Grand Theft Safari Read online

  As we sat around the campfire after dinner, I worried about the poachers.

  “Mom, do you think we’ll be all right?” I asked her.

  “As long as the elephants move away from us, we will be. The poachers only want them. But if we get between them and the elephants, there’s no telling what will happen.”

  Even though the night was warm, I shivered and cuddled close to Mom.

  Later that night, I heard a muffled sound coming from outside my tent. I woke Tomas up.

  “Tomi,” I whispered, “do you hear that?” It sounded like an animal or a person brushing up against the canvas tents. Large footsteps moved across the grass. I could hear Elea whining in another tent.

  “Do you think it’s the poachers coming back to get us?” Tomi asked.

  “I don’t know. Should we wake up Dad?”

  Before I could wake Dad up, our side of the tent was caving in. Tomas rolled over, on top of Dad.

  “Whoa!” Dad bolted upright from his sound slumber. I scurried over to the far corner of the tent, closer to Mom.

  Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh, went the side of our tent. The ceiling almost folded completely to the ground.

  “What’s out there?” Tomi yelled.

  Mom grabbed the flashlight and jumped to the tent’s door. She unzipped the flap and burst out into the night. We heard loud stomping, like a stampede.

  After all the chaos, Mom’s laughter rang out.

  We rushed outside to see what the commotion was. Mom was doubled over, holding her stomach, laughing.

  “What was all the noise?” I asked.

  “About six or seven giraffes decided to check us out,” she gasped, still laughing. “I don’t think they expected to wake us up.”

  “Really? They thought we could sleep through all that?” Tomas asked. Then he got Mom’s joke and started laughing too.

  Mom pointed the flashlight in the direction the giraffes ran. I could faintly see their eyes in the darkness. I think we scared them more than they scared us.

  “Let’s use the lanterns and reposition our tent. It is battered,” Mom said as she shone her flashlight across our tent.

  We worked together to stand the tent upright again.

  “Why do you think the giraffes came into camp?” I asked Mom.

  “Oh, who knows? Maybe they smelled something yummy, like those canned beans we had with dinner,” Mom said. She winked at me, joking. Those beans were definitely not yummy.

  “Maybe they were curious. They wanted to see us up close,” I said.

  “Sure. Who knows what these animals think? I’m just relieved it wasn’t a pride of lions. Or a crazed group of poachers. I’d rather deal with vegetarian giraffes any day,” Mom said.

  Chapter Six

  ELEPHANT STAMPEDE

  The park ranger came out to speak with Nigel the next day. Nigel thought the poachers were moving northwest, following the elephant herd. Nigel and the park ranger huddled over the park map, pointing at various coordinates and talking excitedly.

  “We will trail them,” the ranger assured us.

  “What about my research on the flamingoes?” Mom asked the ranger. “I need to go to the lakes.”

  The ranger shook his head. “I am sorry, ma’am, but it is not safe for you out there when poachers are afoot. You could get in the crossfire.” The ranger paused and then said, “You should head to Lake Bogoria or Lake Nakuru. You will surely find flamingoes there. They prefer the soda lakes.”

  “Soda lakes?” Tomas whispered. “Can I drink them? I’m dying for a real soda.” He clutched his throat and made gurgling sounds. I laughed.

  “We might as well pack up,” Mom muttered. “I haven’t found evidence of the flamingoes this far inland anyway.”

  I knew Mom was frustrated. She didn’t like her research trips interrupted, especially by criminal poachers.

  “We will pack up and head out first thing tomorrow,” Nigel told the park ranger. Then Nigel looked at Mom. “Dr. Perez, I will personally take you and your family to Lake Bogoria.”

  Mom consented. After all, she couldn’t argue with Nigel or the park ranger. They were both concerned about our safety.

  The rest of the day, we cleaned and packed equipment back into the trunks. Dad and Nigel lifted the trunks onto the truck. We left only the bare necessities out for dinner and breakfast.

