The Battle of the Masai Mara
'Small World' The Carlow Nationalist - May 2010
When I was young I imagined Kenya's
Masai Mara to be a place of great rolling plains where solitary acacia trees
stood in stunning singularity against a burning globe of setting orange sun. A
place where wild animals roamed free and in peace; where leopards slept
languidly draped across the branches of riverside trees avoiding the intense
heat of the
All the way across the floor of Kenya's
great rift valley the fields had been greened by the recent rains. In every
shamba (garden) maize and other plants groaned under the weight of their
bounty. Rivers and streams were swollen, turned to churning brown rapids as
their waters were fed by the constant deluge from the hills. Children sat
smiling at roadsides beneath the shade of thorn trees as they attempted to sell
the surplus produce of carrots, cabbages and tomatoes from their family's
small-holdings. To me, the future looked bright for the inhabitants of the rift
valley and the Masai Mara.
But, somewhere just past the busy market
town of Narok, on the edge of the Mara, things began to change. The greenness of
the valley floor gave way, once again, to the more familiar palette of browns
and reds interspersed, only occasionally, by small patches of foliage which
herds of hungry goats and cattle did their best to claim before the sun could
do its work. As the Mara grew closer, Masai farmers walked the hot dusty roads,
driving their rack-ribbed beasts in search of even the tiniest morsel of
greenery. Had there been no rains here I asked myself, only to be answered by
the sight of dry riverbeds which bore the unmistakable signs of recently
running water. Along the rivers' edges women and children gathered the dry wood
which had been carried on the waters that had surely passed this way in the
not-too-distant past. In the middle of one such water-course, a group of Masai
men scraped the dry riverbed with their bare hands in an attempt to raise any
water which still remained; near them, thin, grey cattle waited patiently in
hope.
So, why was it that only a few miles away,
in the direction from which I'd just come, the world was a greener, richer
place? Had some magic spell been cast against the people of these lands? Or,
had it simply been an act of geographical location, that the rains here were
not as heavy or as widespread as they had been on the valley floor? I asked
Francis the driver of my jeep if he knew the answer. "Actually," he
said in his usual matter-of-fact manner, "the Masai here have cut down all
of the trees to light the fires of their homes." It was a stunning and
simple answer. Outside the window of the vehicle the evidence was there; not a
single tree of any size was left on the landscape to hold the valuable waters
when, and if, they came. The waters simply seeped away before they had time to
be of any benefit to man or beast.
As we waited at the entrance gate to the Mara Reserve Masai women crowded the jeep in the vague hope of selling some small trinket or souvenir; bead-work, hand-carved animals, Masai cloaks and other knick-knacks so beloved by the army of tourists who pass this way each year. "Ten dollars," one young woman said through the open window, holding a small carved lion in her bony hand. I had seen the same lion in a shop in the city for less than half her asking price. "Sorry, not today," was all I could mutter before we left them standing in the cloud of dust raised by our jeep.
Once
inside the reserve's gate I could immediately see the difference. The grass was
tall and green and waved gracefully in the light breeze. In the branches of the
tallest trees, lush with growth, eagles stood scouring the verdant landscape.
Herds of gazelle and impala grazed peacefully on the riches of the earth,
stopping only to nod momentarily at our passing. Elephant plunged through
reed-lined lakes trumpeting loudly in their happy element, while outside the
gates a proud people scraped at the dry riverbed in desperation. Later that
same day while on a game drive I witnessed a pride of lions gorging on the
gaping carcass of a buffalo. The pride were surrounded in a tight circle by
vans, jeeps and game vehicles of all description. Each driver was doing his
best – despite it being illegal to leave the reserve's roads – to ensure that
his party were the ones who got closest, the ones who got the best photographs,
in turn ensuring that he too was the one who got the best tips.
The argument of people versus wildlife has been running for a long time and one which will run for as long as both survive side by side. The answers will be difficult to find, but not impossible. With the right will and a common goal there is no reason why the good of both groups can not be exercised. Or, maybe, just maybe, I am still living in that naive imagination of my youth?
Brendan Harding flew with British Airways from London's Heathrow airport. www.britishairways.com
