Slow Dance of The Elephants

The Aberdare Experience

Aberdare Ark is a modern-day machaan, except that it is a building (shaped in an ark) with all amenities afforded to tourists for a comfortable stay! It sits next to a natural salt lick in a clearing within the lush Aberdare tropical forests of Kenya. The Ark has a viewing gallery in the basement where one is level with the waterhole, a terrace which gives one an overhead view and a mezzanine lookout which is barely clear of the tallest elephant’s height!

When we reached the Ark it was approaching sunset, a perfect time for animals to congregate at the waterhole before they called it a day. An elephant parade was lined up, with some African cape buffaloes blending in, almost as though to welcome us. In the awed hush all we could hear was the odd rumble and rustle, an overwhelming assertion of life! Unlike other safaris where we encountered elephant herds browsing and feeding from time to time and took pretty pictures, the Aberdare experience was one to watch elephant behaviour and bonding, intimately, in their natural habitat.

From the terrace, I spotted a cow with a calf huddled by its side; other young ones came to caress and pet it, all the time ensuring that it was well-flanked and protected. Two juveniles from different clans came upon each other, touched and twined their trunks, and indulged in boisterous play for a while. One of the young adults had something hanging loose at the end of its trunk; it took me a while to figure that the trunk itself was mutilated and a part of it was hanging by a lip! It seemed like an old wound and the mammal was able to adapt it beautifully despite the deformity.

Elephant herds of varying strength were trooping in and out of the thicket to the waterhole. One of the young male was wounded with blood oozing from its face. You could see, it was desperately seeking attention and commiseration from others, like a little child. It would go close and try to touch every other elephant that came out of the bush. I was shocked to see that it was being shunned by one and all! To my mind it seemed like a case of adults chiding, “I told you so”, for “not listening” to sane counsel! Or maybe there was some other explanation that we have no way of knowing.

As the day wound to a close, I shifted my observation post to the open balcony by the path where the animals had to retreat into the thick vegetation. There was an embankment of boulders - two feet wide - below the balcony to keep the elephants from straying too close. Every time an elephant approached my side and passed by, it would, unfailingly, lift up its trunk sniffing my presence. But their reactions were different. Some were wary, some baulked and some actually bolted, timidly, tail in the air. I wondered how much of my olfactory signature was imprinted on their memories and if I were to encounter them out in the wild would they recognise me!

The jumbos had called it a day and all the resident tourists too retreated to their cubby-hole cabins for a doze. Being claustrophobic, I had to wait out the night somehow. Somewhere around 2 or 3 at night, I must have drowsed only to be awakened by a sixth sense. I went to the balcony to gulp in fresh air just in time to see a faint trickle of pearly grey masses coming out into the open. In the still moonlit night, for the next hour and a half, a slow dance-drama unfolded - for my eyes only - leaving me completely dazed.

A matriarch with a calf, few females and some sub-adults began confabulating by the pool. Soon the calf lay at its mother’s feet to rest and three-four grown-ups stood in a semi-circle forming a protective cover. 

The mater moved away closer to the water’s edge, sniffed the wind, and kneeled down as though checking the depth of the pool with its probing trunk. It tore away the grass growing at the edges and gobbled it. Soon it had rolled onto its side, raised its trunk, and was contorting its body! My first impression was that this animal was sick; that it might have a tummy problem. For an instant it almost seemed like it was in throes. I hadn’t seen anything so bizarre all my life! The matriarch wallowed and writhed as the herd watched respectfully from a distance, not breaking her trance.

She then strode back to its family by when the calf was up and rejuvenated. Then a slow, deliberate, rhythmic ritual ensued… trunks entangling, twining, and feeling each other. The entire herd stood still in a wedge formation with its trunks touching. After a long while, the formation turned inside out with the bottoms now jostled together. Was it a family get-together where they were narrating stories and anecdotes, trading notes and even, joking?

The calf and the sub-adult were left out of the loop, surprisingly, left unprotected behind their backs! When the calf attempted to pry from behind, curious, the matriarch without so much as a look gave it the boot sending it scurrying out of the charmed circle! With no perceived threats and comfortable in the privacy of their circle, they could now afford to keep the pesky young ones out of their adult “bedroom” conversation!

The herd stood in varied patterns and formations (interminably, it seemed!) and changed positions at intervals. If that one hour could be filmed, fast forwarded and reduced to a 15- 20-minute clip, then I would be witness to a rhythmic gyration, a slow ballet.

Was it a spiritual ceremony or a cult ritual? Or I wondered if the herd was mourning having heard and read so much about elephant’s graveyards and death rituals.

Benson, the in-house naturalist, discounted it saying that in the 40 years of the lodge’s existence no elephant had died or was buried there. He had this to say: “Elephants are highly evolved social creatures and with a lot of research being done on their memory and behaviour, scientists haven’t finished yet. I would think we haven’t begun yet.” 

