K.K.K Kruger, Kenya, Kinship

There are days when my mind does not settle on one spot. Instead, my attention span is short. This phenomenon happens when too many exciting things happen around me, and my FOMO kicks in. Right now, there are birds I’d like to photograph, people to meet and have conversations with, rugby, the sunshine, and a river inviting me to sit quietly and let go of my plans. Very tempting, I’m sure.

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Last Saturday evening, while I was enjoying a movie in bed, I heard an unfamiliar grrt-grrt and a trembling of the Honey Badger, which was very slight but disturbing. Upon further inspection, I found a smooth, ebony hand reaching into our cabin; the long, bony fingers attached were tickling their way around our dining table. I leaned forward bravely to ask the face attached to the arm precisely what they were doing in our motorhome.

A dull, glazed, puzzled expression stared uncomprehendingly back at me. After a few seconds, the seventeen-year-old’s drugged brain kicked in, and he dislodged himself from my fruit basket and hightailed down the beach. I stopped short when I realised some of my laundry had disappeared.

I whipped my remaining laundry off the line in a flash, noticing I’d lost  T-shirts, lingerie, and socks. Did the thieves not approve of my wardrobe? I wondered if that was the total damage. Of course not; one only realises that when you need something.

The following day, to my horror, I realised my laptop and mouse had been nicked.

Despite the widespread belief that Honey Badgers take no $h!t, the Angolan Police proved equally swift. Within three hours of reporting the theft, I had my laptop back. The unapologetic perpetrator, a well-known figure, was promptly arrested along with his 5-year-old brother, whom he blamed for his misdeeds. Witnessing the cringeworthy interrogations, I couldn’t help but marvel at the efficiency of the local law enforcement.

 

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Butch has the most comprehensive circle of friends I know; they are an eclectic bunch who span many decades and seasons of his life and are scattered all over the world.

Many have similar tastes for adventure and travel and eagerly await his missives, photographs, and messages. His phone buzzed with questions, helpful information, and first-hand suggestions when he announced we would enter Kenya.

Varsity pals caught on, and Butch, thrilled, was inundated with messages from ex-Kenyans who were delighted that we were visiting their old hunting grounds. Butch isn’t one to let the grass grow under his feet, and within a few hours, he was hooked up with Kenyans living in the Eldoret area.

 

But first, he was determined to deliver me to the Eldoret hospital and get me a “proper doctor,” he said. I was diagnosed with Pneumonia and instructed to take a bag of medicines, rest and recuperate. Fine. I could live with that.

 

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Passports and Immigration turned out to be a speedy process, and it was a relief to hear and speak English again.

It is customary, I was to find out soon enough, that one should always have a few thousand Bob or a bottle of mineral water stashed away while driving in Kenya, “this is to make life easier when traffic officials stop one along the way” a driver told me a few days later.

Roadblocks and barriers are frequent occurrences, and we were to find out once we hit the road. It took all Butch’s negotiating skills to get us out of a few situations where his driving was not up to scratch, according to a wily traffic warden.

I would look the other way and focus on the blue skies, puffy clouds and colourful homes we passed.

 A lick of bright yellow, crimson, or turquoise paint around a window frame, door or roof can lift one’s spirits quickly.

Tall Eucalyptus trees planted in colonial times still cast their cool afternoon shade when it is customary for folk to sit around cooking fires or provide shade to homemakers pounding corn, soya or wheat kernels to prepare the evening meal.

 

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ELDORET

 

Uasin Gishu County is one of the 47 Kenyan counties in the former Rift Valley Province.

Eldoret has the county’s largest population and is the administrative and commercial centre.

Uasin Gishu is located on a plateau with a cool and temperate climate. The county’s name comes from the Maasai word Illwuasin-kishu. The land was the grazing area of the tribe. They surrendered the land to the colonial government in the Anglo-Maasai agreement of 1911 and were subsequently pushed towards the Trans Mara District. The plateau they once occupied was then registered by its Anglicised name, Uasin Gishu.

 

In 1903, the area was proposed as a potential Jewish homeland under the British Uganda Programme, which Jewish community leaders rejected in the Sixth Zionist Congress.

In 1908, fifty-eight Afrikaans-speaking South African families settled in the Uasin Gishu plateau. Sixty more families followed in 1911 and later. The town of Eldoret was founded  amid the farms they created.

