real reason. He was blatantly trying his best to get un-warranted tips, or a shot of Mrs G's tits, both of which I strongly objected to.

The next morning we travelled to the Idex office via a 6 hour bus to Jaipur (the organisation we are working for). For the next four days we were given lessons on Hindi (which was amusing-languages were never my strong point), Indian cultural issues, religion, and the situation for women in Indian society.

At night we stayed at an Indian families house, where our hostess Anju cooked the most amazing Indian food we've ever tasted. One afternoon we seen a bollywood movie, which was a fantastic experience, in the cities oldest, grandest cinema. Another afternoon we went shopping around the old town, buying Mrs Grasshopper some Indian clothes for working in, and I got a pair of genuine Levi's for about 13 quid. I don't envy Mrs G wearing those clothes- we are both still freezing cold after the heat of Kenya, and it's only going to get worse higher up in the mountains!

One morning we visited the Amber fort which was brilliant. We gave the elephant rides a miss though, after seeing such beautiful beasts in the wild, it was sickening to see them now a captured tourist attraction, de-tusked and forced to walk constantly up and down the hill.

Beautiful palace though.

Eventually our time in Jaipur was over, and we had the unusual experience of an overnight sleeper-train to Himichal Pradesh, kipping down on bunk-beds to hushed hindi, snoring and other peoples cabbage arse.

Then finally a 4 hour crazy, bald-tyred jeep ride up the mountains to our camp in Palampur...

Out of Africa

So our time in the birthplace of humanity come to a close.

The long drive back was heart-breaking for both Mrs G and myself. We had a goodbye meal with the other volunteers, then mopped about in Nairobi for a couple of days, where I tried to write this up as best I could.
However, I don't think I could really explain what it's been like. It has been life changing. There is so many things that happened, so much I've learnt. I cant wait to return to Africa.
Living in the bush was amazing, hearing the wildlife walk right up to your tent, seeing elephants playing, sparring, sleeping, just feet away from you, zebras in the road, scorpions in your boots (maybe not a good one) and snakes in the trees.
But what has affected me most is the people. I have met some amazing people, and learnt about some amazing cultures. My outlook on life has certainly changed, from seeing both the amazing and the awful things.

Anyway, my flights due, I'd best be off.

Next post from India.

Davids Story

We were on the afternoon drive when David turned around to talk. A highly intelligent and respected man, we immediately turned to listened to him.

"I had a very strange day yesterday" he said, conversationally.
"I was walking back to camp from the village, when I seen a boy by the road. He was just just kneeling there, with his face to the ground curled up. I called to him to get up, but no, he ignored me. He must have been say, 10 years old, and very stubborn!"
At this he grinned.
"But I was concerned for him, breathing all the dust into his lungs. So I walked all the way to a women from the village, and asked her if she knew the boy's mother, but she says no! She knows nothing of this boy. So I walk and walk to the other village, and ask them all there. They tell me nothing. So I think he is naughty or very angry maybe with his mother and he is lying there in protest. So I walk back to take him a biscuit I had bought. I wanted to give it to him, to give him strength so he can walk home. When I reach him, I reach down to put the biscuit in his hand, but no.
He was dead.
He maybe died some hours before."

David looks down for a moment, silent, rocking with the motion of the vehicle. Some of us make shocked noises, but none of us know quite what to say.
"Is there not some authority or something they should contact?" I start, regretting it immediately.
"No. No authority. He will be collected after dark and then thrown into the bushes. The hyenas will clean him up. It is their way."

We were silent for a while, all of us thinking of the small boy, curled up alone on the dusty flat lands by the road.

I heard the hyenas that night. Whether they found the boy, I could not tell.

If they do not take him, the family will believe it is because the boy was full of evil.

So I guess I hope the hyenas did.

Amboseli

Unfortunately we had to leave Rombo for Amboseli. Part 2 of our work was recording the elephant movements, numbers and group make-up in the migration corridors from Mt Kilimanjaro to Amboseli national park. We would be staying at the Masai community campsite on the edge of the park, and due to the distance involved, driving off-road both morning and night. On these drives we would literally drive anywhere, over mini-trees and bushes, and once got stuck in a warthog hole.

It took a few hours driving in our beloved KSM (which had returned with Simba a week previous) to our new camp. The green acacia-bush filled hilly landscape of Romba changed to flat-very flat- dust and rocks. Often Simba has to stop the car completely, as the dust rose up into an opaque yellow-brown cloud making seeing more than an inch mast the window impossible. A few moments and the wind (which was ever present there) would sweep it away. On one such moment, the wind cleared the impenetrable dust-cloud, to reveal maybe 500 elephants strolling just meters past the front of our vehicle. That was our introduction to Amboseli!

