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My travelling companions are not as fearsome as I imagined. There are just five of us. A young couple, Sean and Maura, also on their first trip to Africa, Pat, a single lady, older than me and an elderly man, John, who has already set his sights on her it seems.
We jolt and buck along the baked yellow-rock road, etched with deep grooves from the traffic that has passed this way before us. Children from the villages, with dirty faces and heavenly smiles, run out to greet us, keeping pace with the bus as best they can to wave and call out their names to us. Occasionally, we stop to let a herder guide their skinny cattle across the route from one barren-looking field to another. The Maasai Mara, our driver tells us, hasn’t seen a drop of rain for nearly two years and now water is a scarce and much needed commodity.
Another two hours of bone-breaking, spleen-shattering, jaw-juddering driving and we’re travelling along flat open plains dotted only with acacia trees. The rutted road disappears and all that remains are dirt tracks etched into the land with no visible signposts except those that nature has provided. Vast herds of wildebeest wander across the reserve and I think, if I see nothing more for the rest of my trip, then even this has far surpassed my dreams of what Africa might be like.
The driver still navigates skilfully and soon, after our long, beautiful and bumpy journey, we see two crossed spears in the ground and bounce happily into an area of grassy scrub. Kiihu camp. My home for the next seven days.
As we park, a couple of zebras grazing in the shrubby bush lift their heads and give us the once-over, then trot away as the van door opens. Tired, we’re helped by smiling staff to unload our bags. It’s late afternoon now and every muscle in my body aches, first of all from being stuck overnight on a plane for hours, and then ricocheting around a bus like a marble in a tin can for the best part of the day. But when I see the camp for the first time, my spirits lift and I forget all my aches and pains.
The large olive green tents are arranged in a loose circle around the perimeter of the camp. In the centre, there’s a circle where the campfire is and there’s even a vast living room tent for relaxing.
I’m taken to my own tent by the driver and, inside, there’s a double bed, a proper loo and a shower. This isn’t camping, it’s glamping, and right now I’m very grateful for it. My bed is covered with a large colourful blanket and there’s a thick cotton rug on the floor. Behind the bed is the luxury of a dressing table and stool and beyond that is the bathroom area. The knot of anxiety in my stomach starts to uncurl.
The driver moves on to help someone else and leaves me with my unpacking and my comfortable bed beckoning. I don’t really know where to start, so I kick off my trainers and lie back on my bed, taking a moment’s rest.
A minute later, I feel a shadow cross my face and I open my eyes, jerking awake immediately from the half-sleep I was happily drifting into.
And there he’s standing. My first glimpse of a Maasai warrior. The man at the opening to my tent is tall, amazingly so – easily six-foot four or more. He’s slender, rangy, but I’ve never seen anyone with more muscle or sinew in my life. His head is shaved and his skin is as dark as the olive wood I saw earlier – a rich burnished brown. A red cotton tunic covers his body and his neck is draped with colourful beaded necklaces. He wears more bracelets on his wrists and ankles. Around his hips is tied one of the now-familiar traditional blankets in bold red and orange stripes. His feet are bare and in his hand is a stick that’s nearly as tall as he is. He is stunning, beautiful.
I sit up, flustered, and fuss with my hair. ‘Hello.’
When he smiles at me, a dazzling white smile, eyes twinkling, I feel something inside my heart twang. I have never seen a man quite so imposing and so proud.
‘Jambo. Hello.’ The smile widens. Then he reaches out a hand to grasp mine. It is cool, dry and the strength in his fingers is tangible. ‘I am Dominic, Mrs Janie Johnson,’ he says softly in a lilting voice. ‘I am a Maasai warrior and I am here to look after you.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile shyly in return and think that if I have Dominic, my very own Maasai warrior, to look after me then I never need fear anything ever again.
Chapter Twenty-Three
We sit on the veranda of my tent in two director’s chairs. ‘You must not go anywhere without me,’ Dominic stresses. ‘I am here to protect you and keep you safe.’
I can barely hear what he’s saying, I’m so transfixed by simply looking at him. His movements are so elegant, graceful.
‘Whenever you want me,’ he continues in his impeccable English, ‘you must make a noise.’
