In honor of World AIDS Day, December 1, and remembrance of all those loved and lost.

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A few years back, I had the great privilege of being guided through the African bush.  In honor of World AIDS Day, December 1, and all of those loved and lost.    

                                      For Epateti 

                   "Thou were my guide, philosopher, and friend."       Alexander Pope             

After breakfast, Jeffrey and I prepare for a bushwalk.  Jeffrey, my guide while at the science/research camp, and the askari (guard), Epateti, will take me for my first safari on foot.  This is my third trip to Africa, second to Kenya, and I have only witnessed the bush, the wild, from Landrover or jeep.  I am beyond excited – both exhilarated and frightened. 

 

Epateti is a retired ranger and anti-poaching guard for the Kenyan Wildlife Service.  He worked for them for nearly forty years, training as a young boy.  I say young boy, but they age differently here, in Africa.  By age twelve or so, a boy may be considered more a man than boy, and responsibilities are often much greater than what one experiences in the States.  He had killed fifteen poachers during his time with the KWS and some of those killed had not only poached wildlife but had attempted to kill KWS rangers as well. 

 

Epateti has a wonderful smile.  His skin is very dark, like black coffee, and the whites of his eyes are the color of weak tea.  When he smiles, his eyes shine.  He is lean and wiry.  He is an older Turkana.  I don't know his age, but he looks very old to me.  Initially I wonder if someone “this old” is capable of guiding me through the bush, protecting me from possible danger.  After all, I’ll be on foot, on equal ground with elephant, buffalo and lion.  But that concern quickly fades as I realize that he would not be in charge of this safari if not extremely capable and respected.  Forty years with the Kenyan Wildlife Service have honed his senses of the bush, of everything wild, and like no one else.  I am told he should be addressed as “Mzee Epateti.”  Mzee roughly means “old man” but is truly an address of respect.  Unlike most Americans, Africans have great respect for their elders.  

 

Jeffrey, a highly experienced Bronze Metal Guide does all the translating between Epateti and me.  Jeffrey and Epateti communicate in Ki-Swahili.  I am reminded that if we are encountered, especially by an aggressive, lone male buffalo, not to make a sound, not to run, but to quickly scout out my surroundings, and then, fast, drop to the ground!  More times than not I am told not to run, dependent upon what animal poses threat.   I understand this.  I know if I run I will be chased.  I will be seen as prey.  But how does one turn off instinct coupled with adrenaline (not to mention abject fear!) and stay put, dropping flat to the ground?  I hope I don’t have the opportunity to find out.  Epateti will always be in the lead with his expert knowledge of the bush, and rifle.  Jeffrey will be close behind.  I will follow, closer still.                                                                

These two men, strangers to me, are leading me deep into the bush. I have signed an indemnity form saying that I understand I’m in the wilds of Africa and hold no responsibility toward the reserve/research center should anything happen to me.  This is wild territory, the Laikipia region of Northern Kenya, not a theme park. Accidents happen and although rare, people are killed on this land.  It is the way of life when you live in the bush.  You share your home with the wild (better yet, the wild shares its home with you) and you learn to respect and appreciate what lives alongside you.  And so, I am entrusting my safety to these men, these strangers until two days ago.  Oddly enough, I have rarely felt safer. 

 

Both men are experts on spoor and within minutes of our bushwalk they spot fresh buffalo and elephant prints.  These are two animals you don’t necessarily want to disturb in the wild.  A lone bull buffalo is extremely dangerous and alarmingly cunning, and elephants with baby or babies in tow do not tolerate close proximity.  For all their girth and lumberous looks, they are fast and will run down a human in no time flat.  There are only a few pockets of trees, mostly low dense scrub, which provides excellent cover for myriad smaller animals.  Epateti stops and points a long, weathered finger towards the dusty earth.  A leopard has been tracking here, fairly recently, and from the spoor just ahead of the leopard's, it appears to be tracking a baboon.

