Naked in Dangerous Places - Cash Peters [118]
I mean, sure, any one of these things could happen. Possibly. At a stretch. Once in a lifetime. But in every episode?
In fact, while we're on the subject, what are the chances of someone wandering aimlessly in a hundred-degree heat through the bush in Amboseli, Eastern Kenya, for three days and not getting eaten by lions or hyenas? No, wait! That's one question I can answer. They're zero!
1 In particular, I broke the back of my fear of horses on one of the domestic trips. In Idaho's Salmon River Wilderness area I hooked up with a posse of cowboys (really just a bunch of students who happened to be staying in our hotel and liked the idea of being on TV) and was coaxed into the saddle. Turns out, there's really nothing to it. You sit on its back for as long as the horse allows you to, then get off before you're thrown off. Simple. A day later, I cracked my fear of water, too. Waving aside the doom-laden prophecy of that psychic I told you about, who predicted my death by drowning, I was persuaded by Mark onto a dinghy on the Salmon River with the words, “It's safe, I promise,” then sent hurtling into one of the most dangerous rapids in the whole of North America. A ten-foot thrashing, pounding, churning monster renowned for capsizing boats, knocking the unwary unconscious on hidden rocks, and, the week after I was there, actually killing someone, I heard. In case of accident, a rescue boat was moored nearby and a helicopter primed to rush me to hospital, so clearly someone was worried for my safety. Yet, miraculously, while the two rafting experts alongside me emerged from the rapids drenched and gasping and thanking God for sparing their lives, I was almost completely dry. It was quite unusual. According to bystanders on the bank, the waters parted at the last second, the way they did for Moses, and not a single speck of water touched my body. Since then, I've not been scared of water at all. And am, coincidentally far less likely to trust psychics.
20
Aaaaaagh—Lions!
On the first day of our Kenya shoot I'm befriended by a group of Masai tribesmen.
Things like that are happening to me a lot these days.
I was picking my way across the scorched dusty plain outside their village, stepping over the thighbone of an impala that had been torn apart by wild predators then scattered over a wide area, followed by the bleached skull of a buffalo that fell and never got up, wondering how long it'd be before the same thing happened to me, when nineteen Masai warriors in full tribal gear walked out in a long line to say “hello.” Or jambo, as it is in Swahili.
Two things strike me about them immediately. First, they have no trousers on. That always sets off alarm bells. Also, their lean, angular bodies are swathed in blankets dyed a threatening red, contrasting starkly with the lush greens and sandy yellows of the bushland around us. On their feet they wear homemade rubber sandals fabricated from motorcycle tires. Multicolored bracelets jangle at their wrists. Additionally, several of the men have their earlobes stretched into a hoop so large you could thread a hotel bath towel through it. Or hang lanterns.
As it turns out, their leader happens to speak excellent English—am I the luckiest guy in the world, or what?—and seems particularly well educated. Looks different from the others too. Healthier. Better fed. Suggesting that maybe he flew in specially to be on a TV show, though nobody's 'fessed up to that one yet, and after the disaster with “Mohammed” in Marrakech, I'm reluctant to jump to conclusions. Bald and cheerful, his name is Wilson.
“This,” he says, leading me through the village, “is where we keep the animals at night for protection.”
Known as a manyatta, it consists of a series of thorny