Story and Photographs by Neville Cole

For someone who travels a lot I don’t travel particularly well. Bumpy roads, open seas and general turbulence always leave me worse for wear. I was hoping this flight across the Rift Valley would be calm and uneventful; but, once again here I sit, buzzing through a pack of gathering cumulonimbus with my sweat-daubed forehead pressed forlornly against the spackled plastic window of a high-wing Cessna. The chilled clear plastic pane at this altitude provides a modicum of relief but just in case I have my handy American Airlines air-sickness bag in my lap. The bag has become something of a lucky charm for me. Ever since I picked it up I’ve never had to use it – something I borrowed that I never blew chunks into I like to tell people. I wouldn’t tell people that at the moment. My sense of humor is long gone. I dropped it unceremoniously back on the tarmac in Nairobi when I first spotted that line of towering thunderheads drifting along the horizon. Now I am thoroughly miserable: my shirt and pants unbuttoned in a weak attempt to gain comfort. I fear that all I have managed to do is look vaguely desperate and hung-over.

The BBC World Service keeps crackling in my ear. It has just announced that the time is 14:30 GMT and promptly returns me to the Royal Highland Tattoo. Lulled by the comforting tones of the bagpipers, I try to grab a few moments of sleep, my first since leaving London twenty-two hours prior; but a sudden drop of more than a hundred vertical feet shakes me violently back to life. My headset buzzes loudly and farts twice before John’s far too cheery voice breaks in over the roar of the prop.

“Sorry about that…it’s a tad drafty up here, what ho!  Bloody hard work holding her steady this time of year with all this heat and the clouds and all.”

“I’m fine,” I lie. I blink my bloodshot eyes and stare down at the Great Rift Valley stretched out from horizon to horizon like an enormous open wound.

“Incredible, huh?” the voice breaks in again.

“Yes. Amazing,” I mumble with limited enthusiasm.

“You can see it from space with the naked eye, you know.” I nod lazily and the voice continues on. “So I’m told anyway, never been there myself. Ha!” I smile half-heartedly which is more than enough to encourage the voice to continue. “Stretches all the way from the Red Sea to Mozambique. That’s one bloody great rip.”

“Hmm…urp” I note with utter finality as a small bubble of bile belches up into my mouth.  “Just land this fucking plane, now!”  Well, that’s what I am screaming in my head.  My actual words are, “We must be getting pretty close, now.”

“Yeah,” John smiles. “We’ll be there in no time.” As if on cue the plane shudders and drops like a stone, bounces once or twice then shoots back up into the clouds.

“Whoo!” John hollers into my ear. “That was a bit of a wonky one, wasn’t it? The god’s are playing silly buggers with us, aren’t they? Don’t worry. We’ll be safe and sound on the ground before the top of the hour.”

John and I met last night at Florida 2000, a busy Kenyan dance club, nude cabaret, and whorehouse.  I told him I was in Africa to get away from it all. He’d heard it all before. “If you want to get away, come with me tomorrow.  I’m going to the end of the earth and I’ll only charge you for the petrol it takes to fly there.”  We drank until dawn, took a few hours to sober up, and were on our way to the Oasis Club before noon.

The Oasis Club lies at the southern tip of Lake Turkana, or as it is more poetically known, the Jade Sea. It is two hours and ten minutes by small plane from Nairobi in the middle of one of the most barren, uninhabitable stretches of land in East Africa.

“Loyangalani. Alpha kilo papa yankee four six five. Loyangalani. This is Alpha kilo papa yankee four six five, two souls board.  Request landing.” A voice on the other end of the radio frequency pipes in.

“Dave?  Is that you?”

“No.  Wolfgang.  It’s John.”

“John?”

“Dave’s son.”

“O, right you are! I thought Dave was bringing a group up here for some fishing.”

“He couldn’t make it. Last minute change. Said he love to be here, but he isn’t. Not to worry though, I’ve got an avid fisherman here with me.”

“Goodo.  Keep to the runway, OK? None of this monkey business in the parking lot.”

“That’s Dave’s trick, Wolfgang.”

“Well, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“I’ll keep out of the parking lot.  Am I clear for landing, then?”

“Yes, yes. I’ll come down in the buggy.” John turns to me and laughs again. “Bloody, Wolfgang.  He’s a nutter!”

“Mmmm.” I note, wiping back my sweat beaded brow. John never mentioned fishing in Nairobi. I mean to question him about it but his eyes are glistening with glee at the chance to spin another yarn so I let him go on.