Also read My Elephant Memories

ALL PHOTOGRAPHS IN THIS BLOG/ BLOGSPOT ARE THE AUTHOR'S ORIGINAL WORK/ COPYRIGHT

MY ELEPHANT MEMORIES

The news item of the barbaric slaughter of Satao - a rare bull with nearly 50 kg of tusk (each) grazing the ground – by poachers caught my eye and made my heart bleed. Visions of African Elephants - tuskers and matriarchs, calves and juveniles – that I had seen in the diverse ecological habitats of Kenya - from the plains to the forests - swam in front of my eyes. Satao was a Tsavo bull and it was here in the vast historic savannas of Tsavo that I had my initial tryst with the species Loxodonta Africana.

RED ELEPHANTS OF TSAVO

En route from Mombasa to Nairobi early in our Kenya sojourn, we decided to take a detour into Tsavo territory. Tsavo National Park is Kenya’s largest, divided into East and West, East being the wilder and less frequented of the two.

In the lazy noon hour, the park seemed devoid of animals though the bush was buzzing with birds. We had almost given up hope after a few hours when the elephant parade began! Being intimately acquainted with the Indian elephant, which is grey-black, the first sight of (brick) ‘red’ elephants was truly exceptional. It is Tsavo’s rich volcanic soil, ochre in colour, which gives elephants that distinctive hue when they wallow or bathe in mud.

In the blazing equatorial sun, we came upon a “nuclear” family trying to shield them under/near a sparse shrub, barely managing to tuck their heads in! That classic sight was a testimony to the species’ qualities of tolerance and accommodation of others.  

Much later, when we visited Tsavo West, the trails we followed threw up elephant hooves, intermittently, but not their owners. Bare boles of acacias stripped of leaves and twigs stood as signs of elephant ravages, but the perpetrators of carnage were nowhere in sight. That is how it is in Tsavo country, the excitement lies more in the suggestion than in the spotting.

After hours of following the red dirt tracks through the acacia-commiphora woodlands all we could see was a herd of elephants walking into the horizon. Should a small herd of elephants walking away into distance - a pastiche at once of mundanity and mystery - be any less thrilling than an elephant at close quarters posing for a photograph? For me, this is a more intimate portrait, almost as if the elephants were leading me into their private domain, if only I exerted my imagination and followed them there.

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ELLIES OF AMBOSELI!

It was March of 2009; the year of drought in Amboseli. Nyika or African bush is largely treeless and hence can be punishing in its natural elements at the best of times. In such a parched landscape, the scene that stayed with me was this: a long-shot of lumbering herd of elephants with young ones in tow cutting through the simmering heat of the dustbowl in search of water. 

This family would have to walk for miles to get to the receding water sources and it would have to do it as fast or slow as the pace of the youngest calf. We, who simply reach out for bottled water or a can of coke in the middle of nowhere, to wet our lips or soothe our parched throats, cannot even begin to imagine the herd’s predicament. The poignancy of the scene lay in the realization of that harsh reality of life in the wild.

As the herd approached our vehicle the calf buckled under sheer exhaustion and lay down to rest: the clan simply stayed put in some sort of protective formation. They stood freeze frame for what seemed like an eternity and we waited with bated breath to see what would happen next. As my son interpreted the scenario, the calf that was resting was the unlikely king, and the family of adults, the servile subjects who had to wait it out. I felt as though the earth had stopped spinning and that instant was IT… for the elephants there was no past, no future; the essence of existence was the present moment – poised between life and death.

The elephant herd would pause for as long as it would take the calf to regain its energy before resuming their long march. We, however, had to move on so as not to overstay safari propreity and had no way of knowing the fate of the calf or of the clan. But, possibly, the entire family would have had to go without water longer than their tolerance threshold, or perhaps I was underestimating their patience and endurance.

DIONYSIUS 

The sight of an imposing lone tusker is worth more than a pride of lions (so to speak!) and we were lucky to see one at a distance near the Olokenya swamp. (Later through the film “Elephants Memories” by Dr. Cynthia Moss we got to know that this was the legendary Dionysius). 

The mammoth, his tusks tending to ground, emerged out of a thicket like a chimera. Surprised or simply gauging our mood as we were trying to sense his, he stood there looking directly at us. Even from that distance we could feel his brute presence, a colossus striding the earth like royalty. Suddenly, contrary to its nature, it darted into nearby bushes and simply vanished before our eyes. It was as though the mask had been ripped off his face and the blinkers off mine as I realized how vulnerable that lone ranger was. No companion, no family, no herd – a persona non grata eking it out in an unfriendly world.

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CLOSE ENCOUNTER AT MANYARA

Even as we had started on our game drive in Lake Manyara National Park in Tanzania, two young frisky elephants feeding by the roadside blocked our path. I was consternated at the sight of one of them fanning its ears menacingly and for once the cocoon of our vehicle seemed vulnerable. What a contrast, I couldn’t help comparing, with Ian Douglas Hamilton’s (Lake Manyara was this elephant-expert’s playing field) bravado in undertaking the hazardous task of photographing elephants with ears spread out, for identification, at times crouching on trees or even on foot!

