Is
Kenya’s bush best experienced on two wheels or four legs? Stephanie Debere
takes a cycling and camel safari to find out.
A motorcyclist’s pose proved best for tackling the
downhills: crouched forward over the saddle, gripping wooden handles which
stuck out sideways. I watched as the ground fell away below us, wondering how
smooth, padded feet would manage to keep balance on the loose stones and sand
as we edged down the valley-side.
The camel’s name, it had been
disconcerting to learn, was Lamada — Maasai for “idiot”. A
Samburu warrior led us carefully forward, but soon I couldn’t watch the
ground any more: it seemed impossible that we wouldn’t fall. Like a cruise
passenger thwarting seasickness, I focused on the horizon where rounded hills
of rust-coloured earth and thorny bush faded into distant hazy mesas. But Idiot
plodded on with the balance of an acrobat and by the time we crested the next
ridge, I was cocky in the saddle, sitting back and swaying comfortably. Look,
no hands.
The camel trek had set off from Sabuk, a lodge to the north
of central Kenya’s Laikipia Plateau. We’d arrived the previous day on
a very different type of saddle, one that was small and, after several
hours’ bouncing along bush tracks, somewhat hard. Our safari had begun on
gleaming chrome mountain bikes, to the entertainment of bemused villagers who
watched us swerving round rocks and wobbling through treacly stretches of sand.
The Samburu are not yet used to the cycling safaris recently launched by Kenyan
operator Cheli and Peacock, but it’s likely they will be soon, as more
people realise that pedal power can cover long distances over rough ground
without the barrier that a 4x4 forms between its passengers and the bush.
Our routes linked lodges across the Laikipia Plateau and down into the
Rift Valley. We began each day in the Land Rover, towing the bikes in a
customised ex-British Army kitchen trailer until we reached the starting point
of the ride. After the ritual of pumping tyres, tightening screws, slapping on
sunscreen, filling water bottles and donning helmets, we were off, led by
Stefano Cheli frantically urging us not to veer off towards the edges of the
tracks where we’d pick up punctures from thorns.
The bikes are in
pristine condition, freshly imported from Italy, but unfamiliar mounts always
need some getting used to (guests can bring their own if they prefer). We
didn’t see much game the first day, perhaps because we were concentrating
so hard on our machines. It took most of a 23km ride to work out which gears
were best for uphills; what sized ruts and bumps we could jump; whether we
could plough through deep sand patches, and how much to brake when freewheeling
downhill.
In this harsh Samburu landscape, you can breathe the dryness
and we were grateful to arrive at Sabuk in the early afternoon. The
lodge’s only disadvantage (from a cyclist’s perspective) is that it
lies around 100m above the hurried cocoa-coloured waters of the Ewasu Ngiro
river, which we had to cross to reach it. Once over the bridge, the road veered
sharply upwards, so we arrived panting and caked in red dust mixed with
sunscreen and sweat, not dissimilar to the mixture of red ochre and cow fat
which the decorous Samburu warriors like to smear into their hair. We soon got
used to arriving at smart lodges looking scruffier and smelling riper than
average safari-goers.
The cycling itineraries are loosely designed so
that you ride in the mornings and arrive in camp in time for leisurely
afternoons, with a further walk or cycle towards the end of the day, or a game
drive depending on the location.
At our first camp, Solio, sandwiched
beneath the high ground of the Aberdares and Mount Kenya (which sits
glacier-capped on the Equator and looms 5200m like an inverted shark’s
tooth), we reverted to four wheels for a drive through a 7500ha sanctuary
containing one of the world’s highest concentrations of both Black and
White rhino. Sightings are likely, though not guaranteed, but we were lucky,
losing count of how many of both species we saw, and also finding a young
leopard lying sphinx-like by the track.
At Sabuk, the afternoons are
best filled with swimming. The climb to the stylish, open-sided lodge is
rewarded with dramatic views over the river valley, Ewasu Ngiro (Maasai for
“Red River”) passing the camp and curving sharply away round a steep
spur of land. The fast waters are crocodile-free, ideal for cyclists to shed
their dust and reinvigorate themselves. Sabuk’s diligent guide Owen Evans
(commonly known as “Squack”) showed us where the murky water was deep
enough for diving off the rocks, a ten-metre-high boulder forming his own
favourite springboard.
Our two-day camel trek was perfectly timed to
give saddle-sore behinds a chance to toughen up before we cycled again. Meeting
the camels was far stranger than meeting the bikes, though the dromedaries took
less getting used to once we were in the saddle. They are extraordinary
creatures, peering down flat noses from huge eyes beneath a fringe of lashes,
with dolphin-like smiles — though we did witness one temper tantrum,
complete with bellowing, grimacing and the impolite display of a mouthful of
spinach-like cud. When lying down, their back legs seem to point in the wrong
direction, folded out behind instead of tucked underneath. Their feet have two
toenails above large rounded pads which splay out, spreading the camel’s
weight like an in-built snowshoe so it doesn’t sink in the sand.
Idiot rocked me violently back and forth as he stood up, but once we were
going, his swaying movement was soothing. It felt as though I was doing a sort
of slow-motion belly dance in the saddle, my hips automatically gyrating in
sync with the rocking so as to keep my upper torso as steady as possible. From
this regal height, I surveyed the surrounding bush, watching game I’d
otherwise have missed: tiny spring-loaded dik-dik, dark, shaggy-coated
waterbuck and proud kudu. The perspective confirmed our remoteness, enclosed by
endless ridges covered with acacias so densely armoured with white thorns that
they seemed in places to carry pale blossom.
