The Kenya That Once Knew Me

That time and place have vanished forever, almost like a golden dream. In the dream my friends are native Kikuyu Africans, and the privileged second and third generation white Kenyans who come from Britain and other European countries. A white Kenya boy of fifteen learns from his Kikuyan pals how to spot the triangular tip of a li

I don’t know about orange suits and white-tailed deer and freezing my tootsies by the lake at dawn. I do know about waiting hours in a blind for the big cat who is lured by the stench of the dead zebra hanging in the Baobab tree. I’m not proud of it. That was when the world was new and I didn’t know any better.

Once Upon a Time in East Africa

When you had to have a license for anything you intended to kill. When those licenses were limited and you were monitored. No one dared slaughter animals the way poachers do today. Fact is, in those days the British ran Kenya and flat out killed the few hapless poachers they caught. The Africans had the greatest respect for animals and only killed to eat. The Masai didn’t hunt animals because they never ate meat. Their livestock was their only wealth. They lived on the blood from the large vein in the neck of the animal, mixed with milk from the cow. Only the white man had to have his trophies.

Long after Karen Blixen wrote “Out of Africa,” long after Hemingway’s adventures, and Joy Adamson’s Elsa the lion made headlines in “Born Free,” civil servants like me came along to work in what was still the clean, Jacaranda flowering town of Nairobi, a very livable place. Today you don’t go out alone at night. Today the government has herded the once proud nomadic Masai into shacks where they have lost their dignity and are forced into subsistence farming. Can a leoparad change its spots?

The Kenya That Once Knew Me

That time and place have vanished forever, almost like a golden dream. In the dream my friends are native Kikuyu Africans, and the privileged second and third generation white Kenyans who come from Britain and other European countries. A white Kenya boy of fifteen learns from his Kikuyan pals how to spot the triangular tip of a lio

had to have a license for anything you intended to kill. When those licenses were limited and you were monitored. No one dared slaughter animals the way poachers do today. Fact is, in those days the British ran Kenya and flat out killed the few hapless poachers they caught. The Africans had the greatest respect for animals and only killed to eat. The Masai didn’t hunt animals because they never ate meat. Their livestock was their only wealth. They lived on the blood from the large vein in the neck of the animal, mixed with milk from the cow. Only the white man had to have his trophies.

Long after Karen Blixen wrote “Out of Africa,” long after Hemingway’s adventures, and Joy Adamson’s Elsa the lion made headlines in “Born Free,” civil servants like me came along to work in what was still the clean, Jacaranda flowering town of Nairobi, a very livable place. Today you don’t go out alone at night. Today the government has herded the once proud nomadic Masai into shacks where they have lost their dignity and are forced into subsistence farming. Can a leoparad change its spots?

The Kenya That Once Knew Me

That time and place have vanished forever, almost like a golden dream. In the dream my friends are native Kikuyu Africans, and the privileged second and third generation white Kenyans who come from Britain and other European countries. A white Kenya boy of fifteen learns from his Kikuyan pals how to spot the triangular tip of a li

unt animals because they never ate meat. Their livestock was their only wealth. They lived on the blood from the large vein in the neck of the animal, mixed with milk from the cow. Only the white man had to have his trophies.

Long after Karen Blixen wrote “Out of Africa,” long after Hemingway’s adventures, and Joy Adamson’s Elsa the lion made headlines in “Born Free,” civil servants like me came along to work in what was still the clean, Jacaranda flowering town of Nairobi, a very livable place. Today you don’t go out alone at night. Today the government has herded the once proud nomadic Masai into shacks where they have lost their dignity and are forced into subsistence farming. Can a leoparad change its spots?

The Kenya That Once Knew Me

That time and place have vanished forever, almost like a golden dream. In the dream my friends are native Kikuyu Africans, and the privileged second and third generation white Kenyans who come from Britain and other European countries. A white Kenya boy of fifteen learns from his Kikuyan pals how to spot the triangular tip of a li

rn Free,” civil servants like me came along to work in what was still the clean, Jacaranda flowering town of Nairobi, a very livable place. Today you don’t go out alone at night. Today the government has herded the once proud nomadic Masai into shacks where they have lost their dignity and are forced into subsistence farming. Can a leoparad change its spots?

The Kenya That Once Knew Me

That time and place have vanished forever, almost like a golden dream. In the dream my friends are native Kikuyu Africans, and the privileged second and third generation white Kenyans who come from Britain and other European countries. A white Kenya boy of fifteen learns from his Kikuyan pals how to spot the triangular tip of a li

The Kenya That Once Knew Me

That time and place have vanished forever, almost like a golden dream. In the dream my friends are native Kikuyu Africans, and the privileged second and third generation white Kenyans who come from Britain and other European countries. A white Kenya boy of fifteen learns from his Kikuyan pals how to spot the triangular tip of a lion’s ear deep in the tall blond grass where the big cats laze. When the boy grows up he inherits his parent’s coffee and tea plantations in the highlands, and the lower drier areas of sisal plantations. He has a stable of horses for racing at the Nairobi track, and he learns how to hunt. Some of my close friends are professional hunters who take wealthy tourists on safari. On vacation days I go along as their guest. This is the beginning of my African safari education, when hunting in the wilds means having your own comfortable tent with a hot bath at the end of the day, brought to you in a large steaming tub of water.

Unlike the obsessed character played by Clint Eastwood in “White Hunter, Black Heart,” professional hunters held to the strictest etiquette and humane approach to big game hunting. That meant knowing the species better than he knew himself: his habits, what time of day he hunts, how long he can wait before he eats again, whether a lioness is pregnant or an elephant a dangerous rogue. By far the most important thing I learned was to love and respect these magificent animals. I never knew a professional hunter who didn’t mourn the death of every single species. Most tourists came for the excitement of the kill and bravados at the noisy Long Bar of the Norfolk Hotel. No gratitude for the noble prize that sacrificed its life to hang over a rich man’s fireplace.

The Romance of the Professional Hunter

You’ve seen the