I 1

Luxury in the Wild_. on Kenya's Lake Baringo

By Dorothy Stephens

Special to the Washington Post May 7, 1989

Dawn on Lake Baringo. Waiters patter along the cliff paths delivering tea trays to the tents. I slip on a robe, sink into a deck chair and sip hot milky tea, while watching the sun rise over the mountains of western Kenya. Tiny scarlet and amethyst sunbirds fly in and out of a flowering shrub. A hammerkop - a large, dusky brown, odd-looking bird with a wedge-shaped head and short tail-squawks plaintively from its gigantic nest of sticks in a tree above our tent: Fish eagles search for food along the water's edge below us, or soar skyward in a dramatic display of white and chestnut bodies and jet-black wings. The movements of sun and clouds produce constantly shifting patterns of light and shadow, changing the slopes in a moment from purples and blues to gray-greens, reddish browns and black.

A trip to Lake Baringo, 160 miles northwest of Nairobi, is one of the easiest do-it-yourself safaris in Kenya. It is also a dramatic study in contrasts, as my husband and I discovered last winter. We had lived in Kenya in the 1950s, when Bob was in the Foreign Service, and had returned for a visit after 30 years: It was good to be back in Nairobi, and to see old friends. But we were eager to be away from the city and out in the bush once again, out on the wide plains under that enormous African sky.

Our first African safari - by jeep to the Masai Mara, where we camped in a safari tent - had been rugged but satisfying. Now we were ready for something a little less strenuous for two people in their sixties. Lake Baringo seemed a perfect choice. Most East African game parks and lodges are accessible only over bumpy dirt roads rife with potholes and dust, or sometimes by air. In contrast; the Island Camp on Ol Kokwa Island, in the middle of Lake Baringo, lies a short boat ride away from the end of a smooth tarmac road that runs straight from Nairobi to the tiny fishing village of Kampi ya Samaki at the lake's edge.

Heading north from Nairobi in our rented Toyota, we followed the road as it skirted the escarpment above the Rift Valley, high enough to afford a magnificent view west across endless plains of scorched brown grass to the vague outline of mountains 40 miles away. Two thousand feet below, the blue volcanic peak of Longonot rose from the valley floor. Beyond it, Lake Naivasha shone like a piece of dull silver.

We descended gradually into the valley and continued north, leaving the arid plains behind. On each side of the road, irrigation had transformed the dry scrub we remembered into lush orange groves and green fields of vegetables. As always in Kenya, distant mountains hemmed the horizon.

Farther north, the land changed again. Rolling green pastures and fields of golden hay lay beneath the wide African sky. Sleek cattle grazed against the backdrop of the Aberdare mountains, whose sharp peaks and ridges loomed dark and forbidding in the high clear air. Beyond Nakuru the land sloped down onto hot dry plains where fields of sisal, planted in long neat rows, lined both sides of the road. Slender spires topped by clusters of delicate blossoms rose from the spiky green clumps, like the lances of a vast army of invisible soldiers. Soon only dry thornbush surrounded us. Red dust devils spiraled upward out of the bush. Termite hills rose from the flat landscape like giant red sand castles, their turrets and tall chimneys visible for miles. Occasionally we saw one or two small boys herding goats by the road, clad in sandals and longis--skimpy lengths of striped or checked cotton wrapped around their waists. They smiled and waved as we passed. Now and then we caught a glimpse of a thatch-roofed mud hut, half-visible among the scrubby thorn trees.

At the village of Kampi ya Samaki (Fish Camp), on the shore of Lake Baringo, the tarmac road petered out. We lurched along into a dusty, rock-strewn track between two rows of tin-roofed shops. The shelves in their dark interiors displayed little, but the exterior walls were gaudy with posters advertising Coca-Cola, Total petrol and Tusker beer. We were almost out of' gas and my husband stopped to ask a group of young boys where we could get some.

Almost before the words were out of his mouth, one of the children dove head-first into the back seat, entangling his legs en route in Bob's seat belt. The boy wriggled free, at the same time telling us in English that he would show us "where the petrol lives."

He was plastered with layer upon layer of caked dirt and was wearing only a soiled longi and broken plastic sandals. His bright grin was marred by teeth brown with decay. He said his name was Luca, then directed us out of the village, onto one sandy track after another. We got farther and farther from any sign of human habitation and the road became ever rougher.

"Are you sure we will find petrol?" I asked.

Luca's head bobbed. "I am sure!" We may have been uneasy; but Luca was enjoying every minute. He told us that he was in Standard (Grade) Five, and that next he would go to Standard Six; then Seven, then Eight, and then he would "go to read in America." When he found out that we came from near Boston he said, "In Massachusetts! I have friends there!"

"Someone from your village who went there to school?"

"No! Some tourists I met who came here."

By now we had come to a small stone building standing alone in the barren bush. There were padlocks on the doors and no sign of a gas pump. Luca's grin faded. "This is where the petrol lives," he declared. "But just now no one is here."

We turned around with difficulty on the narrow track, the car scraping over rocks, thornbush scratching the doors. As we made our way back to town Bob kept an anxious eye on the gas gauge, which for some time had been registering empty.