  To take our minds off the poachers, Nigel told us African stories around the campfire that night. He started with a creation myth. He told us about Ngai, the god who created and divided the universe. Ngai created a man, Gikuyu. Then Ngai gave Gikuyu part of his land, rivers, and animals, so that Gikuyu could father a tribe. Ngai made a wife for Gikuyu. Gikuyu and his wife had nine beautiful daughters but there were no husbands for the daughters. Gikuyu was told to build a fire and sacrifice a goat to Ngai then Ngai would create nine husbands for Gikuyu’s nine daughters. When Gikuyu came home, he found nine husbands for his nine daughters.

  “Just like that.” Nigel chuckled. “That’s how humans started.”

  “Do you really believe that story? It isn’t very scientific,” Tomas said.

  Nigel shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I believe? We had to come from somewhere.”

  “I like the story,” I said. “It makes sense. Plus, it is peaceful. Hopeful.”

  “Thank you, Marisol,” Nigel said. “I’m glad you liked it.”

  “I think it’s time for bed,” Mom said. “We’ll need to get an early start tomorrow for Lake Bogoria.”

  That was our signal to say goodnight, so that the grownups could have a conversation without us. Tomas and I got the hint.

  I hadn’t been asleep for very long when I heard shots ring out. Elea barked frantically. Mom grabbed me and Tomas. “Get to the truck,” she yelled.

  Dad and Nigel ran in and out of Nigel’s tent, grabbing guns and ammo.

  “What’s happening?” I screamed to Mom as she shoved us into the truck.

  “Poachers.” She looked around frantically, “Get your heads down.”

  Mom revved the engine but left the truck’s lights off.

  Dad and Nigel rushed to the truck, arms loaded with the guns.

  “At least we have something to defend ourselves with,” Dad said as he jumped in the truck.

  Nigel took the driver’s seat. “Heads down, everyone. Be still and be quiet.”

  The gunshots echoed through the savannah.

  “Should we get out of here?” Dad asked.

  “Mr. Perez, I think we are surrounded,” Nigel looked nervous as he said it.

  Elephants stampeded through our campsite, crushing our campfire, our sleeping tents. Elea whined in the back of the truck.

  Nigel counted softly to himself, “Two, four, six, eight … twelve elephants.”

  Their movements were crazed, terrified. They spun in circles, unsure of which direction to go for safety. Headlights surrounded our annihilated campsite. Men jumped from the tailgates of the trucks. They carried machine guns. Some of them were laughing.

  “Monsters,” Mom hissed. She held my head down so I couldn’t see. Dad held Tomas.

  Then more trucks barreled into our camp, sirens screeching. The poachers, startled, fired at the law enforcement officers. The officers fired back. I could hear the sound of bullets hitting metal.

  The poachers yelled at each other in a language I couldn’t understand. In that second, the elephants barreled in front of our truck, fleeing into the darkness.

  Truck engines fired up and the poachers sped away, not following the elephants.

  “They’re going south, to cross the border before officials can capture them,” Nigel told us.

  The law enforcement officers chased the poachers, firing shots as they went.

  We waited twenty minutes or so, to be sure they wouldn’t come back through our camp.

  “We better pack up tonight,” Nigel recommended. “We can make it to the field station and sleep the rest of the night there.” He got no argument from us.
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br />   “Stay in the truck, kids. We’ll pick up what’s left of our tents,” Mom said softly.

  Mom, Dad, and Nigel dug through the camp. Our tents were completely destroyed, poles broken, sleeping bags ripped and dirty. Elea nosed around the campfire. The few pots and pans we left out for the morning were useless, dented chunks of tin now. Bullet casings littered the ground.

  Mom sighed, discouraged. “I’ll have to use more of the research money to replace the tents and cook stove. We might have to cut this trip short because of it. We’ll run out of money soon.”

  Dad held Mom’s hand. “Carolina, no, we’ll be okay. You need to get to the lake, to find those flamingoes.”

  In the truck, I could see that Tomas was shaking, like he was freezing.

  “Are you all right?” I asked him.

  He nodded. He didn’t look all right.

  “That was awful, wasn’t it?” I said.

  He nodded.

  “Tomi?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Talk to me,” I said.

