On a Cheap Safari with Cheaper Spaniards

A friend just sent me this picture, I had never seen it before. It was from a safari we took together in 1989 to Masi Mara in Kenya. And even though it had been more than twenty years, I recognized the look and intent on my face immediately - I was ready to kill some Spaniards. I didn't end up harming any of them directly, although I did exact some measure of revenge/justice without creating an international incident. It turned out to be a good safari.
I was on my summer break while teaching in a refugee camp in Yemen. I had two months off, and I was eager to visit nearby Africa. Another volunteer and I planned the trip for months before we left, hoping to travel through Kenya, Uganda, Rwanda, Burundi, and Tanzania. We would travel for a month or so, as I wanted to return early to help train the new set of Peace Corps Volunteers who would arrive late summer. My friend did most of the planning, and we had a very impressive itinerary created by the time we landed in Nairobi.
Having just spent a year in a very conservative Muslim country, we enjoyed the amenities of Nairobi for several days before we journeyed out into the countryside (actually, I think I spent the first two days in the Modern Green Bar, a legendary establishment that hadn't closed its front door since 1968 - another story for another blog that my daughter doesn't read!). We found an inexpensive safari outfit that promised to take us to Masi Mara and a few other parks for three days. I was very excited, at least until I met our fellow travellers. We would spend three days in a small van with four Europeans, three from Spain. I was prepared to like them, I really was.
Two of the Spaniards were very gregarious, and I initially thought they would be great companions. The third (sitting to my left in the picture) said all of three words to me in three days. He turned out to be my favorite. So much for first impressions. We had two Kenyan drivers, who were quite pleasant and very helpful. Perhaps if they hadn't been so nice to me, I might not have plotted against the Spaniards who were rude and very impolite to these guides. In any event, it gave me something to consider when the wildlife was absent.
We first talked to the Spaniards while waiting for the safari to get underway. The Kenyans were a few hours late, and the Spaniards declared they would give no tip at the end of the safari for this outrage. This was the first of their many gifts to the continent that I would witness. Unfortunately, they had been there for months before I stumbled upon them. The two that talked to me quickly explained that it was their goal to stay in Africa as long as they could, spending as little as possible. They went on to detail how they defrauded local banks with "funny" travellers cheques, how they never tipped, and how they drove down any price offered to them by the Blacks. I was quite sure that I did not invite these lessons in thrift, yet they were offered to me through the course of the three days. But as I mentioned, it was how they treated our guides that set me on my determined course.
When we made camp the first evening, I was quite pleased that our tent was a good distance from that of my adversaries. I considered absconding with some dinner scraps and later sprinkling them around their tent. We were in the middle of a massive game reserve after all. I thought of the mess, and the difficulties it would present for the guides, then reconsidered.
It was the second day when I heard from the mute Spaniard. He was the antithesis of his colleagues, dour, quiet, and forlorn. I tried to speak to him and he just stared at me. Finally, I asked him what he did for a living. His reply, "I rrride arses." It took me a minute to gather the context, for I desperately did not want it to mean what I thought it meant. He saw my bewilderment or horror, and he mimed riding a horse. That was it, I ride horses. I never heard him speak again.
I got my hopes up again on the second day of the safari. We stopped by a large river for lunch. We got out of the van and I looked down over the river. The bank was about thirty feet high, very steep. At first I thought I was looking at some very large logs that had run aground on the sandy shore. When one of them moved upstream, I realized they were very large crocodiles. A new idea brewed. It would be easy - I would call the Spaniards over, point down at the awesome site, wait till they huddled together in wonder, then give them a little nudge. I figured they would have a sporting chance, one might even make it out alive. When I called to them they looked at me like I was crazy, and only the mute meandered over. I wasn't sure if I lost my nerve, or perhaps the thought of not having the pleasure of hearing him scream made me abandon the plan. I still had one more day.
On the last day in the park, we made our way to a Masai village where we would spend an hour with the tribesmen. When we pulled up to the circular set of huts enclosed by a stick fence, we were told we would have to pay $5 each to go in. In return we would be allowed to take as many pictures as we liked. I was thrilled to go in. As I crawled to the front of the van to get out (the Spaniards were not going to part with that much cash for the opportunity), one of my foes said something to me that I did not understand. I ignored him and stumbled out of the van and started walking towards the gate, five dollars in hand. I heard my name called from inside the vehicle and I looked back to see one of them hand a very expensive camera to the mute at the window. He stuck out his arm with the camera and nodded at me. Evidently, they thought I would carry their camera into the village and take pictures for them. I walked back towards the van, dodging cow dung and mud, smiling broadly. As I got in range, I nodded in acquiescence. I reached out for the camera, and when he released it, I dropped it. I looked down, stifled my grin, feigned as much remorse as possible, looked up, and mouthed the word "oops." I did an about face and spent a very enjoyable hour with the Masai. I got no more argument for austerity from my friends from Spain on the four hour ride back to Nairobi.