Why did the guinea-fowl cross the road?

(The story in pictures.)

There is only one road that connects Nairobi to the Maasai Mara National Park. To get to the Mara, you typically have a local travel agency set you up with an all-terrain safari vehicle of sorts, and a driver-slash-guide who knows the lay of the land. Our driver was Steve. Our vehicle, it turned out, wasn't really all-terrain.

The first half of the ride was uneventful. We passed the Great Rift Valley, stopped by a lookout point and took photos, ate chivda and drank Tiger beer. The clouds overhead didn't bode well, but all was fine until Narok, a customary fuel point en-route - (where drivers will also take you to a rest-stop-cum-roadside-market where foreigners who have no concept of local prices will gladly pay dollar prices for native African artifacts). Here we met Njao, another driver who was on his way back from the Mara, and who confirmed the rumours of washed out roads and stranded vehicles of all sorts. His own van, as we could readily see stood mud-caked at the petrol-station, with its innards all exposed because it was stuck out in the rain the previous evening, and been submerged to such an extent that the seats were all soaked. Rain at this time of year (southern hemisphere, hence summer) is uncommon, and certainly not this heavily. There were reports that the road to the Mara was treacherous in parts, but having made reservations and having no alternative we drove on anyway.

An hour out of Narok, the road turned to slush, and Steve turned into a boatman, expertly steering our vehicle across sliding stretches of mud. Those of you who have had cars skid across ice will have a rough idea of what I'm talking about. Then, a short while later, we came to a stretch that was entirely unpassable. Ten, or so, other vehicles lay dormant at various points in the slush, unable to move because the wheels had no traction. Locals crowded around, arriving in large numbers from the surrounding countryside, helping push some vehicles and pull others. We got out, and walked around, waiting our turn in line, commenting on others' unfortunate attempts, and strategizing.

The trick, it turns out, is speed and steadiness. You stick the car in second, get a healthy run up, and once you hit the centre, you don't stop. Regardless of how the road dips, or the vehicle swerves, you keep the wheels turning and let momentum keep you going. Some acrobatics later, one of our cars made it through. The other, however, didn't.

Kenya has some seven or eight key tribes, and loyalty to the tribes run deep. Steve, (and David, of the vehicle-that-didn't-make-it) are both Kikuyu, and speak their own dialect. The local Maasai, easily identifiable by their characteristic red garb, speak another. Luckily enough, they both speak Swahili. An hour later, after we had tried pushing to no avail, and gotten ourselves all muddy, we invoked these linguistic talents. Some monetary negotiation later, a band of Maasai trooped up and helped push our vehicle free.

And so, a short ride later, we arrived at the gates of the Mara.

Part 2: "Roja, roja"