Not wanting to antagonise them, the driver backed off. Finally, they slipped into the thicket clearing our way. Back at our resort, the hotel staff was emphatic that no game strayed in there as the lodge was outside the National Park, though we had seen some bushbuck stroll below our balcony.

By dusk, after the game drive, elephant blockade fresh in mind, we sauntered into the lodge chatting away walking up to the room. Fellow lodgers - a couple – waved a hello or so we thought; instead they greeted us, saying: “Look there, by the (swimming) pool… Elephants”!

My heart stopped beating as I saw two grey apparitions appear over the curve of the hill. They walked towards the same direction as us, parallel to us, the lodge rooms dividing our paths. Our friends turned to their room leaving us alone to decide our fate. Silently, we kept walking, praying, and managed to reach our rooms safely.  The wind Gods had aided us. 

From the first floor balcony, just in time, we caught a herd of three, including a calf, within whispering distance! I shudder to think, what would have happened if our family of three (me, my husband and son) had come face to face with the elephant trio.

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It was much later in Kenya’s Aberdare forests that I was lured into the secret universe of the elephants where I was witness to their legendary bonding.  

Read Slow Dance of the Elephants


ALL PHOTOGRAPHS IN THIS BLOG/ BLOGSPOT ARE THE AUTHOR'S ORIGINAL WORK/ COPYRIGHT

Westgate Mall - A Symbol of Multiculturalism

http://www.indiawrites.org/india-and-the-world/revisiting-westgate-mall-in-kenya-a-symbol-of-multiculturalism/

Out of Africa in Mandovi

Mandovi Hill resembling the savannah as the monsoon retreats

Since the last shower a fortnight ago, the weather has turned. And so has the season. The land is already looking parched and the days are shortening.  The lush plateau vegetation of Mandovi Hill has started resembling the African savannah. The tall wild grass is no red oat grass - the savannah mainstay - certainly. It is not the superfood that sustains wildebeests. But the overall aura that the lateritic landscape exudes is such. I round a bend on the deserted periphery path and enter the honey-gold landscape of Mara. The same expectation springs in my heart as when I was on an African safari. Maybe, a wildebeest herd – along with zebras – may appear on the horizon. Or perhaps, a lion has stolen himself into the grass-folds, the self-same shade of his skin. In the savannah, often it is the expectation or the wild imagination that is more permanent than the real presence. I admit, my mind is going wild here. Visual is only on the surface, reality is nature-deep.

The barren landscape, now, means more visibility. It means lesser hiding places for the birds. The bee-eaters, rollers and drongos – the Indian species - sally and somersault and pirouette in the full glare of gazers (read me). The dragonflies keep them on their wings. They are out in the open playing to the gallery just like their African counterpart. Like the lilac-breasted roller or the blue-cheeked bee-eater might do in Tsavo Park or in Nairobi National Park. Or in the capital city of Nairobi, for that matter.  The flock of mynahs (grey-headed), swallows (red-rumped) and munias (black-headed) are perched on the telegraph pole. They are fraternizing noisily with their respective flocks. And I hear echoes of starlings and mannikins of my Africa yesteryears. The exotic bauhinia with its purple flowers and spathodia with its vermilion canopy carry the whiff of Out of Africa and The Flame trees of Thika of the Kenyan lore.

On the evening trail, I come upon the vista of Coco Beach. Swaying coconut palms reach out to the Arabian Sea. The sea, itself, reaches out to the River Mandovi. I see a modest stretch of sandy shores. It is the front yard of the fisher folks of Nerul.  They are the rightful denizens of the coast. As the sun sets, local boys are seen playing football on the wet sand as the waves gush in and out. The pastiche blurs the boundaries of memory. I recall a scene from Stonetown, Zanzibar. In the glow of the setting sun, even as the fiery ball dips into the ocean, youngsters are thrashing a ball around. I recall a similar scene back in Kenya’s Mombasa. This time, rival groups of Old Town, Mombasa, are competing with each other. The venue is the ramparts of the historic Fort Jesus built by the Portuguese.

Next door to Coco Beach stands Reis Magos. This is a Portuguese era battlement predating Fort Jesus. It is a symbol, in a sense, that establishes the historic link between Goa – the headquarters of erstwhile Estado da India, and the East African coast. That thread of Portuguese history is inextricably linked to my own personal journey – from Kenya to Goa. But that is another story, for another day.

Sundowner soccer by Old Towners at Fort Jesus, Mombasa

GNUSOME SAGA

It is that time of the year when the stage is set for the Greatest Pageant on Earth. That time of the year when an ancient tradition is upheld and performed with centuries-practised ease, and yet, one that is fraught with hardships and adversities galore. Hordes of wildebeest are preparing for their passage from the spent savannahs of Serengeti to Maasai Mara to feast on manna, in what has been an indispensable rite of passage since time immemorial.  In East Africa, wildebeest herds and along with them multitudes of zebras and gazelles are now filling up the horizon of the endless plains and blurring the boundaries of Tanzania and Kenya as they embark on an annual pilgrimage.

