warning - this is along one and ends suddenly. I wrote it on Sinead's laptop while wating for the high temperature to go down (mine, not the lap top's. Yes, I cought a bad cold, caused by all the dust and smoke. I'm better now but the laptop is out of battery and it's freezing in the internet cafe, so I'll continue this one some other day)
This is what the guide book says about Lake Natron and the volcano: ‘a desert rat’s haven’, ‘hellishly hot’ and ‘bizarrely beautiful’. Why I still went I have no idea. The Irish girl who owns the hostel said it was her favourite place, better than the Serengeti or the other wild life reserves. Ok, she probably knows best. Plus it sounded a great adventure. Hire a car and driver, buy your own food and spend 4 days on the road. With 5 other girls from the hostel. So, ok, off we set on Sunday on a trip that’s no farther than actually 220 km but takes about 8 hrs. Of courses, only the first 100 km are tarred, the rest is dirt roads. Or dusty bits around huge holes. The landscape changed form lush, overwhelming green with Banana trees and absurdly colourful flowers on rich, red soil to savannah, lower shrubs, yellow-ish grass and Acacia trees. Then from that to thorny shrubs, washed-out yellow, dry grass and grey dust. A landscape so unlike anything I have ever seen, it has me squashed in amazement against the bus window all the time. At least like this I manage to spot quite a few equally fascinating creatures. Zebras, impalas, ostriches, wildebeests and even two giraffes were good enough to garnish our trip. When we stop for a toilet break, fairly deep into the grey and dusty zone, it hits me – this is hell. It is unbelievably hot, dry, inhospitable and totally remote. Masaivillage.com (check it out – this really exists!) is a few hours drive back along the bumpy road and in front of us is just a huge volcano, a volcanic landscape, hot as lava itself and lake Natron, which is as salty as the Dead Sea. But of course, has the biggest flamingo population worldwide. Ok, as walking back is not really an option, I get back into the bus and hope for the fast passage of the 3 days ahead of me. We pass a few more mud huts, hers of goats, cows and donkeys, make our way through dry river beds and through one ‘active’ river and finally reach the camping site. Which, wo-hoo, is run by Germans, very well maintained, with plenty of trees and, even more wo-hoo, has a sit-down flush toilet. This is now particularly important to me as since that morning I have joined the ‘shits brigade’. Apparently it’s pretty unavoidable out here, but I could have done with it being some other time, really. Hey-ho. So, we unpack, set up the tents and get the stuff ready for dinner. Erm, nice, but no fire wood. Off we trundle to find appropriately. And we come up with a good amount and Maggie starts the fire. No, she starts the smoke. 30 mins later, the fire follows. But as the fire place is under a low thatched roof, the smoke lingers and it’s near enough impossible to actually see anything. But considering by now it’s pitch black, that doesn’t really matter. We feel our way through the cooking activity and end up with quite an edible dinner. And then it’s bed time. Sleeping bag time. Someone told us it would be very cold out there – considering the heat during the day and what have you. So we all came with thermals and extra blankets. But of course, it is still fucking roasting and the air in the tents is sticky. Anyway, the trip was exhausting enough and we fall asleep to the unfamiliar sounds of an African night. Rather familiar tho is the morning chorus! Of sorts. The birds are those ones that build little ‘bulbs’ of straw and grass in the trees, dangling from the branches like Christmas decoration. And aren’t the little bleeders proud of their handy work … at 6 am they pronounce to their neighbours and to the rest of the world that they are up. And so should bloody be everybody else. Reaction to their enthusiasm were pretty similar all round but Ifa’s comment summs it up nicely –‘shoot the feckers!’.
Another insulting fact is that the pigeons here keep shouting ‘muzunguuuu, muzunguuuu’. Well, at least that’s what it sounds to my ears and I am rather sick of it. But I might be mistaken because sometimes it actually sounds like ‘baboon, baboon’.
Other earliles include bats which seem to get ready for bed by way of hanging from the branches, cleaning their wings and then taking off to wherever they ‘hang out’ during the day. I must admit, that was one fascinating morning. And it was still a bearable temperature. That soon changed, especially with the next attempt to get the fire going for breakfast. More smoke. But we got there. Then we took off to the village to hire a guide to take us on the Riff Valley Walk. Now, Riff Valley Walk – does that sound steep and massively strenuous to you? I was all up for a walk in a shady valley, heading for he waterfalls. But ziz was not to be… The guide took briskly off onto the hill. A steep hill. At 11 am. In a place already known to us as ‘hellishly hot’. After 1 ½ hrs up through a barren landscape, volcanic in origin and in appearance, my lungs felt like they had turned inside out. Plus, the feeling to have to empty your guts every 30 mins did not help to endear the situation to me. So decided to opt out and either wait 4 the others to return or to make my own way down. Which would have been my preferred option had it not been for the Maasai. They scared the living daylight out of me. Honestly. They look soooo alien! In their bright red, purple and blue blankets, held together by a leather belt from which dangles the machete, their tribal scaring and the ears pierced to lacey underwear, they are intimidating. Only very, very few speak English and heir main point of contact with the muzungus is for trade. Well. They trade bangles and other beady stuff for money. Aggressively. They shove their goods in front of you, picking at your arm ‘here, looki, looki, here!’ and will think nothing o stripping naked if you happened to like their gear. And nothing will deter them. Or, they have a go at you for using the same path as their donkeys. No, honestly, call me weak, but they intimidate me.
Thankfully Carmen stayed with me and so we settled for a little break before the descent. Which promptly attracted a Maasai warrior, driving his donkeys down to the village. After the exchange of greetings he just stood there. And stood and stood and stood. He actually did not offer anything to sell nor did he actually ask for anything. He was just standing there, looking at us. Carmen and I talked to each other, hoping maybe he’d get bored but no, he persisted. So, feeling increasingly uncomfortable, we dug out our few Swahili words and tried to have a conversation. Kadogo (coz we can ask for a person’s name, don’t you know) quite got into his role as our teacher and finally offered to have his picture taken. For free. And then Carmen showed him her family pictures and we were a happy little bunch. Then I really, really needed the bush again and we took our leave, gave him my pen as present (which he didn’t quite understand because he doesn’t seem to be able to read or write) and trundled off. And so did he. That was a really nice experience. And it killed nearly 2 hours. We finally made our way down and shortly after the others arrived and we had a cold drink in the village shop and after fighting off the salesmen and women we drove off. On to Lake Natron. A salty hell. A hot piercing wind swept us from the bus on a 30 mins walk to the edge of the water where, indeed, hundreds of Flamingoes gather. They stink. But of course, they look very nice, too.