It was a nice place, we seen lots of animals, and recorded literally 1oo's of elephants, and had a drive through the park itself to get a picture of the ever elusive lion. The camp was ok, running water and a bar nearby, but the same cess-pit toilet arrangement (I was starting to find the short whistle and "flump" of a number 2 quite satisfying), and the tents were raised on platforms along with the usual thatched over-roof. Bit too commercial and touristy compared to our 'home' in the wilds of Rombo, but good none-the-less.

The best and worst thing about the camp however was the back-faced vervet monkeys. They were up to all sorts, and Kimani, having lost his sugar-bowl once to a particularly brave raiding party, had even brought a catapult to fire warning shots when they came too close. They knew his face, and would scatter whenever he appeared out of the cooking hut, despite ignoring the rest of us.

I caught one of them trying to make-off with our tea-bags. Another tried to take off with my t-shirt that was drying outside my tent. Thankfully he dropped it, probably while laughing at me legging it towards him, shouting obscenities with my sun-burnt face and un-fastened boots trying to trip me up.
I was putting all my wet clothes into my tent, only tom come out to find he'd jumped onto the line and nicked my clothes peg. I threw a stone at him, which he easily dodged, and ran to the other side of my tent. I followed, throwing, shouting, running, over again until I was fit to collapse, panting and burning in the mid-day sun. I was starting to think he was playing with me, so stopped chasing and just watched him. True enough, he eventually stopped chewing the peg and watching me and ran over to Reece's tent, where he chewed one of the guy-ropes to make the tent partially collapse.
Another one had torn a hole in the bottom of our tent trying to get in. Thankfully I caught him in the act before he managed to get in, and fixed the hole with safety pins. So he came back and crapped on our door-step in protest.

Still, they were cute.

The Masai Village and Dance

The Masai village, which was our neighboring camp was a warrior village. As young boys, those chosen as suitable would be sent from their home villages to the warrior village, to learn how to be a Moran and undertake exercises such as going into the bush and living on your own for a bit on just cows milk/blood and meat, avoiding elephants, buffalo, and other animals dangerous to health. Bloody hard lads you might say.

There is so much to explain about the Masai people that I could not explain it here- an internet search would be better anyway if your interested. However, having worked with these amazing people, or rather for them by doing the conservation work, we were all very grateful to have the opportunity to visit the nearby village one afternoon, escorted by James.

As we approached, the women were dancing and singing, adorned in jewellery and brightly coloured Shuka some with children on their backs. As they danced and sang towards us, and greeted each of us volunteers individually. Welcome over, we were free to sit with the wives to talk (well, I didn't being a bloke), and go inside their dung and ash build houses).

I struggled to fit inside the narrow passageway onto the hut, all of which were uniform in size and arranged in a protective circle. Inside was a simple bed of dried animal skin on branches, a small fireplace in the center of the room, and a spare "bed". And that was it. I asked James why the houses were so small, and the answers simple- the Masai only tend to sleep in the hut, and do not share their beds with their married partners. (Sex is strictly for procreation, not recreation, apparently).



The children in the camp played a game of hide and seek, diving in and out of the houses, peeking and waving at us before running into another house while we sat with the elder Masai woman, who had an impressive ability to spit a good six feet away without breaking sentence.

James informed me that all the men were collecting relief food some miles away, so would visit us later. I asked why, and he informed me the rains have not come. As a result, there is no food for the cows, so the village may move again, having already been here for 12 years, a reasonably long time in Masai terms.

In the center of the village were circular areas marked by thick acacia-bush fences, used to keep out animals around most villages and camps we had seen . The centre of one was raised, by maybe 2 feet higher than the ground outside ring, and perfectly level.

"What are they?" I asked David.

"Pens, for the animals when they come back to the village" he replies.

"OK, so why is the centre of that one 2 foot high?"

"12 years of goat poo-poo!" he says with a grin.

Que photos of all the group, for no other reason that it was 2 foot of animal shit behind us.

When we had all exhausted our questions we returned to our camp.

Days later, the men had returned, this time coming to our camp to display their traditional singing and dancing.

As they approached, they were already singing, every man having his own vocal part in the group, like a very bassy "Mmmm-Mmmm", "Umpi-Umpi" and such like sounds, with a higher pitched soloist giving it the vocal. The women followed, chiming-in a high-pitched chorus-response to the males verses. All of them approached us, and we welcomed them as they did to us. I could smell man-tea (or a similar preparation) on all the man as they walked past, no doubt to fuel their dancing.

The men danced first, jumping higher and higher before landing with a thump that you could feel through the ground. They jumped high-real high! A particularly high jump would be congratulated with a clash of their sticks, much like blokes in a pub may clink beer-classes. Then it was the women's turn, which was a kind of up-and-down rhythmic shimmy, which custom dictates has to please their watching husband, or there would be "trouble"...

The Masai were a very impressive people, and the village at Rombo was amazing. In Amboseli, we found the Masai forever chasing the tourist shilling, sometimes outright begging. However, these Masai, so removed from the tourist trail shown little interest in material gain. It made me think long and hard about the positive and negative effects of tourism.