 

During the course of our bushwalk, I am educated on dung and spoor, blossoms, leaves and bark.  We eat handfuls of wild berries along the way.  I am shown plants which are used as natural insect repellents for animals, and made into chai (tea) and used as an anti-malarial remedy by the Turkana.  While Jeffrey tells me about this plant, Epateti suddenly motions to halt and be silent.  He has spotted fresh buffalo spoor followed by a flock of alarmed oxpecker birds taking flight.  He points to a dense clump of bush ahead.  Hidden in the thicket, a buffalo lurks.  This is not a spot to linger.  Quietly and on guard, we leave the area.

 

It is surprisingly hot this afternoon.  Following a cool, damp morning, the sun, after hiding behind dense cloud cover, has pushed through hotter and brighter than expected.  This stretch of bush has gotten flatter and more arid, the ground parched and dry.  Epateti stops, looks skyward and squints towards the sun.  He is animated and smiling broadly.  He is talking rapidly to Jeffrey, to the sky, hands motioning to the sun, grinning and shaking his head.  “What is he saying?” I ask. “Ah, ah,” Jeffrey nods.  “Epateti is amazed,” he says, “that the same sun overhead now, this very sun, and the same sun with him every day, is the very same sun that you see and feel in America, many ocean’s away.”  Epateti smiles, his eyes dancing, while Jeffrey translates his words.

 

These words and his excitement seem to have stemmed from a profound wonderment and appreciation of life, the planet, the universe, a higher spirit, and is evident on his expressive face.  Suddenly, the dark, wrinkled face that looked so old and worn to me just hours before, appears young and smooth and vibrant.  I smile at Epateti and ask Jeffrey to translate.  “Please tell him that I am often amazed by the same thing.  Just before I left for Kenya, I stood on my deck one evening and gazed up at a full moon and thought to myself, this is the very same moon being gazed upon by people in Africa.” Epateti nods and laughs, walking forward in the dust and sun, with his rifle, leading.                    

 

The three hours on foot pass quickly.  We have covered over fifteen miles under a relentless midday sun and tired, we head back to camp.  At the center, exhausted and sunburned, I join Jeffrey for a lunch of homemade samosas and pizza, fresh green beans and salad from the organic garden, and large juicy slices of melon.

 

Next morning, I rise early after a fairly decent night’s sleep.  Only the sounds of distant lions, a few hyena roaming the camp, and snorting buffalo near my cottage disturb my otherwise peaceful sleep.  Today, Jeffrey and I prepare for my second and more ambitious bushwalk.  We join a smiling Epateti and once again, head into the wild.  Jeffrey warns that this safari will lead much deeper into the bush than before and we must remain extremely quiet and vigilant.  The area we will trek today has a denser animal population and yields more abundant vegetation for animals to hide behind or within.

 

With Epateti upfront, rifle poised and ready, we head into the deep thicket of thorn and scrub.  We say little: pointing or a hushed whisper is our means of communication. More buffalo and rhino prints, herds of impala, a handful of zebra, an occasional warthog and other smaller mammals become part of our journey.  I am constantly on the lookout for snakes and it serves me well to remember to look down from time to time.  What can crawl or slither on the ground can be as lovely or as dangerous as what lies beside and above. 

 

It is amazingly quiet in the bush.  The dominant sounds are our breaths and the snapping of twigs and leaves beneath our weight.  We are making way through deeper brush and bramble and Jeffrey is kind enough to hold back the larger branches that block our path.  Constantly, the landscape changes, some areas so thick with vegetation it is more reflective of dense forest than bush or plain.  Dark, smelling of damp, fecund earth, and soft underfoot, the forest pockets are suddenly a play of light and ominous shadow, dancing through limbs, lurking behind trunks, then out again into full, bright sunlight and open ground, arid, cracked and solid. 

