Catch a Vulture by the Toe

I love the little guys – the insects, the spiders, the millipedes, even the ticks. It is these small invertebrates that go unnoticed by the masses but which have the power to show us behavior just as complex as the largest mammal and for me at least, remind us of how we got into this mess in the first place. Most children don’t go out and watch elephants playing in their yard. Instead, as a child growing up in the densely packed city of New York, I grew up watching the slugs that seemed to erupt from nowhere after a heavy rain. In my few days in Nairobi, I noticed the same was true there as slugs – giant ones longer than your finger – seemed to take over the front yards of each Nairobi villa. In the Mara, the insects and spiders are many to choose from, especially at night when the lights attract them to the human domain. Even now I sit watching a jumping spider with impressively fuzzy pedipalps (or front arms, if you will) launch itself from one spot to another.

Last summer my days were longer and the light was shorter, so I rarely saw the lodge at night. As a result, I didn’t really notice the tiny tunnels, which seem to scatter the lawn around my tent. This field season with a bit more time to appreciate the little guys, I found myself staring intently into a hole in the ground. Bits of silk lined the edges and I knew at once what lay beneath, but would she let me see her. I plucked a sprig of grass and crouched down over the hole. I wiggled the grass gently over the burrow and sure enough a spider emerged. At one point, she came all the way out of the hole with the grass in mouth. She pulled furiously, trying to bring her “prey” back in the hole. After a moment of joy and slight exclamation, I let her back in, loosening my grip on the green stick. I soon went back for my camera. Macro in one hand and flashlight in the other, I tried for a photo.  She wasn’t having it. Finally with the assistance of a small crowd of Masai staff that had gathered to see what the Vulture Mama was doing playing in the grass, I was able to get my shot. One person with the flashlight; one person luring her out with the grass; camera now steadily in two hands, I got a clear view of her. Zooming into the photo in the viewfinder, I pointed out the spider’s not two but six eyes and her magnificent chelicerae, which she had been using to grab the grass. The Masai seemed impressed and I soon found myself teaching a mini-spider course before we all went back to our real jobs.

A few nights later, I sat in the chairs along Talek river, admiring the stars with the guests. The moths were upon us, including the giant hawk-mouth aptly named for its huge size and remarkable for its brilliantly orange eyes that glow in the lantern light. The moths fly gently and although a flutter across your ear can be a bit startling, they are totally harmless. I’m not sure if I can say the same for the dung beetles. With their hard shells and irregular flight patterns when they run into something they hit it hard. I often hear the crunch of a dung beetle as it bangs into a light or hits the edge of a chair. On this particular evening, the dung beetle managed to just miss the back of a guest’s head and then to careen sideways into a side table. At the dismayed look of the tourists who had grown tired of the buzzing, I grabbed the dung beetle and held it gently upon my hand. It started crawling and I allowed it to walk one hand to the next and so on. As the guests watched in awe, I set the beetle down on my pant leg, where she (no horns or obvious male markers) wandered around quite happily for nearly thirty minutes. As our conversation progressed, I looked on as the dung beetle gave itself a bath, bringing its huge front legs up to its tiny mouth, it moved the legs around the front of its face, just as a kitten might do after a good meal.

