Wild life | 5 November 2011

Kenya


I am proud of Kenya for taking on Muslim extremists in southern Somalia. Rather wisely, the Kenyan military has so far prevented hacks from reaching the field. But for anybody in the outside world who cares, this is not a new battle. Operations against Somalis of varying types of fanaticism have been mounted since the 1960s. From my travels in the Somali borderlands I know this is some of the most thrilling terrain for a war — or for a safari.

Not long ago, I set off for the frontier-coast village of Kiunga to get closer to the fighting. Along for the ride in my old Range Rover was a delightful company: Matt, a Somalia aficionado with a bundle of the finest Catha edulis — the stimulant miraa — money could buy; Tofani, a mixed-race bushwhacker from the old slaving post at Witu; my affable friend Babu from Lamu; and two local chiefs armed with Lee-Enfield .303s.

Nobody had driven the track north from Lamu for four months owing to heavy rains. After some time the grass rose six feet in front of the vehicle. We entered a swampscape decorated by water lilies and set with treacherous ziwa ponds into which the Rover might be swallowed up. After nightfall we found ourselves in a jungle of marshes illuminated by fireflies and eerie phosphorescence from the waters and a wall of sound from insects and frogs.

Hours later, we stopped at a hamlet of hunter gatherers’ huts to unclog the radiator of grass seed, and the inhabitants worriedly asked who we were, ghastly white apparitions from the bush. They had heard the drone of aircraft and the grumble of bombing to the north, but this was beyond their world enclosed by trees.