We camped downstream
beside Ewasu Ngiro, under glossy grass-green palms and golden fever trees that
could have come straight from a pioneer watercolour. A train of eleven luggage
camels had gone ahead with a team of Samburu warriors who set up camp before
our arrival at another perfect swimming spot: no high-diving, but a series of
small rapids forming natural jacuzzis complete with rock armchairs. The perfect
bush spa. We ducked behind one set of falls, the curtain of water pouring
mustard-yellow above our heads.
The camp’s seclusion was
reminiscent of pioneer days, but the way we lived was not, the coup de
théâtre arriving at dinner in the form of a fresh passion fruit
soufflé, baked in a tin box in the coals of the fire and served by a
glamorous, heavily-beaded Samburu warrior.
Two legs were sometimes
better than four. Some terrain is not camel friendly, and too long in the wide
A-frame saddle, padded with bright red Samburu blankets, can leave you walking
like John Wayne. On foot, we followed a lugga (dry riverbed), thick with the
previous night’s spoor (tracks): porcupine, aardvark, lion, leopard and
wild dog. It didn’t matter that we hadn’t seen the animals: just
knowing that they maintained a strong presence here was gratifying. Elephant
had gouged dark, wet holes with their tusks in the search for subterranean
water. Leaving the camels, we silently approached a browsing bull, Squack
squeezing a small canvas bag of ash to release puffs of white dust showing the
wind direction, so we could advance undetected.
After two days of
camel-induced ease, it was time to resume the Tour de Kenya. We drove across
ranches adjacent to Sabuk, traversing high plains littered with herds of oryx,
Grevy’s zebra, Reticulated giraffe and Thomson’s and Grant’s
gazelles. When we reached the road to Lake Baringo, we swapped four wheels for
two and Stefano led us westwards towards the Rift Valley. The Baringo road is
104km and it was up to us how far we cycled. The Land Rover followed at a
distance, on radio standby to provide mechanical backup or sustenance, or for
when we simply wanted a lift.
Africa descends in uneven ledges to the
floor of its Rift Valley, thoughtfully providing long, fast downhills
interspersed with some challenging climbs. There was less time to look around
than there had been on the camels but speed was a definite compensation.
“Look, no hands” wasn’t an option. The feeling of isolation at
Sabuk was replaced by a sense of interaction, as Pokot people greeted us and
giggled as we charged past over hard-packed earth and loose rocks. In the
village of Tangulbei we stopped at a corrugated tin shop, brightly painted
turquoise and sunflower yellow and signposted Soda Baridi — Swahili for
“Cold soda”. But all there was inside were supplies of soap, sugar
and candles, and a picture of President Moi — of scant use to thirsty
cyclists.
Around thirty children had gathered, respectfully eyeing our
wheels, until a bold boy asked for a ride. Suddenly all the bicycles were being
pedalled off accompanied by a hail of Swahili from Stefano, urging the kids not
to ride through thorny ground. Minutes later they bombed out of a sandy alley,
puncture-free and laughing triumphantly.
Our target, Lake Baringo,
soon appeared, like a matt grey pancake among layers of hilly land, and seemed,
at one point, tantalisingly close until the road veered away into thick green
bush. After 50km, we hung up our yellow jerseys and called in the Land Rover to
drive us to the lakeshore, where we took a harlequin-painted wooden longboat to
Kenya’s second-oldest tented lodge, Island Camp, on a hilly nugget of land
surrounded by the lake.
Stepping ashore on a Saturday afternoon, we
were submerged in the languid world of old colonial Kenya. The Food and Wine
Society of Nairobi was here for the weekend, its members huddled round a radio
by the pool in reverent silence, taking tea and listening to the Six Nations
rugby scores. Jelly-legged, we swam, guzzled rehydration drinks and indulged in
some quality people-watching as the sun flooded the far Rift Valley wall with
light. We dined generously from the camp’s barbecue before finally dozing
off in our tents to the strains of the foodies’ after-dinner sing-song:
Livin’ Doll and Cockles and Mussels mingled with the sound of cicadas.
By the final day, our stamina was improving and backsides were toughening
up. We had driven south to the flat, sandy shores of Lake Bogoria, a soda lake
with no natural outlet, fed by volcanic hot springs. The mineral-rich waters,
blue-grey from a distance, resemble pea soup at their edges, swirling with
green algae that sustain the microbes so delicious to flamingos.
“Flamingo numbers here can reach the millions, depending on algae
levels,” said Stefano as we pedalled off the tar road that skirts
Bogoria’s western flank. On the black stone littoral, lines of old
flamingo feathers denoted previous high-water marks like seaweed on a beach.
Laikipia’s fresh breezes were supplanted by a trembling heat haze as we
headed for a belt of pale pink hugging the shore. The dense mass of flamingos
hardly moved as we cycled towards it, secure behind the barrier of naturally
heated water that divided us.
The landscape became surreal as we rode
among hot springs: numerous volcanic vents bellowed steam and a bubbling
cauldron spewed boiling water into the lake. The flamingos quacked furiously,
their hooked beaks tucked tightly beneath their chins. Sinister Marabou storks
patrolled for carrion. Our bikes seemed futuristic in this primeval setting. It
was classic East Africa, though it felt as though we were seeing it
differently.
Pedalling, we could cover plenty of ground without being
cut off from our surroundings, with none of the passivity that can infuse
classic safaris. Two wheels and four legs had complemented one another
perfectly: trekking serenely with Idiot had let me rest and really scrutinise
the bush. Africa from a saddle, whatever the type, had looked extremely
good.