  “I thought we were goners,” he said. “I thought the elephants would be – ”

  I stopped him before he could say any more. It was over. We were fine. The elephants got away, for now at least. We had a lot to be thankful for. It was time to look on the bright side and move on.

  “It was like something out of a movie,” I said. “You told Nigel you were ready to fight. You had your chance.”

  For some bizarre reason, the thought of fighting against the bad guys cheered him up. “You’re right. That was my first taste of battle. I’m almost ready for the army now,” he said.

  “Don’t rush it, big man. You’re only twelve,” I reminded him. “You’ll need serious training in boot camp,” I teased him.

  “I’ll get them next time,” Tomas vowed.

  Chapter Seven

  THE MAASAI

  After the elephant stampede, Nigel thought we could use some rest and relaxation. He suggested we stop at a Maasai village to refresh ourselves.

  At the village, we were greeted by smiling children. Evidently Nigel knew this village well. The village elders welcomed Nigel with hugs then invited us to stay with them for a few days. Nigel quickly accepted the invitation.

  A Maasai man, Ntirkana, strode up to Nigel and embraced him. He leaned in close to Nigel and spoke to him. Both men chuckled.

  “Dr. Perez, Alberto, Marisol, Tomas,” Nigel said as he pointed to each of us, “this is my younger brother, Ntirkana.”

  Ntirkana shook each of our hands. “Welcome to our village,” he said warmly. Ntirkana turned to Tomas. “How old are you young man?”

  Caught by surprise, Tomas sputtered, “Ttt-twelve.”

  Ntirkana looked at Nigel. “What do you think? Is he man enough to see the lion hunt tonight?”

  Nigel shook his head no. “Ntirkana, we better not. The family has had a stressful time. Young Tomas needs rest.”

  “Very well. I shall tell you all about the ritual in the morning,” Ntirkana said.

  “Come,” Nigel said to us, “I will show you around my village.”

  “Your village?” I asked.

  “Yes, this is my family’s village. I grew up here. You will meet my mother soon.”

  Nigel walked us around the kraal. The area inside the fence had about a dozen buildings made of what looked like clay or mud with thatched roofs. The homes in the kraal were surrounded by a tall, thorny fence.

  “Why the fence?” Tomas asked Nigel.

  “It is made from acacia thorns, to keep the lions and other wild animals away from us and away from our cows and goats.”

  “Nigel, what did your brother mean when he talked about the lion hunt?” Tomas asked.

  “Oh, you see, when a boy is ready to become a man he must go out and kill a lion.”

  Tomas gulped.

  “If the boy kills the lion, the boy is truly a man. In the tribe, he moves from a child to a warrior,” Nigel explained.

  “Did you kill a lion?” Tomas asked.

  “Of course. When I was sixteen, I did. Now I am a Maasai warrior,” Nigel said proudly. “When I came back to the village, with my lion, the women of the village ran to meet me. They threw jewelry and trinkets to me to celebrate.”

  Nigel noticed the shocked expression on Tomas’s face. “So, Tomas, I guess they don’t have rituals like that in Chicago?”

  A short, round woman ran toward us. “Nigel! You are home!” She gave him a loud kiss.

  Nigel looked a little embarrassed.

  “Perez family, this is my mother, Gertrude.”

  Gertrude invited Mom and I into her home to get out of the hot sun.

  “You must be hungry. I have a meal for you,” she said as she gestured for us women to sit down.

  “Where are Dad and Tomas going?” I asked Mom.

  “The men eat together,” she whispered to me.

  Gertrude fed us roasted goat meat and ugali, a food that looks like mashed potatoes but is more like porridge. Mom and I helped Gertrude clean her house after our meal. Then she invited us to meet her husband’s other wives.

  “Other wives?” I asked. Mom scrunched her eyebrows and pursed her lips. It was a look that meant shush, don’t be rude.

  “Yes, I am the first wife. But my husband is a rich man. He has many cows and goats. He has three wives.”

  “Oh,” I said, trying not to sound surprised.