The Birthday Treat

By then end of one week, it was Reeces 18th birthday.
Seeing as we were in the middle of the African bush, presents were a little hard to come by, and after much secret deliberation, and further discussion with David, our project leader, it would appear the normal (and only) gift available would be a goat, bought from the local Masai tribe.
Now this seemed a good idea, especially as Reece was really struggling with the almost total vegetarian food in the bush. James and David negotiated a price, and we all chipped in. When the Masai brought the goat, who was calmly munching the bushes seemingly un-concerned with his imminent fate, it was time to tell Reece.

Somehow, it was decided I should break the news of his birthday gift. I got off my chair in front of my tent and approached Reece, who was sitting on his own little porch, i-pod on.
Shirley looked at me, motioning a "go on", and Reece sat up, removing his i-pod.
"Whats up?" he says.
I take a deep breath, thinking of how I can best I can describe our gift, which was contentedly munching the grass round the tree behind me.
Decision made, I start:
"Well mate, as it's your birthday... we bought you a goat to be slaughtered for you. It's over there if you wanna watch..."
A split second of silence, while Shirley and Mrs G shot me a ray-gun look, and Reece responded:
"NO!"
Pause. Shake of Head. "Nah, I ain't eating it. No way".

Pretty sure my pathetic half-brick sensitivity skills were no longer needed, I retreated back to my chair. Shirley took over, and calmly explained the economic benefits buying the goat has for the Masai community, the naturalness of it all, and the fact it is a cultural thing here, a once in a lifetime thing.
Reece, being the top lad he is, quickly reasoned with things and cracked on.

The slaughter itself was very quick, the only time the goat was unhappy was being held on his back, but then David quickly stepped on it's throat and drew his razor-sharp knife from one side of it's neck to the other. A single twitch and it was over.
The Masai party who had brought the goat quickly collected the blood to be mixed with milk later, leaving only a single blood-mark to indicate the slaughter had took place there.
Then they quickly and expertly skinned the goat using the knives that were always on their belts. Legs were broken and removed, stomach and intestines quickly spirited away for their tea preparations, and the ribs, legs, and all other meat-areas put on sticks for cooking round the campfire later. Reece, thankfully, was interested, posing for photographs and taking it in the cultural context we were now living in. He later conceded it was a good idea after all, much to our relief!

That night, the meat was on sticks stuck into the ground, slow-roasting next to the hot coals of the campfire.
We all cracked open beers, and Kimani, dressed in traditional chefs coat for this celebration, prepared the meat as it was cooked, removing the best cuts of meat and serving it to us with his special "Kimani BBQ sauce".

We drank beers and ate goat-meat until we were fit to burst, before settling around the roaring campfire, the sky alive with diamond-sharp stars, and the sound of zebra, hyena and elephants just about carrying on the wind.

Man-Tea

It was after lunch at the camp, the sun was right overhead and everyone was relaxing in the 40 degree heat. I was sitting on the chair outside my tent writing my journal, when Sammi calls me over.
As the elder of the group, he is treated as such, and so keen to follow custom, I immediately drop my book and amble over. He's sitting under the tree with the other men. I see James and John, our Masai guide and night-guard hunched over a black pot, sieving what looks like milky tea into bowls.
"Here, take some, this is only for the men. Here, sit" He says, and fires some Kiswahili to James. I'm aware Alice and Dee are hovering nearby, itching to walk over but for some reason not doing.
One of them pleads again to come over and try some, and Sammi turns and bellows to them; "I TOLD YOU, GO BACK TO YOUR TENT! NOW!" He bellows, pointing to their tent. They exchange a look and retreat to their tent.

Guess this really is a man-thing then...

James passes me a bowl of the hot, light brown, opaque liquid.
"Asanta sana" I say, taking the bowl carefully.
"Karribu sana"
I try not to obviously smell it, but it smelt like, well, shit. But keen not to look rude, I take a big, burning gulp.
It tastes ok, a bit like "meaty" tea, and despite the smell, the more I drink, the nicer it tastes. James explains to me "their" tea is made with different herbs, roots, and tree-bark, which is then brewed and added to a "soup" of boiled goat-bones. Different herbs are used for different things- this one being for men.
I ask him to clarify, and he laughs, looking away. "This one makes you strong..."
I look to Sammi, and he grins as he takes his second bowl (elders privilege).
Sammi raises his fist up and down, bending at the elbow in the unmistakable international gesture for a stonker; "Very strong!" he says "only for men!"
Having finished my bowl, and watched Kimani (our chief) down a bowl and growl his trademark "WOW!!", I feel my time "with the boys" is over. I say thanks and return to my seat outside my tent, aware Alice and Dee are watching me and giggling.

