Doing the Rift Valley lakes is at least an easy drive (if you go no further north than Baringo). Baringo is in the home area of President Moi's tribe, so the road, the B4, is kept in good shape. The side road to Bogoria, well, that's another story.I reduced the number of petrol jerries to two and took only thirty liters of water; I figured I could get more of both at Nakuru. The Suzuki was, thus, a little lighter. It didn't seem to make any difference struggling up the inclines out of Nairobi--you have to go uphill before you descend into the Rift Valley. And it was foggy and cold. On the A104 I was pulled over by a cop in one of their police check scams. That is another defining feature of the Third World: completely corrupt officialdom. This fellow claimed I was going too fast through a zebra crossing--if you can imagine zebra crossings on a dual carriageway main road. I couldn't get him down to the 200 shillings it used to be and had to settle for 500 ($9 or so). In fact there were several articles in the Nairobi papers about police bribery; in certain parts of Nairobi the matatu drivers pay a regular fee just to be able to drive unmolested. The fee is 500 shillings a day, so it appears that is the going rate.That annoyance aside, the drive to Nakuru was pleasant enough (although the A104 continues to deteriorate and is washing out in spots). I stopped at one of our favorite spots, the Stem Hotel, and had tea and chips. After refueling, I headed up the B4, enjoying very much what was turning into a sunny warm day. Perhaps it wouldn't be raining at Baringo.
Rather than camping--since I didn't know anything about the one campsite at Baringo--I chose to spend two nights in the Lake Baringo Lodge: Welcome to the world of Block hotels. Yes, well, it is beautifully situated and, on this occasion, it was also peaceful. Peaceful as regards my own species: when I went to lunch after checking in, I was the only guest. A small party was supposed to come from Samburu, but they were late. But as I walked among the trees on a post prandial stroll, I became aware of the noise. A welcome noise this, the calls and songs of countless species of birds.
Baringo, unlike Bogoria, its neighbor lake 40 kilometers south, is a freshwater lake. Rains had come late, only in July, and the lake was still high. When the lake is high and the reed beds spread along the shores, birds by the thousands flock to its waters and the surrounding countryside. Some of the birds that come to the lake and its environs are rare species, including Verreaux's eagle.
Some are common. In the trees just outside my bungalow a gang of white-bellied go-away birds were making their usual racket. The "go-away" is supposed to be what the call sounds like, but I've never thought it sounded anything like that. For one thing, they often make a loud, let us say one-syllable squawk. I have always maintained, facetiously, of course, that they're "goaway" because that's what you want them to do when you hear them--they're loud and persistent chatterboxes. They are also very handsome birds; I put a camera on the tripod and spent half the afternoon with them. Results include a couple of very lovely full-frame shots.
The first evening I took the bird walk with the ornithologist. The resident Brit birder was away, but her African assistant was excellent. The late group from Samburu had arrived and they joined us for the walk. We saw a number of interesting species, chief among them the pair of Verreaux's eagle owls. These are magnificent large gray birds. They kept to the inner branches of a tall tree, but with field glasses they were easy enough to see. They had a juvenile with them that called plaintively as the light faded.
We also saw a white-faced Scops owl, a gabar goshawk, a pair of dark chanting goshawks, one in the melanistic phase, cuckoos, sunbirds, shrikes, thrushes, orioles. A red-fronted barbet had made a home in a hole in the remains of a dead tree. The ornithologist answered a question I had had for years: I hear everywhere I go a distinctive descending three-note call, but I've never seen the bird making the sound. It is the red-chested cuckoo. That settles that.
On the way to the lake shore we followed a small, almost still, stream over which a colony of masked and northern masked weavers were nest building. They were late--because of the late rains in July--and this was the first opportunity I had had to watch weavers in their nests. I knew what I would be doing the next day: the spot offered several places to set up a tripod, and good views. On the shore we saw a Goliath heron, squacco herons, jacanas, an Allen's gallinule, a malachite kingfisher, little bitterns, sacred ibis, egrets, the usual birds. Baringo is a birder's feast when the water is high.
The second day I concentrated on the weavers. Their little stream was home to several monitor lizards that hid in the brush along the banks, waiting for anything--unwary bird, fledgling, or egg--that might drop from the nests above. The situation was excellent: both morning and afternoon light reached the nests, but the background in both directions was dark. I returned repeatedly to the site and shot many rolls. I was shooting more than I might do normally because the nests bobbed up and down as the birds landed on them, so it was difficult to get sharply focused shots. The effort resulted in several sheets of keepers.
That evening a group of British bird watchers showed up. They're always good fun--quiet and serious about the birds, but good humored. The tour leader really knew his stuff. They were headed for Masai Mara after the lakes, he said, and I told him what conditions had been like only a few days earlier. Then he asked if I had been to Bogoria. I said I was moving there the next day. His latest report was that there were "sacks of flamingos" at Bogoria. One could only hope so. And as we talked, a thunder storm broke over the lake and pelted down all during dinner. Two days of soft living over, I left the next morning for Bogoria, where I planned to camp at Acacia Campsite, one of our favorite camping spots.
