Aagaard African Adventures

British English includes the phrase “busman’s holiday,” indicating a certain lack of imagination, as when a bus driver chooses to ride a bus while going on vacation, or that you do your regular, everyday activities on your days off. For our honeymoon, we went on safari. Finn told me he had planned it as a pleasure and learning experience: the pleasure for the two of us, the learning for me.

Being an incurable romantic, Finn booked the same hunting area where we had got engaged, and we were to camp under the same huge trees on the cliff above the beach of the Athi River. When booking a hunting block we never knew whether another hunting party would be in the same area; it was possible that another PH was in the same block and using the Athi River campsite. Our apprehension mounted as we got closer to our destination; we could not bear the thought of missing out on “our” campsite. The relief was great when we found the area deserted, except for the little doves whose mournful calls intruded in the midday quiet, and the occasional screech of the common hornbills or “go-away birds” telling us in no uncertain words that they disapproved of our presence.

We had a new tent, and this time we shared it. Our beach was still there; we could still make crazy tracks in the sand at night, but we were not quite as brave as the year before because there was no moon and we could not see what shared the beach with us. Heavy footsteps and rustling in the bushes drove us up the bank and back to the safety of our campfire rather quickly! Finn made me do all the driving, which was part of the learning, especially when I chased some guinea fowl to make them fly and got the Land Rover properly stuck and thus received my first lesson in the use of a high-lift jack. I distinctly remember laughing so hard at my own carelessness. Nothing seemed to matter—I was in the bush with the man I trusted, and life was good.

Juja House and the newlyweds, 1968.

Our little reference library that Finn always kept in his safari vehicle was in constant use. Here were birds to look up and identify, first by shape and family, later by name. Animals had to be recognized and their natural history explored, such as the scarabs or dung beetles that rolled compacted balls of elephant dung backward to places only they knew about. We studied the whistling thornbushes that host ants in odd-shaped hollow gray balls made by the plant for the sole purpose of self-protection. The ants’ nest undisturbed inside the hard, spiked balls, and if anything tries to browse on the bush, the ants rush out and make life miserable for the intruder. As the wind hits the little holes on either side of the balls where the ants swarm in and out, you can hear a distinct whistling all around you, quite a surprising sound. Also in the curriculum was watching animals’ body language. I had to learn how to get as close as possible to the various beasts in the Land Rover so clients could get the photos they desired. So I had to analyze and respect the first signs of nervousness—the stomping of a hoof or the twitching of an ear, for example. There was a very good reason for absorbing all this new knowledge: I would be taking out my first professional photo safari only a few weeks after our honeymoon, and it would hardly do to describe all the birds as “little brown jobs” or if game consistently ran away.

Except for our first camp, which had to be included in our itinerary for sentimental reasons, we visited places new to me. In Tanzania we camped halfway up Mount Meru, its fantastic vegetation and immensely tall trees shrouded in mist. Some fallen giants were covered with whole gardens of mosses and orchids and draped with curtains of creepers and lianas. We hiked up to the rim of Ngurdoto Crater and saw black-and-white colobus monkeys, colorful turacos flashing through the trees, and thousands of flowers. We sat there on the top of the world with the swirling mists and a little wind in our faces, and the line from the old song came back to me: “Once, on a high and windy hill, in the morning mist, two lovers kissed, and the world stood still . . .” And so it did!

Cows and young bulls in the Mara Game Reserve. Berit was learning to advance game for better pictures on photographic safaris.

Bachelor herd in Mara Game Reserve.

Our trek continued to Lake Manyara, where we searched in vain for lion in trees, and then we climbed up the tall escarpment of the Rift Valley to Ngorongoro Crater. This presented my final test in handling the Land Rover. There were two trails hewed into the steep sides of the crater, one going down and the other coming out; they could be a challenge to even the most seasoned 4WD driver. Often, a short person like myself was not able to see over the top of the hood to know where the next turn was, especially when the spare tire was bolted to the hood. You marveled at the engineering feat required to construct these narrow shelves of “roads,” and next you wondered how many unfortunate vehicles had missed a turn.