I can't concentrate on my journal, so sit back and close my eyes. My stomach feels "light". Strange images and thoughts flash through my mind. I look down.
Uh-oh!
I quickly look around. Thankfully everyone else has gone to their tents. Including my fellow tea-drinkers.
Hunched over, I get up and step into my tent.
Mrs Grasshopper, looks up at me "well, did it work?!"
I look down.
Mrs G looks down too.
And bursts into peels of laughter.
"Aww" she says, insensitively patting my tenting old boy. Then bursting into more peels of laughter.
"Thanks love. Funny. Real funny."

The School visit

David, the main project leader, is a well experienced mountain guide and rescue worker, graduate, former KWS worker (a paramilitary government organisation that runs the national parks) and amatureboxer. He came to us one night during dinner, to inform us we would be visiting the school the following morning, and could we prepare lessons for the children?
Mrs Grasshopper, Katrin and myself agreed to jointly give a lesson on geography, or rather a chat on our local geography, industry and culture.
So the following morning after breakfast, we piled into the 4X4's, crossed the river, and shortly came to the local school.

Surrounded by a dilapidated fence to try and keep the elephants out, the school has four wooden buildings, organised in a square around a central playground. As we jumped from our vehicles, every classroom window was filled with young faces, giggling and talking excitedly.
The headmaster approached me and shook my hand. Although dressed simply in chinos and open-necked shirt, and sporting just one eye, he had the unmistakable presence of a headmaster.
He welcomed us to his school, explaining briefly to me there were 200 children attending the school. When he gestured to the other teaching staff, I could only count three others.
" It is very difficult to keep teachers this far out. They cometimes come but can never put up with this for long" he said, with a sad smile and a gesture to the dusty, worn enviroment. His voice was warm and soothing, and I noticed the reverence and respect the children paid him, and the tenderness in his own words and contact with them.
With a quiet word and a gesture the children all poured out of the classrooms, forming a line 4-deep, the smallest children at the front being constantly attended to by the older children behind them, as if they were older siblings.
"What are you teaching?" he asked me.
"Um, er, geography" I replied, just managing to catch the "sir" at the end.
"I'll split the children up after parade, you may be best teaching the older classes" he says, before nodding to a child in the middle row.

Suddenly, the young child in the middle row sings a short, melodic line. As a perfect chorus, all the other children respond.
And so starts one of the most touching, melodic call-and-respond songs I've ever heard. The soloists voice was crisp and clear, and the response really strong and pitch-perfect. They finish, and we are all stunned, to stunned to be sure whether to clap or cry.
Then they start again.
A happier tune if it was ever possible, this time with actions. Clearly a favorite, all the children start waving their little hands, and even the older children at the back start giving it berries, hands high, then down to the ground, singing louder and with feeling.
"They are singing to welcome you" the headmaster quietly informs me.
I know. I don't understand the words, but the smiles, the enthusiasm, the tune, the genuine emotion puts the message across. I see Mrs G look at the floor, blinking back tears. I quickly put my sunglasses on.

We give the headteacher the box containing school supplies we had all bought from Loitokitok, and there then ensued an embarrassing moment where we were expected to photograph the children all holding our donations. This was not what we wanted, and I was eager to get the hell off the playground and into the classroom.

Awkward moment over, I chugged on my water bottle before we set off to our classroom.
Made of plain wooden planks, with a dust-covered concrete floor and no glass in the windows, the classroom was simple but spacious. The children were sat in rows on wooden desks, facing a large blackboard and as we entered, they all silently stood up in respect. Embarrassed and slightly slightly out of place, I quickly asked them to sit down.

Aged between maybe 11 and 14, the children sat in silence while we talked about our home towns, the local industry, landscape, football teams etc. I tried to ask them questions in return, but they were exceptionally shy and quiet. Their constant note-taking was the only sound from them, except the quick giggle if one of us said something half-way amusing.
I was talking about the docks in Liverpool, when a young boy, the scars on his cheeks marking him to be a Masai, raised his hand.
"Yes mate?" I ask
He speaks with careful, precise tones; "What is the local culture like in Liverpool?"....
His other great question was to Katrin: "Why is it true the population of Germany is in decline?"

What a boy!

The lesson goes on for about three hours, before all of us volunteers retire from our different classrooms to the headteachers office. As spartan as the classrooms, he spent some time here thanking us for our time, our donations, as well as explaining to us the problems the school faces. One of them is retaining the children, many of whom are only allowed to go to school because there is a free lunch provided. There are many more young children at the school than older, due to many of the older children either being married-off, or sent out with the cows before their education is complete.
I ask what of the young Masai, who I learnt in the classroom was called Joseph, and lived at the village a couple of miles from the school.
"His parents are not rich, his education will go no further. He will take the cows out to graze soon" The headmaster informs me.

We climb back into our 4X4's and set off back to camp. The children shout and wave as we set off, some running a bit alongside our vehicle laughing.

