Chasing Hemingway's Ghost

We are giggling uncontrollably at the mountains of freshly made deserts only feet from our table. An assortment of ice cream flavors is wonderfully garnished with cookies, bonbons and fresh fruit. Behind us a chef prepares stir-fry wearing a tall white hat. He tosses cubed steak into a wok that flames a brilliant blue with the emulsion of flavored oils. At some point a waiter arrives with our drinks—two sweating glasses of perfection with ice cubes that we haven’t even dreamed about having these past nine months. It’s all I can do to stop from erupting into fits of awkward laughter.

Having taken a few days to indulge in a safari we feel as though we have stumbled onto the other side of the planet. Our experience of rural Kenya has been of people raising goats and wearing sandals cut out of old tires. Our rural Maasai home is a world apart from metropolitan Nairobi and the well-trodden track that spirits tourists past in Land Rovers. The Maasai of our world are a culture of people strewn across the Kenyan-Tanzanian border; former nomads that have reluctantly adapted to modern life in a rapidly changing nation. This world and that of tourism only intersect through the window of passing vehicles and at dusty roadside curio shops. Sadly these interactions are so manufactured that they rob tourists of the chance to know these people. The Maasai are genuine, kind, uproariously funny, mischievous and willing to give you their proverbial shirt.

Even with the advance of modernity the Maasai have maintained traditions that make me feel transported to a lost time. Their singing is hauntingly beautiful. They live in homes made of dung and mud and they still wrap themselves in traditional cloth. Standing amongst dancing mamas bedecked with beaded necklaces, cleanly shaven heads and brightly shining faces I am inspired. Their strength and cohesion is amazing, and yet, it is mitigated by a humility and childlike happiness. These people eek out an existence in defiance of their incredibly bleak surroundings, and their unflagging optimism may be a major ingredient to their tragically iconic status as Kenya’s most famous, if not marginalized, tribe.

At times it feels as though we are in a zoo. Tourists pass and take photos of us as we hike out of the bush. Clearly there are two realities that run parallel here. There is the tourist world and the world that millions of rural people inhabit. More to the point, there is Kenya, and then there are places in Kenya that tourists go. As a country, Kenya is a complicated place where business minded Kikuyu, Asian traders, Swahili people and rural Maasai must all be governed equitably, and with deference to their particular climatic, religious and cultural needs.

Kenya is a dizzying array of cultures that few people can grasp through a window and a sad testament to how people oft times take a back seat to big game and hunting lodges. But this is not a new phenomenon. This is the legacy of decades, left behind from colonial rule and the haphazard visitation of the rich and famous. There exists an entire sub-genre of literature dedicated to the imprint Kenya has had on its high-profile visitors. The list includes ex-presidents and movie stars, and even Hemingway in the twilight of his life.

Hemingway loved the sunrise and the way that a hot bath soothed his feet after a long day tracking. He described it all in vivid detail, and thankfully, very little of it has changed. The Giraffe still amble into stands of acacia to feed amongst wildebeest and dikdik. Massive families of Elephant still make their way majestically to the cold waters of Kilimanjaro’s glacial runoff. And decades later camera wielding tourists can still enjoy Observation hill with its dramatic view of the Pleistocene hills.

Hemingway also loved to drink, and this led us on one particular evening to find a small bar bearing his name in Loitokitok. I have no idea if he ever graced the structure with his presence but his pictures are everywhere smiling next to the carcass of some formerly living and beautiful animal. The room has a decidedly friendly atmosphere and huge bay windows at the back. A set of spotlights are focused on a feeding station for nocturnal animals where they place leftovers from the evening’s meal. Jennie and I were the only ones there, and so we ordered a drink and chose the two best leather chairs next to the window.

Our site is arid, but has the capacity to support agriculture. And so, in an attempt to understand why so few people plant crops, we decided to start a garden and suffer through the drought stricken season alongside our neighbors. We started a large compost pile which attracted hyenas to feed in the evening. They make an ominous whooping sound that rolls across the plains and shudders up your spine. I grew up watching nature programs where hyenas stole from lions and snapped the necks of small prey with their powerful jaws. They are ugly and resourceful buggers with a creepy laugh and an appetite for meat. I sat up many nights worried that they would find a way into the house as we slept, maybe taking a limb or two before leaving us in terror. Thankfully that never materialized and as we sat staring out the windows on the feeding scene below we learned why.

Several large hyenas had gathered on the periphery of the spotlights reach. In the middle was a large boulder covered with table scraps upon which several house cats sat feeding. In a most pitiful display the hyenas, far from being vicious and predatory, were skulking in the shadows watching ten pound house cats devour chunks of chicken and steak. Any movement towards the food brought a stern rebuke from the claws of these otherwise domesticated fur balls.

We watched the drama unfold, sipping wine from the comfort of plush leather chairs as a group of German tourists wandered in ushered by a guide dressed in Maasai cloth. After they were settled the guide went behind the bar to prepare drinks. I wandered over, in search of more wine, and greeted him with a traditional Maasai saying. He coolly dismissed this in exceptionally clear English by telling me that he was Akamba. Now, I know that people in theme parks are actors, and that the medieval manor is not, in fact, filled with Elizabethan Englishmen, but I was somehow taken with the idea that this man was Maasai. And in thinking about the situation I began to realize how manufactured the whole tourist experience really was. We could have been in Arizona or New Jersey because the bar, named after an American writer, featuring Italian leather seats, British lagers, and New Zealand wines, was a showcase for domesticated animals and their nocturnal hand-feeding habits.

Hemingway’s baths were heated and drawn for him by servants. Men carried his gun, cooked his food, erected his living quarters, and even washed his clothes, completely separating him from the reality of rural Kenyan life. The man saw a beautiful country, but he totally missed out on the actual life of some amazing people—an eerily similar viewpoint from which modern day tourists view things more than 60 years on. I’m not advocating that safaris be turned into poverty tourism where tourists are routed through shanty towns to learn about how poor people live; that would be ridiculous and potentially immoral.

What I am saying, is that there is so much more to see given a little imagination and patience. Go and experience a safari, but, while you’re at it, take a few days and live amongst the people. Ride public transportation, stay in a cheap hotel, buy food from the roadside, take chai at a strangers home (they will invite you) and haggle for clothing at an open air market—you won’t regret it. It will bring you closer to the people in a way that organized tourism cannot accomplish. A good safari can redefine your view of a great vacation, but, I believe, a good trip through Kenya as it really is, will redefine your view of the world. That may be both the most cliché and most incredibly true thing I have written in my short time on this planet.

Hemingway can keep his guns and his trophies, and all of his widely acclaimed novels too. For all his perceptiveness, he didn’t see Kenya. He saw the animals and the trees instead. He lamented leaving the eerily fast equatorial sunsets and the snow capped peak of Kilimanjaro. But he missed the strength and the beauty of the regions people. He missed their wisdom and their greatest attributes—humility and optimism in the face of crushing poverty and marginalization. I feel like I’m chasing his ghost everywhere I go, and I want to tell him to look again.