The road from the B4 to the north end of the lake is tarmac. Sort of. It gets worse and worse the closer you get to the hot springs, where it ends. On the way down, I came across three tortoises. The first was about 30 centimeters long. He was making his way across the road, so I got out and moved him to the side of the road he was heading for, just to make sure some bozo in a lorry didn't drive over him.
At the Reserve Gate I asked about rain. The ranger said they had had only "weak" storms. On the other hand, he said the dirt track out from the southern end of the lake was impassable, even with four-wheel drive. As I drove toward the lake I noticed large pools of water, and the grasses were green and high. By the time the lake was visible, the tarmac road was a potholed mess. It has deteriorated noticeably since my partner and I drove it in 1995.
Just past the hot springs, I came upon the second tortoise. He was much bigger than the first--at least 60 centimeters long. He turned around and crept into the grass. The lugga just after the hot springs has always been dry in years past. It was flowing now, sure sign of recent heavy rain. The lake was high as well. That's good because when the lake is high, some of the hot spring vents are below the water level of the lake, so lots of steam is generated, making for especially interesting effects early in the morning.
A little further down the dirt track I found the third tortoise of the day ambling along. He was bigger than the last, probably 75 centimeters. I got out and tried to nudge him in a different direction. He was heavy! And strong: I attempted to move him backwards, but he dug his feet in and I couldn't budge him. I didn't see another tortoise the rest of the safari.
The track along the lake to the south end is not being maintained. In years past you could go 40 kph or so in a few straight stretches, but now so much rubble (hunks of basalt) has fallen down the slopes onto the track that you have to pick your way over the road carefully and slowly. Now it takes about 45 minutes to drive from Acacia Camp to the hot springs.
The campsite is situated on a little bay, facing east. The south end of the lake is a five-minute drive from camp. I was dismayed to find that our favorite camp had been more or less destroyed since our stay in 1995. Two large trees had fallen, one right across the area where we liked to put up the tents. The other had provided shade. With both down, there was no shade at all and no place to set up camp. Reluctantly, I looked about under the acacias on the other side of the road for a raised, level area. I chose a spot and carefully went over the ground picking up acacia thorns. Twigs bearing pairs of nine-centimeter spikes lie with one spike on the ground acting as a brace and the other sticking straight up waiting for a tire to roll over it. I cleared a path from the road to my chosen camping spot and drove the Suzuki under the acacias.
Grass was thick and green and warthogs seemed to have prospered since my last visit. I had a gang of them as camp mates all during my stay. The noisy troop of baboons was still there, and parked themselves in the trees by the road every evening. Fortunately, they left the tent and camping equipment alone when I was away from camp--unlike the troop at Samburu that almost demolished our tent in 1990.
The flamingo count could be described, I suppose, as "sacks." Not as many as in 1990, but that was a spectacular two-million strong contingent that probably is not seen very often. But there were more than there had been in 1995--they lined the lake all along the shores and filled the southern end. The hot springs also were host to thousands of the birds. I had decided to take one morning at the hot springs for the sunrise/flamingo shots and to spend the other mornings at the south end concentrating on greater kudu.
As it happened, I devoted most of my time at Bogoria to following the kudu. These are magnificent but shy tragelaphine antelopes, cousins of the eland. The spiraling horns of the male greater kudu are the longest of any antelope, reaching 180 centimeters. Their lowland habitat in East Africa largely expropriated by humans, and heavily hunted in the past (wouldn't you want a male greater kudu head with its spiraling horns on your wall?), greater kudu are now patchily distributed in mountain and remote regions that provide dense cover. Bogoria is one of the few places you see them. Over the last decade the Bogoria kudu have become a little less fearful of people.
On my first few visits I didn't see any. Now, if you stay for at least a day or two, kudu will sneak through the bush around your camp or even try to walk right past you along the lake edge if they think you aren't looking (or don't notice you). They have begun to tolerate cars--at a distance. On foot, you will spook them immediately.
I did a lot of walking this trip. I explored the lake shore going north, following the remains of a track that wove around the end of the little bay to a pleasant meadow where, on my first morning's walk, I discovered kudu females with their young feeding and lounging in the shade of acacias. I turned back before they saw me and returned to camp to get the tripod.
Unfortunately, as I approached more closely the second time, they spotted me and fled.Having scared off the animals, I walked around the meadow and chose a small tree that would provide shade and cover: I thought I would come early in the morning before the kudu showed up and wait for them. As long as they don't already know where you are, if you remain still and quiet, they don't see you. I figured that if the camera was on, aperture and speed set, I could get a few shots from close range before they bolted. It was worth a try at least.
As I continued to explore the meadow, a hamerkop flew up from the thick grass in the middle and landed in a distant acacia. Buffalo weavers darted from tree to tree chattering away. I photographed a couple of their nests, though they had finished nesting. On the way back to camp I crossed paths with a group of kudu that were doubtless heading for the meadow. They ran into the bush as I approached them.