 

There is nothing on earth that can compare to being on foot in and at one with the wild, no barrier or safety net, no metal vehicle between you and what roams free.  Your senses become highly sensitive, acute, the heart pounds faster and louder, and the initial fear of the unknown, of danger, unfolds into a deeper sense of trust and letting go.  Like most things in life, you cannot control nature, what is wild. And when you give in to that reality, put your faith not only in your guide and askari but also in something higher – the spirit of Africa, of nature – a lovely dichotomy of exhilaration and calm prevails, a spiritual connection to all living things.

 

And as quickly as my sense of calm envelopes, a sudden crunch and reverberating rumble in nearby bush breaks the peaceful silence.  Instantly, Epateti motions Jeffrey and me to move back – FAST!  Do not run, but move without wasting any time!  Jeffrey grabs my arm and quietly pulls me back a few meters and closer to a bushy area for cover.  If I were not already anxious, seeing Jeffrey’s expression makes me all the more concerned. Noiselessly, Epateti backs up in our direction, moving away from the sounds.  His gun is aimed and rigid should the massive elephant decide to charge.  My heart racing, I await Epateti’s signal to once again move forward.  It is safe now.  The elephant has moved on, back into the thick cover of bush.                                     

I am acutely aware that my surroundings offer little safety of cover.  Where we stand, on this stretch of wild, there are few trees.  Only low bush and scrub, wild sage and a handful of fragile looking trees which would snap like brittle twigs during an elephant charge.  Silently, we move farther into the bush and again stop, move back, and stay still so as not to alarm the small elephant family browsing just a few meters away.  The tiny herd consists of five adult members and one calf approximately two to three years old.  We watch them watching us, they relax a bit,  recognizing our presence, and continue to browse.

 

Not far ahead Epateti grabs my hand and pulls me toward an opening in the earth.  He has spotted a hyena den and at that very moment, a large male hyena pokes its head from the hole.  Perhaps he felt our footsteps, the rumblings of the earth, and instantly it scrambles from the hole and into the cover of thicket.

 

It is getting hotter and the heat of the sun brings a sudden heaviness of odor to the air.  Jeffrey and Epateti lead me to the remains of a young bull elephant, perhaps twelve or so years old.  It has recently died of what appears to be natural causes.  The carcass is nearly  picked clean, only a few rib bones, the immense skull, and brain remnants are left.  A single chunk of skin lies near a rib bone.  It has been eaten by lion and hyena then picked over by vultures and other scavengers.  The few decomposing parts along with liquid remains dampening the earth reek of a putrid smell that is nearly unbearable.

 

We continue our trek above miles of the Great Rift Valley, upwards through dense brush and vast open spaces of tall yellow grasses, perfect hiding places for lion, leopard and cheetah.  These high points reveal a magnificent landscape, an unbroken tapestry of rolling hills and plains, shades of lush greens and pale golds.  Epateti has been silent for some time.  Now he would like to talk.  As we rest along a ridgeline and silently marvel at the pristine beauty, he reveals a painful chapter of his life, through Jeffrey, and to me. 

 

Epateti has two wives and seven children. He is fifty-two years old.  Both Jeffrey and I are surprised to hear that he is so young.  He has endured much in those five decades and it can be read across his worn face.  Epateti lost an earlier family.  His wife was murdered in their home around 1983, he says.  His children too, killed by the bandits who stole the manyatta’s (village) cattle and murdered other families as well.  Nearly forty years working with the Kenyan Wildlife Service also took its toll and he was shot at numerous times during his duty with the anti-poaching patrol.

 

Epateti’s life has been a difficult one – one of grief and hardship – words he does not use but are evident in his dark eyes and the deep crevices of his face.  I nod that I understand and tell him how very sorry I am for the loss of his family.  I tell him that I lost my husband too, just a year ago, and I know of the profound sadness.  Epateti shakes his head and quietly offers, “pole, pole,” I am sorry, very sorry.  His words are heartfelt and his kind face reveals an understanding that can only be shared in its true depth with another who has experienced a similar loss. 