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At last, just after midday, we trundled into bustling Eldoret. “I wonder if this is the maternity hospital where Steve and Nax were born?” Butch pointed out, and “I bet Eldoret was a sleepy village sixty years ago when they came to town.” He guessed as we made our way up one street and down another as we negotiated traffic circles, double roads, and narrow streets in our search for our destination. 

Eldoret Hospital reminded me of our institutional Eben Donges Hospital, built in the early sixties. It is a sprawling brick hospital, now private, with various outbuildings housing Laboratories, X-ray facilities, a maternity ward, surgical wards, pharmacies, in-patients, medical suites, and consulting rooms for doctors.

I met Doctor Lodhia, who listened to my tale of woe, listened to my vital statistics and then sent me off to have a barrage of tests done.

Down silent corridors, I was escorted by softly spoken staff who guided me gently and deposited me at the various stations where I was x-rayed, prodded, probed and pricked for a diagnosis.

Within a short time, I was back at the surgery with my diagnosis. At last, we could set off to Moiben, where we’d meet the Krugers.

 

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The trusting Krugers were about to welcome guests they knew nothing about. On the other hand, we had heard inspiring stories about an old Kenyan farming family who had survived the troubles and decided to continue farming on their land, where they had changed and adapted to the tides.

“The Sergoit hill is our landmark, the farm pools around the mountailn” Butch confidently declared as we meandered through the picturesque countryside, getting lost, doubling back, and resetting the GPS. In desperation, after an hour of chasing our own tail Butch asked Fanie to send a Pin Drop. 

An avenue of ancient fir trees, barks covered in mossy green lichen, welcomed us after the Maasai Askari vetted us at the wrought iron gates, giving us a toothy grin and a smart salute. “Mr. Kruger is expecting you, Sir.” We were informed, the gates swung open, and we were warmly ushered onto the farm.

Fanie Kruger met us on the steps to his front door. I sighed in relief; the big, welcoming smile, the firm handshake, and the “welcome, Butch and Maricha” set my racing heart to ease. The Honey Badger didn’t put his hackles up, and he assured us we’d not be a nuisance. My Dad’s words, “Family and fish go off after four days,” ringing in my ears. “For one thing, you’re not fish nor family,” Fanie assured us.

The homestead was a sprawling colonial terracotta farmhouse anchored in a sea of Kikuyu lawn encircled by a century of indigenous trees. In a paddock just beyond the house’s perimeter fence, we heard the snort of a herd of Impala before they took flight into the thickets.

Our campsite, a few kilometres from the main homestead, was wild camping at its best— there was a pristine long drop toilet, a fire pit, and little else.

“Get some rest.” He ordered before he did his customary circular fly-by, waving and assuring us we’d meet the rest of the crew the next day after we’d settled in. This was precisely what the Doctor ordered I agreed and slipped under the covers for a short afternoon snooze. I heard the coo-ing of doves’ Le-Ta-Ba-Le-Ta-Ba as I drifted off.

 

The loud bang and crack of metal on wood roused me a while later. Butch was busy hacking away at the huge wood pile. He remarked that he needed kindling for the firepit and resumed swinging the axe we’d carted from home more than a year ago, especially for such an occasion.

Evenings are cooler at higher altitudes, I reminded myself when I felt a sudden nip in the air at sunset. I sighed and warily delved into a bottom cupboard to retrieve a pair of tracksuit pants and my puffer jacket.

 

As promised, we met the rest of the clan the next day and immediately felt at home. Jenienne, daughter-in-law extraordinaire, invited me to join her on her weekly trip into “town.”

She’d made a pedicure appointment she announced on Monday morning while we sipped freshly brewed Kenyan coffee, adding that “a shopping spree will lift your spirits”, followed by lunch and groceries at the Mall. Who could say no?

A little retail therapy has never harmed me; I figured browsing through the baskets, bins, and art displayed at the Creation Hive, where unskilled local ladies and gentlemen were taught skills in pottery, sewing, papier machete, and decorative décor.

 

While creative abilities are nurtured and encouraged, other areas, such as business management, are also offered to those who find their creative skills more technical.