Their futures are decided not by the exceptional dedication, commitment and care of their teachers, the school or their own phenomenal abilities and achievements. But by the finances, traditions, and requirements of their families, and the economic enviroment they live in.

Loitokitok and Rombo camp

The following morning, after hot showers and a full breakfast of sausage, eggs and bacon, Ruben announced we would walk to Loitokitok, the nearby town while he organised another car and driver. Our landy (known by its vrm of KSM---) needed spare parts from Nairobi, so we would not see Simba for a little while.

In the crisp morning sunlight, we took in the wonderful grounds of the lodge for a short while, before setting off on the short walk into town. After so many hours sat-down travelling, and with the hot sun and high altitude, we were all soon breathing deeply and starting to sweat.
Villagers continued to wave at us, shouting a cheery "Jambo", and the children squealed with delight, often waving, with the youngest occasionally "playing shy" before jumping out and waving frantically.
Unlike many places we were later to visit, we were never hassled to buy/give/donate. With many volunteer projects operating in the area, mzungu's were accepted as welcome visitors, it seemed, rather than tourists. It was real Africa, not the tourist affected image.

Loitokitok would be become our main town, where every Saturday we would take a two hour drive for supplies and to charge cameras, and if possible, use the internet.
Smaller than many UK villages, Loitokitok was a hive of activity, its dirt-streets busy with people, motorcycles, 4X4's, goats, chickens, and its central market bustling with vibrant colours, sounds and smells, as people came from villages miles away to buy everything from fruit to batteries, 2nd hand shoes to bike-parts and chickens.
At Loitokitok we met John, a Masai dressed in western clothes who would be our guide-cum-fixer whenever we arrived into town.

After a car was sorted, we returned to the lodge for lunch, before starting our 2 hour drive to camp.
When approaching a small cluster of buildings (and a mobile phone mast- they were everywhere!), Sammi turned off the main road, onto a track that eventually became off-road completely, before finally stopping at a steep bank of a river.
The river itself was very small, but the banks long and steep, partly made of volcanic rock, deposited by Mt Kilimanjaro some 2.5 million years ago. Dressed in the typical bright red of the Masai, a woman was hunched over, hands in the water, further up-stream, equally brightly coloured Shuka (Masai clothes) spread out on the volcanic-rock riverbank drying behind her.
Sammi, finishing his appraisal of the river bank approach, put the landy in gear and eased the vehicle down, through the river, and swiftly up the other side. I hadn't thought it possible at the time, such was the steepness of the riverbanks, and the soft mud of the river. However our amazement didn't last, as we found ourselves crossing that river nearly every day.

We drove for a further short distance still off-road, before driving through a gap in an acacia-bush fence and into the camp.

The camp was quite spacious, with a communal dining area shaded by a canvass roof and a wicker-wall, situated next to a wicker and canvass built kitchen. Our tents were large 3-man green canvass jobs, tall enough to stand up in, and sheltered by either a canvass or traditional thatch "over-roof". Each tent had two or three small chairs sat outside on cleanly-swept groundmatts, where I spent many evenings sitting quietly replenishing my fluid loss and watching the sun set behind Mt Kilimanjaro.
Toilets were cess-pits arrangements, with either a little tent and toilet seat, or a mud-built double toilet, with thatched roof. We even had showers- small canvass cubicles with a bucket suspended above with a shower-nozzle attached. The water collected from the river would be heated on the campfire by those not on the afternoon foot-safari, so we even had hot-showers!

From this point on, our routine at camp was roughly as follows:
6.30-7am: breakfast, immediately followed by the morning drive. This was completely off road,
recording wildlife sightings as we go, usually heading to observation hills which we would climb to look for the big animals such as Elephants, Giraffe etc. Our job was to record sightings of all wildlife, the GPS co-ordinates, and details of what the animal/s were doing, to study the migration of the lions prey.

12-4pm; Free time, usually doing our washing, chatting to our Masai guides, and project leaders, and just relaxing.

4pm-6ish; Foot safari. Walking with James, our Masai project leader (always armed with a spear, should the worse happen) to other observation hills, which we would climb and scan the surrounding landscape with binoculars, finding giraffe, wart-hog, lesser kudus etc. This was brilliant, and it was shocking how easier it got every day to power up and down the hills in the heat, rocky conditions, and around the ever present "wait-a-bit" bushes. It was certainly my favorite part of the day.

6-10pm, shower, dinner, and a beer or two by the campfire. There we would hear zebra, elephants tearing down trees and creating a fuss, hyenas, even lions roaring, literally right outside out camp, all under the most vibrant night sky I have ever seen. The animals were the only noise we heard really, save the occasional Masai singing as they go about their business. We had a Masai warrior village a kilometer or so away, and they were our only neighbors.

The weekends were spent visiting Loitokitok on saturday, and doing the data collation on sundays.

It was amazing, a truly amazing place. It was real bush, in the Masai ranchlands, with the local Masai as our friends and neighbours. It felt like home in minutes.

