Mombasa:

Week four

Tsavo: a picturesque slice of savannah in Southwestern Kenya, home to abundant flora and fauna of innumerable kind; and more recently, the arrival of the far less enchanting, but just as common, camera touting mazungo.  As elegant as a baboon and as ever-present as elephant stools, troupes of Safari caravans descend on the wildlife, furiously persuing the big five: elephant, leopard, lion, water buffalo and rhino.  That is not to say that Tsavo was a disappointment, hardly so.  Merely, I had the misconception of negotiating the African bush far removed from unsightly tour companies.  Yet, setting out for three days in the African backcountry did afford our group (other I-to-I NGOs) a look at some magnificent game, and dramatic views.

Tsavo gained much notoriety in the late 19th century during the construction of the Kenya Uganda East Africa railway, commissioned by the British Government and administered by regal pomp colonial types in Nairobi.  Suffice to say, the railway was slowed by a pair of man-eaters, feasting on a healthy supply of migrant workers from the Asian Indian sub- continent.  The dining duo were subsequently shot and killed, but not before 50 railway workers were tastily consumed.

Regaling the others with stories of lions and bygone empires in East Africa, I sat atop our Safari van feeling curiously accomplished and wholly satisfied.  Extending to the horizon was an unbroken view of acacia and baobab trees, where rough undergrowth stirred in the wind about swirls of red dust.  Basking in the warm sun, the jeep came to a still, giraffes and elephants sauntering among us, their movements softly animated, color and texture, vividly apparent.  We sat here contentedly, with a view of the African bush - unblemished by photo, nor fabricated in film.

In other interesting, but far less romantic developments, I have contracted a nasty chest infection, defined by perfuse night sweats, mercury bursting temperatures, and a raspy/hoarse cough.  Quarantined to the teachers' compound I rested, bringing down both the fever and ending the sweats, but the cough carried on unabated.  So, I made my way to Aga Khan hospital, a completely disorganized and inefficient private medical facility, defined by ostentatious and pretentious doctors seemingly uninterested in western clientele, and more so by pushy patrons, unconcerned with lines or a formal waiting process. Following numerous blood tests, x rays, spit tests, and injections over the course of the week, I have been cleared of TB, yet some unnamed viral infection continues to linger.  Having beaten off swarms of malarial mosquitoes, out run perturbed ungulates, and survived the streets of Mombasa thus far, I count myself fortunate to have beaten TB too.  Then again, who knows what currently lingers in my lungs? Ebola?