AfricanKelli

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Yep. Those are my minister boots.

Off to see Adam and Kim get hitched; be back with details soon, y’all. (!!)

~K

I’ve been asked a hundred times what the best part of my African travels is. Well, without an hour of your time, I’ll simply say safari. In Africa, I love the people,  work,  food, hiking, sights, smells, etc. But safari brings all of these together (minus the working, but hey! you are on vacation!)

On my most recent trip, I got to know a friend of Matt’s named Michael, or “Skeg.” Skeg is one of the funniest men I’ve ever met. Truly, his ability to make others laugh rivals few. He is laid back, knowledgeable and a simply a lot of fun. He recently started Malawian Style — a safari and tour company of the beautiful country.

His website says it so much better than I can, but if you are ever interested in seeing the very best of Malawi — consider Skeg. His tours hit the most gorgeous spots and his ability to tell a good story, find a great restaurant and find the best spot to snorkel in Lake Malawi make the trip alone worthwhile.

And if you need sold on Malawi, well. May I suggest a quick tour of these photos? Or this quick film.

~K

P.S. Also? I receive no kickback for such accolades. I simply love Skeg and the work he is doing. And Africa. And the thought of more friends and family falling head over heels for this spectacular place.

I took these photos! Which just goes to show you, even a complete fool with a good camera and far too much courage can get some fun shots traveling Africa.

Giraffe are not native to Malawi. They were imported to one of the parks I visited. They are the most majestic animals I’ve ever been near. The zebra were skittish, but curious too. The hippo were like fat mobsters just waiting for me to make one rude comment about their Italian grandmothers so they could storm the beach and have a snack. The wildebeest, cape buffalo, warthogs and monkeys all looked at the camera with complete boredom. I was interrupting their spring feast and they couldn’t be bothered.

But the elephants! Well, the elephants were huge and terrifying. Their size and power is something you cannot imagine until you are within sight. The elephant I photographed is a teenage male in musk. Testosterone is pouring out of the glands on his face. The poor thing desperately needed some loving. (His “fifth leg” was abundantly clear, as Matt so eloquently put it.) Typically when male elephants have this surge of hormone, they return to the herd to make babies. But for whatever reason, this teenager was babysitting several young ellies. I could only imagine a pimply faced kid, sulking at a park watching his younger brothers.

The night we spent in tents at Majete National Park was particularly noisy when this angry teen came trumpeting through the camp. They say elephants trumpet. Really, it sounded like he was snorting, crying and screaming for relief. The rest of the jungle fell immediately silent.

I truly wish I’d studied forestry and was working as a ranger in Africa. To be in that setting daily would be a dream.

Even their butts are perfect! God, I love Africa.

~K

It’s the craziest thing, being tucked in to bed in my tiny home in the middle of a 3 million person city. The silence is making me sad. In contrast to the chorus of tree frogs that sang me to sleep each night and the staccato of bird song to which I woke to each morning — I’m so surprised how very quiet this American life of mine is.

This tree shaded my bedroom windows. It is the perfect tree — large limbs reaching toward the sky in a dozen directions, home to a handful of bird nests.

I miss this tree. And the giant hardwoods down by the river. And the flamboyant trees in full fiery orange glow. And even the dumb, non-native eucalyptus trees that line the roads on the tea estates.

I’m in a bit of a post-vacation funk, one that can only be described as self-absorbed and pathetic. All the same, I’m looking at my holiday photos with such desire to return! Take more! Feel that African sun warm my face and the rain cool my flip flopped toes. Alas, this is as close as we are coming today to those glorious gardens, where I spent days reading, day dreaming and watching the butterflies and dragonflies compete in one triumphant pageant of biology.

~K

I spent an afternoon walking the Limbe Golf Course in Blantyre with the Pink Golfer last week.

I love the caddies looking on from the club house in this shot. Everyone knows Matt. He’s likely the only boy from Blantyre playing professional golf in the States.

His caddy Lucky — in the background — walked the course barefoot while he carried Matt’s bag. Lucky was a trouper, to say the least. He made US$15 in kwacha that day. Considering the daily minimum wage in Malawi is US$1, it was quite the day. That said, carrying Matt’s bag for 18 holes of golf in humid, sticky Blantyre would be torture for most. Lucky took it all in stride and smiled with a wide grin full of bright white teeth. He was a good guy but quickly tired from also burdening my constant questions. He soon figured out the best way to shake me was to stay ahead. By the 16th hole, I’d given up on his life story and was clanking the ice in my gin and tonic back in the club house.

(What? I’m not a groupie. I was there for the walk. And I was sweaty. And gin and tonic helps prevent malaria.)

The course maintenance left quite a bit to be desired. Granted, the rainy season in any tropical country must cause havoc on golf courses. Unlike the course in Mozambique I’ve seen, the groundskeepers here had lawn mowers. In Beira, they use shears.

With unemployment rates in the 80-90% range, someone is willing to cut a golf course by hand. Can you imagine? FOR ONE DOLLAR A DAY?

Next time my latte is served cold, someone cuts me off in traffic or forgets to send a thank you card — I’m going to remember this. Oh selfish self, your life is so damn charmed. Don’t let the tedium of the first world ever make you think your life is anything less than fortunate. The day you pick up a pair of scissors and set off to cut six miles worth of Bermuda by hand for the grand reward of $1, you may cry a little pitiful tear for your existence. Until then, please keep the complaints to a minimum.

Probably. Ha! Dear Carlsberg, you need a new marketing team — for certain.

You’re welcome.

xo,

K