Following the scent of the rains and red oat grass that springs from the bosom of the soil in Mara, these mammals embark on a cyclical migration that will ensure their survival and perpetuation of their progeny and species. The animals may not heed borders but they do have to surmount the boundaries of the Mara River that interrupts their migratory route. It is while crossing the Mara that an epic saga unfolds – of predator and prey, of triumph and decay, of leap of faith and fate, of life and death; but mainly of survival. Cats – lions and leopards - lie in ambush on land and crocodiles under water to indulge in an orgy of feast that spells the dance of death for the protagonists.

Year after year, when the long rains start in Kenya, the anticipation mounts even among the tourists, the frenzy equalling what is building in the ranks of the gnus (as wildebeests are called due to their onomatopoeic  grunting). While most may see wave upon waves of wildebeest simmering on the vast expanse, they may not necessarily witness the spectacle by the river that gives the event that edge. Getting to witness a river crossing is a matter of fortuity. By calendar, migration occurs anytime between July to September (old-timers, Kenyans, tell us how the onset used to be early June a decade back and has gone off-kilter since), but the river crossing itself is a mercurial moment. Within a span of a day, one set of tourist may witness surcharged drama at river Mara where the other may come upon a sterile scene.

For the three years that we were in Kenya we tried to time our visit to coincide with the event. I must admit to being deficient of intuition or super-sensory perception of the gnus and considering that bookings had to be done months in advance it was a chance in a million we were up against. In 2009, after a rain check, we visited end-July only to find everything quiet on the Mara front. The river itself was at ebb due to below average rainfall. Away from the river, at places, we came upon single files of gnus – nervous and uncertain - criss-crossing the plains in obvious confusion. These were early stragglers who had lost their way. In 2010, to be on the safe side, we made the Mara trip in September. This time round we were a tad late and while we did not see the river crossing we saw congregations of mega-herds dotting the horizon.  So last year, we hit Mara in August and hoped in hell.

And this is what we saw.  

http://www.padmaja-earthletters.blogspot.in/2011/08/crossing-mara-waters.html

The Topsy Turvy Tree

African Baobab - Adansonia digitata

I find trees to be veterans of great character. The dignity with which they stand rooted watching over us, silently, in selfless dedication marks them a species apart. I have been particularly fascinated by giants like banyans and baobabs whose gnarled existence of generations bespeak of passage of time. If banyan is akin to my mother, someone who I have grown under (metaphorically speaking) in India, then the baobab is my Godmother that has adopted me into its fold, into its African identity.

The baobab, first leaped at me, out of a children’s book, “Tree of Life” scripted and illustrated by calligrapher-artist Barbara Bash of San Francisco’s Sierra (nature) Club. The picture-book - a forever keepsake - explores the circle of life through cycle of seasons of a baobab from sapling to seedling. Brought for my toddler, a decade ago, it held me riveted as I explored the foliage world with him page after page. Imagine my surprise when the strange bulbous tree in my neighbourhood of South Mumbai suddenly assumed a name and identity. This century old animate monument was a testimony to colonial history and passage of people, continents apart, through the Indian Ocean. In an interesting development, when the hollowed out mature tree buckled as a result of death of a segment, it was salvaged and rejuvenated by Friends of Trees. Today, it stands a living heritage in its foster land, albeit forlorn and out of place.

India boasts a few baobabs on its coastal belt, but for all that, the baobabs are fixtures of African savannas that evoke mystique and romance of that land. Years later, destiny took us to Kenya, the home range of the mighty baobabs, where I saw the tree of life, more intimately, bark and blossoms.

The first time I saw the baobab on its native soil, it was in profound profusion. Rows and rows upon baobabs in multitudinous forms stretched out kilometer long like a file of military men. The ‘baobab boulevard’ came upon us serendipitously en route from Nairobi to Mombasa as the hill terrain gave way to coastal plains. Leafless, the bare boles and boughs looked as though a sweep of lightning strike had shorn them of their fuzz. Sinewy twigs flailing skywards seemed like many roots on top of an upturned uprooted tree. This fall phase of the deciduous tree lasts three seasons earning it the epithet of an “upside down” tree.  

Bullet-riven baobab bole at Taita

Baobabs do not flourish in Nairobi’s cooler climes as they are essentially natives of the coast. The one specimen that I saw in Nairobi at the eponymous Arboretum was a puny parody of the real thing to the point of being unrecognizable. In fact, the tree does become unrecognizable when it adorns a foliar crown. From a grotesque disfigured giant, it suddenly transforms into an Amazon of a bride.  And then come the blooms - pristine white and sweet scented. The only time I saw a baobab in bloom was this summer, smack on the historic railway station, Voi, of the erstwhile Uganda Railway. This tree was obviously the same age as the railway station (which was built towards the end of 19^th century) and if trees could talk it would have tales to tell of the tyranny of colonialism and camaraderie of indentured labourers and locals. If the Voi baobab was mute witness to the dynamics of infrastructural development in the context of colonialism, the one in Taita will go down in history as a sniper post that actually was a minor battlefield in the EastAfrican theatre of war of WWI.  Legend has it that a German lady wished to avenge the death of her husband who was killed in the Battle of Tanga, and therefore, hid herself in the tree to ambush soldiers of Allied troops. The pockmarked bullet-riven bark bears out the lore.