  She led us to Isina’s home first. As we walked the short distance, Gertrude explained that Maasai men have as many wives as they can afford so that the women can help each other. Isina was the second wife, she said. “We help build houses, take care of the children, cook, and look after the animals. The more hands, the more helpful we can be to one another. Besides, it is nice having friends.”

  “Do you get jealous?” Mom asked Gertrude.

  Gertrude laughed heartily. “Oh no. My husband visits each of his wives equally.”

  Isina’s home looked much like Gertrude’s, with mud and grass for walls. Then we walked to the third wife’s home, Liloe. Her home looked identical to Isina’s.

  “We built these homes ourselves. The three of us together,” Liloe told me. “Building homes is the women’s work. The men are warriors and hunt.”

  Now I was surprised. Most construction workers in the United States are men. Here, in Kenya, Maasai women built their own homes, with their own hands.

  Isina explained the process to us. “We use mud, cow dung, cow urine, and grass to build the walls.” Isina ran her hands down the side of the house. “The houses stay very cool and shady inside,” she said.

  “Your homes are lovely,” Mom said.

  “Thank you. Would you like to walk to the school with us? To get our daughters?” Isina asked us.

  “Of course,” Mom answered.

  While Mom and I walked across the savannah to the all-girl’s school, Dad and Tomas shared roasted goat with Nigel and his brother Ntirkana. Dad told us later that they had a “nice man’s talk.”

  Nigel’s younger sisters were eager to learn about us and the United States. The girls were seven, eight, and nine years old and would learn at school until they were old enough to marry. The girls sang for us and took us out to play with their goats.

  Nigel and Ntirkana taught Tomas how to shoot a bow and arrow so that he would be one step closer to becoming a warrior.

  “I’m not a warrior yet but Ntirkana told me I should be ready in six or seven years,” Tomas told me later that night.

  “Are you still worried about those poachers?” I asked him. I was scared from our encounter with them the night before, but I was beginning to feel better, surrounded by Nigel’s friendly family.

  “If I learn to use a spear, I can really fight against the poachers,” Tomas said. Nigel paused for a moment. “I’m okay. Ntirkana talked to us about poachers. I feel safe here.”

  “Me too,” I said. We were surrounded by Maasai warriors. Poachers wouldn’t dare bother this village.
r />   In the Maasai culture, dancing and singing is a large part of life. Around the fire that night, the men jumped high into the air, showing us their skills. They invited Tomas to jump and dance with them too. They handed him a spear and he went with the warriors, smiling.

  We stayed with Nigel’s family for three more days, helping with their livestock, and sharing stories. Gertrude taught me how to make necklaces from beads and how to make ugali for meals.

  As we said our goodbyes to Nigel’s family, Mom wanted to thank them for their hospitality. She offered Gertrude tins of meat and canned vegetables from our supplies. She also gave them a large quilt.

  “Thank you, thank you, Dr. Perez,” Gertrude said, hugging Mom.

  “No, thank you. You have been too generous to my family,” Mom said, hugging her back.

  After spending time with the Maasai, we were more relaxed and ready to move on to Lake Bogoria so Mom could research the flamingoes.

  Chapter Eight

  LAKE BOGORIA

  We crossed the equator. We would never have realized it except for the painted wooden signs that told us. Of course, Tomas wanted to get out of the truck and have his picture taken.

  “Stand by the sign with me, Marisol,” Tomas begged.

  “Fine,” I said.

  Mom hopped out of the truck too. She took our photo by the sign.

  “Look, I’m in the Northern Hemisphere,” Tomas laughed as he stepped behind the sign. “Look, now I’m in the Southern Hemisphere.”

  “How does that affect the seasons?” I asked. Tomas let out an irritated huh sound. Clearly, he thought my question was stupid.

  Mom gave Tomas a look that told him he better zip his lips and be nice.

  “Well, Marisol, it means that there really isn’t winter or summer here,” Mom explained. “It’s just hot all year round.”

  Back home, in Chicago, we had all four seasons. We had crisp, cool autumns, bitterly cold and snowy winters, cool and rainy springs, and hot summers. I couldn’t imagine living in a place that never changed seasons. What would people on the street discuss if they didn’t have the weather to talk about?