The Beast in the Jungle

Teachers for Africa stationed me at Kenegut Secondary School with fellow TFAer Jared Achieng, a Kenyan who had been working for IBM in the United States for more than ten years. I thought I was the lucky one of the group, because here was someone already familiar with the country and who spoke the language. But Jared's father died shortly after our arrival in Nairobi, so he left our group and spent the first few months in Kisumu, his hometown, making preparations for the funeral.

So, unlike my colleagues, I was by myself. I was lonely at times, crushingly so, but eventually I settled into life in Kenegut. I wrote and read by candlelight long into the night, taught English during the day, and went on runs through the countryside with my students, many of whom ran barefooted. I was in the highlands, tea country, and the views were often stunning. On hikes or runs, I would turn a corner and suddenly a breathtaking vista was before me. 

At least once a week, I traveled twenty miles to Kericho, the closest major city, where I would while away a few hours before stocking up on necessities: tinned biscuits, Cadbury chocolate, freeze-dried coffee, wine, batteries, candles. 

I would pop into the Midwest Hotel for a cold Tusker and watch Kenyan news, broadcast in unintelligible Swahili, on the television above the bar. If I were lucky, I would get news of cricket and soccer matches from England, and this would enthrall me, though I had no previous interest in, or knowledge of, those sports in my life.

When you live alone, apart from others like yourself, you get used to it after a while, if it doesn't drive you mad. There were times, however, when I questioned my sanity. Journal entries during that period reflect my worries about financial security and the future. Friends and family were busy with careers and raising children, while I was still gadding about. My little sister was about to marry, an event I would miss because of interminable wanderlust. Everyone seemed to lead a normal existence except me. 

Traveling was my solace, and eventually I began wandering further from my blue hovel, to outposts like Maralal, a dusty, tree-lined haven in Northern Kenya reminiscent of towns in Hollywood films of the Old West. To get there, I had to travel four hours by bus on a dirt track through desert scrub. By the time I reached Maralal, I was covered in grit. It had lodged in creases of my skin and filled my nostrils, and where I rubbed it my neck felt scoured as if by sandpaper. 

The bus driver dropped me off at Yare Campgrounds, just outside of town, where I paid 500 shillings (about $10) for a thatched banda with a makuti roof, a bed, and a hot shower. A bargain. 

I was, however, not in Maralal. To get to the city center, I had to walk 4.5 kilometers in the blazing sun. There, I had lunch at Hard Rock Cafe (not part of the chain) and downed several Stoney Tangawizi, a local ginger beer. My waiter asked if I were staying at the Safari Lodge. No, I said. And I told him I was staying at Yare.

"Aiiii," he exclaimed. "That is far. The lodge is just there," he said, pointing out the door.

"Where?"

"Just there," he said.

  Just there was three kilometers from the city center, another long walk in the blazing sun. But the lodge was very comfortable and was situated at the edge of the Maralal National Sanctuary. I sat on the restaurant's veranda, which overlooked a watering hole that attracted an array of wildlife, and ordered a pot of chai and a bottle of water. 

I lounged there a few hours, writing in my journal, but mostly I meditated at the sight of eland, gazelle, waterbuck, and zebra gathered at the watering hole. At one point, I saw two young Samburu warriors, dressed in red and blue shukas, walking in the distance. The waiter appeared at my elbow, and I asked him where the men were headed.

"Yare, maybe," he said.

"The campground?"

"Yes," he said.

"Where is the campground?"

"Just there," he said, pointing in the direction the Samburu were headed.

Just there was directly across the reserve, which was studded with wildlife, including water buffalo, one of the most dangerous animals to humans in Africa. If I walked across the reserve, however, as the Samburu did, I would cut my walking distance in half.

I paid the waiter, packed up my belongings, and walked down the drive away from the lodge. At a bend, hidden from view of anyone at the lodge, I saw the footpath the two Samburu men had taken. I hesitated briefly. And then I took the plunge. 

The first several minutes were terrifying. I was sure I was making a huge mistake, but I kept on nonetheless. I eyed every bush for signs of lion or water buffalo, and every few hundred feet I scouted out a tree I could clamber up, if need be. Mostly, I encountered herds of zebra, who were unhappy about my presence and would trot off braying and whinnying if I got too close. Antelope and similar ungulates kept their distance.

About halfway across the reserve, I began to relax. I even took photographs. All of them, however, of zebra. None of the photographs capture the combined feeling of fear and sheer abandon I felt at being in the middle of a wildlife reserve. This is stupid, I told myself, but I felt exhilarated nonetheless.

I rested a while in the shade of a tree, captured in the photo to the left. Except for wildlife, I was alone. Utterly alone. But in that solitude, the peace of that reserve, I realized I was in the midst of the world. That life was all around me. And I was part of it. I was no longer a tourist, not simply passing through. 

Eventually, the zebra relaxed and returned to grazing. On a distant hillside, a safe distance away, I saw the boulder-like shapes of water buffalo. Soon, cicadas began calling and some slate-colored boubous answered with trills. The heat, the hum of the cicadas, and the sweet bird song soothed me. I wanted to stay longer in the shade of that tree, but it was getting late, close to hunting hour, so I picked myself up and reluctantly moved on. 

As I neared the main road, I saw a park ranger leaning against his truck, his arms crossed, waiting. My first impulse was to turn around and run. Perhaps he hadn't seen me. But the thought of walking back through the reserve at dusk was far too terrifying. So, I faced the music.

"Are you crazy?" He pointed up at the hills. "Do you know a leopard lives in those rocks?"

"No, I didn't know that."

"There are lions here," he said. "Sometimes elephant."

I told him I had followed some Samburu men.

"You are not Samburu," he declared.

I apologized and said it would not happen again. He excused me with a disgusted wave of his hand.

I was changed when I returned to Kenegut and my little blue hovel. I had nothing to prove to myself. Or others. Not that I had done anything extraordinarily brave. I hadn't. But all the dread and anxiety of doing something with my life, of waiting for some spectacular event to define me, like John Marcher in Henry James' "The Beast in the Jungle," had disappeared, and I felt at peace with myself.

And just at the moment I let go, stopped waiting for something to happen, my life changed in a most unexpected but glorious way.

(To be continued)