‘For Kaparitania Viewpoint? It’s this way?’ I shouted whilst still half mounted on my bike. The man across the hill shouted something incomprehensible back to me.
It was just after 1pm and the sun was starting to pick up. I glance at my forearms, already painted a reddish colour. I thought today was not going to be particularly sunny? Or so the forecast said. Nevertheless, suntan lotion (or whatever remained of it) was comfortably resting in my guesthouse whilst I, not for the first time in the last few days, wished I had put some on before I left.
The man started approaching me, and I decided to get off my saddle and move towards him. He was a young shepherd, and I could see him holding the symbolic stick, a characteristic emblem of the Massai tribe.
‘Mambo’ I greeted him. How are you?
‘Poa’ the response came happily back. I can’t help but notice that people always feel happy when you speak their local language, even if it’s just a word or two.
‘I’m going to the viewpoint’ I repeated. ‘Kaparitania Viewpoint’ I explained, after I saw the confusion in his eyes. I find that using English words will sometimes not get you far, but using the local Swahili names will almost always ring a bell.
He pointed away at the narrow gravel road ahead of me.
‘Just straight up?’ I asked.
He nodded emphatically.
‘Okay, asante!’ I waved at him and got back on the saddle.
A few meters down the road, I stopped again. I could see the path forking ahead of me and didn’t particularly feel like getting lost while alone in a National Park in Kenya. I saw two young men approach me, also from the Massai tribe.
‘I’m going up to Kaparitania Viewpoint’ I exclaimed once again. They seemed to be in the middle of something, so I was waiting to get their attention.
‘Take this road up’ the youngest of the two said, couldn’t have been older than me.
‘How far up?’ I asked. I’ve found it’s always a good idea to get a rough estimate from the local people, even though distance and time perceptions can be one of a kind in Africa. You might be 500m from something that’s ‘very far!’ or 2 hours away from something that’s ‘near, near!’.
‘About an hour’ he said back to me. I could see him struggling to find his words in English, which made me all the more grateful for his help. An hour seemed about right, considering I had a 15km ride ahead of me, and I had probably done 3-4km uphill up to that point.
‘Just careful, there’s a buffalo up there’. I was now paying a little bit more attention. This route was called Buffalo Way, and it was a 15km route from the Gorge back to Fisher’s Point, one of the beautiful lava formations straight after the gate of the National Park. Standing at a height of 45m, it was meant to have inspired the ‘Pride Rock’ in The Lion King, one of my favourite Disney movies.
I did recall reading something about buffalos, along the lines of ‘take care not to approach them too near as they might get aggressive’, and my guide had given me some instructions about what to do with them, but being explicitly told there was one up there, gave me a slightly uneasy feeling in my stomach. Buffalos can mind their own business, but if accidentally looked at in the eyes, they might feel provoked or start following you. That was the most dangerous animal in the national park -since predators were not inhabiting the territory- and the only one about which I had been warned.
‘Where exactly? Up this road?’ I inquired, slightly concerned. Looking back, I am not sure what value that would have actually added, since for all I know the buffalo could have moved anywhere in the meantime. But getting any further info felt better than none at all.
They both nodded.
‘Yeah up this side’, the older one indicated the right hand side of the windy road I was about to cycle on.
The conversation went along these lines for a bit, me trying to enquire on where exactly the buffalo was, how long ago, etc…
‘What shall I do?’ I asked innocently.
They both looked at me, seemingly sharing my lack of answer.
‘I mean, what do I do if I see the buffalo?
No response. I figured I should make my question clearer.
‘What do you do if you see a buffalo? If the buffalo is there?’ I pointed on the other side of the road.
‘I go this side’ the younger one said, pointing at the opposite side.
So basically change sides? That’s the best advice I could get about coming face to face with a buffalo.
‘What shall I do?’ I asked again. Looking at the map on my phone quickly, I confirmed that this was my only way up, and I really didn’t fancy going back the way I’d come, reaching the gorge and then taking the 8km flat road back to Fisher’s point.
‘I take you?’ the younger one said again.
‘You mean all the way up?’. They seemed to be discussing something between them. Considering the viewpoint was about an hour up a steep hill and that he was in the middle of herding sheep, I was surprised at the offer.
He nodded.
‘But you have to give me something.’
There we go. That was rare for East Africa, as so many times I’d been taken places without the person expecting anything from me. I had noticed though since the previous evening when I arrived in Naivasha, Kenyans did seem to expect something a little bit more for helping you, and going up that hill again seemed like a massive pain.
‘Like how much?’ simple and to the point, like I find it works best.
‘Anything you have’ he said back to me.
Okay. I was running a mental calculation of how much money I had with me. There was part of me who considered going up alone. After all, I came to Hell’s Gate alone for the challenge, and I had been craving the feeling of being by myself among the wilderness, surrounded by all sorts of animals in the savannah. That had been the beauty of cycling up that road by myself, seeing impalas and zebras close up, a herd of ‘pumbas’ -wild boars- running away from me, and the occasional giraffe in the distance. My main feeling being awe, I was excited to keep exploring. A buffalo was another thing though. Single buffalos tend to be males who have lost a fight for a female, and hence can be particularly aggressive. I didn’t fancy risking my safety in the name of satisfying my pride and curiosity of approaching this stretch of the road, where a buffalo had literally been seen some time ago. I am not sure what the company of the Massai guy would do exactly, but I figured he would have the local knowledge and expertise that I was lacking, and his insider experience would be valuable in case we did come face to face with an aggressive buffalo. If anything, it gave me some comfort to know it wouldn’t be the buffalo and me staring at each other. The decision seemed to come quick. I look down on the floor, then up at him.
‘Okay, let’s go.’ I can tackle wild animals another time. Or not.
And so we set off, me on the left, my newly acquired Massai friend on the right, starting to climb up the hill. The terrain is getting rougher and the slope steeper, so pretty soon I have to get off my bike and push.
‘I help you?’ he kindly asked me.
‘No worries, asante!’ I smiled back at him. It’s one thing walking back up the hill to keep me company and make me feel better about the buffalo, and another pushing my bike.
‘You only?’ he asked after a while. I took that to mean if I’m alone.
Conversation was welcome as it was keeping me distracted from thinking about the buffalo.
‘No husband?’ I’d got used to hearing this question by now.
‘No, just me.’ I smiled back at him, being reminded once again how rare it is for women in East Africa to venture out travelling halfway round the world on their own. Leaving their (imaginary) husband at home.
‘Kids?’ That was usually the second question. Maybe at least I had kids and wasn’t as young and alone as I looked.
‘Nah’ I laughed.
‘How old are you?’, now my turn to inquire.
‘Two…’ he started, but quickly stalled. I could see him trying to find the words in English.
‘Go pole pole!’ I assured him. Slowly slowly. ‘Take your time’
‘You speak Kiswahili?!’ I could see his face lightening up at the prospect of me speaking Swahili.
I laughed happily, by this point wishing I had devoted time to learn Swahili properly.
‘No, but you practice with me in English’ I teased him.
It turned out he was 23. Only a year younger than me, and yet the juxtaposition between us couldn’t have been more evident. A shepherd guiding up the hill and providing ‘buffalo protection’ to a woman who decided to leave her full-time job and life behind to pursue her passion of travelling around the world and writing stories. Once again, my throat swells up with a nasty sense of guilt and hypocrisy. My mind is going round in circles, like it happens so many times when I am relying on someone from a completely different background, with the lack of all the privileges I have had.
And yet, in our case, he is the privileged one. He is the one who can protect himself from an aggressive buffalo, while I am the helpless one, enjoying the idea that I could handle the encounter with the buffalo expertly, but knowing that the chances of this happening are quite slim. Once again I wondered, will he ever be in my position?
I keep pushing up the hill, while he’s expertly looking at the ground for footprints and fresh poo (it turns out it’s a great source of information about the presence of buffalos or any other animals in the area). It turns out the buffalo has moved down the hill, as one can see from the fresh footprints in the ground. This thought only offers me some consolation; for all I know, there could be more buffalos coming up.
Trying to keep my pace up, I’m sweating, wishing I had put my hat on, which by the way was inside my bag, but there was no way I would stop until I reached Kaparitania Viewpoint. My instinct (or fear?) was to get off this stretch as quickly as possible. My guide had told me that from the viewpoint the road is mostly downhill, so I knew I would be able to move a lot quicker.
About 45 minutes must have gone by. We were now walking mostly in silence, after I had now picked up a few Kimassai words from my saviour. My mind drifted to the boiled water I’d prepared in the morning and the excellent Kenyan ground coffee I was carrying in my cup, so I was looking forward to savouring it when I reached the viewpoint. Turns out pushing a bike up a gravel hill is a lot harder than it looks! The view around us was stunning, hills covered in acacia and sage trees spreading in all directions, in the most beautiful and calming shades of green. My guide pointed up at the hill opposite us. Suddenly, I saw them too. Two gorgeous giraffes, charismatically strolling up the hill. I had to pause for a moment processing the beauty that mother nature had allowed me to experience, all the secrets that I’ve been let in and allowed to observe.
The dusty road curved up to the right, and we suddenly got to an open area which I assumed must have been the viewpoint.
‘We are here’ my rafiki said to me. I put the bike on the stand and, with hands in my waist stretching my back after the long uphill push, I turned around to him.
‘Asante sana!’. I was so grateful for his company, and grateful to the universe that the buffalo must have gone a different way.
After I tipped him for his help and offered him a banana for the road, I watched him descend down the hill that I had so arduously pushed my bike on. In the web of life, our paths briefly crossed and we parted ways knowing that we had shared a beautiful moment that will probably never come again. I was now alone.
I hadn’t seen another car or cyclist since I had left the gorge a good few hours ago. I could see why no one seemed particularly interested in cycling the long Buffalo Route with me. I sat down to have some mango and the (lukewarm, as the thermos must have been a cheap one) coffee, wishing once again for that suncream. Every few minutes, I was looking around. No sign of any buffalos. Still, I didn’t feel like staying in Kaparitania longer than I needed to, and so now, high on sugar and hydrated, I got on my bike again.
A few meters up, and I had to get off. Impossible to cycle up that hill. I do consider myself fit, but cycling up a 30 degree hill clearly requires a different type of fitness and momentum than the one I had. So there I was again, pushing up that bike with the half-working gears and the hopefully-working breaks, in the middle of Hell’s Gate National Park.
The road tossed and turned, and I was eagerly waiting for that promised downhill. My senses were heightened, and I couldn’t help but notice how concentrated my mind seemed to have become. Concentrated but not paranoid though; there was a serene stillness around me combined with a gentle vitality that made me feel weirdly at home. I imagined how our ancestors must have lived, constantly aware of various animals and the intricate details of nature that surrounded them on a daily basis.
I’d done safaris before, but nothing quite captures the uniqueness of being out there on your own, completely exposed to nature and in the presence of beautiful, strong animals. Now, I was the one intruding in their natural environment, and it was me playing by their rules. I felt like a guest, and rightly so, aware not to overstay my welcome at any point.
The downhill finally came, and I eased on the pedal as I enjoyed the gentle breeze on my face. I still couldn’t go too fast, mostly because of the rocks and the muddy ground underneath my wheels, but also because part of my mind was looking out for any buffalos trying to cross the road ahead of me. None of those came, and I kept descending further and further into the valley.
I still hadn’t had any proper meals all day, and so I decided to stop by the side of the road and savour the gourmet instant noodles I was carrying in my backpack. I scanned the field for any buffalos. No signs of those again, only zebras, dik-diks and impalas in the distance. A couple of them seemed to have stopped grazing and fixed their eyes on me. I hoped I wouldn’t attract any movement towards me, so I looked away and dived into those noodles. So there I was, sat by the side of the road in Hell’s Gate National Park in the Great Rift Valley in Kenya, the land of my all-time-favourite Lion King, watching the zebras ahead of me whilst enjoying (an extremely basic) lunch. A car went by, the driver looking as surprised as I was.
The air blew through the acacia and sage trees gently, bringing with it all sorts of intimate and esoteric thoughts, reflections and feelings. I had to shake my head a few times, to remind me of where I was and how far – mentally and physically – I had brought myself. When I started this journey, I used to think of weeks and months in practical terms, planning to stay for 3 or 4 months in Africa. Yet I never paused to consider what 3 months in Africa would actually mean, how many interactions, connections and ‘aha’ moments they would carry with them. Now, deep in the savannah by myself, thoughts seem to come and go without my control, reminding me how much I feel at home in Africa, and how much I identify with the flow and the movement of the life here.
Time went, and it must have been about late afternoon. I still had a 6 or 7km cycle to go until the Gate, so I figured I better keep going. One thing I’ve learnt in Africa is that time has a strange fluidity, and it almost always means that everything takes longer to happen. Let alone the fact that I didn’t really trust this bike, so I was prepared for having to dismount and push if something went wrong.
I packed up, got on the bike and waved goodbye to the zebras and impalas, who still seemed to be keeping an eye on me – maybe just in case. The road was rough but the promised downhill had come, so I covered a lot of ground quickly. In no time, I was back in Elsa Gate, peeking over my shoulder at the epitome of nature that I had just cycled through.
And as for the buffalos…I may have seen some in the distance, but they didn’t seem to mind me much. Clearly, I was just one of those weird creatures going around on two-wheels staring at them. What a strange sight I must have been…