A Zebra Crossing...

We were driving quite quick, when a giraffe loped out from behind an acacia bush, long graceful limbs propelling it across the road as Simba frantically pumped the brakes hard, the big off-road tyres biting deep into the soft track. By the time we had stopped, the giraffe was gone, but as we set off again, I looked back to see a family of zebras following their long-necked mate, causing Sammi to slew his 4X4 to a halt behind us.

The road conditions worsened, until at one point we were reduced to rumbling slowly through massive dust-filled potholes the size of small cars. Often we left the road all together, driving diagonally up sharp banks by the side of the road to avoid wheel-loosing crevices and large boulders. Eventually the road leveled out to hard corrugation that rattled the toughened glass windows. We started making good progress, throwing up a huge dust-cloud as we powered through the desert-savanna, waving at the children who would shout and laugh and wave excitedly as we rumble past. Occasionaly we would slow down for Masai tribesmen who would be herding their cows out of our path, raising a solemn hand in greeting.
We eventually started climbing a steep hill, and when we reached the top, the view below was of a completely different landscape from the previous desert-scrub.

The view down onto the valley was like a paradise picture of Africa, luscious fertile green trees growing wide and shallow over round green desert-date bushes, all contrasting against a deep rich-red soil. At the bottom of the hill, while driving along the bank at the side of the road to avoid a car-swallowing pothole, the engine died.
Bizarrely, Mrs Grasshopper and I grinned at each other.
The following vehicle stopped, and we all got out for a "comfort break" and a smoke while Simba muttered in kiswahili from under the bonnet.

It was here I experienced my first meeting with the "wait-a-bit" bush. Brushing past it even gently will result in its long barbed thorns becoming hopelessly dug into your skin and clothing, forcing you to literally wait a bit while carefully and methodically unhooking yourself. Not easy if your also holding your man-tackle at the time, rest assured.

Simba soon had it fixed, and we thundered along again, all the time waving at local Masai, or quickly covering our mouths as a passing truck filled our cab with choking diesel fumes, and dust that caked our sweat-soaked faces.
A couple more hours past when we heard and felt a BA-BANG....BA-BANG....BA-BANG... coming from under the Landrover.
I looked at Simba, who looked at me. 2 mins later I'm lying face-down on the sandy "road", peering intently at the rear off-side axle.
"Go on!" I shout. Simba eased the vehicle forward as I lay prone, head underneath as the rear wheel slowly rolls towards me.
BA-BANG!- it goes, shooting dust, stones and sand in my face. Coughing and spluttering I shuffle away from the rear wheel and shout again; "Go on!"
BA-BANG!
At this point I realise the whole exercise was pointless- I know absolutely f- all about cars.
Choking and spluttering, I get up and focus my streaming eyes on Simba.
"Uh, Broken" I say, pointing vaguely at the rear of the Landrover.
We swap places, and I try to find first gear in the lucky-bag of gearbox.
"Go on!" Simba shouts, and I ease her forwards.
BA-BANG....
Cough, cough, "Go on!"
BA-BANG...
Simba gets up, and I jump out the drivers seat.
"Uh, Broken" he says blinking, pointing vaguely at the rear wheels.
I nod solemly.

I realise the other vehicle had overtaken some time ago. Mrs Grasshopper and I share another slightly mad grin. Katrin just looks at us.

It didn't take long for Sammi to turn around for us, and after a fast discussion amongst our leaders and drivers, we limped on for a mile to a small village. Here we were immediately surrounded by small children as we jumped out the landrovers. Ruben tells me the mechanic will fix it, gesturing to a short bloke lying underneath a lorry, rhythmically hitting it underneath with a lump hammer, letting out a small grunt each time.

All of us volunteers took photos of the children, at their strong instance. They were all laughing, pushing and pulling at each other, eager to be right in front of our cameras. I wasn't sure how to feel. They were dressed in rags, stick-thin, many without shoes, yet here I was in my expensive western clothes, over-fed and dripping on phones, cameras and other equipment, pockets full of money. The children were positivly ecstatic to see us, touching me then pulling away shyly, before reverting to pulling and patting me, asking me to take a photo, always smiling, oblivious to the hard stones and filth beneath their bare feet. My eyes suddenly stung with shame at my self and my lifestyle, and at the desperate poverty the children were in. I was also moved at their genuine happiness to see me, despite neither asking for or getting anything from me. I walked to the other side of the landrover, away from the children, who had surrounded my companions, and lit a cigarette. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat, and had a think.

Ruben eventually said our vehicle could not be repaired, so would have to go to someone he knows for the night. So we all squeezed into Sammi's landrover with our day-sacks, and set of for this new destination.

