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!