Nairobi

Isobel

The trip to Heathrow was uneventful. No blazing trains or engineering works to impede my progress.

Being 6 feet 3 inches tall I asked for extra leg room at the check-in desk, but as ever it had already been allocated to various cousins of Wainwright who would not actually need it. The check-in bloke did ask though if I would like to travel on another plane that doesn't leave until the following morning. I think about this carefully. I could either leave on my allotted plane in 3 hours, or I could spend all night at the airport and arrive at my destination 12 hours late and miss my holiday. I look for the hidden advantages of this seemingly ludicrous offer but I'm buggered if I can find them and accept the cramped seat I have been allocated.

Being forced to drink the 2 litres of water I am carrying in order to progress through security I am in dire need of the loo. Outside the toilet 2 burly cops pass me by without so much as a glance. Neither do they glance at the abandoned bright orange suitcase that is a few feet away from me. It is only when they have disappeared round the corner en route to the staff canteen, their brief work break over, do I realise that I am standing next to a possible terrorist attack.

I search around for its owner, but there is just me and 50 pounds of semtex. I think I can hear ticking too.

Luckily a chap saunters by on his way to join the cops next to the teapot. His security badge indicates he works at the airport so I dump the problem on him. He thanks me but doesn't actually look too pleased and looks around anxiously for someone he can dump the problem onto in turn. Helpful as ever, I tell him there are 2 cops in the staff canteen. He thanks me again and I withdraw. He moves around the corner and then then comes back as the cops are now out of sight. He hovers uncertainly and I wonder if the coward is about to leg it. I figure that if it's sarin gas he'll go down first, like a canary in a coal mine, and I'll have time to escape. But then again, it might be semtex after all, which will severely ruin my holiday plans. I leg it.

Squashed into my seat for the 8 hour flight to Nairobi, my body decides to sleep in shifts. First, one of my legs goes off to sleep, then it is the turn of one of my arms. Finally, I manage to get all of my body to sleep in unison only to find myself being shaken by the otherwise non-communicative lady next to the window who settled down to sleep without visiting the toilet and now needs to pee.

Eventually I do manage pockets of sleep of various durations between trying to get comfortable.

I awake to find my contact lenses welded to my eyeballs and watch a fuzzy version of Night at the Museum 2 over breakfast. The film goes off before the end as we are nearing Nairobi. It was crap anyway.

At the airport I get my first taste of the slow bureaucracy that constantly cripples Africa as I queue to pay my $25 and obtain my entry visa. As my time in the queue stretches out I am haunted by images of every thief in Kenya helping themselves to my luggage which must be circulating around the carousel on an endless loop by now.

As it is my fears are unfounded. By the time I get to the baggage area nearly an hour after arrival it is to find people from my flight still waiting for the first bags to appear.

My fellow passengers and I then play a game of luggage claim bingo. Once you have all your bags you shout 'Thank f*ck for that!' and hot foot it out of the airport. The loser is the last one to get a bag. I was the loser.

Wearily, I make my way out of the airport and follow the 'Exodus' sign that leads me to my fellow adventurers and our guide, JJ. He is a tall, slim, good looking, Bob Marley look-alike complete with dread-locks. It will take at least 2 more days for me to work out the various connections between the group I am joining and learn their names. At this stage I can only discern that they are a friendly bunch that consists mainly of women of various ages. I also detect some accents I take to be American in their midst. Most of the group, having faired far better at luggage claim bingo than me, seem to have bonded and exchanged details already.

Hounded by nice men who kindly want to help carry our bags, we make our way to where Isobel is waiting. Isobel is our base for the next 2 weeks. She is a huge truck that must never be referred to by the B-word (rhymes with Puss). But she is no ordinary truck. Isobel turns out to be the Swiss Army knife of trucks, full of hidden compartments and gadgets that will provide security and cater for our needs during our trip. Not only will she carry us safely over some very dodgy roads but she will also be our field kitchen, our secure storage, our water bearer, our game viewing platform and JJ's bedroom.

Bags onboard Isobel, we head north out of Nairobi, towards the Rift Valley.

The adventure has begun.