Spider in tunnel

Today was a crummy day for research. We sat with our carcass for five hours this morning and nothing came. Around 11AM there was a whirlwind of bird activity with vultures and eagles alike flying over, but no one landed. Then we got over run with sheep and singing Masai children, who curiously asked us if we poisoned the meat, which they noticed we had put out. Interestingly, this is the general sentiment when people see what we are doing, they assume we poisoned the meat. Why on earth a random Mzungu would come all this way just to kill some local dogs or vultures or whatever they imagined we poisoned the meat for is beyond me. Perhaps they just have poisoning on their minds. Then our meeting with the game warden got canceled. Then the day improved.
We were driving along searching for future places to put carcasses when I noticed something rushing through the grass. We were driving on an elevated part of the road. Usually when you see something moving fast it turns out to be the top of another car, so I didn’t get too excited. Then I looked ahead – the gazelles were quickly fleeing, spreading wide across the plains. Looking back at the rushing form and ahead to the gazelles, it was clear who was about to die. The singled-out gazelle leaped wildly and swerved, but it was no hope the cheetah was fast on its tail. Within seconds, the two had vanished in the grass ahead of us. Did she get her? As we moved forward to see, I noticed another smaller cheetah with a large tuffed mane, obviously a cub, following as well. She stopped looking desperate and lost as were we. Then she chirped. I’ve heard it before but it really is an odd and unflattering sound for a cat to make. Like a chick, she spread her mouth wide and made the noise again. A low growl could be heard up ahead and we followed the cub to her mother. She had gotten the gazelle. It lay flat and immobile in the short grass. The mother was heaving, breathing so hard she looked like she might collapse, eventually she did. The cub dug in. Ripping and chewing with its canines it made a delicate incision and was soon covered with blood. Then the bone crunching started. As the cub ate, the cars started to come or moment of solitude with the cheetahs was over. Amazingly, we were the only ones that actually witnessed the kill but like vultures to a carcass, the tourist vehicles were soon pulling in everywhere around the cheetah. Desperate for a tasty morsel of the action and perhaps a good photo, they crept closer and closer. The mother looked on nervously and then Wilson noticed a new arrival. A hyena was wandering the grass ahead. With all the cars around it was sure to realize something was up. The mother cheetah joined her offspring and ate as much as she could.
When the hyena arrived I figured the cats would flee, but instead they stood on and raised the hair on their backs and glared angrily at the hyena. Then they moved off slightly as the hyena ate and then dragged off the carcass. At this point a large truck passed the crowd and a tucking baby gazelle got up and ran (this one’s for you Blair). The mother cheetah picked up on it immediately and amazingly given her exhaustion she went in for the second kill. Crouching low, I watched her race up to the baby who swerved around but was easily nailed. The cub soon joined and once again the cheetahs were eating.