   

Flowers give way to pendulous gourd-like fruits, the seeds of which taste like tart tamarind. With great fondness, I recall how Joseph (my son’s local friend) loved to barter mbuyu for a stick of gum.  Mbuyu (baobab seeds, candied and coloured) lollies found on the shelves of stores everywhere in Kenya are a favourite kiddy snack.

Like our indigenous coconut palm, the baobab is called the “tree of life” as all its body parts from leaves to shoots to seeds can be used productively by humans. Besides it is an entire ecosystem in itself supporting bio-diverse critters and creatures from snakes and bats to monkeys and bushbabies. Baobabs live for hundreds of years, some species even for a thousand, seeming almost invincible. A baobab reaches great height but is not tallest among trees; the bole though is unparalleled in its girth bloated as it is with hoarded water. For that reason, during drought it is the elephant’s last resort. Elephants strip the bark to get to the water spelling its doom. It is that knock of death from one giant to another (if the tree does not die of old age) that completes the cycle of baobab’s journey bringing it down dust to dust. Only for the Phoenix to rise again…

Why I Love Kenya

There is no reiterating that the savannas and safaris have a merciless hold on me. But that is not the only reason why Kenya has me, or anyone who visits it not quite knowing what to expect, bewitched. Kenya is an optimal amalgamation of European “notions” of civic responsibility and cleanliness, native African warmth and hospitality and a dash of Indian touch that makes for a genteel existence.  In contrast, modern India’s pervasive mammonism and what it is cheering as new aggressive and attitudinal shift of GenNext seems jarring, especially for someone who has seen the “upside” of a so-called underdeveloped African country. After coming back home, the contrast between the two countries appears even more stark and striking. Indians may have a stereotyped notion of “Africa” as an overcrowded and poverty-stricken country but, ironically, it is Kenya that brought home lessons of “civic responsibility” and “happy co-existence” more than all my years in India.

    

 In my experience, Kenyan men and women are, largely, soft-spoken, courteous and civil whether they come from higher echelons of society or from the working class. A courteous “Good Morning” or a hearty “jambo” with a smile has to set pace for the day. An anecdote illustrates the point well, also the fact that it came from my local house help. Once a man wanted to buy fish and asked the vendor the price of the fish. The lady offended by his lack of social etiquette replied: “Since you do not want to greet me first, you might as well ask the fish its price”!

  

Indians, at least in the metros, are losing out on these basic niceties. Streets and public places have become arenas for slanging matches if one doesn't get right of way be it while bargaining with a vendor, jostling for parking space, clambering onto a bus or local train or hailing a cab. And we cannot do anything subtly or softly; everything has to be proclaimed loudly to the world and its neighbour.While Geography, climate and weather may have favoured Nairobi more than any Indian city, there is no reason why old-world values, courtesies or ordinary decencies be given short shrift in day-to-day dealings. 

Megapolises in India, small towns even more so, are increasingly getting caught up in appearances – hip hair style, snazzy electronic gadgets and popular designer labels worn on sleeves - has become the measure of people’s worth.  Contrast that with the Kenyan get-up where there is little emphasis on what you wear save a dazzling smile, easy laughter and a ready jig. Drivers may have one or two pieces of ensemble but they will be worn nattily and with great élan. Women are usually in trousers or skirts and do dress bold but there is singular absence of eve-teasing – no leering, no jeering, no pawing or pinching! The fact that Kenya is an open society in contrast to Indians, who are a repressed lot, may have something to do with it.

The wholesale vegetable market at Nairobi’s City Park is a revelation. The Mama Mbogas (women vegetable vendors; in Swahili, mboga means vegetables) are patience personified and blind trust seems to rule here. They will not chastise you for rummaging through their wares or sneak after you to count the bundles of spinach you picked up yourself. And the vegetables themselves are gleaned as though under “Quality Control” requirements – the okra and french beans tender as the babies’ fingers. Cheerful disposition, easy manners and charm are the hallmark of hawkers and shopkeepers, everywhere. As a spontaneous community effort by the vendors the squelchy mboga waste is composted on site to produce organic manure (a simple idea, yet elusive in our scenario; correct me, if I am wrong) which is sold to the denizens of the garden city.  

Nairobi is truly deserving of the title. Trees line streets and adorn house gardens throughout the city. In Mumbai, trees covered with layers of dust wear a forlorn look and waste away in the human jungle.  Greening the cities and countryside is an intrinsic ethos in Kenya thanks to the legacy of Tree Mama, Wangari Maathai, and also due to the presence of international bodies such as UNEP.  Public places wear utterly spruced up look and are clean - no garbage on the streets, none spilling out of trash cans or garbage trucks, no plastic bags floating in the air or lying on the ground. Garbage collection is entrusted with private agencies and UNEP statistics vouch for nearly 90% collection which is as good as it can get.