Everyone I met showed pride, confidence, and enthusiasm, which was heart-warming. After a quick browse, I picked up a few items. I left the compound, and tucked under my arm was a brown paper package with a new skirt, a set of tea towels, and a beautiful beaded bracelet. I couldn’t be happier.

My two-hour pedicure appointment was pure bliss. My neglected tootsies were soaked in therapeutic salts, exfoliated, scrubbed, massaged, painted and pampered to perfection. I glided out on a cloud.

 

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When we felt inclined to do so, Butch and I set off on our bikes to explore the ranch (this is a ranch, not a mere farm.) 

One day I was surprised to see my Butch flat on his back on the lawn, at first I thought "trouble" but on closer inspection I realised he was busy exercising. A Kodac moment.

The occupiers of the vast acres and acres of land are not only cattle, sheep, goats,  chickens or rabbits, but there are herds of giraffes, gazelle, small and large antelope, and I’m sure tortoise and geckoes too.

Velvety fields of Canola, wheat, and barley carpet the fertile lands. While we were there, it was time to harvest, after which the earth lies fallow, "to rest" Fanie says and then the soil was tilled, and seeds were planted in preparation for the coming rains for the next season’s harvest.

Work never stops. Every morning, every implement, vehicle, tractor, combine harvester or plough is checked, washed and maintained before the driver starts his day in the field. As Fanie sagely says, “If the driver doesn’t check and maintain his vehicle meticulously, breakdowns happen and hours are lost and, you know,” he says, removing his felt hat and running his hand through his hair, “nature waits for no man in this game.” Butch and I nod our heads like metronomes.

The Honey Badger's wheels comes under Fanie’s gaze when he inspects our tyres and rims. He announced that we needed a new tyre from Nairobi.

At eight o’clock every morning, coffee is served in the office, and we are included. The day’s events are announced, and any shenanigans from the previous day are regurgitated and discussed. Baby Abby’s progress is lauded, and the farm dogs are petted and rewarded with a healthy biscuit before they set off in an attempt to bite tractor tyres.

When Jenienne switches on her laptop and Carol lifts Abby from her Dad’s arms, it signals Butch and I to set off on our bikes for a jaunty ride back to our campsite or to push our pedals for a longer exploratory ride.

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I completed my course of antibiotics and soon felt fit as a fiddle. There are days, I must confess when all I want to do is stroll around the enormous botanical gardens surrounding the farmsteads. Gracious living comes to mind as I run my hand over the chiselled sandstone bricks used to build these colossal colonial mansions with their sweeping staircases, pillars and verandas.

I remember green lawns, park-like gardens, and all the old-fashioned border plants from childhood: geraniums, Barberton daisies, Namaqualand daisies, English roses and aloes. Larger shrubs include fragrant frangipani, Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow, scented Wisteria and bougainvillaea in coral, pink, and magenta.

On the wrought iron table sits a potted African violet in full bloom. Just like that, it sits. No nipping off of old leaves or special fertilisers, nor does it only get a tablespoon of water weekly like the ones Tannie (Aunt) Milene nursed on her kitchen windowsill, where it got just the right amount of morning sunlight, in Worcester.

Things grow wild and unrestrained in the tropics for as long as genetics allow. The trees are ancient, and their barks are cracked and weathered. They are adorned with mosses, air plants, and orchids.

 

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Armed with a Woolies shopping bag and my secateurs, I have Jenienne’s permission to raid her vegetable garden.

 

I pick handfuls of granadilla bursting with fragrance as I search for ripe fruit between colourful blooms. These dark purple fruits have thick skins that lighten as they ripen.

A bushel of Jurie’s favourite, rhubarb are the jackpot . Snails cling desperately onto the crispy, thick stems as I pick them off. “Today, these pretty ruby rhubarb stems are mine,” I told each one, looking him in the eye before tossing them to greener pastures.

My kitchen basket was chock-a-block. It was filled with baby carrots, cauliflower, spinach, basil, a massive head of cabbage, onions and tiny new potatoes.

I was in clover. I baked bread, froze granadilla pulp for smoothies, grilled thick slices of cauliflower, added extra chopped onions to my sauces, blitzed a basil pesto using cashews from Zanzibar instead of pine kernels, and our rhubarb puddings and long-life boxed custards were a winner.