The sky is speaking. It grumbles and rumbles and crackles, squealing with rage like a toddler unable to get its way. Then finally it breaks like the thunder that accompanies it, the rain crashed to earth and splatters the floor. Luckily, I am done for the day. For some reason, it has been raining mainly in the afternoons. This is good news for me since the rain virtually shuts down vulture activity. As is I have time for my carcass experiments and transects in the morning and seem to get done just as the sky is threatening to fall. It is a hard rain and I sit outside under canvas surrounded by the droplets. Within seconds pools of mud form and I can only wonder what the roads will be like tomorrow. Oh my God, it is hailing!! I can’t believe it. At first, it looked like little frogs were jumping around magically erupting from the soil (which they are, one just joined me under the tent), but that was actually hail. I just got up and grabbed a piece to confirm and indeed, ice just fell from the sky in Africa. Be amazed! But now it is just raining again.
So back to the wildlife. The Mara is filled with carnivores – hungry carnivores. To the extent that I am actually seeing changes in the carcass experiments. I put out small pieces of meat every morning (just a head, organs, and leg) to look at differences in foraging behavior between vulture species depending on the habitat. Last summer I had the occasional lions, jackals, and hyena, even a feral dog or two, but this season every carcass (and I have done three so far) has been finished off by a greedy mammalian scavenger. My first carcass worked like clockwork – Bateleur eagle find the carcass, followed by a Tawny eagle who steals the carcass, followed by a variety of vultues – in this particular case the African white-backed vulture and some Hoodeds, then before I know it comes a jackal, which isn’t too surprising, but the jackal is followed by not one but two starving lions. One is limping. So her pride mate makes it to the meat first and quickly devours the head. Later in the day, I follow some Lappet-faced vultures to another kill, which turned out to be a baby gazelle. I wasn’t the only one that followed – again the carcass was overrun by a jackal and soon the limping lion was racing her way in too. She grabbed a leg and growling at the lioness behind her, chomped away. After the lions have finished off what little remained, a hyena dropped by sullenly looking for a few tidbits, but the lions had taken care of that.
The next day we had a long wait for the birds, but they finally arrived and in number. We had 2 Tawny eagles, 3 Lappet-faced vultures, 21 African white-backed vultures, a handsome male White-headed vulture, and last but not least a tiny Hooded vulture, with beautiful blue-eyes. I had just started to take in all the vulture action, when the mammals crashed the party. A jackal raced in stealing a piece from the Lappet-faced vultures, then a hyena dropped by and grabbed the head. Most surprisingly of all, a fluffy Bengi-looking dog ran up and searched for a piece. He hung around for a while, but didn’t get much and was soon barking at the hyena. The hyena didn’t seem scared in the least and walked towards the dog in protest. Soon the dog was racing towards us sticking close to the car as it looked over its shoulder at the unfamiliar beast.
This morning’s carcass was short a sweet. Just as it was getting warm enough for the birds, four jackals crept in and each grabbed its own piece (the goat leg nearly bigger than its carrier) and ran off. So much for vulture behavioral observations! We made a day of it by scoping out our next area to place a carcass. This meant a drive through the nearby community area of Siana. The day was filled with naked bathing children, colorfully clad Masai women asking for a ride to the market (they seemed very confused that we didn’t even really know where we were going just looking we explained. Genuinely we are just looking around for a few good carcass placement spots). Then we found the strangest thing of all. Right on the road was a Leopard tortoise – small and adorable. I hoped out of the car to pick him up and move him to safety. He didn’t seem to find. Then I noticed something odd. The tortoise was covered in ticks, but not on his legs or neck as one might expect – on his shell! There they were five huge striped yellow ticks camouflaging into the tortoise’s carapace. My immediate reaction (having many years of zoo and wildlife clinic work experience, which is not always best suited for the bush) was to pull off the ticks. One by one, I ripped them from the shell, expecting to find some huge gapping wound underneath. Instead beneath each tick was a small pinprick hole – about the size of the tick’s mouthparts – drilled delicately into the shell. Did the ticks really eat their way through? I stopped myself before pulling off the last one to take a quick photo of the tick on shell action. Then as I pulled off the remaining tick, the tortoise thanked me for my troubles by urinating all over my hand. I guess enough was enough. I set him down and he walked away.

Just thought this was classic dog behavior

Sleeping in a tent never really worries me. I know and trust the bush and enjoy the exhilaration of knowing a hippo could be standing just outside my bedroom door. Despite that I must admit that on the walk back from dinner, I often find myself jumping at shadows, but that is usually because I am distracted by the stars. An African once asked me why Westerners always stare at the stars, don’t we have stars at home. Of course I told him, we have stars. . . just not like this. In the Mara the stars fill the sky, like little drops of dew across a window. Orion’s belt shows clear and I always find myself searching for the bow and arrow, but lack the imagination to find them.

Today the moon had greeted me on my arrival and it lit my path for the journey to bed. After a gloriously warm shower, I tucked myself in. I had the usual surprise of feeling something warm and rubbery beneath the covers, but was quick to remember that it was only a water bottle. It hasn’t been nearly as cold in the evenings here since I have returned and I actually pulled it aside. The drive in was exhausting and I fell asleep without even a single toss or turn, the mournful call of the hyena singing me to sleep.

