Molusafaris introduces itself - This is us!
Monika Ludäscher
Managing Director / General Manager
And this is how it all began...
How an assignment in Spain turned into a life in Kenya
When someone goes on a journey... That was my first time, a long, long time ago: Over 30 years ago, I worked as a tour guide for a large Swiss tour operator. When I was told I was to be transferred to a new destination, I did what I always did in such cases: I prepared myself. And I did it thoroughly. I read everything I could about the country and its people. I sought advice from colleagues, some of whom I wrested appointments from in a flash. I familiarized myself with my new job as much as you can.
One day before my departure to the south, I was perfectly prepared - for Las Palmas - Spain. Then I was handed my ticket to Nairobi. And the fact that it wasn't in Spain was pretty much the only thing I knew for sure at that moment.
"Someone has fallen ill. You have to step in," I was told briefly. And that "the safari was important", which I now had to look after so suddenly. And that I didn't need to worry and that I would receive all the necessary information on site.
And that it would go wrong...
And so it did. My luggage was the last to fall off the conveyor belt. My papers needed to be studied particularly carefully at immigration control. And when I finally arrived at the meeting point in the arrivals hall, my group - the "important" safari group - was gone! Gone where? With whom? "With the driver, probably," I was told by a porter who had joined me along with a group of others. Probably sensing a business opportunity.
They felt sorry for me. They were thinking (out loud; in Swahili) how they could help me. Someone was on the phone to someone. Another knew the name of my handling agent. Yet another knew someone who would surely know someone. And indeed: some cab driver's cousin was related to the driver of the safari in question by three corners - and was well informed about his route. They would take me to my group. Everything 'hakuna matata' - no problem - don't worry." (It will all go wrong...).
One of the official Kentaco cab drivers loaded my luggage and quoted me a price that seemed a bit high to me, but which I didn't want to negotiate for too long in view of the outstanding helpfulness of the people (and which in retrospect actually turned out to be the "good price" that those present had unanimously described it as...).
My first impressions of Kenya? The unique friendliness of the people. Their undisguised openness, yes, and their willingness to help. The clear, cool air, which seemed strangely unreal as the sun shone hot from the sky. And the fact that the planes here hover over the heads of giraffes (which particularly impressed me).
After half an hour's drive, I began to wonder. Where was the city? Where was Nairobi? Shouldn't we be there by now? I asked the driver. He nodded, smiled mildly and said that we were making good progress. The traffic was light. I would soon be with my "people." What traffic did he mean? As far as I could see, I saw nothing - nothing but never-ending landscapes, dry bush through which a pale gray road meandered. Where else.
After another hour, I asked again (in a European matter-of-fact way, trying to hide a rising panic). "There", said the driver, pointing out of the open window down into a kind of gorge - into the distance - "there's Rift Valley. That's where the hotel is." The view of the Rift Valley, especially at this point where the road winds its way down the edge in steep hairpin bends, is undoubtedly breathtaking. But whether I was breathless because of the scenic spectacle or because I feared that I would soon end up as a headline in European newspapers - Swiss woman disappeared without a trace in Africa! - remains to be seen. And since the driver hardly spoke any English (and I didn't speak a word of Swahili), I had no choice but to hope that there really was a hotel waiting for me and not something completely different (disappeared without a trace).
Eventually we reached a small town, Naivasha - as I later learned, the heart of the colonial-era 'Happy Valley clique' (I quickly made up for my lack of preparation, of course). At the country club (the hotel) I finally met up with my group. I thanked my driver (and felt a little ashamed that I had suspected mischief with every hand movement he had made in the last hour). I said hello to my cousin's driver and then answered my guests' questions - none of which I was able to answer.
In the evening I got a crash course from John, the driver who had taken care of the group after he assumed that I hadn't been on the plane, about Kenya in general and about our tour in particular (Masai Mara - lots of lions, tourists have to stay in the car; Amboseli - Kilimanjaro belongs to Tanzania, but this doesn't have to be emphasized; rock hyraxes are related to elephants - which the guests only believe because it's so unbelievable).
On that day, a journey began for me that was originally only supposed to last two weeks and has now lasted for over three decades. Even today, my first impressions at the time are confirmed anew every day. This definitely includes the surprising circumstances that I faced when I arrived. Somehow you always find everything in Kenya, at some point you always arrive where you want to go. Even if the ways to get there are often different from what you expected.
On the other hand, it all makes sense. After all, this was the cradle of humanity. And nobody would set up a cradle anywhere if they didn't think it would go wrong. Logically enough.
Addendum: If you ever find yourself in a similar situation, please stay where you are. You will be found. You will be picked up! Hakuna matata. - And I still think it's a good idea to read a travel guide before leaving for a new country.