 

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The main homesteads on the farm are a short distance from each other, and the girls are always busy, one with the farm administration and a baby, and the other is a busy preserver of fresh produce, leaving both families with little time to socialise. I agree to every suggestion while looking up at the magnificent trees, branches so thick they don't move in the breeze only the leaves flutter gaily, stirring the air.

They have come up with a brilliant idea. Suppers are a communal affair, and we were included—sundowners at various venues followed by suppers.

 

Sometimes, we’d all pile onto the back of a bakkie and drive down to the dam. With a colossal bonfire crackling in the fire pit, we’d watch the sky turn pink and see the geese fly off to roost in trees far away. Hadedas would settle down, and our conversations would turn to everyday things. No religion and no politics.

Butch would speak of Varsity days, old friends whose families farmed on the other side of the koppie, and wonder what became of so-and-so. Fanie would fill in the gaps, recalling settler families who’d returned to South Africa or relocated to Zambia or overseas.

They’d remember intervarsity rugby matches, the one an old Matie, the other a Wits graduate. Inevitably, the conversation would go to schools (that great South African institution) St. Andrews, DSG, Paul Roos, and Fanie would recall his happy days in the Transvaal.

At the same time, Carol and I discussed her latest Pineapple chutney or Blueberry Jam batch her guava jelly is a show-stopper. Harvested from an ancient tree.

On Mondays, I did supper; on Tuesdays, Jenienne and Jannie served delectable grilled Lamb chops, gourmet burgers or pizza in their open-air boma, where the fires kept us warm.

On Wednesdays, Carol would whip up her famous potluck. I tucked into her Indian Curries and could’ve licked my fingers. We’d take one meal at home and then start our routine again. A culinary extravaganza, every shared meal was.

The usual camping fare came from our table: Spaghetti Bolognaise, Thai Green Curry, and anything I could conjure up using all the beautiful fresh vegetables I harvested from the vegetable garden. Adding a bunch of herbs, a slice of lemon, or a sprig of chives to any dish or garnishing felt like home, and I relished every minute.

Our fruit salads went from fabulous to extraordinary with the addition of gooseberries, guavas, watermelon, various mangoes and pawpaw. Of course, the granadillas added the final tangy touch.

We made ginger-infused smoothies and garlicky patès, locally grown beans became dips, and the local market lady’s aubergines were roasted for babaganoush. We spread lashings onto crusty fresh bread baked using the freshest local stone ground flour.

One day, Jenienne announced she’d received a 50kg box of fresh Italian Roma tomatoes (jam tomatoes) from a neighbour. She doesn’t eat tomatoes (fresh or cooked, I can’t remember which now), but that wouldn’t stop her from making a year’s worth of sundried tomatoes for the freezer. I had my fingers crossed.

 

For supper one evening, Butch and I smiled while we ladled Minestrone topped with basil pesto and ropey, grated parmesan cheese. For lunch the next day, we whizzed up a thick ice-cold gazpacho, being the fortunate recipients of a bag of tomatoes.

 

My bags of sundried tomatoes were used sparingly, and the last six tomato halves were served on pasta in Angola a few weeks ago. I could taste Jenienne’s hand in the spices and herbs. Good food flavours continuously stir up my memories.

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While the Honey Badger went to Isuzu for a check-up and good service, Butch was admitted to the Eldoret Hospital for a reoccurring Malaria. The good Doctor announced he had a severe blood infection, and the only way to nip it in the bud was a course of strong antibiotics administered by drip infusion.

I knew my beloved was very ill when I returned from Woolies with a pair of ladies’ pyjama bottoms (grey with a smattering of pink hearts) and a pink drawstring. He couldn’t give a hoot. The cold fevers were hell; his exhausted, listless eyes said.

The Honey Badger was discharged within the day. I was chauffeured home by one of Isuzu’s drivers, who showed me how to eat a Mango. It was a liberating experience and one I will follow. “You eat it like you would an apple, skin and all, but the fruit must be slightly firm to the touch and, once bitten into crisp on the teeth.” He stressed before biting into his mango for effect. I haven’t got my head around spitting the skin out of the window yet, although I must admit, I followed suit when he instructed me to do so. I can hear Butch say, “Of course you have and will, I’m sure.”

