Beyond The West: Kenya Adventure

by Darin Bunch

DRIVE ME WILD

Kenya Offers Adventures You’d Expect and World-Class Golf You Wouldn’t

The only thing I can hear is Homer.

The cartoon character, not the blind poet. Although for a guy who has never ventured to an exotic locale of any size or shape, this trip is my Odyssey. But it is goofy Mr. Simpson’s favorite murmur of Mmmmmm, Steeeaaaakkk that’s sailing through my skull at this moment.

Only trouble is, I’m the fat filet mignon.

Or so I think.

The lion is big — he makes my 90-pound Rotty mix back home look like a puppy. But sprawled out in the afternoon sun alongside the road, he barely glances up at us. I’ve made putts longer than the distance from my camera lens to his big, bushy mane. And that thought starts my mind spinning. After all, here’s this big tuna can of fresh meat hand-delivered to his front porch, and the only thing stopping Leo from his latest meal is ... well ... nothing really. With our heads popped out the top of a Land Cruiser, I have to believe this giant cat could leap in and go at me like I tackle an In-N-Out burger, smacking and chomping with sauce dripping from my beard.

But he doesn’t. And according to my trusty guides, he won’t. In the Masai Mara, arguably the best known if not the largest of Kenya’s game parks, the lions keep to themselves, as long as you keep to yourself.

“There are some less than reputable drivers who will open the door just a touch to see the lions perk up — it’s not a wise thing to do,” says David Fisher, our guide for the week and director of the Maniago destination management company.

Not that the cats don’t sometimes become enamored with vehicles traversing their homeland. Fisher tells us about the time a cheetah noticed the antenna ball on their Cruiser and decided it was a toy. “He jumped up on the hood and pawed at it for awhile, while all of us inside snapped away with our cameras.”

I can’t remember that happening on my most recent visit to the San Diego Wild Animal Park. And that’s why my father and I made the journey to Nairobi, Kenya for a week we’d never forget. Because there’s no zoo, animal habitat or preserve in the United States that can prepare you for a single day in the Mara or circling Lake Nakura in the national park of the same name.

It’s the middle of the night, and it’s dark flying over the African desert, no moon in the sky, no lights below. So dark you can almost feel the silence. Not American dark, but real blackness, with nothing but the stars separating land and sky in a faux horizon of connected dots, like pin pricks in a black piece of paper.

The trip from Los Angeles to Nairobi, by way of London Heathrow, takes more than 20 hours, two long legs in the sky, where stretching long legs is almost impossible. On the return home, I’ll talk my way into British Airways’ Club World higher-class cabin where the seats recline into a small bed, but at this moment — 4:43 a.m. — I’m in World Traveller Plus, with a little extra space for my knees and the extra 20 pounds I’ll drop during our week of walking golf.

We’re about 21/2 hours from our destination, flying at 37,000 feet with nothing but anticipation of the unknown. My father, Chuck, has seen more of the world than I ever will, so with a trip to Uganda under his belt, he has a better idea of the wild road ahead.

Tracking our flight path through the seatback screen, I realize we’re not far from history, past and present, that I only know from textbooks and lore ... and CNN. We pass over Darfur in the Sudan, Ethiopa and Somalia, all Kenya’s bordermates. To the northeast lies the Red Sea and beyond that Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Iraq. By the time I write this, my nephew Drew will be on the ground with the 101st Airborne out of Fort Campbell, Ky.

On this morning, I watch the sun cast its long shadows across the terrain and prepare for landing, where we’ll meet David and our driver, George, who will take us directly from the airport to Karen Golf Club.

Our first hours in Kenya begin with wild swings rather than wildlife. I’ve played many an early round in the States, usually after an all-nighter on the magazine or at a Las Vegas card table, but heading to the first tee straight from the airport after a day’s worth of travel time is my new personal best when it comes to crazy things I’ll do for love of the game.

In the colonial suburb of Karen, the golf course is simple and straightforward, with a familiar nastiness to West Coast golfers — kikuyu rough. And as it turns out, the hosel-snagging kikuyu originally hails from Africa, not Riviera Country Club in Pacific Palisades, Calif., as we Americans might believe, given its publicity during each year’s Nissan Open.
In fact, as a point of comparison, the Karen course has an old Southern California feel about it — as does the par-71 Muthaiga Golf Club we’ll play later in the week, which boasts the fastest greens in East Africa — forcing you to take your medicine and punch out of the rough (which we seldom did, leading to disastrous results) and testing your short game with some truly inspired green complexes, especially on holes 2, 12 and 18.