I awoke to a rustling at the tent door. In a half daze I went to turn on the lights, but quickly realized the electricity was out (it must be really late). I pulled on my headlamp to see clawing at the highest point on the tent door. In addition to the scratching sound, I could actually see the tiny claws piercing through the canvas. I thought first of the little genet that had once gotten trapped in my room, feasting upon a leftover banana peel, perhaps the little cat had come back for more. Or maybe it was something bigger, looking for a larger meal. Leopards love the waterfront and my tent is literally meters from the riverbank. My first instinct was to leave it alone. Whatever it was surely it would realize there was no way in and it would leave. Fifteen minutes later the scratching rang on and with a bit of adrenaline now racing through my veins there was no way I was going back to sleep. I stood up nervously and shown my headlamp at the tiny nails that continued to press upon the tent wall. I gently tapped on the canvas hoping this subtle cue would scare away my unwelcome visitor, whoever he was, but it seemed to have no effect. A bit more courageously I tapped on the area where the claws were coming through but again no reaction. I opened the bottom of the tent and peaked through, but I couldn’t see anything. I imagined an angry genet falling on to my head as I unzipped the rest of the door. I couldn’t see anything, but the sound hadn’t stopped. With my heart in my throat I stepped out of the tent into the absolute darkness. I zipped the inner lining closed to keep out the mosquitoes and looked around. Scratching desperately at the tent in between the lining and the outer canvas was the largest dung beetle I had ever seen. It would easily have filled the palm of my hand and it was climbing but not really getting anywhere. Looking at it I remembered how a dung beetle had once gotten stuck in my brother’s shirt. It dug so fiercely to get out my brother was convinced that it was trying to burrow into his skin, like the scarabs from the Mummy. I reached up and tapped the beetle on the back. He plummeted the six feet from the top of the tent down to the floor landing (classically) on his back. I flipped him and shooed him on his way, making sure that he wasn’t going to climb the tent walls again. Finally I got some rest.

After six months of work in the university, I have finally returned to my home in Masai Mara National Reserve, Ilkeliani. On the drive in I was taken aback by how much had changed. The roads have been largely repaired; the dust of the dry season has been replaced with the mud of wet season; everything seems brilliantly green.  The ride was mostly uneventful and I took the time to stop and have a proper meal of greasy noodles at my favorite restaurant in Narok. On the final leg of the journey I found my car dragging as I went through a mud puddle. It reversed out just fine, but when I went to lock the tires for the four-wheel drive I noticed that the entire metal cover that usually protects the engine from underneath had swung forward. Acting like a giant shovel it had scooped up a large clump of mud, which weighed it down even more and it sunk nearly to the ground. Through the ingenuity of my companion we were able to fasten it up with a stick and part of a plastic bag, but I wasn’t feeling to comfortable as we drove over several more rocks and bumps. Nonetheless I made it to Talek unscathed and all the car needed was a few bolts.

When I finally made it to the lodge, the highly decorated Masai, Wilson (not my field assistant, the other one), greeted me with a cold towel and sweet cup of juice. We discussed the journey and the months that had passed. Walking into the lobby tent, I felt completely at home as the staff of Ilkeliani greeted me like family. A smile rose across my face as I slipped into my tent and unpacked. I was home, even this far from home, I was home.

I’ve been stuck in the mud before. In fact, I’ve been stuck in the mud many times. It is always something I worry about, especially now that the rains have started, but really I have always been able to get myself unstuck. The trip to Kwenia was different. Lake Kwenia is one of the largest Ruppell’s vulture colonies in East Africa. It is a beautiful site - a dried lake, astonishing cliffs with piles of bird poo that have been gathering for decades, rainbows, and a general paucity of people. I’ve been there once before and going again seemed like a great way to kick off my vulture studies for the season. Munir had asked Simon to drive his car in addition to Munir just in case the mud was bad. Kaisan, Munir’s son, also accompanied us as did Karim, a burgeoning videographer with a passion for raptors, who had already created a nice film of Munir’s fish eagle study for the Peregrine Fund website.

The drive in was going well and we were within 25 km of the cliffs when we noticed an intersection. Simon stopped to ask if we wanted to take it, but Munir was hoping to see some of the Masai he had been working with in the area before heading to the cliffs, so he passed. Simon seemed ready to follow, but was soon out of sight behind us. By the time we went back he was nowhere to be found, so we continued on alone. The drive to Mama Kaa’s house (one of the Masai in the area) quickly became impassable. The car slide and twisted and we turned around, looking for another route. When we saw a brightly covered cloth at the front of a circle of trees, Munir turned off hoping we could make it to the boma (or fence that typically surrounds Masai homes). The mud didn’t seem bad but before we knew it we were stuck. We dug and reversed. We got rocks to put under the wheels. We took some wood from a nearby pile, intended to be turned into charcoal. Nothing was working and it was getting dark. With no word from Simon, we assumed he was out of cell range as were we and we set up camp.