The sun set suddenly, and the temperature dropped. Dark figures blurred past us in the night, and Sammi really put his foot down, and explained over the roar of the wind and engine we had to be off the road by 7pm for safety. We barrelled along, and I tried to atatch the canvass doors to the sides of the vehicle to keep out the peircing wind, as we rocked and rolled though some kind of checkpoint (were they guns?) and into a forest, before finally pulling up at some kind of lodge.
Sammi told us to make ourselves at home, as he was going back to fetch our luggage from the top of our stricken Landy. He apologised profusely, but he needn't have- the lodge was amazing, despite, or even because of, the power cut the owners were experiencing.
We realised as a kindly gentleman shown us to our rooms with a candle, that we were the only guests in this lodge, which was built right at the foot of Mt Kilimanjaro. After a candlelit dinner of rice, African stew and beans served in a wonderful dining room off the accommodation block, we settled in chairs on the veranda outside our rooms. One of the more astute members of the group had grabbed one of our shopping bags, so under the most magnificent starlit sky we sipped red wine and talked about the journey so far, before collapsing into soft beds under our mosquito nets.
"This has been amazing" whispered Mrs Grasshopper to me.
"I know. Why do I feel chuffed that our car broke down?"
"'Cause we got another night of comfy beds and hot showers!" She replies.
I slept soundly that night, knowing we would definatly be in the camp tomorrow.

End of the trip, begining of the story

So our Africa adventure is over already, and we have returned to Nairobi.

I'm slimmer, darker skinned, and acclimatised. Where I was Daz-white and sweating in my spanking new "technical" clothing, I'm now brown with an ever present red tinge from the day's sun. The clothing that made me resemble an over-weight Millets model is now sun-bleached, torn, and/or ingrained with the red-brown dust of the bush. I've had to buy some safari boots to wonder the city in, as my KSB hiking boots now appear 10 years old after a month of living in Acacia commiphora scrub savanha".

Now I got to remember what we have been up to...

Our first morning in Nairobi started with a big breakfast with our new companions, and a walk to the nearby supermarket to club together for the essentials- Beer, Wine and Vodka. We had a party to prepare for as there would be a birthday party while we were in the Bush (but that will be a post on it's own).

Ruben then met us at the hotel, and we all climbed aboard a small minibus, known as a Mtatu for the first part of our 9 hour drive to camp.

As we thundered along past lorries belching smoke, over pot-holes and rattled down corrugation, I thought about our companions;

Ruben, one of the project leaders, had met us the night before with Doctor Hamisi from the African Wildlife foundation, the main man for the project. It was the Doc who explained the importance of our work. The data collected would be used for managing the wildlife in the migration corridors of Rhombo and Amboseli, areas with great animal-human conflict.

During the Doc's talk, Ruben looked at us all intently, seemingly looking through me with an intense questioning stare. Dressed in a sharp-cut dark suit with brightly polished boots and no tie, he could have passed for a "media type" or self-made business man rather than a conservationist who lives in the bush for weeks on end. He is a very deep and committed individual, but I soon found he always had a fast, genuine smile and the most infectious laughs I've ever heard.

Our fellow volunteers were made up of:

Reece- aged 17, it was his 18th birthday party while we were based at Rhombo- we made it, um, unusual, and certainly memorable for him (more on that later). We all thought a lot of him for doing the trip at his age and on his own, despite all the problems never complaining once.

Dee- similar in age to Mrs G and i, she had met Reece at the airport. She was only booked to stay with us for the first two weeks in Rhombo, sadly leaving us for Amboseli ahead of us.

Alice- (not her real name) had been travelling on her own around Kenya, and had climbed Mt Kilimanjaro shortly before joining us on the project.

Ellen- From Norway, Ellen joined us later on the first evening. She very quickly gained everyones affection with her kindness and fast, dry wit, regularly delivering one-liners with perfect timing.

Katrin- From Germany, Katrin only met us the first morning, having flew in-country and arriving at the hotel just a couple of hours before we left. Quite and sensitive, it was a great shame she too had to leave early, being booked on just the first 2 weeks of the project.

Shirley- The carer of the group, Shirley had recently been travelling in Rwanda and Uganda. It transpired she would be joining Mrs Grasshopper and I again in Goa, when she finishes a project in Borneo.

So all squashed together in 40 degree heat, we thundered down the Mombasa Road and beyond into the countryside, until we reached a small collection of shacks and a petrol-station/restaurant. There, we had a quick lunch while Ruben and a couple of new guys swapped our Mtatu for two very serious looking Land-Rover Defenders, one hard top, the other soft-top with a big roll-cage.

Dee and I wondered off after eating for a quick smoke at the roadside. We were puffing away watching the bags being strapped onto the roof of the hard-top, when an old guy hobbled over to us, giving a wide gappy-toothed smile.

"Jambo!" he cheers, waving, then offering me his hand. I respond and shake, and he keeps hold of my hand as he asked how I am. We talk for a few minutes, Dee and I with this strange old man, who asks us where we are from, where we are going etc.