"We'll forget the petrol for now," he said. "Luca, can you show us where to find the boat to the Island Camp?" '

Luca pointed the way to the boat landing, then asked if he could have my husband's pen or his watch, or a shirt - in payment for his services as a guide. He settled for 20 shillings and ran off. .

We left the car near the boat landing and walked down a path to an insubstantial dock. The world seemed totally without color - a bleak moonscape of powdery white dust, pale rocks and dead-looking, bristling thorn trees. Even the gregarious white-browed sparrow weavers that chattered in the trees were conservatively striped in white and brown. I looked across the cafe-au-lait lake and wondered^- what sort of safari we had embarked on in this desolate place.

Ol Kokwa Island rises sharply out of Lake Baringo, rocky and sparsely wooded. On a promontory at one end, feathery green acacia trees and a few marigolds grow out of the rocks, providing welcome spots of color in the pallid landscape. As it turned out, I needn't have worried about what lay ahead. The Island Camp was a complete and totalIy disarming surprise: pure luxury in the wild. The commodious tents, under roofs of thick thatch over canvas, perched on flagstone platforms along the edge of the cliffs, and were equipped with comfortable cots, hot and cold-running water, showers and electricity.

From the tent verandas and from the airy, thatch-roofed dining room, the view was breathtaking. The lake is rimmed by steep volcanic cliffs, and beyond them, on every side, range after range of mountains stretch to infinity. At night, we sat spellbound in front of our tent as the full moon rose, casting an unearthly glow over the mountains and making a glittering path across the water.

Lake Baringo is home to hippos, crocodiles and a great variety of birds. In fact, we didn't need to go looking for the birds, we just sat on our veranda, admiring the view and waiting for them to appear. Even during meals in the open-air dining room, little yellow weaver birds regularly alighted on our table for a bit of sugar, a taste of butter, a bite of cereal.

On a before-breakfast boat ride around the lake, we saw hippos feeding sluggishly on the lake bottom, snorting and snuffling when they surfaced and pushed their nostrils and snouts out of the water to breathe.

Our Kenyan guide was sharp-eyed and knowledgeable: He piloted the boat slowly and quietly among islands, under high cliffs, through tiny coves and hidden marshes to point out the incredible variety of birds on the lake: tall Goliath herons with their blush of peach-on-gray feathers, standing immobile on the shore; elegant black-winged stilts trailing long pink legs as they skimmed over the water, a spectacular black-and-white kingfisher on a dead branch overhanging the lake; gray herons; snowy egrets; and a bright chestnut, blue-billed African jacana.

The boatman saw me leafing through my East African bird guide to identify the unfamiliar jacana. "Page .182, Plate 12," he said. I flipped the pages. He was right! "I know this book well," he added, smiling.

It can sometimes be muggy arid hot at Baringo, but luckily while we were there a few showers cooled the air and a light breeze kept us comfortable. The swimming pool at the top of the island provided an inviting way to cool off, as did comfortable lounge chairs, thatched shelters and a poolside bar. A young English couple we met by the pool had been more adventurous than we: they had gone water-skiing on the lake. Remembering the long reptilian shadows of crocodiles that we had seen sliding along just under the lake’s surface, I shuddered. The Englishman laughed. "The crocs provide a very strong motivation to stay up on the skiis," he said. "Besides, the local fishermen say the lake is so thick with fish, the crocs never get hungry enough to bother about people."

Just before dusk on our final day we left camp and scrambled over rocks and through thorny scrub to a path along the shore. We wanted to explore other parts of the island that we’d seen from the water. Almost immediately we were adopted by three self-appointed young African guides: Paulo, John, and Sara, ages 13, 12, and 11. Like Luca, the boys wore dingy longis and battered plastic sandals. Sara wore a kanga—a colorful length of cotton wrapped around her like a sarong – and a green-and-purple headcloth. They conducted us around their end of the island under the darkening tree shadows, pointing out an owl on the branch of a tree, a baby crocodile lying carelessly half out of the water, hippos feeding out in the shallows. We climbed to their hillside village of round mud huts where women were tending fires and cooking.

I wondered what was in the cooking pots. Once, the Masai had lived mainly on milk, blood and perhaps meat on special occasions; now, Paulo told us, they ate a lot of fish. This tribe had traditionally been nomadic, migrating up and down East Africa with their herds, but these villagers had settled on Ol Kokwa Island to work in the camp and to fish.

The village women stared at us as we passed their huts, but smiled and returned our greetings. Children needed no encouragement. They shouted and waved the minute they spotted us on the path. Paulo showed us the school, an open-sided, one-room banda with a tin roof and one blackboard. He said there were 93 pupils in the school and five teachers - which seemed far too many for so small a school. "But only one class meets in the school," Paulo explained. "Another one meets under that tree, and another under that tree, and another under that." Three of the teachers were Masai, like the children, and the other two were Kisii, another local tribe. Paulo said that the teachers lived at Marigat, a slightly larger village a few miles south of the lake, and that they came to school every day by boat.

Outside the camp gate, we shook hands and said goodbye. Once again some shillings changed hands: The children had been excellent guides and had earned their fee. But as they turned toward the village, Sara asked if she might have my blouse; I was sorry to say no, but I didn't relish the thought of returning blouseless through camp.

The launch took us away the next morning. We left reluctantly, still marveling at this oasis of comfort and tranquility in a beautiful but harsh, wild landscape.