 

The sun is moving lower in the sky and we have been on foot for hours now.  Jeffrey’s enthusiasm has not yet faded and he is determined to continue my education of the bush.  He tears a small branch off a wild sage bush and gives it to me to use as a fly swatter.  He tells me that the sage plant, wild leleshwa, is important for four things: the leaves are harvested for their rich, aromatic oils, and the rest of the plant is used for making bowls or for firewood, as well as harvested for coal production.  Much of the land on this reserve is covered with wild leleshwa and I have had the pleasure of bathing in its fragrant, emerald green oil.

 

Next, I am shown different wild flowers to chew on if I run out of water while in the bush.  Then he snips a delicate, soft blue flower and squeezes a small drop into the palm of my hand.  The blossom yields a clear, oily liquid that is a natural eyedrop and lubricant.  Epateti breaks off a different specimen that works as a potent laxative, while another nearby plant is used by locals to treat prostate cancer.  Some berries are extremely poisonous if eaten unripe, but when fully ripened are highly nutritious.  I am surrounded by plants, trees, flowers and berries that offer invaluable gifts in the forms of necessities for survival as well as natural remedies - a veritable pharmacy in the middle of the African bush.   

 

We are nearing the end of our walking safari and after five hours, we have covered more than twenty-two miles of dense bush and open plain. We are hot and tired and decide to take one last rest before heading back to camp.  We sit beneath a thorn tree offering dappled shade from the still burning sun and sip water from Jeffrey’s canteen.  Epateti talks about his days with the KWS and, for dramatic effect, rolls up a pant leg to reveal the scars and depressions in his leg from poacher’s bullets.  After his stories are told and  bullet wounds revealed, Epateti offers one last gift.  He sees something beneath a small tree and is very excited about the find.  Do I want it? “It is a giant mushroom,” Jeffrey tells me.

 

We walk to a diminutive tree offering shade to one gargantuan mushroom, a single fungus the size of a small parasol.  Epateti is determined that I have this wonderful delicacy and with some effort, pulls the giant mushroom from the dirt, shakes it off and hands me the lovely gift.  “Are you sure you don’t want it?” Jeffrey translates for me - “you keep it, Mzee Epateti.”  But Epateti would not have it, insisting rather that I bring it back to camp and ask Mzee Christopher to prepare it for my evening dinner.  “It is a good mushroom,” he says, “a delicious mushroom.” “Asante sana, Mzee.”  Thank you.  We head back, the prehistoric-like mushroom held above my head as a mini parasol and blocking the sun – a motion that Epateti finds very amusing and as usual, he smiles broadly, his eyes dancing at the sight of a mushroom umbrella. 

 

Along with a handful of other delectable dishes, Mzee Christopher, the incredible cook at the research center, has prepared the mammoth mushroom with olive oil and garlic and a few secret herbs and spices.  There is enough for four of us at dinner, with leftovers.  It is simply delicious, perhaps more so because it was a gift, handpicked in the wild by my friend, Epateti.

 

A common language does not necessarily mean a communication through words.  Speaking the same language might mean a connection on a deeper level; a bond born from something our minds do not fully comprehend, but is understood through our hearts.  When this happens, it is one of the greatest gifts of being human.

 

Most of my communication with Epateti over my two weeks at the research center had little to do with words.  Oftentimes, we would say something in our different languages and without understanding the words, we were somehow able to translate the feelings or essence of what we were trying to convey, enough to understand, to make a connection.  We would nod, smile, listen, feel and comprehend through different expressions - the burst of joy revealed in a smile or laugh, the profound sadness exposed from one’s eyes, the waving of hands, simple gestures – all meaningful and silently understood.  Sometimes, words can get in the way.