The campsite was a favorite feeding area for the warthogs. Starlings and weavers were constant company. A woodland kingfisher would land in a nearby tree from time to time. One afternoon an eagle landed in a tree in the thick brush behind the campsite. I peered at it through my field glasses to make sure it was a tawny eagle--one of only two I saw at Bogoria this trip. Last year my partner and I were at Bogoria in February, when the steppe eagles were there. Hundreds of tawny eagles joined them (they're hard to tell apart). This one flew deeper into the brush when I moved closer. Immediately he alighted, a pair of paradise flycatchers began diving onto his back. I could hear the loud thump as they crashed into him. He took this with patience for about a minute and then flew off. I tried to get closer to the flycatchers, but they too flew off.
In the dense brush I discovered a termite mound still under construction. The tower section was only a meter or so, and open at the top. Thousands of termites covered the inside of the structure. A little light was falling directly on the open top of the mound, so I went back for the tripod and set it up beside the mound and photographed the termites at work. The results these creatures only a few millimeters long produce are astounding. I photographed one mound at the north end of the lake that was nearly six meters high.
Late afternoons and evenings brought storms. Twice they moved across the escarpment east of the lake but did not pass over the camp. The winds whipped up the water and created waves that broke on the western shore. The last night the rain poured down for a half an hour, just after dinner. Nice timing. The genet that had made furtive crepuscular visits on our previous stays did not appear this time. Baboons, of course, and vervet monkeys, settled in the trees around the campsite. A lone hyaena howled every night from the hill just south of the camp. And once I was in my tent, the warthogs wandered about amongst the acacias.
My first full morning at Bogoria was almost cloudless. I drove up to the hot springs to photograph the flamingos in the mist. I used the tripod and shot from several different angles and with different lenses. The second morning I had planned to stake out the meadow, but a faulty tin of tuna gave me the first bout of gut rot I had had in years. Nothing serious, just enough to slow me down and make me feel lousy for a day. I didn't make it to the meadow until mid morning, by which time the kudu--if they had come at all--were gone.
It was at noon that I had a chance to photograph a superb male with triple spiraled horns. I was at the campsite, sitting in the fold-up chair reading, when I happened to look up. He was walking stealthily along the shore right in front of the camp. He didn't see me until I got up and moved toward him. The camera was already on the tripod ready for use. I snapped a shot, and he picked up his pace. He was going north, perhaps to the meadow. I grabbed the tripod and keeping a thick bush between us so he couldn't see me, I moved to the left and much closer to him. As soon as I had the camera set and ready to fire, I moved out from behind the bush with the tripod. He was only 30 meters away now, and for a moment just stood there and looked at me. I got two nice shots of him before he made a dash for it.
In the afternoon, before the clouds obscured the sun completely, I drove to the south end of the lake to check for kudu. There was one female right at the water's edge and backed by a line of flamingos. I pulled into position slowly and allowed her to get used to the car. Eventually I got a couple of pleasing shots of her with the flamingos behind.
The last morning I did get up early and carry my equipment to the meadow. I made myself comfortable under the acacia and mounted the camera on the tripod with its legs barely extended. It would be a good two hours before the kudu appeared (if they appeared), but warthogs were already feeding. I moved only when they were looking in another direction and remained undetected. One came closer and closer until I thought it best to move and scare him away rather than startling him right in front of me. He turned and trotted off, tail held straight up.
After I had sat for an hour and a half, I heard the sound of a tractor. At first I thought it was on the road, but no: it eventually appeared on the rise above the meadow and drove slowly past and into the bush. Ten minutes later a man on foot came down the same path in the opposite direction. So much for catching the kudu unawares. I got up disgusted and carted my equipment back to camp.
It was on the drive out that I discovered the kudu. They were in a clump of acacias some distance from the road but in a field that was actually just north of the meadow where I had sat waiting. I stopped and got out. They didn't move. I walked toward them. I got as far as a line of shrubs and they still hadn't run off. So I returned to the Suzuki and got out the tripod and camera and went back towards them. A male was lying down in front of the trees where the females and young were. As I reached the line of bushes he got up. I moved closer and the females and young made a dash for the rise on my left and the cover of dense bush. The male stayed behind and moved into the middle of the acacias. I walked still closer and took a few close-ups of him hiding amongst the trees. He eventually went out the other side of the clump of acacias and disappeared up a ravine. All in all, I can't complain about the luck with the greater kudu this trip. I have a couple of very pleasing shots to add to the collection.
Since the ranger had told me the southern road was impassable, I was leaving via the tarmac road and the north entrance. This adds a good 25 kilometers to the trip but the drive back to Nakuru is a short one on the paved road. I stopped again at the Stem hotel and had tea. The afternoons had been cloudy at Bogoria, and it had rained somewhere in the vicinity every night. The waiter at the hotel said Nakuru had had no rain.