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.