Africa weekend: Nature, meat and evading the law

Bhargavi came into town on Saturday and we had a full-on Africa weekend. We went to a giraffe sanctuary just outside Nairobi where you can actually feed the huge things, and if you've never had a giraffe slobber all over your hands with his 2-foot tongue, well, you just haven't lived. On Sunday we went to one of my favorite spots, Nakuru National Park, where we communed with the wildlife and got a flat tire, which I could have predicted. Two days earlier, my mechanic had got a flat, and I opted not to replace the spare right away, thereby inviting the karmic gods to have some fun with me. We got it replaced thanks to the very capable staff of the Kenya Wildlife Service but endured a 3-hour drive home in the pitch dark on roads so ripped up we couldn't hear each other talk.

 

Yesterday night brought a trip to the world-famous Carnivore -- a meat lover's paradise. Carnivore is so important in Kenya's tourism industry that it is marked by official road signs, like a national park. You walk in, past a phalanx of souvenir shops, to see a large sign with the list of meats they are serving that day -- the usual stuff, plus a handful of daily "specials," all cooked on spits and served with an assortment of sauces. Last night they had crocodile, ostrich meatballs and camel, and they basically bring everything around continuously on spits until you lower a white flag, indicating surrender. Yes, even Kenya does kitsch.

 

The food was decidedly average -- the highlight was the ostrich, which you can get a lot of places -- but it was a true experience. The crocodile tasted like fishy chicken, and I was the only one of the four of us who actually liked it. The camel was tough and gamey and no one ate more than a bite. We decided there's a reason why people eat so much beef and pork -- the exotic stuff generally isn't as good.

 

As we were pulling out of the restaurant parking lot and onto the main road, a cop flashed a light at me, indicating I should stop. Nairobi's cops are seen as the city's most corrupt public servants -- no small accomplishment -- and their roadblocks are little more than excuses to hassle drivers for bribes, especially at night. I was reluctantly pulling over when Evelyn, from the backseat, said "Don't stop, just go, go, go!" I hadn't done anything wrong, and these cops didn't have cars, so they weren't going to come after us. Emboldened perhaps by the chewed-up crocodile in my stomach, I sped up and off, with Evelyn beaming and Bhargavi looking aghast. We drove home feeling more than a little dangerous.

 

Early this morning I took Bhargavi to the airport, and I stopped the car in a loading zone while she checked in. I saw a cop walk over to my car so I rushed back, but it was too late. "I need to see your license," he said. I tried to talk him out of it and even started the car to show I was leaving, but he stood in my doorway, blocking me. Finally I handed over my California license. "I am going to be charging you," he said, "five thousand shillings (about $70)" -- and it was then that I smelled the booze on his breath. He was definitely drunk, and now he was holding my license upside down. I saw that he hadn't written me a ticket yet, and I didn't think he had got my plates. When he gave my license back and told me to pull into the parking lot, I saw my opening -- I just closed the door and drove off. I checked the rearview, and the cop was looking straight at me, not moving.