No jostling crowds at malls, hotels or in public places. No cows or stray dogs roam, hardly any beggars or homeless languish on the streets of Nairobi. There is no dog poop (or worse) littered on roadsides, no paan spittle painting walls, no jets of spit streaming out of bus windows. What is it about us Indians that we cannot get our act together when it comes to garbage and general hygiene? The appalling state of Indian roads and public spaces vis-à-vis waste is a widely acknowledged fact. But it is shameful when historical records suggest that Indians, as a people, are a filthy lot. The town of Nairobi came up as an Indian Quarter to accommodate indentured labourers and, subsequently, Indian merchants that followed to support these "residents”. The town spread gradually and soon became the headquarters of British administration with a mixed population in the early 20^th century. Records point out that it was in the Indian Quarter that plague started and spread. Is the “emerging superpower” also vying for the distinction of being the filthiest nation on earth?

Traffic is a bane; it can get particularly erratic when the rains come, no matter they may be mere passing showers, but no honking please, we are Kenyans. We are patient and take life “pole pole” (literal Hindi translation – holle holle). In the streets of Mumbai even as the traffic is moving as fast as it possibly could the driver has his fist on the horn which is a substitute for a punching bag to vent his ire and angst and rage – emotions common to the common man of Mumbai or any other metropolitan city in India. The neo-Indian’s aggressiveness reveals itself on the road as much as elsewhere.

With all that traffic Nairobi has little pollution. The weather is pleasant and cool - like Wellington summers - throughout the year. Incidentally, I came across a temperature graph of major cities in the world in a diary and it revealed (not surprisingly to me) that Nairobi has world’s best averages - min 11 and max 24 - throughout the year! The equatorial sun can be harsh if you are outdoors during the daytime, but it is not the sapping heat of tropical regions. In fact, as you traverse north towards the Equator, from Nairobi to Central Highlands, the weather gets even more salubrious, particularly in the vicinity of Mt. Kenya and Aberdares. This is where the Europeans settled replicating their countryside lifestyle.

If all that has been mentioned here is not enough, then here’s more… I did not sight a single cockroach – big or small – during my entire stay there; mobile phone companies don’t interrupt your waking moments with  unsolicited messages from naughty videos to salacious gossip; and TV programmes and channels do not bush your brains with inane commercials, ad infinitum, peddling crass commercialization. Though cantonments in India are a welcome respite, there is no escaping the larger reality of India being ugly, unkempt, slipshod, uncaring, uncouth, and unsophisticated in its Great March to Modernity.  Kenya is a blessed land not just for its savannas and safaris, but also for its cities and the people. I have become richer, more patient and tolerant with the Kenyan experience.

Tall As An Oak

Today, I planted a sapling of Meru Oak in my garden. As my Kenyan odyssey inches towards the finishing line, I felt it would be fitting to give something back to this land – to its soil, sun and savannas – that nurtured my soul. Planting indigenous trees would be my enduring gesture of gratitude to its people who shared their stories with me and helped me evolve and grow. Meru Oak, one of the largest trees endemic to Kenya, was Wangari Maathai’s pet motif, as a symbol of strength and endurance, for any tree planting ceremony. Deforestation and over harvesting for timber has highly threatened it, which is also the reason why Mama Miti (Mother Tree, as Maathai was lovingly called in local lingo) chose to plant this species on every occasion.

I would have loved to plant the baobab - the African quintessence - too, but though the baobab is an indigenous species, it is not the one for Nairobi. Baobabs are not spread over Kenya indiscriminately, but found closer to the plains which experience relatively heavy rainfall. As you travel from Nairobi to Mombasa by road, you step into baobab country. On the outskirts of Mombasa these gargantuan entities stretch endlessly such that you are seemingly driving on a baobab boulevard. With ample breathing space and sparseness around, their girth and canopy spreads copiously, in keeping with their true nature. Just the other day, I came across a 100-year old baobab at the Nairobi Arboretum that would put a true-blue baobab to shame. Not suited to Nairobi’s elevation of nearly 5000 ft, this specimen was stunted and frail like a well-endowed woman shrunk in size as a result of crash dieting!

Time and again, Maathai emphasized the importance of indigenous trees for their capacity to regenerate and rejuvenate microhabitats and in inducing back birds that might have migrated. Plantation trees such as eucalyptus and acacia (the wattle of Australia and not the indigenous savanna species), conifers such as cypress and pine, majestic though they may be, play havoc with the immediate environment in ways that may not be instantly felt or understood.  Therefore, I chose the indigenous East African yellow-wood (Podocarpus falcatus), instead, as the other planting option. By virtue of its appearance, Podocarpus is a perfect substitute for the alien pine and is a viable alternative as a plantation tree. In Australia, this species is considered invasive, but in Kenya, its homeland, it is not an outcast and is, in fact, a great roosting place for birds.

The British with their incurable love of gardens and trees sought to recreate their homeland-highlands atmosphere in almost all nations they colonized, as also to swap species within the colonies. Thus, they sowed the seed of exotic plantations. So, whether you go to India or Kenya, whether you are sitting at the Bombay Gymkhana Club in Mumbai or the Mombasa Club in Mombasa, you see similar flora of Indian almonds and African tulips twig-by-bough jostling for space.