The next morning the mud bath continued (especially after the evenings rains) as we struggled and only seemed to dig the car in deeper. Karim and I went for help and were soon followed by a squad of young Masai who brought a shovel to aid in the dig. They had helped a truck get lose the previous day and although our car was an automatic, I had hopes that we would soon be free. A few hours later we were once again covered in much and no closer to freedom. Karim and I set off to find Simon, accompanied by some Masai guides. Thinking this would be a light excursion (aka the whole trip) I had left my hat, but applied sunscreen as always. After what I would later measure as a 2.7 km walk, we reached a barefoot Simon who had apparently driven his car right up the cliffs, then gone looking for us by a drive through the now swampy lake, and then taken a walk to Mama Kaa’s (without seeing us) in the late evening after getting his own car stuck. Simon was not the least bit worried and seemed happy in his solitude. He had managed to dig the car out a bit. I would have put his situation as less dire than ours (since the body of Munir’s car was now resting on the mud banks, while Simon’s seemed only about six inched in) except for the fact that Simon was in the middle of a once dry lake. His tracks looked deep and I wasn’t sure how he would get back out once unstuck, but nonetheless we dug and brought sticks and rocks (though there weren’t many in the lake bed) and tried to drive out. Simon’s car had a winch, but being in a lake there wasn’t much to winch to. Simon started pulling things from his car – a cutting board, a tire tube – and shoving them under the car, but nothing seemed to help.

We walked back to Munir with the news. With no cell reception by the car Munir climbed up a cliff to make some calls. We needed to be free by tomorrow.

That night the five swamp monsters went to sleep, still covered in mud. The mud had penetrated my nails so thoroughly that it now stained my fingertips and I noticed the red of a sunburn coming on. By morning I was burnt in placed I had never been before. I had a necklace of burn around my neck, a circle of burn around my face – just had the hairline I had missed, and red ears and nose as well. Even the backs and inside of my ears seemed warm and red, but we had another sunny day ahead of us.

Tico another photographer was able to rescue us. After the two hour drive he arrived early on what was now our third day of mug slinging. He winched us out with little trouble and we were soon hoofing it through the mud to help Simon. I had given up on my shoes and was no wearing Crocs. The mud penetrated my toes and I was soon sinking up past my ankles. At one point, I became so stuck that I was sure I would fall over. By after some flailing I managed to free myself only to lose my shoe in the mud. I went back for it but couldn’t pull it out. I had to literally dig beneath it to free it from the soft brown layer that had overtaken it.

Simon greeted us at his car with a grin. He had been up to something, but I wasn’t sure what. Not ten feet from Simon’s car was a giant hole. At first all I could see next to it was a small metal cup and I imagined Simon sitting at the bottom of the hobbit sized hole digging himself a tunnel to freedom. It hadn’t gotten him anywhere as his car looked as stuck as ever. (I would later remember that we left Simon with a shovel, so it wasn’t quick as impressive as it first seemed, but it was a massive hole). But what was the hole for? I would soon find out as Simon took the spare off the back of his car and attached it to the winch. He lowered it into the hole and buried the winch line. Then we all filled in the whole and stood on top of the tire. The winch turned on, making a terrible song as it spun itself ever so slowly. Karim, myself, one of Tico’s friends, and the two Masai stood on the tire, hugging each other as the car slowly pulled itself towards us. I couldn’t belive it – this was going to work. With the tire moving out of the ground with every crank, the car came forward, pulled out of the holes where the tires had lay for three days. The winch was turned off and the car on. At first it seemed to move alright, but we soon decided to rebury the tire for one more winching to get the last bit of the back tires out of the mud. Once again the tire held (with the assistance of our combined weight) and the car tugged forward. When Simon went to drive off in to the mud surrounding us it became clear there was more going on then just the mud. Only one tire was spinning and the car wasn’t going anywhere. Even after all Simon’s ingenuity he was still stuck.
After some more shoving and digging and pushing, everyone agreed the car needed help and it was time to go home. Not one to leave his ride, Simon decided to stay behind and he called some other friends for further assistance, including the aid of a mechanic.

We never made it to the cliffs and were soon racing back to Nairobi, mud still clinging to our clothes, skin, and tires. Perhaps next time we would all stick together.

The journey continues and thanks to the adventures of my first ten days, I am already behind in my blog writing, but perhaps when you read what has happened you will forgive me.

My flight to Kenya went on without a hitch and gladly I made it here with all my stuff (I’m especially glad since Virgin Airways made me check my carry-on). I spent a few days dealing with the politics of permit renewal and bought the last of my supplies at Nakumatt, which is one of the nicest grocery/department stores in the area and is akin to a Walmart. Then I took the five hour taxi up to Mpala. Having been unable to reach anyone there I left not knowing if there would be a place to stay, but I figured I could always sleep in the car. The ride up made me realize that one of the things I miss about the field is actually bumping about in the car. I don’t feel like I am really in the bush until I am flying out of my seat and clinging to the window handle for dear life. It is usually at the moment of highest in-car flight that one sees an elephant knocking down a tree or a giraffe peacefully trotting away. As a result, I think I have an almost conditioned reaction to the bumping that links the jolt of the car to the best wildlife watching.

Mpala always reminds me of a college campus, just one in the bush and Princeton students were busy checking their emails as dik-diks scurried through the fields nearby. I had some interesting chats with graduate students from around the world that had come to work at Mpala and was pleased to find the Blue Beast (that’s my car) waiting for me in one piece and not too much worse for the wear.

During dinner, a swallow flew into the refrigerator and fell to the ground. I walked over to it to see if it was still alive and it promptly flew into another wall. Without even thinking I pulled off my fleece and picked up the bird before it could do anymore damage to itself; I lifted it up and although its beak looked a bit out of whack it flew off with no trouble. No one seemed to notice either the bird or my odd behavior and dinner proceeded as usual with discussions of marathons to be run (one is being held in Laikipia) and data to be analyzed.

I had been really nervous about the drive back to Nairobi given that I am now six months out of practice driving on the wrong side of the car on the wrong side of the road with the extra excitement of the stick shift to handle. The Mpala mechanic assured me that driving a stick was like riding a bike. Having survived the journey back, I can actually agree. Being back in the Blue Beast was exhilarating and I felt like the car was an extension of myself. I didn’t stall once the entire trip back.

After three months away and hours of travel, re-entry is always a little ackward. I arrived in London at 6 AM and found my way to a bathroom. A look in the mirror I could tell the flight had had its effects. This combined with the past three months of chasing vultures, playing with dead wildebeest, and putting out goat heads, plus I ran out of conditioner about a week ago since my fiancée used it all during his two week visit for his long, lavish hair, and I figured I was not looking good.
Traveling alone is always marked by long silences and an independent re-entry. Each new experience is absorbed by me alone and I generally have no one to share it with. But the silence is occasionally punctuated by a random stranger, who offers some comment or smile as I journey back. In the London airport, this stranger came in the form of a young Middle-eastern looking man, who stared calmly at me on the escalator. As we descended, he asked, “Are you a model?” Seemed like an obvious pick-up line and given my state a rather unbelievable one, but he said it genuinely as if he had seen me in a magazine before or something. “What?” I replied in disbelief – I look like crap. He repeated the question. When I was unable to muster a sensible response, he continued, “You look like a model. Your face. . . Your body.” In my super-glue stained khaki pants and field-worn T-shirt, I imagined I looked more like a bum than a model. He peristed and asked me where I was from and where I was headed. The whole thing seemed so strange and by the time the long escalator came to an end, I moved off without looking back. It has actually been a fairly harrasment-free summer, but this seemed like a nice enough first comment upon my arrival back into civilization.
On the trip back from my summers in Africa, I am always struck by two things. First, all the white people. I caught myself staring at everyone in the Nairobi airport and being amazed by the diversity of hairstyles, clothing styles, make-up experimentation, and accents. I had seen lots of different people over the last three months, what made this group stand out. I finally realized I had started to make the transition from a world of 5% white and 95% black back to the Western world where the mix is much greater and the Wazungus much more common. The second thing I am struck by is Western consumerism. I think airports are especially harsh form of re-entry alog these lines. Off the plane and you enter a world with shops filled with over-priced and completely useless goods. These vary from lavish food items like Starbucks and Godiva chocalates to immense book and DVD stores to the completely ridiculous isles of perfumes, Prada purses, alcohols, and jewelry. For some reason, Tiffany’s always stands as the most horrible of all of these, perhaps because I imagine the gems being ripped from the soils which I have just left with only a petence paid only to be sold at outrageous prices. Couldn’t the money be better spent? What are you really buying when you go to a store like that? Certainly not the most beautiful jewelry I have ever seen.
In a duty-free shop, I watch as 30 TV screens fill with images of African children running to water and women carrying water on their heads, some clean-faced and presumably famous in the UK Wazungus drink from bottles of water and praport that if only you buy this bottled water, some water will be given to these poor African children. The irony is too striking and I turn away in disgust. Doesn’t anyone else see it? Here you are sitting in a country with perfectly good drinking water coming direct to your home (hell even to the airport water fountain) and you are going to buy a bottle of water. Where this magical bottled water comes from should be the first question, but then there is the issue of the plastic that it comes in. Now that you have added to global pollution with yet one more plastic bottle and paid for something that you are so blessed to already have had, you can feel good about yourself knowing that somehow this is going to end up giving water to a thirsty child in Africa. It seems like the most indirect and over-consumptive route in which one could do such a thing. It just feels glutonous as I watch the British actors pour water above their heads as an African child is shown washing his face.
Overconsumption. It stands out as such a huge problem – the problem that generates all the inequality, poverty, and environmental degradation that we see around us and yet you are being encouraged to take part in it to help solve these issues. I hate re-entering the Western world for this very reason and yet soon I will be part of the problem again (hell, I was even part of it in the Mara, staying at the lodge). I look at the chocolates and teas and consider buying some Starbucks – all the time feeling the shame and guilt of the gluttony in which I am so blessed as to be able to partake.

This year’s return includes the drive from the Masai Mara to Nairobi (5 hours), stay overnight in Nairobi with Munir and family, then drive to Mpala Research center to drop of the car (4 hours), take a taxi back to Nairobi (4 hours), fly from Nairobi to London (8 hours), fly from London to Newark (9hours), then drive from Newark to spend a few days in Boston with Kevin (5 hours). This may sound back but compared to last year where I had to fly from Mfuwe to Lusaka (in Zambia), stay overnight in Lusaka, then fly to Nairobi thru Dar (stay overnight in Nairobi), then fly from Nairobi to London (with 9 hour layover) then from London to Newark – it was actually much worse - nonetheless a lot more driving this year. The drive out of the Mara was uneventful. But I have only driven to Mpala once before and had rather minimal directions, so I knew it would be interesting and I left time for getting lost. Also unlike the drive from the Mara, I would be going it alone to Mpala.
I left early and was enjoying the countryside and the lack of turns, when I arrived at a police break. These are common as you might recall from my earlier blog about the one I got stopped at with Munir. For most of the summer, my attitude towards these has been to not make eye contact with the police, but not to pass too quickly. I had even commented (to one of the passengers from the Mara to Nairobi drive) that when the police wave for cars to stop I try not to pay much attention as I would rather claim negligence than get stopped and have to deal with the corruption. But this time the officer didn’t just wave the cars over, he stood in the middle of the road and he very clearly motioned for me to stop. Here we go, I thought.
I rolled down the window and smiled. “You were speeding. There will be a fine,” he said looking authoritative. “I was going the same speed as everyone else,” I said. In fact, I had been going slower than everyone else as matatus and crazy Toyota corolla drivers had zipped passed me several times. “That is why we pulled over three cars,” he replied pointing at those pulled over in front of me. “Well, no signs post the speed limit. What is it?” I asked. “110 kph,” he spoke confidently. I looked at him, surprised. I have seen my car go 120 kph once with Wilson driving on our trip to Naivasha. I have difficulty getting it over 100 kph (haven’t really figured out the acceleration thing with a stick shift, especially when there are hills). I knew for a fact I hadn’t gone over 110 the whole ride – not even sure if I could. He decided to beef up his argument before I could respond. “We have a machine down the road that tells us your speed,” he said. This aught to be good I thought, it’s like one of those games at a carnival – guess your age or your weight for five bucks. I wondered what speed he would choose. “You were going 6 kph over the limit,” he speculated. This is ridiculous. “That’s interesting,” I said. “This car can’t go over 100 kph unless I am going downhill. It is an old car you see,” I told him. His face sunk and I could see the defeat in it. I had been careful to avoid mentioning the fine and I felt assured I could get away without paying his bribe now. He started asking more random questions – where was I going, what were my plans for the day. I told him I was leaving the country today (which was true) and didn’t have any more money (in fact only enough for the taxi back). I think he realized I hadn’t just come off the boat – I had played these games before and wasn’t about to lose on my last day here. His mannerisms had changed. “You should give me something,” he said. I pictured the children that sometimes ran alongside the car. “Give me, give me” they would shout. The cop had gone from an authority with a “legitimate” claim to a simple beggar and the truth behind the ugly process revealed. It wasn’t a fine, it was a bribe he wanted and just like the children, I wouldn’t be giving anything just now. “I have a long drive and I need to go,” I said. He pulled his hand away from the window and I rolled it up and drove away.
The rest of the drive was more as I expected. I got lost three times, arrived to find no taxi waiting, and then waited for an hour at Mpala for a driver to come so I could do the whole journey over again and in reverse.

For the last three months, the Mara has been my home and my office. The staff at Ilkeiani - even the guests (who I have met only ephemerally) - have been my friends and family. I have been immersed in the things I love most – in the bush, in a world where elephants cross the road in front of your car, wildebeest are so common that they become part of the scenery, hyenas cry out in the night, and vultures are ever-present eating the refuse of the migration – the hundreds of animals that don’t finish their journey. Each day I have worked, burned in the sun, baked in the midday heat, and learned a little bit more about the Mara and its inner workings. The politics have been over-whelming at times, but in the end I have been able to focus on my research and I have enjoyed meeting all the characters that have come to love and depend on this amazing ecosystem. An ecosystem that is caught has become a battlefield as people fight to conserve it, while others desparately take what they can from the land sometimes for greed and sometimes just to get through one more day. My love for the wildlife has been renewed and my fascination in its intricacies expanded once more. Nothing is predictable here and each day has been a discovery as I am taught again and again through constant observations. Some observations have been deliberate and I have learned so much about vultures and other scavengers and how complex their interactions and behaviors truly are. But much of the observation has just been a part of my daily life and I have slowly come to know the favorite places of the topi herds, the areas with the biggest tuskers, the movements of the wildebeest, and the hiding places of the big cats. Today I leave, but only temporarily. With any luck, I will be back continuing my studies of the vultures at the beginning of next year. I can’t wait to see what has changed and perhaps even more what has stayed the same. I can only imagine what surprises the Mara has in store for me in the not too distant future. To all that have read this, thanks for sharing my adventures. I hope you have enjoyed them. I plan to continue posting though certainly not as regularly (and probably not as interestingly) during the next few months as I explore my data in my other home in New Jersey.