Karen is well known for two things. First, it served as home to Out of Africa author Karen Blixen during her time in Kenya, and her house still stands next to the course. And the club hosted this year’s Kenya Open, a leg of the European Challenge Tour, where the fairways were further narrowed for the professional golfers who came to test their skills. In March, a month before we visited, Edoardo Molinari won the event with a four-day total of six-under, posting scores of 68, 69, 67 and 70.

On this day, we posed no threat with our game, although my longsleeve mock wardrobe created a small controversy of sorts — apparently not all the Tiger trends have made their impact worldwide.

People are the same everywhere.

That’s what I believe. After a sound, post-round, afternoon-into-night sleep upon arrival at Windsor Golf Hotel and Country Club, we headed in search of some grub. Exotic or otherwise, we had some serious midnight munchies fueled by some upside-down jetlag. At 2 a.m., you could say the bar was hoppin’ — two foursomes of business-suited friends were having a drink or three, tourists (no doubt in the same sleepless boat as we) were nibbling on this and that. Africa Magic, sort of an MTV-style reality show, was playing on the flatscreen. And, surprisingly, although I would find this to be a trend throughout Kenya, Shania Twain was on the soundsystem, along with other American country-lite artists.

Later in the week, at the Great Rift Valley Lodge, I asked a young man working the front counter, “Hey, what’s up with the country music?” “Country music is sweet!” he said with a wide grin. I still don’t know if he was pulling my leg. But he would have to be, wouldn’t he?

Back at the poolside Windsor bar, we gobbled some traditional fare with a flair — a cheeseburger for me, with egg, tomato and cucumber, and some chicken-mushroom soup with a touch of curry for Chuck, plus a drink of puréed mango.
A gecko climbed the wall unnoticed as we ate, slipping behind a liquor shelf stocked with Jack Daniel’s, Campari and Tanqueray. Next to it was a refrigerator of Coca-Cola products, including Coke “Light” (what we call “diet”) and Orange Fanta. Be advised, there’s no Pepsi in Kenya.

It began to drizzle as we headed back down the hall, the palm fronds chattering away. In our room — built with beautiful dark-stained wood and furnished with comfortable beds and a fully tiled bathroom — the television provided more entertainment than an insomniac usually finds. We watched the Red Sox battle the Yankees live in the middle of the night and caught former Fresno State standout Nick Watney in the early rounds of the Zurich Classic of New Orleans, which he went on to win that Sunday. There was a Daily Show with Jon Stewart Global Edition produced for CNN Asia and more worldwide sports than you could shake a cricket bat at, including rugby and soccer. The TV magazine in the room also hyped the new season of Africa Idol, but we didn’t get a chance to root for our favorites.

As we faded off to sleep again, the heavens opened fully, clearing the bugs and humidity with a cool, wet breeze. We slept with our second-floor window open, the light from the bridge to the 18th green glowing in our room.

Monkey see, Monkey do. Well, not exactly. But you have to admit, sometimes it’s tough to tell the club-swingers from the tree-swingers. At Windsor, the playful Sykes primates often take center stage on what is among the best golf courses, shot for shot, that I’ve ever played. Each hole is an individual work of art, fitting together to reveal a totality of golf that is unsurpassed.

Beginning in the open flatland semi-circled by the striking architecture of the resort, the course moves back into the trees, where the monkeys scatter from flying Titleists and marching golfers, for most of the holes before spilling back out into the natural amphitheater for the linkslike culmination of each nine.

Windsor is a course for big-hitters and a challenge for those at the top of their iron game, with soft, smooth greens that will yield par but hesitate to allow birdies for the average player. Place the course in SoCal, it would fetch $150 green fees; in Las Vegas, you’d pay $400. Yes, it’s that good.

No. 1 is beautifully sculpted, where a layup off the tee leaves a long iron down off the plateau fairway to a kidney-shaped target that will test your talent straight away.

No. 5 measures out at 631 yards from the tips. The landing area — if you put a solid swing on the driver — sits between two yellow-flowering Markhamia trees on the right and a towering lacework-leaved Albizia on the left. It’s a site from tee to green, with pin-placement possibilities that can make you wish you’d never found the green at all.

On No. 14, you can hear the sound of the river in the canyon to the right and the pounding echoes of quarry workers. For the more daring, the second shot on this 382-yarder aims over a deep ravine known to drown more than its share of golf balls.

