Conspicuous Absence

Conspicuous absence
By Laura Quiggan

Jamin called out attractions as we left a stretching and yawning
Nairobi; it was a pity we couldn't hear him above the rattle of the
engine. Our tour bus is a bit crabby, but more alarming than the noise,
dented bodywork or cracked windscreen, is the occasional waft of
fuel.

By Kenyan standards we travel in style, sharing the road with an
assortment of dilapidated vehicles. Bowing comically under surplus
passengers, they weave from one side of the road to the other, avoiding
potholes, craters, and occasionally each other. As we perform our own
hazardous slalom past a billboard, warning, 'Prepare to Meet Thy
Maker', I wonder if we just might.

With so much to pack into the holiday it is important to hit the road
first thing. I use the term road with my tongue placed firmly in my
cheek you understand. Tarmac is not common in some parts of Kenya.
Hours of bouncing over surfaces more pot holed than a Swiss cheese have
left my kidneys where my tonsils used to be.

This is an eight-night package trip and I'm doing it solo, at least I
would be if it weren't for the five other people on the tour. I was
hoping I'd meet someone special, a kind of Out of Africa for the
thirtysomethings. They're not here. Phil and Maggie are. Both round and
retired, neither is able to move at high speed, except for desserts.
Phil wears a hearing aid and leans heavily on a walking stick. He has
assumed the great white hunter role and by way of proof dresses in
elephant print safari jacket and matching wide brimmed hat. Besides the
appendages already mentioned, our intrepid explorer also has a large
video camera permanently clamped to one eye. Distant birdlife,
meandering wildebeest, car exhaust fumes, they're all on film.

Then there's Hazel, a single divorcee who has taken to travelling late
in life. She has a naive innocence about her that makes me wonder how
she has survived all these years. The fact that she came to the bush
wearing a cerise shell suit and red heeled shoes partly proves my
point.

Every holiday has a 'Jean and Don'. In her late fifties, Jean wears an
expression like she is sucking the juice out of nettles. Her uninvited
opinion on menus, facilities, abilities and the like have done her no
favours with the group. In tow, Don wears the expression of a man
longing to break free. Both terribly retentive in nature, the most
basic of tasks are conducted by the book. They are the sort of people
that drink the same brand of coffee and insist it should be stirred
anti-clockwise. Sex would be on a Wednesday, always missionary position
and never longer than fifteen minutes.

The main aim for any first time safari hunter is to sight the Big Five
- lion, leopard, buffalo, elephant and rhino. On occasion our driver
slows the bus and we press our noses against the window, eyes dancing.
The light conspires with termite mounds and twisted branches to play
cruel tricks with us and we site nothing.

Crossing the endless expanse of the plains has reaped little reward so
far. According to the guide books this area should be teeming with
animals. I guess they're teeming somewhere else. In a few weeks time
herds of wildebeest will reach the plains and eat the grass down to
dust before continuing their annual migration to the Mara River. But we
are pre-drought and tall lion coloured grass obscures our chances of
sighting anything, unless it's airborne. Did this ever happen to David
Attenborough?