The African tulip (Spathodea campanulata) is truly a native beauty and my personal favourite for its enchanting blooms. Upturned orange-red bells crown the canopy and seen from a distance it appears as though the tree is aflame. Elspeth Huxley, the British author eulogized and immortalized this 'Flame of the forest' in her book, “The Flame Trees of Thika”. (Locally though, it is called the Nandi Flame, after the Nandi county of Kakamega region in Western Kenya.) Until now I had seen only the vermilion blooms, but recently, in Kenya, I came across mango-coloured blossoms (colour of ripe mango pulp), a mutation obtained from grafting, I am told. Our Embassy complex, like all colonial copycats, ironically, sports only the foreign jacaranda and frangipani, but not a single tulip tree, so I let the garden have it, finally.

Nairobi nurses several pockets of “urban forests” such as Karura forest and City Park, deserving of the epithet of “green city under the sun”. Majestic trees are an indispensable feature flanking the streets, and roadsides double as nurseries throughout the city. In the absence of buildings, shopping malls or other man-made structures, it was the trees that served as landmarks or milestones, in the days gone by. This back-to-basics approach still holds in Nairobi, if only in name. Thus, you have the kosher Muthaiga neighbourhood, Mutithi road, Mathare slums and Kamithi prison - localities and streets all named after trees!

Planting trees and tending to nature is an intrinsic ethos in this country which sired one of the world’s greatest environmentalists and inspirations on its soil, Wangari Maathai. Today, on Women’s Day, I pay my respects to one of the tallest women who walked the Earth - as tall as the Meru Oak.   

Meru Oak

On the occasion of Holi, enjoy the riot of colours in this album, "Holi more angana": http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.454565954530.245282.740459530&type=3&l=85b7c51cde

And some more splash of colours: 

http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150371669624531.360652.740459530&type=3&l=cb1bd4991a

Reverse Gear on Lunatic Line

Iron Snake tearing through the Tsavo savannas

Cutting through a sward of savannas with their grazing giraffes and gazelles and lion prides and leopards, the journey on the erstwhile Uganda Railway was a customary tourist trail for Kenyans post-independence. Our Kenyan friends regaled us with stories of their weekly picnics to the Indian Ocean coastal town of Mombasa from Nairobi, and back, by train: “When school closed for weekend, we would set out for the Coast, packing  children’s uniform so that they could head back to school on Monday, straight from the railway station. The rail journey itself was part of the fun... a wild life safari in style. Meals were served with fanfare in fancy crockery and with silver cutlery... we dined while gazing at the game outside the window.”  Railway journeys are replete with romance and if they be a track from history then even more so.

Off-late, general decadence and negligence had set in and tarnished the UR – a British exercise in colonial aggrandizement - and our friends dissuaded us from embarking on this Kenyan adventure. The next best thing to do then was to traverse the important ports of call, which we did, not by any method but spontaneously, over three years. And though it wasn’t particularly intended as such, we ended up traversing backwards, from Kisumu to Mombasa; from Lake Victoria to the East African Coast – in reverse gear that the Line itself was built. Simultaneously, we traced the Railway back in time through archives, relics and history books.

Unlike in India and other British colonies, in East Africa sovereignty came before territory. Land was snatched from gullible African headmen through inducements but territory and terrain still needed to be explored and antagonists subdued. The Source (Lake Victoria, Jinja, Uganda) having been ‘discovered’ by the explorers, the Great Lake (Lake Victoria) now seized the British imagination leading to the grand idea of a railway cutting across the hinterland connecting it to the East African coast. The reasons were strategic, the vision romantic and the implementation full of adventure and toil. The “Lunatic Line”, as the detractors nicknamed it, actually presaged the birth of a Nation – Kenya. As the then British Commissioner Charles Eliot remarked:  “It is not uncommon for a country to create a railway, but this railway actually created a country”.

Kisumu Railway Station

On our sojourn in Western Kenya, we found ourselves at the Lake Terminus, the Railway’s tail end. The erstwhile, Port Florence on Lake Victoria was a hub and web of activity. Steamers carrying cargo of cooking oil and soaps were heading to Mwanza in Tanzania. The UR did not reach the shores of the Source (at least, in its first incarnation) as envisaged but ended on the eastern shores of the Lake, in present-day Kisumu, in Kenya. Kisumu is the third largest town in Kenya after Nairobi and Mombasa. The station itself was somnolent.  An incongruous picture of cows on tracks – grazing grass growing between the sleepers – and even a car parked on the railway station greeted us. Relics such as the old railway clock, lantern, weighing scale and a plaque commemorating the inauguration transported us down memory train.

