I loath December in the UK with all it's christmas ****, so for nearly 40 years it's been …..get out of the country during December . This particular year I ganged up with several others and muggins here, hired a Land Rover to venture into the Masai national park in Kenya over christmas. Following the well used tracks into the park was easy. Not really the place to pick up a nail but we managed to. Although I had checked the spare wheel, brace and the jack, it wasn't until we came to use them did we realise that the handle of the jack didn't fit the jack. After ******* rocks under the car we lifted the axle off the ground and changed the wheel. Continuing on the spare went down as well. It is unwise to camp out in the open ! The approaching park rangers advised enthusiastically. We limped on towards a Masai village. I slept in the car to protect my investment and rental deposit. In the morning, December 25th, the village chief offered his help to get the punctures fixed. He was dressed in traditional robes. He went off to change. Why ? After a while he returned in a 3 piece suit and tie, bowler and umbrella – like a proper city gent. Two of us went with the punctured tyres to get them repaired. But how were we to get there ? Another surprise. In one of the mud and straw huts was an immaculate LWB green Land Rover and he had a personal driver. It appears that he was a kind of political leader for the Masai tribes and was provided with his own transport. He took us some distance until we went through 2 large pillars – no fence or gates, just ornate pillars. Further on there appeared a magnificient white structure. Turns out it was a very expensive, exclusive lodge that had its own repair facilities for their safari vehicles. It was suggested that we go and have a drink while the tyres were repaired. There was a swimming pool with all the attending glitz in the middle of the Masai. Astonishing. Local Masai men, very dark skinned, beaded hair, stretched ear lobes, bare feet, dressed in white trousers, those funny shirts with folded and sticky out collars, maroon bow ties and jackets with tails. Their job was to constantly wander between guests and attend to their every needs. Some of them were armed with towels over their arms so that anyone emerging from the pool was immediately supplied with a clean dry towel. What were these proud people doing being treated like turds. A bell rang and they all disappeared. A dreadful noise started up, sounded like the drones of bagpipes being primed. It was. Out from the corridor came these fellows, kilts, sporens, green tartan short jackets, barefoot armed with bagpipes playing Amazing Grace. Totally, totally incongruous. They marched in loose formation around the pool and out again. The pompous clientele were unmoved. The men then returned to their duties as servants. The wealthy guests continued to soak up the sun. We collected our wheels and left.