The wise driver, whose sister, I might add, is doing her Doctorate at Wits University in Applied Maths, also suggested the thousand Bob, in small change, as a sweetener for crooked cops.

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Butch’s sojourn in the hospital would mark the first time I was alone in theHoney Badger in almost eighteen months. An extraordinary sensation and thought. One or two of my meals went by the wayside;

Instead of preparing a salad, I’d pick my favourite flavours and nosh on bowls of rhubarb and custard.

I had the bed to myself. That was a treat. I could read with the light on, and watch movies before the sun set or type until the cock crowed at sunrise. Two cups of coffee first thing in the morning and an extra rusk was a special treat, but I was delighted when Butch phoned to say he was on his way home.

 

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When one least expects it, extraordinary things happen. On the first evening of my solitary confinement, I’d just finished watching a movie on Netflix and was about to put my device off when an insistent beep-beep announced a new message from my website.

As is customary, anxiety gripped my heart in a stranglehold, plummeting my confidence. I was thrown into depths of despair, not knowing what a reader’s experience might be—good, bad, or ugly.

The message was from a stranger who’d spotted the Honey Badger in Eldoret. Ian continues by saying he is a keen camper and would like to meet up.  His dad, from the UK, was visiting, and he, too, is an enthusiastic camper and motorhome owner.

Just what the doctor ordered, I decided and responded by telling Ian that Butch was a patient at the Eldoret Hospital and they were welcome to visit.

Ian and his dad arrived with a basket of goodies to lift Butch’s spirits and spent an enjoyable visiting hour listening and telling stories.

Unfortunately, we never had an opportunity to catch up again, but I hope Ian reads this blog. Thank you for your very welcome visit, the treats, and for looking us up following your sighting of the Honey Badger. We love that.

 

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We all gave Butch a few days to recuperate and then treated we him to his first-ever pedicure. He loved it, and I adored his soft, pampered, scraped and exfoliated feet and pedicured toes. I purred when his soft heels nuzzled my smooth ankles!

Butch has not succumbed to highlights (or lowlights) yet, but, his grooming bar has been lifted and who knows I might persaude him to visit a barber shop yet. The wonders of a massage for the soul.

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We initially took short walks during his convalescence to discover our immediate surroundings. On one of our forays, we sneaked into one of the barns to admire a collection of vintage tractors and farm implements, all used on the farm in a bygone era.

Under a layer of dust and cobwebs, we were transported to farming on a small scale, where everything was a little less complex. The smell of grease and diesel has faded somewhat on these old machines, which are dwarfed by modern monsters of agriculture, where a driver not only needs a driver’s licence but a degree in advanced technology, I’m sure.

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The birth of a giraffe was the only inspiration Butch needed to get back into the saddle again.

We had to witness this fantastic occurrence “on a farm in Africa,” I can hear Karin Blixen say in her Meryl Streep quasi-American/Danish accent.

Did you know?

Giraffe give birth standing up, requiring the newborn to fall just under 2 metres (6 feet) to the ground! Designed for such an abrupt entry into the world, a newborn calf can stand up and run within an hour of being born.

The sooner the calf learns to stand and run, the safer it is from predators. Hence, the mother kicks her calf so that it can save her.

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Butch’s friendship or bromance with Fanie blossomed and added a new dimension to his African adventure, and they’d pore over maps, sepia family photographs, research travel books, and compare notes on favourite haunts and holiday destinations. They rediscovered familiar friends, and Fanie could fill in lost stories about the Barnard’s and Boy’s family who lived “on the other side of the hill.”

South Africans have a gift of unravelling family trees and connecting the dots of who knew who. We are fascinated by how we’re connected, often by blood, and can vividly recount all the skeletons in buffed and polished mahogany Victorian cupboards. The Settler families in Kenya were few, but in their retelling, they were all connected somehow, whether on the polo field, maternity hospital, church or train en route to boarding school or University “down South.”

At night tucked up in bed, Butch would recount these memories of family trees, farms and Nairobi holidays to his friends, who responded with memories of their Kenyan childhood. My Dad remembered a convoy of Kenyans in trucks and Peugeots crossing the Sabie River during the “Mau-Mau troubles.”  Adding, “They left with only the clothes on their backs.”