In fact, it is in Nairobi’s Railway Museum (NRM) with its assorted odds and ends that we get a real sense of the railway-building history. The wagons, coaches, engines, signals, clocks, communication equipment, inspection trolleys, even silver cutlery and ceramic crockery carry tales of events and episodes in one of the most ambitious projects that the British undertook in any of its colonies.  Nairobi, the capital of Kenya, too owes its existence to the Railway. When the railway plate-laying reached present-day Nairobi, it was a swampy, marshy wasteland. The Maasai’s, which was one of the chief tribes in this area (Southern Kenya), called this stretch ewaso nai 'beri (stream of cool water) which the British in their characteristic twang and whim twisted to Nairobi. When the railway moved here with its stores and yards, the enterprising Indian dukawallas (traders) set shops to cater to the everyday needs of the predominantly Indian labour force. Eventually, the British Administration too shifted its headquarters from Mombasa to Nairobi and the beginnings of a township emerged. This was a century ago when Nairobi town radiated outward the railway station. Ironically, today, the town has burgeoned to an extent that the railway lines lie buried into the city’s backyard, partially forgotten. Today, the only vestige of the fertile past is the Nairobi National Park on the periphery of the city that still boasts of lions and rhinos.

Tsavo Railway Station - deserted and dilapidated

Of all the stations we visited, the vote for the most adventurous (for the workers though it spelled misadventure) will undoubtedly go to Tsavo - of the man-eating lion notoriety.  This is perhaps the most deserted and isolated of the ones we have visited thus far.

The Bridge over River Tsavo

The building of the Bridge over River Tsavo was one of the most intriguing features of the UR. Tsavo Park was the biggest game preserve in Kenya, teeming with game, which the “Iron Snake” (clairvoyant of its destructive propensity, local people termed the line thus) sought to rip apart into two. This gross intrusion into exclusive lion territory could not have been without its consequences. For ten months, as the railway party – the indentured and indigenous labour – camped here, two felines held it hostage in a “state of siege”. The drama of the sordid affair elicited a book by Col. Patterson, who finally concluded the saga by killing the lions. The book “Man-eaters of Tsavo” was later turned into a movie, “The Ghost and the Darkness”.  

To visit Tsavo station we have to alight into the heart of the Tsavo National Park. We were provided a gun-toting askari (sentry); after all, this is lion territory. We walked the tracks and crossed the bridge over River Tsavo to get to the railway station, a modest kiosk-size shelter, all the time looking over our shoulders. The station-master was taken aback by visitors (he didn't get any) and was eager to show us around. I was only concerned about one thing: “Do lions still stray this way and aren’t you scared?” “I do hear lions roar at night but they do not come near the station,” he had replied unfazed. Brave man this, I remember thinking, who cannot be shaken by a lion’s (which in all probability carries the man-eating genes!) war cry in the dead of night. He was surrounded by old memorabilia which formed panoply of his current dispensation. The antique-collector husband ventured to ask if he had any that might be junked. With alacrity the station-master disappeared into the siding yard and returned with a trophy - an old signal-lantern with its red-gelatin niche - and handed it over to us!

Few kilometers away from here another well-documented incident took place where Charles Ryall (then Superintendent of Railway Police) fell prey to the perpetrators he had sought to prey upon. At the NRM, we had stepped into Ryall’s shoes when we entered the carriage in which Inspector Ryall lay in wait at night ready to shoot the marauder. On that fateful night, nearly a century ago, the elusive man-eater had managed to hoodwink Ryall and dragged him out of the carriage precisely when his guard was down and he had dozed off momentarily. The lion’s territory and reach also extended to Voi near Tsavo. We took Voi in stride when we had gone on a Battlefield Tour from Sarova Salt Lick. This back of the beyond railway station is a junction where another line was built around the time of the Great War. Voi was one of the important theatres of World War I, and even today, war debris - from bullets, rivets and even glass shards of lemonade bottles - from that era lie embedded here. Voi town also boasts of a cemetery exclusively to commemorate Indian soldiers who fought in WWI.

Mombasa Station: the beginning of Uganda Railway

Considering we had done the UR journey reverse in time and space, it was only fitting that we ended the exploration at the beginning. We finally visited Mombasa railway station only in Nov 2011, though we had visited this coastal city several times before. The platform here seemed endless. A passenger train was standing on the platform and the station master showed us around the train. Though this was a relatively new train of the Kenyan Railway, it was a shadow of the past with its demarcation of third class passenger compartments and first class dining cars with plush toilets! Mombasa is a bustling town where the old and the new co-exist like a bridge between past and present. It was here, at Mombasa Port, to be precise, that the rolling stock of material for the Railway was offloaded towards the end of 19^th century. This was the doorway to East Africa. 

The UR was the umbilical cord connecting India and Kenya. While the Grand design to build the UR was British, Indians fitted the nuts and bolts on the Kenyan soil thus paving the way for a second wave of Indian diaspora. It is a little sad that a railway so rich in history lies in near shambles, both physically and in people’s imagination. Our railway journey was truly complete when a close friend and collector of railway memorabilia presented us with an original number plate of an engine of the erstwhile Uganda Railway. That and the Tsavo souvenir grace the Africa antiques corner of our home and will keep this slice of history alive in our imagination. 

Encashing on the Tsavo legend

Nameless Tsavo Station 

Car Park at Railway Station - Kisumu

Erstwhile Uganda Railway is now Kenya Railways - Mombasa Station