We maneuvered our way through the forest with friendly caddies. Kabugi, whose dark black leathery skin added years of appearance onto his 50-something age, knew every nook and cranny of the course, and within a few swings was pulling sticks for me. When David and I second-guessed him on our third hole of the day, the reachable par-5 No. 12 playing around 500 yards, I came up a club short, squandering my first real chance of the week to make birdie. After that, I listened and learned.

We rewarded Kabugi and our other caddies throughout the week handsomely, given that a tip of $10-$20 is a bargain compared with bagger prices back home. With Kabugi, I got five times the caddy for one-fifth of the price I pay at the best courses the American West has to offer.

The same could be said for Windsor. With views of Mt. Kenya and Ol Donyo Sabuk National Park in the distance and a coffee plantation lining the fairways at times, plus nearly every gorgeous tree you’ll find in these parts — Brachylaenas and Diospyros, among others, according to the locals — this slice of Nairobi is simply magnificent. It’s the kind of place you can’t wait to revisit, a golf-and-wildlife wonderland that hibernates in your dreams, hoping someday you’ll come out to play once again when the time is right.

One time around, a mere taste of the course, left me craving for more. On our next trip to Nairobi (yes, there will be another ... and hopefully many more after that), Windsor will be our golfing home base, and as many rounds as we play still won’t be enough.

The Running Men. With George, our lovable Randy Jackson of American Idol fame look-a-like, once again at the wheel of our Land Cruiser, we head out of Nairobi on the way to Lake Nakuru National Park. On the same day, back in England, a Kenyan named Martin Lel is winning the London Marathon with two of his countrymen finishing third and sixth. A week earlier, in the States, Kenyans swept the top four spots of the Boston Marathon.

All along the road, which rises to 8,500 feet above sea level at the summit, we see men, women and children walking. Uphill. Downhill. Thousands. Maybe tens of thousands. Walking. Resting. Walking some more. Everywhere. For years, I’ve heard about Kenyans dominating marathons and the Olympics. And now I understand. Endurance is Kenya’s national pastime, and just like the next Tiger Woods is out there someplace, so is the next great distance runner for this country to cheer.

Later, on a remote detour to our first safari camp, miles upon miles from the last semblance of a town we passed, on a road where few vehicles dare travel, we see a small group of teenagers walking together, carrying firewood and supplies.

I don’t know if I feel tired or lazy or American — or all three — just watching all these people as we zoom by in our fuel-guzzling megavehicle, wondering about their existence and how it differs from the lives we too often take for granted. And wondering if I’m seeing the next Martin Lel, Paul Tergat or Robert Cheruiyot building his — or her — stamina.

The road to nowhere ends abruptly. With a turnout circle. Nowhere has arrived, if nowhere has indoor plumbing and hot showers. Turns out, our “luxury tented camp” is far more luxury than tent. And it certainly isn’t camping. I’ve been camping; this ain’t it. This is way too cool to be called camping.

Our arrival at Mbweha, where we’ll rest our weary, car-jangled bones after three days of golf and the aforementioned off-the-grid shortcut, is welcomed with succulent beef and chicken skewers, seared to perfection for nibbling as we sit around the indoor fire pit sipping cool, refreshing iced tea, brewed with just the right blend of bitter and sweet. The main structure is more dug-in, high-end bunker than tent, with stone walls and floor, a stocked bar and pool table. Up the steps, the open-air dining room awaits once we’ve had time to enjoy the setting sun and unpack for the night.

Our rooms are private, circular stone cottages with thatch roofs, furnished as nicely as any boutique hotel you’ll find, complete with hot and cold running water, solar-lighting, fully functioning toilets and, of course, mosquito nets around the beds — not exactly “roughing it.” And not that you’d want to. If you’re going to spend all day in the bush, it’s nice to come “home” to a place that’s safe, clean, comfy and cozy.

Guards escort us throughout the camp at night, just in case one of the great outdoors’ true residents decides to poke his snout around the rooms. But, mostly, our time is spent in the sweet silence of nature and the company of friends, both old and new.

A few days later, at the Mara Explorer Camp, we’re greeted with lemon cake and coffee as we overlook the river below where a hippo surfaces to give us a one-eyed peek from time to time.

Retiring to our rooms before dinner, Chuck takes advantage of a rare sight — an outdoor bathtub. As he soaks out on the back deck of his room, more hippos splash and bark in the river below, serenading as the sun starts to set on the horizon and the fireflies begin to glow.