The thick fog of earlier morning cleared gradually as we descended. My hands were sweaty and white-knuckled as we approached the bottom, but the farther down we ventured, the more confident I got; I felt I had mastered the Land Rover! And now the crater floor spread out beneath us with its undulating green hills dotted with game. Thousands of zebra and wildebeest were all around—you could hear their voices as a low, monotonous hum all day long. Many shorebirds new to me waded by the crater’s lake, and the flamingos flashed deep red as they flew; our bird-recognition list was growing steadily. Finn would act the “stupid” client and constantly ask me questions about the birds or anything else he could think of. “What is the gestational period of an elephant?” (Twenty-two months.) “What can you tell me about the love life of the giraffe?” (They are good at necking.)

Down in the crater there was a permanent Masai manyatta, or village. Finn knew the old chief—he had once given him a ride to the top of the crater and since then had made a point of visiting the old man whenever the opportunity arose. He wanted to introduce me, his bride, to this old man, and I sensed Finn’s pride as we met. The old mzee, or respected elder, looked me solemnly up and down for a long time and then must have approved because his face cracked into the biggest toothless grin and he uttered a stream of friendly sounding gibberish. I felt honored and relieved to have been accepted by this venerable old gentleman; Finn’s face revealed that it meant a lot to him also. There was a feeling of goodwill and good wishes all around: women surrounding us in their beaded finery smiled and pointed at me, giggling and talking excitedly. I felt welcomed by their friendliness, even under these circumstances so foreign to me. It was a case of women understanding women no matter where in the world they are, a wonderful cross-cultural experience.

There were more new places to explore, to enjoy, and to learn about. We camped on the Serengeti Plains, watching the sun both rise and set through the large umbrella-shaped acacia trees that shaded our tent. Game was everywhere. One evening a whole herd of topi antelope came to inspect us. Silver birds lived in the trees above us. Early one morning we heard lion calling, so we drove toward the sound and found two magnificent old boys glorious in the golden morning light. I was excited beyond words! To think that one could actually hear lion and then simply go out and find them there in the middle of the open plains! Africa was reaching out and grabbing me more tightly, bewitching me day by day. I felt I was becoming part of Finn’s world.

Land Rover under an acacia on the Serengeti Plains. Note the spare wheel riding on top of the hood.

Of course, it was not all song and dance. On our way to the Masai Mara Reserve we had a flat. With absolutely no hesitation in his voice, Finn announced that I had to take care of it! He proceeded to show me the steps, only to undo what he had done and tell me to go ahead. Then, Finn, Nzioka the cook, and Kinuno the tracker sat down on the side of the road and observed. The two Africans were horrified at first—here was their bwana treating his bride in a less than respectful way! Why, not even they had insisted their new brides do anything like this, even though their wives worked extremely hard after the honeymoon was over. Gently Finn explained to them that his bride was soon going to take out wageni (clients) and that she had to be able to change the vehicle’s wheel without any assistance. One day she might have four old ladies in her car, and what then? Ten-ply Land Rover tires are heavy—in fact, they were just about at the limit of what I could manage. Getting the nuts lined up with the holes in the rim required some very fine adjustments with the high-lift jack before I was able to more or less slide the wheel into place. But the real challenge came when I had to swing the spare back onto the hood, where it rode clamped down!

Finally it was all done, and, with grease up to my armpits, I climbed back into the Rover. Surprise, there were flowers in the ashtray waiting for me! We sometimes put water in the ashtray and filled it with flowers to make it more like home. “Oh, thank you, Finn!” I said, touched by his thoughtfulness. No, he’d had nothing to do with the flowers. So I turned to the two in the back, and there was Nzioka, all sheepish and black as the ace of spades, blushing! The only disappointment during this whole exercise was that no tourist vehicles came by to witness this very African scene where the woman did all the work while the men sat and watched.

After two weeks this wonderful safari for pleasure and learning wound down. The pleasure almost goes without saying—this was the beginning of a solid and happy marriage that made it through many hurdles that were completely beyond our control. As to the benefits of learning, it gave me great pleasure to declare with confidence during subsequent professional photographic safaris that, yes, I had driven down into the Ngorongoro Crater before, or that those birds over there were indeed lilac-breasted rollers. My proudest moment, though, was when I had a blowout on the Serengeti Plains and neither of the three male clients in the car had an inkling of what to do. They all wanted to help me, however, and so this time it was the woman who sat on the roadside and directed the guys! My only regret was that Nzioka and Kinuno were not there to see it all and grin and enjoy this pleasure with me.