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While we were recovering , Fanie, Carol, Jenienne, Jannie, the Askaris, drivers, and managers all aided our recuperation without complaint. Isuzu sent a team to the farm to do minor repairs and an oil change, and Fanie ferried us backwards and forwards to Eldoret at the drop of a hat. Jenienne and Jannie telephoned, ordered, arranged, and delivered whatever we required without ever rolling their eyes, shrugging, or sighing in frustration. Abby lifted our spirits with her shenanigans

Each morning I'd meet Little Bo-peep caring for her sheep. She'd always enquire about our health while negotiating unsuccessfully for my bicycle. Persistant she was and left me feeling like the spoil sport in the game. Butch would ignore us and just keep on going. We were back on our bikes exploring the magnificient farm.

Sometimes I'd go vegetable raiding after our cycle. With a basket of fresh vegetables, I arrived at the Honey Badger one morning, and Butch announced he was well enough to go exploring. I couldn't agree more. These good people of the Sergoit Hill needed their time and space again too.

I cooked a fresh batch of rhubarb, adding ginger for zing and apples to tartness. I raided a dozen bottles of Carol’s delectable jams, chutneys, relishes, and chilli concoctions from her 80’s orange kitchen. Butch has said on more than one occasion, “Carol, you have spoilt me for the world with your condiments.” Licking the last drops from glass jars.

The following day, we set off bright and early!

Our destination? The Kenyan Lakes. Our first stop is Lake Baringo.

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Before descending the plateau, we passed through the gates of Kaptagat camp, where Kenyan athletes Eliud Kipchoge and Faith Kipyegon are preparing for the Paris Olympic Games. This protected athletic retreat is known for its focus on self-discipline.

The small complex, perched at an altitude of 2,500 metres between forests and corn plantations, was founded in 2002 by former runner-turned-coach Patrick Sang and the Dutch athletics management agency Global Sports Communication.

We know that Kenya has produced some of the world’s foremost long-distance runners. “The secret lies here in Kaptagat.” Fanie told us, “Children from the village far below in the valley are accustomed to walking and running up the hill (2500m) each day, taking the conditions in their stride, to get to school and again in the afternoon returning home. These extraordinary conditions produced some of the world’s best runners.

It is believed that the uphill run strengthened their lungs and enabled the runners to acclimatise at altitudes in a very short time, increasing their endurance, speed and unlike divers who need to decompress, these athletes seem to do so subconsciously.

Butch and I were fascinated and decided we would return to Kaptagat and Iten.

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We descended the Keiyo passes in our lowest gear, airbrakes on, and did it gently or pole-pole as we now know works best.

Around hairpin bends, we crawled, marvelling at the locals' chutzpah of building homes on the very edge of a precipitous mountainside.

Viewpoints along the way were lined with local ladies selling fresh fruit and vegetables, and we filled our pockets with delicious mangoes, our latest “padkos” Butch soon had the eating of a mango down pat.

Montane forests cladding the hillsides soon became camel thorn trees as the terrain changed and the valley floor flattened and dried out. We had left the cool tropical highlands and verdant fields for a hotter, sparsely vegetated landscape.

Keiyo’s street vendors had colourful beach umbrellas shading their tables, and roads were littered with stones and shale. We crossed a narrow steel bridge over an even narrower gorge clad in enormous ironstone boulders where the river was strangled and pushed between a two-meter space.

Eager to arrive at our campsite, we didn’t linger in Kabarnet and pressed on enjoying the ever-changing landscape where small acacias took over, and the roads became narrower and congested by slow moving livestock. Eventually, the tar road petered out, and we were back on a dirt track graced by enormous ant colonies.

It had been a long, gruelling day, and we whooped when we spotted the sign to Kudu Campsite in the dusty one-horse town of Netbon.

A hot spring bubbles in the river a few meters below the Kudu camp and is the inspiration for the campsite.

Butch booked our spot for three nights. The only other guests were a couple from Czechoslovakia on their bicycles. They were up and off the following day before the birds, and we never saw them again. We had the place to ourselves, we whispered.  

Our Eyewitness Kenya travel guide could be shelved, Butch had a network of trusted—reliable informants who were keeping us informed every step of the way.

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Like all my long-winded stories this one is to be continued.  Next up - KKK Kruger Kenya Kalashnikov