After another glorious meal, the Masai tribesmen, who serve as our spear-wielding guards in this spot just outside the Masai Mara National Reserve, provide lively entertainment with the traditional calls and jumping dances of their people.
Unlike Mbweha, the rooms at the Explorer camp have tent components, attached to a concrete structure that gives the room shape and offsets the bathroom facilities. A gecko jumps from the window coverings as I unroll them for my shower. I chase him through the bathroom for a closer look, but he finds a new hiding place.

The mesh surroundings provide a different experience from the previous camp. Here, there’s the feeling of actually sleeping outdoors, protected yet communal, one with the animals and insects that surround you. It’s almost too exciting to sleep, and yet I’m better rested each day we spend in the bush.

Morning comes, and my wake-up call is a friendly shout of jambo — the standard Swahili greeting — from one of the Masai as they deliver hot cocoa.

Welcome to the good life. Had I known such places existed in the world, I would never had waited until age 39 to enjoy them.

• • •

Paula Creamer would love this place.

Pink is the color of the day — every day — at Lake Nakuru, where the shallow alkaline waters are lined with flamingos. No doubt, it would make the LPGA star smile. In photos taken from the mountain high above, the long-legged birds resemble a glowing algae floating on the edges of the 38-square-mile lake, surrounding the blue.

Wildlife is everywhere. Herds of zebra, antelope, impala and water buffalo roam, with an occasional rhino roaming the fields. Birds of all sizes and colors zip past the Land Cruiser. And, every once in a while, a giraffe pops his head from behind a tree with that curious Toys R Us look, munching away on plant food the entire time.

Atop the mountain vantage point, overlooking a jigsaw puzzle of species — 56 different mammals have been sited, including white rhinos — on the valley floor below, George tells us why the park rangers keep baboons away from this area at the edge of the sheer cliff.

“I’ve seen baboons jump right into the vehicles and grab bags and luggage and head for the cliffs,” he says, “scaling down the rock, pulling clothes and papers out as they run away.”

Thankfully we had no baboons around earlier in the day when we stopped for a closer look at the flamingos near the water’s edge. Because, unexpectedly, we became sitting ducks ourselves. In a scene straight out of the aforementioned Out of Africa, our not-so-trusty Land Cruiser decided to be a bit pissy on this day, which resulted in Chuck and I looking over our shoulders for predators as we helped out with a good old-fashioned push-start.

Even on a trip like this, you have to expect the unexpected. And once we saw first-hand the beating a motor vehicle takes in Kenya, we were very understanding.

• • •

Maybe The West Wing was right.

In a final-season episode of the NBC series, outgoing White House Press Secretary C.J. Cregg is approached by a billionaire who wants to make a difference in the world but is looking for the right cause.

“Roads,” Cregg says. If you build the infrastructure, the rest will come. Until today, it was just an interesting TV drama storyline. But driving these roads, you get the point. Quickly.

Downtown Nairobi makes Tijuana look like a merry-go-round. Traffic is packed into every inch of available blacktop. It’s worse on the busy highways, where cars go three- or four-wide on two-line roadways, leapfrogging each other at every opportunity. And when the rains come to wash away the loose soil, leaving only rock, bumpy asphalt and slick mud, the lifespan of a car, truck or even heavy-duty sport-utility can deteriorate quickly.

That’s why you want someone like George. You need someone like George. With four years behind the wheel at Maniago and a lifetime of experience before that, he’ll keep you as safe as he can. But if you’re a white-knuckle passenger, you might want to opt for a different vacation destination. Find a beach somewhere.

I can only think that while Oprah is busy building schools in South Africa, maybe somebody else with her money could help build roads to ensure the children can get somewhere after they’ve graduated.

Perhaps Barack Obama is the man. His father was born in Kenya and returned there after his divorce when Obama was young. Of course, he might be a little busy for the next four — or maybe even eight — years.

However, not all Kenya infrastructure is outdated. When it comes to cell phone service, they’ve got it covered. Roadside stands selling additional minutes are everywhere. After all, in a country where it’s difficult to drive almost anywhere, it’s even more difficult to string phone lines. So cell towers are the smart, efficient answer — and more of the future than I ever realized.

On my next trip, I’ll buy a cheap phone and be better connected than I am on the road from Bakersfield to Las Vegas.
I’ve got a room at the top of the world.