“The parking lot landing is one of my dad’s old tricks. You see, the wind just about always blows from the volcanoes over there to the lake; but the strip, with typical Kikuyu planning, was built parallel to the lake. To make use of the near constant roaring crosswind, I’m guessing. Anyway, one day Dave figured it would be much easier to come in across the lake and land right in the parking lot. He knew that with this wind he’d stop as soon as the wheels touched the ground; which is exactly what happened, but not before Wolfgang nearly spit out a lung screaming emergency landing directions.  Bloody Dave; he’s always looking for a way to frighten the poor bugger to death.”

Bush pilots have a saying: Any landing you walk away from is a good landing. This maxim was clearly demonstrated on the sandy, windswept strip at the Oasis where John descended like a drunken barnstormer or at very least a reckless crop duster, wildly dipping and tipping the wings right up to the moment we hit the target with a crunching blow that would have made any kamikaze proud.”

“Nice job,” I deadpan, too queasy to be frightened.

Wolfgang pulls up in the buggy as we step down from the plane. He may not be much of an air traffic controller but Wolfgang Deschler is a gregarious host and it must be noted one of the world’s premier Nile Perch chefs.  Nile Perch is a giant, oily fish that is difficult to prepare well; but there isn’t much else other than Tilapia that can survive in the alkaline waters of Lake Turkana. These days Tilapia are available in every grocery freezer so I’m not sure I could call Wolfgang the world’s greatest Tilapia chef but he definitely is the undisputed king of Nile Perch cuisine. After twenty-five years of practice there isn’t a way to cook Nile Perch that Wolfgang hasn’t mastered. Heck, he created most of the recipes himself, he just can’t bring himself eat the bloody things himself anymore.  He catches them, cleans them and cooks them but he absolutely refuses to eat another fucking Nile Perch as long as he lives.

“Welcome to the Oasis Club, gentlemen!” Wolfgang blurts at us with a wide smile and a hearty handshake. You are mostly in luck.  We have one room left for the evening.” So much for getting away from it all, the Oasis Club is about to have its busiest night in years; busier even than the glory days of the early eighties when famous artists like Andy Warhol’s Factory photographer Peter Beard and famous spy fiction writers like John LeCarre and famous famous-people like Bianca Jagger established the Oasis Club as a fashionably famous place to escape the outside world. Of course, even in those glory years the Oasis Club was rarely full. Big nights at the Oasis did happen but they were few and far between; which, incidentally, is the main reason why fourteen years ago Wolfgang’s wife packed it in and moved back to Nairobi.

I watch as John climbs out onto the Cessna’s wing to attach a wind tie. He looks like a praying mantis stalking along an all too slender branch. “You take the room,” he says. “I’ll sleep on the lawn under the stars.”

“You’ll have company on the lawn tonight, Dave.  Do you know of Justin Bell?

“From Arusha? Sure I know him.  What’s he doing up here? I thought he only did safaris?”

“He’s traveling with some foreign TV outfit. Making some kind of docco. You should see all the shit they’re hauling, all kinds of shit. Flew here in that big Russian troop carrier over there. What is that? An Mi-8? Is this all you have?”

“We’re just looking around.”

“Where is your fishing gear?”

“We thought we’d borrow yours.” Wolfgang looks at us both with a suspicious eye.

“So, I’m guessing you won’t actually need the charter boat any more. Your safari fell through again, didn’t it? I suppose he found you in a bar last night in Nairobi. Am I pretty close?”

My expression says all Wolfgang needs to hear. “Nevermind. I’ve got one room left and I’ll give you the drop-in rate. You look a little green, my friend. Was your pilot bouncing you around too much?  He’s not well known for sticking to one altitude, you know.”

“You keep confusing me with Dave, Wolfgang. I’m a completely different kind of pilot.  Besides, it wasn’t the flying that did it to him it was heavy drinking last night at the Florida 2000.”

“Florida 2000? The Frenchies haven’t stopped raving about that place since they got here. Nairobi sure must have changed since I was last there.”

“Everything’s changed in the last 25 years except you, Wolfgang. You’re as nuts as ever!”  Wolfgang laughs, revs up the buggy and drives us up to the club.

My room, I discover, would make a Spartan feel very much at home; but I am too tired to worry about creature comforts. I lie face down on my cot and spin off into dizzy slumber.

NEXT UP: NO SHORTS, NO SHIRT, NO SERVICE (females excepted)