May 2006. Something was amiss. The atmosphere in the camp was tense as our guides, Kelli and Mark, argued with a group of men a few feet away. A few of us stayed within earshot while the rest of the group cautiously stood by the camp fire.
The first day of our truck safari began with a quick shopping trip for essentials in Nairobi, Kenya. We can’t help but be conspicuous – twenty-eight Britons, Americans, Canadians and New Zealanders traveling aboard a yellow truck across the East African plains. This wasn’t a luxury tour. Our motley crew of strangers would have to pitch our tents, gather wood to start campfires, and perform kitchen duties in shifts.
Three bone-jarring and dusty hours later, we reached Namanga and crossed the Tanzanian border. Although the next town, Arusha, was just a couple of hours away, Mark, and his wife, Kelli, scheduled a bush camping experience on the first night. The truck crept slowly behind Kelli who inspected potential sites for unwanted thorns, nearby termite mounds and suspicious bushes. “This should be OK,” she decided. “We’ve had better, but it’ll have to do.”
There’s nothing like shared incompetence to make people more relaxed with each other. Fumbling, bumbling and grumbling, we commiserated with each other and laughed at our tent-pitching skills. They weren’t the tiny pop-up variety but mid-sized, military-green ones. “Don’t lose the pegs!” Kelli warned.
We had Mexican tortillas and green salad for dinner, fireside chatter for dessert. “We can start late tomorrow, guys,” Mark said. I dreamt about the possibilities. I could wake up early next morning, find a spot to watch the sun rise behind Mount Kilimanjaro in the distance, listen to wildlife stirring at dawn…
Suddenly, a jeep pulled up. Two men alit and were met by Mark and Kelli. “Probably, police checking up on us,” we guessed. Their voices rose. “We don’t need permits,” Mark argued. “We’re not at a park.” “It’s a new rule,” they said. “Don’t touch me,” Kelli shouted. “There’s no need for that,” Mark warned. Another jeep with two men joined in. “We’ll bring the police,” they threatened. “Alright, do it!” Kelli dared them. The two jeeps rolled off toward Namanga.
Kelli and Mark gathered us around. “Look, they could be legit and bring the police. But they might be crooks and call for others to deal with our big group. Who knows what they plan to do. We don’t trust them. They reeked of alcohol. We’re just not safe here. Pack up and let’s move out. Quickly!”
Tents were haphazardly dismantled. A few pegs were lost. Backpacks, sleeping bags and bewildered campers were hustled into the truck. Whether we were running away from a hefty fine or a potentially brutal fate, it didn’t matter to me at that moment. Strangely, all I could think of was missing a date, on a misty morning, with Kilimanjaro.
Unlock the door. 