An Abridged Version.

Giraffes watch us as we spin out, stuck on a hill.

Lake Naivasha, Kenya – As dusk settled in like a smudge of heavy eyeshadow, a curious giraffe elongated its neck toward us at the side of the road.

It was close enough we could see its eyelashes, batting like fans.

Despite the pacifist nature of our newfound friend, this was not the best time of day to be stranded in a field of wild African animals.


No, ever-dangerous hippopotamus would soon begin stretching from a day spent staying cool in the water, and foraging with mouths studded by tusk-like teeth. Despite being herbivores, they can be indiscriminate in their violence.

And yet, there we were, tipped sideways in the car, hanging precipitously over the edge of a hill in the riparian area behind the house, the vehicle's belly grounded against a crumbling stone bridge. As we tried to lift the vehicle back onto the road, the tires spun, cloaking us in a cloud of vaporized rubber.

It would not budge.

Yup, we were pretty stuck.

We had already had to change a punctured tire on a dusty hill in Karagite earlier in the day – an event that had attracted other curious onlookers as we attempted to loosen bolts in the middle of a roughly hewn, angular road, amidst homes fabricated of mud and sticks.

With a series of guttural cries, we wedged our hands under the front bumper and tried to raise the vehicle onto the dirt path. By mistakenly spreading the fingers of my right hand onto the spinning tire, I soon learned the car was front-wheel drive.

And I wondered if my now-erased prints would qualify me for a future career in the secret service.

Standing in a bush of thorns, we repeatedly heaved the car upward while awkwardly leveraging ourselves against the side of the hill. Still, the car teetered and we remained fearful it would roll down the hill – on top of us, no less. With the help of a couple locals, though, we eventually wedged a large chunk of the bridge that had become dislodged under the tire.

Traction. At last.

Nonplussed, the giraffe continued snacking on its live salad of nettles as we pulled out through a growing number of wildebeest, zebra and waterbuck.

I'm on a Boat.

Hungry, hungry hippos, looking for the marble.

Lake Naivasha, Kenya – Hippos cloaked by papyrus snorted like pigs with megaphones and leapt toward the boat with a seismic splash.

Our captain had backed into the area for this very reason.

With a quick crank of the throttle, the nose of our boat lifted from the water and pulled free of the reeds, which it spat into the air like confetti.

Nearby, three families of hippopotamus lay submerged, their eyebrows shrugging and nostrils flaring as they loudly sprayed water in disgust. Fish eagles swooped by with curved swords extended, plucking fish from the lake with a cry as piercing as their talons, before climbing back into the trees.

I was touring the lake with Western’s Ecosystem Health – Africa Initiative, where we conducted interviews to better understand the relationship between the growing community, the billion-dollar flower industry and the health of both individuals and the ecosystem.

Up one hill lays a sprawling, unplanned village without a sanitation program. Its refuse ends up in the lake. The entire slum works for one specific rose grower in the region and, in direct contrast, the owner lives in a white, castle-like home a farther up the lake. These manufactured communities provide their own schooling, healthcare, housing and daycare for employees.

The industry is big business, employing a quarter of the 450,000 residents around the lake, many of whom came to the area during the 1990s when the population was only 20,000. The environmental impact of both human migration and from the flower businesses has been tremendous on Lake Naivasha.

As one local described it: “The flower companies are the mother of Naivasha – a cruel mother.”

In the Backyard.

Dark meat or white meat?

Lake Naivasha, Kenya – Pulling up to our quaint cottage nestled under a trestle of acacia trees, we agreed to stretch our legs after the drive and to take a walk into the field behind us.

Lake Naivasha sprawled below.

Birds chirped against a verdant backdrop that soon exposed dark shapes that moved in herds. Both the house and land surrounding it provided the setting for the 1966 movie, Living Free.

Throaty thunder rolled percussively in symphony with wildebeest hooves parading across the open space.

We walked through constant reminders of the very real presence of Africa’s wildlife, past thorny trees and dry soil littered with the bleached vertebrae of a giraffe, fallen like dominoes and spread as long as its neck was in life. Nearby lay a zebra with hollow eyes and an empty belly.

It was no longer hungry.

To the side, wildebeest banged heads and waterbuck eyed us cautiously. A brown-striped baby zebra galloped beside its mother as a trio of giraffe loped away like teenagers with an awkward gait. Turning to look back at us, they dwarfed the herd of tan antelope with feminine features underfoot.

This is our backyard.

Fuelling Adventure.

Creative means for fuelling a car.

Nairobi, Kenya – After five hours spent waiting for our vehicle to arrive, the orange fuel light menaced us with a winking eye.

Choking on the few fumes remaining in its tank, the large van carrying us to Lake Naivasha would soon be left breathless from the standstill traffic. We looked for a modern-day Moses.

The fuel shortage is currently so serious in Nairobi that people queue on foot for hours, clutching jerry cans even as they stand in suits. Despite the lack of petrol, traffic is chaos as an increasing number of vehicles creep through belching clouds of exhaust.

It takes hours to get anywhere.

Radio chatter alerts listeners to gas stations that have received a new supply, which leads to an immediate rush to the pumps. Soon thereafter, yellow tape is pulled across the tanks like a curtain signalling the end of a show.

As the day’s heat rose, we found a barren station where we could siphon gas from the smaller car we had previously rented, and watched the attendant empty it into a large green garbage can. Using an old plastic oil jug as a scoop and a water bottle fitted with a rubber tube, he cautiously fed the precious fuel into the tank’s gaping maw.

With its thirst quenched, the engine sparked to life and the fuel gauge slowly tilted east, even as we headed northwest through the Rift Valley, looking over Longonot Crater and onto Lake Naivasha, which is ringed by the shiny tarps of flower production.

Hamna shida: after yet another hour, we were back on track.