From the balcony of my perched room at the Great Rift Valley Lodge, I can see Lake Naivasha and a stretch of the world’s largest valley, running 3,700 miles from Syria in Southwest Asia to Mozambique on the East Africa coast below Tarzania, Kenya’s southern neighbor.

At 7,000 feet, with sweeping 360-degree views, any golf course would be good, but Great Rift is truly a treat, built out of Bermuda with some very nice holes winding through estate homes that resemble snow-country cottages in California’s High Sierra.

I’m partial to No. 5, a 399-meter par 4 that’s considered the second-toughest hole on the front nine. As my caddy, Joseph, and I stand in the fairway, I ask him about the obstruction on the green.

“Those are the women,” he says.

“What are they doing?” I ask.

“They are weeding the green,” he replies.And with a whistle from Joseph, the seven of them step to the side for our approach.

I come up just short of the green with my pitching wedge. With a 52-degree in hand — my best weapon throughout the trip — I chip toward the high mound on the right half of the green, getting the ball rolling on the putting surface and watching it roller-coaster through a double-breaker heading straight for the back-placed pin. Dunk. Birdie — my only one of the trip — accentuated by the roar of my own private gallery of ladies cheering.

I take my bows, and on we play.

Welcome to Jurassic Park. There are few times in life when you see everything all at once. When you have a feeling that makes you want to smile and cry and sing and laugh all at the same time. Where the impossible seems possible, like the moment Sir Richard Attenborough utters those words in Steven Spielberg’s classic film.

No, there were no dinosaurs at the Masai Mara, but there might as well have been. When we drove up to a family of elephants enjoying their afternoon grass or sat atop the Cruiser eating our own hand-packed lunches provided by the Great Rift Valley staff as three giraffes chomped away on a nearby tree, nothing but the sound of chewing — ours and theirs — to break the silence, it was another world, a lifetime away from deadlines and headlines.

On a morning game drive, our last of the trip, we happened upon a pride of lions just waking up to the sunrise glare. Mesmerized, we followed silently as they began their trek across the plains in search of that day’s food.

Later, we watched a pack of hyenas systematically round up antelope, circling them with precision in an attempt to separate the weaker members from the herd. And then there was that moment. Nothing but animals of all shapes and sizes as far as I could see in every direction, stretching like infinity to the horizon.

Tallying our personal Maniago scorecard, we saw every animal Kenya has to offer except the leopard and the cheetah. David and George treated us better than we deserved to be treated. The accommodations, from resort to luxury camp, far surpassed our expectations and imagination. The golf was sublime; every hole at Karen, Windsor, Muthaiga and Great Rift comparable to the places we love to play back home on the American West’s golf-rich landscape. The food was simply outstanding, especially the breakfast buffets that often powered us through the entire day.

And nobody was eaten by a lion. FG

 

Maniago Safari and Golf Tours

Nairobi, Kenya  |  www.maniagosafaris.com  |  +254-20-4449461

Not Just Any Safari: While there are many, many, many safari tour operators from which to choose on your vacation to Kenya, Maniago specializes in not only finding you the best wildlife adventures, but also the best golf adventures, thanks to director and avid golfer David Fisher. Maniago will customize trips of any size, helping you find the right mix of swinging for the green and watching monkeys swing from trees. And they’ll also shoot photos and video so you can share your memories with the folks back home who missed the trip.

Visiting Africa

Just about any foreign travel has inherent dangers, but there are steps you can take to reduce the risks. Before traveling, we suggest you contact your local Department of Health or the National Health Organization to have the recommended shots.

Malaria kills more than a million people each year worldwide, and children are especially at risk. However, all the major hotels, resorts and luxury safari camps we encountered in Kenya take precautions to eliminate insects and other harmful elements. And it is recommended that you use a deet-enhanced insect repellent for additional protection.

As for travel from the United States, we suggest British Airways, which flies one-stop (London Heathrow) from Los Angeles to Nairobi. Virgin Atlantic has also added the same route. But it’s roughly 20 hours in the air, so any upgrading you purchase is definitely worth the extra money. Be prepared to pay some arrival fees upon entering Nairobi, and check with your airline about luggage requirements as the United Kingdom’s security checks are far more stringent than in the States.

Also, purchase a voltage converter before you leave if you plan on powering any of your electronic devices.
For more information about malaria and how you can help, visit NothingButNets.com to contribute to the campaign popularized by former Sports Illustrated columnist Rick Reilly, among others.