While explaining to us he is an elder, suddenly out of the blue he asks: "How does it make you feel, coming here with all your money and seeing all of us so very poor?". His gentle Kenyan tones and continued smile confuse me, and for a moment I stumble for words. I shrug, remove my sun glasses and try to keep eye contact in the suddenly burning sun.

"We're doing volunteer work, to help the people here. We'll be going to a village, and, um hopefully our work will help them".

He laughs, takes my hand again and starts shaking it.

"Good, good, if you were ever to come to my village, I would be very happy!"

With that he ambles off, seemingly pleased with our chat.

Dee and I stump out our cigarettes and head back to the restaurant. I think about that man for some time.

When we were ready to go, the drivers, Simba and Sammi insisted that Mrs Grasshopper and I sit together in the one with all the luggage strapped on top. This was Simba's vehicle, and already inside was Katrin, some how still awake after the flight and drive. We all shared a worried look as the vehicle kangaroo's onto the compact dirt road. 1st gear, 2nd, 3rd, all, well, bouncing the 4X4 down the road, rather than smoothly driving forwards. The other rangey quickly overtakes, and I wonder idly what would happen, out here in the bush should we break down. I might have been wrong, but I hadn't seen many RAC patrols out and about..

We were soon to find out...

Kenya

Jambo.
I'm writing this in the post office in a small town called Loitokitok, near the base of mount Kilimanjaro. Mrs Grasshopper and I were lucky to get a spot on the PC, and as I type my fellow volunteers are waiting for their go. I would be quicker, but not all the keys work on the keyboard properly, and every now and again the connection fails, or I get a sneezing coughing fit as a 4X4 thunders past, spitting dust and exhaust fumes through the open door. I can hear African music, traffic, quick-fire kiswahili, chickens and goats, and I'd best not describe some of the smells. But I love it here, still!

But more about here, and how we got here later....


After a hell of a flight, broken by the ultimate shopping experience in Dubai airport (Trafford Centre without the tack, poor service and British costs), we landed in Kenya.

We breezed through a well organised customs and emigration, receiving visas for 50 dollars, and met our contact, who was waving a sign with our names on like his life depended on it.
He lead us to the taxi pickup, flashing a sunbeam-smile every few words as he told us excitedly about the wonders we would see in his country. The air was hot despite the light cloud cover, and I could already feel sweat dribble down my back.
The taxi, an old Toyota arrived, our bags were placed for us into the back, and we set off for the hotel in downtown Nairobi.
The driver spoke little but drove fast, with smoothness, control and speed a TPAC trained bobby would have been impressed with, keeping constantly 10-15 mph faster than the other traffic without ever unsettling the car. His forward planning was almost like sixth sense as he undertook cattle-wagons on roundabouts, to then power past a 4X4, and slip lanes again gracefully finishing behind a Merc, until the next overtake opportunity. The driving conditions and behavior of other drivers on the Kenyan roads makes Rome look like a haven for ROSPA instructors.
The sun broke through the clouds, and despite my open window I started having to wipe my brow.
Spot the newbie.
"Down-town Kenya" he said as we pulled up outside the hotel. Without even realising it, Mrs Grasshopper and I were somehow in the lift with our bags and room key, the driver having quick-fired Kiswahili at the desk-staff before disappearing.

The hotel was small but comfortable, with a small restaurant, bar, and verandas on the first floor.
If it wasn't for the other travellers in their modern clothes, it would have been a perfect setting for an Indiana Jones, or maybe James Bond story. White and brown tiled floors, dark hardwood furniture, and slowly spinning fans made me feel I should perhaps dress correctly for dinner, to fit into the colonial-era ambiance.

After dropping our bags into our room, we went for a walkabout round the area. I picked up a moody Lacoste T-Shirt from a market stall for about 4 quid, after a scene reminiscent from Monty Pythons "Life of Brian". I really couldn't be bothered in the heat bartering.

I had heard all sorts of stories about Nairobi, and Kenya in general, some justified, most not. Mrs Grasshopper and I agreed we got a lot more hassle from street vender's, hustlers and beggars in Rome and Montego bay than we did in Nairobi. Of course there are places us "Mesungi" should not go, like any visitors to any big city in the world, but on the whole it was fine- just like most other big cities in honesty.

Shopping over, we grabbed a shower, and met the head of the project, and our other volunteers in the bar's lobby. There he told us of the importance of our work, and the positive effect it has on the Masai people in the area. When he left, Mrs G and our other volunteers done what all Brits do to bond- we went to the bar!

Two volunteers were still flying in, but Mrs G and I grabbed a "Tusker" or two with those that were there. Two of the girls had already been travelling in Kenya on their own, so we listened with interest to their stories before retiring to bed.

Our first night under a mozi-net was unusual, and I struggled to sleep, thinking of our 9 hour drive into the bush tomorrow...

I'll probably post all that at Dubai- my internet time is up!