 

There are people on this earth that bond for whatever reason – for every reason and no reason at all.  By simply being human, by our common losses and triumphs, by a shared exhilaration over a breathtakingly beautiful stretch of savannah, or the head of a hyena protruding from a den, the generosity in the gift of a giant mushroom, or the shared heartbreak over the loss of loved ones, we are able to make a higher connection with someone who has “happened” in our lives.

 

I do believe in fate.  For whatever reason, our paths were meant to cross, however brief.  Epateti made a lasting impression on me.  I was humbled and honored to have met him and this was translated for him on my last evening at the camp.  I learned from Epateti, this total stranger.  There were things we saw with like eyes, things we endured with similar resolve and resilience.   He had asked that a photo be taken of the two of us.  He is standing in his dark green khakis and we pose for the shot, new friends.

 

The last time I saw him it was dark.  A wood fire was burning in the sitting room and a few kerosene lamps lit the outside of Mzee Christopher’s working kitchen.  It was raining.   Philip was there to translate our farewell.  We hugged and shook hands.  I thanked him for his generosity, for guiding me safely through the bush, for all I learned.  I told him he was a good and kind man.  I wished him well, always.  He nodded to me and in Ki-Swahili to Philip, and translated to me, he said, “I know I will see you again, God willing.”  And as usual, he smiled.

 

When I returned to the States, I sent a few gifts to my new friends at Ol ari Nyiro’s research center.  I sent books and pens and bags of sweets.  Epateti liked Lifesavers.  He had never tasted them before.  On one of our bushwalks, he had been coughing a lot and said his throat was dry from the heat and dust.  I pulled a roll of Lifesavers from my pocket and offered him one. He had never tasted anything so sweet, he told Jeffrey.  They made him feel better, made his throat well.  When I was home, I sent him a large bag filled with Lifesavers. 

 

It has been nearly two years now since my solo trip to Kenya, to Ol ari Nyiro.  I received an email the other day saying that Epateti had passed away since my visit there.  I was deeply saddened by the news.  I wept for my stranger/friend, perhaps more so for myself, knowing I would not see him again.  I pulled out the photos from my trip and looked at the ones taken with Epateti.  I was surprised at how young he looked, not like the old man I initially saw, the wrinkled worn face of a man much older than his years.  I saw a young, vital man standing strong in his dark green khakis.  His black coffee colored skin looking smooth and vibrant, the wisdom in his eyes speaking volumes  – even in a photograph.

 

As you once said to me, my friend, “I know I will see you again, God willing.”

 

And I do see you, Epateti.  Each time I look at the sun and moon.        

* Every day 6,000 children lose a parent to AIDS.  The AIDS pandemic has killed more than 25 million people and an estimated 38.6 million are living with HIV/AIDS.  In 2005, the AIDS epidemic claimed an estimated 3.1 million lives, more than half a million (570,000) were children.  The highest infection rate of HIV/AIDS in the world is in sub-Saharan Africa.  Since this story was written, I made another trip to South Africa where in the rural villages and townships, the ravages of AIDS are ever pervasive.     

Authors Website: https://www.facebook.com/jbaumgartnerauthorpage/

Authors Bio:

Jan Baumgartner is the author of the memoir, Moonlight in the Desert of Left Behind. She was born near San Francisco, California, and for years lived on the coast of Maine. She is a writer and creative content book editor. She's worked as a grant writer for the non-profit sector in the fields of academia, AIDS, and wildlife conservation for NGO's in the U.S. and Africa, comedy writer for live performance at Herbst Theater in S.F., and as a travel writer for The New York Times. Her work has been published online and in print, both nationally and abroad, ranging in such diverse topics as wildlife and nature, travel, humor/satire, Africa, and essays about her experience as a full time caregiver for her terminally ill husband. Her travel articles on Mexico have been widely published; two are included in anthologies. Since her husband's death", and following her passion for world travel, she has made solo trips to France, Italy, Mexico, the Bahamas, Turkey, Kenya and South Africa. She makes her home in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico