Lost

Saigare was not at home. I half expected him not to be. It was late in the afternoon and his boma (group of family huts) was our last stop before heading home. I leaned on the bonnet of the Landrover and looked out over the dried up soda lake. He would definitely have to move again when the rains came as this would all be swamp. It was dry and dusty and even now I could only just make out the very top of Ol Donyo Lengai (Maasai Holy Mountain) in the distance as a huge dust cloud had been whipped up by the wind and was advancing like a curtain across the mountains in the distance.



I could feel a fresh breeze in my face so we turned around and headed off into the scrub. I was the only Mzungu (European) in the group with Maiko and Lekoko, both Maasai, and Geti, a Mwaarusha. We had had a long day distributing food and I was hoping to find the track that would lead us safely back to the tarmac road. Somehow, in my mind I had an idea that it would all be quite straightforward and simple. I was looking forward to being back with Lisa, anticipating telling her of the day’s events and all the people we had met.

I began to get annoyed when I couldn’t find the track nor could I recognise the korongos (gorges) we were crossing. The sun had lost its strength by now and was heading for the horizon and I knew it would be a whole new world out there in the dark. Despite my anxiety Maiko was cheerful and had already worked out how we could spend the night in the back of the pickup. Maasai are quite used to sharing a bed with their own age set but I was thinking that I’d rather drive all night!

I took out my new GPS and looked up the tracks that I had stored . It was blank, not a single track. I then realised that I must have deleted the whole memory when I thought I was deleting a single track. Now I was not only anxious but really annoyed, partly for the inconvenience but also for the loss of the log of a long and strenuous track that had disappeared into the ether. I decided never to rely on modern technology.



I decided to follow the advice of those ‘what-to-do-when you’re-lost’ books and ‘traverse the terrain’ hoping to cross a track, any track would do. When we arrived at the top of a hill that I thought I knew, I found I was in fact looking across a huge gorge straight at the very hill I should have been on. Now I was dismayed and disorientated and the sun was minutes away from the horizon.



Someone saw a herd of cattle behind us so we turned hoping to get some local advice but we came again to the edge of an enormous gorge. Everyone got out and wandered down to the bottom to see if there was any way across. I sat in the Landrover and tried to ring Lisa but there was no signal. We obviously weren’t going to be getting back in good time. My hopes of a light supper and an evening with my wife were fading and I was more than a little irritated. I asked God for ‘just a track,’ thinking that our problems would be solved once we were on the right path as all tracks eventually lead to the main road.

I picked my way rather bolshily amongst black volcanic boulders, anticipating a struggle to cross the gorge but as we crested the opposite bank I was surprised at how easy it had been. I presumed God might want thanking for that, but we were still a long way from home so said nothing.

The herd of cows turned out to be a flock of goats and sheep and were standing outside a boma being milked. I anticipated coming across a simple lad with a scraggy herd, madly driving them home before dark but instead we were greeted by a short weather beaten man whose wives and small children slowly emerged from their huts shy and smiling. The older boys greeted me in Swahili but the women only spoke Maa. He said he would show us a track that was not far from the boma and we gave him some of the remaining food we had to distribute. The women laughed in delight that food had come to them all the way out there, free and in the dark! I was glad that we could help them and relieved that we had found some reliable advice. I noted the man’s name in my GPS tracklog, so that I could visit him again (hopefully).



His sons ran ahead in the headlights, barely discernable in the dark and I tried to follow all the gesticulated instructions. However we arrived at a small gorge that was impassable with huge boulders strewn inconveniently all over the place. The man and his sons then rushed about in the dark finding another way across. Maiko commented on how bright the boys were, how they had understood the problem and immediately worked out another solution. I sat quietly repenting of my assumptions and thanked God for the track and that we were now ‘on our way.’



We wound our way upwards in the dark, weaving this way and then that. The track was so unclear that I wondered how they had made it in the first place. What a contrast between Roman and African ways – one militaristic and straightforward, the other social and circuitous.

I was trying to plot where we were in my mind as we were in total darkness now. When we came to a fork in the track the popular vote was to go right. However, after a while I stopped and turned off all the lights. It looked like we were heading around the back of the only visible landmark which was the looming mass of Lepurko mountain straight ahead of us. So we retraced our tracks and headed off to the left. It was an old track that was very overgrown with Acacia scrub and took us away from the mountain. This fact worried me as by my reckoning we should have been amongst tall acacias on flat ground and skirting around the mountain.

Maiko kept reassuring us that he was born in a boma just over the hill and knew the area well. So we drove on. We could see torch lights shining on the dark mountainside behind us and wondered if we were being ‘advised’ or were they cattle herders just going home late? There definitely should have been a hunter’s camp on a ridge to our left at some point. When we stopped again and switched off the lights we couldn’t hear any sound and the only torches were from a boma a long way off. We were miles from anywhere and totally lost.

‘Barabara’ is an odd sounding word. It is Swahili for road and when the ‘barabara’ suddenly dived into another gorge and didn’t come out I was convinced that we should turn back and take the right fork. We retraced our tracks again and all I could hear was people muttering about the ‘barabara;’ with a barabara here and a barabara there, old Makofia lost his way, aiyee, aiyee, oh I think I’m going mad! I shook my head to concentrate on the faint tracks in the light ahead of me.

This time the track took us winding round and up and down until it finally came onto a bit that I thought I recognised. Hopes were up until it then went up hill sharply and divided into two, which totally exasperated me. We took the left hand one and followed it round a large tree and there in the headlights was a neat little footpath. We had driven straight into the hunter’s camp and had arrived in ‘reception!’ There was a stunned silence as everyone recalibrated their mental map of where we were.

Several men came out of the darkness with powerful torches bearing spears and interviewed us. Yes they had been shining a torch at us earlier on knowing we were heading up a blind ‘barabara’. Happily they recognised me and gave us instructions for the right road and we were on our way again. We were all tired and I was frustrated so when we took another wrong turn there was a tense debate. It was implied that I hadn’t understood the man’s Swahili instructions. ‘But,’ I said, ‘two lefts don’t make a right. We went wrong on the first track and took a left and then we should have taken a right turn to get back onto the original track. Now we have taken another left so we are doubly wrong.’ There was a moment’s silence and then they were amazed at how stupid the young man had been in telling us to go left. I smiled at the deft avoidance of loss of face. This time we were on the right barabara and I recognised it.



There was phone signal and the distant glow of civilisation over the horizon. I told Lisa that we would be a little late as we had got lost but now we were on our way. She said she might be up when I got back. Well thank you, I thought to myself, you have no idea where we have been…but then I don’t think anyone else had either, except maybe a few bemused locals who had been watching our headlights erratically traversing the bush for the past few hours.

Back to the Beginning

Graham recently had a fantastic opportunity to take farmers into the forest and show them how God farms. Teaching conservation agriculture has been a bit of an uphill struggle because it is labour intensive. Had we come in with brand new shiny tractors, implying status and development, we may have had a large following in no time at all. But no tillage and covering everything with a mulch just doesn’t seem attractive to a lot of people; maybe because it looks untidy.

The day started with just two people, who are learning how to teach it and are very inspired, and one other who came along out of curiosity.

Graham continues the story...

As we drove down through the fields we picked up a couple of other farmers who left their work, intrigued by our trip. Were we really heading to the forest for some teaching on how to grow maize?

The track led through banana plantations and small fields of vegetables and maize and then we passed a bare, newly ploughed field and came to the edge of the forest. The huge trees seemed so tall all of a sudden and the shade swallowed us into its cool and peaceful interior where we stopped in a small open area.

I gathered everyone around and started by pointing out how productive and lush this forest was when the land beyond was so dry. Long lean trunks soared up into the upper canopy 60-70 feet above us supported by the upper branches which were festooned with creepers swinging down to the shrubby undergrowth and ending up rooted amongst the scattered seedlings and annuals on the forest floor at our feet.

I invited them to notice how untidy the area was. There were fallen trees, rotting logs and a carpet of twigs and debris from above. We walked under the canopy of a leafy shrub and squatted down and scraped away the dry surface mulch. The debris was dark and shapeless as it began to be broken down. The soil was friable and beautifully light. It was dark and slightly moist with the scent of humus. When we dug down a little further we uncovered slender white root filaments of things growing in amongst the rotting leaf litter and small bugs. I suggested they push their fingers in and see how far they could penetrate the soil and then asked them if they would like to have soil like this in their fields.



In the past people would cut down the trees, clear the undergrowth and grow three good years of maize before they had used up all the fertility. Then they would leave the land and move on. In the next ten years or so it would all slowly grow back, without their help, and gradually regain its former fine structure and fertility. But now, the soil is worked and worked and turned over until every last bit of natural goodness is used up.

Another interesting thing was that there were no erosion channels here and the water in the streams that flowed through this forest was relatively clear. In contrast the channels between their fields were filled with muddy brown water showing that erosion was taking place.

We moved out from under the covering of the forest into the glare of the midday sun and walked across the ploughed field. The bare earth was light in colour and scorching hot with a caked surface from where the last rain had fallen onto it. The clods that the plough had turned up were as hard as bricks and there was a flush of weeds pushing up through the cracks in the surface. There was little moisture in the surface layer and no evidence of any insect life. The field sloped gently down to the edge of the forest where a large area of silt had been transported. When we walked across towards the centre we came across a newly formed erosion channel, a few feet in depth revealing a scattering of stones and rocks.

The contrast was stark and needed little reinforcing. It was obvious to all that God was the better farmer and when we went into the classroom, understanding was already dawning.



This man has recently learnt the conservation method by following Graham for several weeks and was teaching here for the first time. He will take it to other areas where he is working and is already a strong and inspired advocate.

The 'Seven Stepper'

On a recent trip, I had an interesting snake encounter. I was waiting for the guys I was with to get back into the pickup when I looked out of the passenger window. There on the grass only a few feet away was an enormous black mamba, looking very calm, coiled in a lazy circle with its head held up in the centre.

I recognised it at once by its supercilious smile as it carefully surveyed the scene. I shouted that there was a ‘really bad’ snake and everyone should get into the pickup. Just as I thought I should take a photo it started to slither into a hole in a dead tree trunk whilst its tail began to thrash around angrily.



I wondered what would happen next. Then we saw that there was a herd of cattle coming through the trees towards us. Someone shouted at the moran herders to warn them. Straight away they came towards us picking up small rocks and circling warily round the dead tree trunk. Then the one nearest the car saw the head appear out of the hole and start to go for him. He immediately chopped down onto the snake’s back with his long-bladed spear. The snake started to writhe around and I saw the spear was bent so he quickly changed to using his herding stick.




(What I particularly love about this photo is that he kept hold of his umbrella, spear and water bottle in the other hand throughout the process! That’s one cool warrior in my book!)

The other moran came from the other direction and joined the fray.



It was all over in a very short time and the snake was lifted into the air and displayed as truly dead. It was about 7 feet long and about 3-4 inches across at its thickest!



We left them to hoist the body into a tree for the birds and drove on with many excited comments about mambas. The immediate instinct here is to kill snakes whether they are venomous or not. We often find ourselves defending them and begging people to leave them be, especially if they are obviously completely harmless like a common house snake. However, this one was a killer and could have attacked the herd of cattle so I left them to do what they had to do. The snake had seemed oddly calm to start with and the others thought that it had eaten something recently. However, it was definitely angry and coming towards the moran when he struck it.

They call the black mamba ‘the seven step snake’ as the poison is so potent that you only have seven steps of life left. They are also very quick and aggressive snakes and can bite repeatedly, easily able to kill several full grown cattle in one attack.

Then the stories started......a man in South Africa had driven over one and it had caught onto the chassis of the car and held on to the running board until he reached his hotel. As he got out of the car it bit him and he died.....

And a friend, driving along in his pick up full of people, stopped to look at one on the side of the road. It went for them, the passengers leapt up onto the roof bars, our friend slammed the cab window shut, the black mamba slithered up under the bonnet and they had no choice but to continue their journey. Upon arrival, they gathered round the car armed with sticks, lifted the bonnet carefully with a VERY long stick and there it was curled up on the engine!

The Hatted One

I have been trying to do a deal with my neighbour, a small Mwarusha man. He has a long thin piece of land that extends into my plot and is bound by it on three sides and I am suggesting a ‘like for like’ swap to make two blocks of land, both of which would be more easily managed and more saleable. As always we spoke in Kiswahili.



I met him this morning down by my fence. After harvest our neighbours, and especially this particular one, just let their animals roam anywhere eating the leftovers. The problem is that I am trying to preserve the stover for a mulch cover to increase soil water retention and fertility. His goats, sheep and cows are hungry and have other ideas when they see all this fodder lying around after harvest.

I asked if he had spoken with the rest of the boma. He said that he had taken my message to them and that the young men had refused my idea but had another idea. They want me to buy a small piece of their plot, about 20 paces long, for 5 million shillings - almost ten times the going rate! I reminded him that I had said categorically there would be no exchange of money. I don’t have any and the deal is already mutually beneficial. He continued to reiterate their point of view and in desperation I said,

“Do you understand why I suggested this deal?”

He looked at me surprised and a little bemused. I took him by the sleeve and said,

“Ok you are now Makofia (my local name which means the ‘hatted one’)and I am Nagole”. I drew him to where I was standing and I went and stood where he had been standing.



“Ok I said why do you want to do this deal?”

“I don’t,” he said. “You came to me first.”

“No,” I said. “You are me and I am you. So you have to tell me why I wanted to exchange this piece of land.” He looked bemused again but I persisted thinking that the penny would drop very shortly if I could convincingly play out my/his part.

“So Makofia, why do you want to exchange this land that you bought off me? Do you think that it is no good?” I said.

He laughed and said,

“I don’t know you bought it off me and it was alright then.”

“No, no”, I said. “I am Nagole.” At which point he roared with laughter.

In desperation I noticed he was wearing a most ridiculous woolly hat so I stepped forward and took it off his head and replaced it with my Aukubra and put his multi coloured woolly on my head. He looked startled and then stared at me quizzically for a moment. I let the full import of what I had done sink in and started again.



“Ok Makofia,” I said. “Why do you want to swap this piece of land that you bought off me last year?”

He paused and I could see that something was going on inside and he was imperceptibly readjusting his perspective. Then he answered slowly,

“Because your cows and sheep keep coming onto my land and eating my crops.”

“Yes,” I cried triumphantly, throwing my arms in the air. “That’s why I want to swap the land. Why can’t you get them to agree to it?”

“They are young and want money”, he said. “But I will go back and talk with them.”

“Ok then I will wait for you to come back to me, now give me back my hat.”

“Oh no, you gave it to me. I want to keep it.” He dodged my outstretched hand.

“What! No way,” I laughed. “Here you take your woolly hat,” and I lunged at him and grabbed my hat off his head as he moved to run off.

We laughed and bade each other farewell.

“What a cheek,” I thought to myself. “He was trying to play me all along!”