One day, Patrick threw a rock at a wayward cow, killing it — the Kenyan equivalent of wrecking your father's roadster. His father beat the 8-year-old boy, yelling, "You will never again touch my cows!" Patrick was packed off to school in disgrace.
"I was a skinny boy with no shoes, and I couldn't read or write," says Patrick, who now speaks German, Italian, English, Kiswahili and several tribal languages. "But for years I had watched other kids walk past carrying books while I spent all day alone talking to cows. Oooh-wee, I thank that dead cow today."
Patrick today is a safari director for Nairobi- and New York-based Micato Safaris. He accompanies guests, including my 11-year-old daughter, Indigo, and me, on their East African adventures. As a guide, Patrick also provided instant insight into Kenya's people, politics, history and humor.
Despite the U.S. State Department travel warning on Kenya, my research and reading indicated Kenya was safe for a trip that was part indulgent fun, part philanthropy. We would spend 10 days on safari and two more visiting orphanages and a community center in Nairobi's Mukuru slum. For the safari part of the trip, the tour company suggested activities varied enough to keep a child and her mom fully engaged.
I'd always hankered to go to northern Kenya's Samburu country, an area that's remote and thus less visited by tourists. The Samburu people dress traditionally and live in villages, as they have for centuries, and unlike some other places in Kenya, none of this is done for tourists.
Our destination was Sabuk, a family-friendly lodge on a private game reserve. It has eight open-air rooms built around tree trunks and boulders and overlooks the dramatic Ewaso Nyiro River valley.
After arriving, we took a sunset walk, something I had requested we do often. Many of Kenya's national parks and reserves frown at walking safaris because of wild animals, but private reserves allow it by sending you out with askaris, or native armed guides.
Ngasakwe "Gus" Kipise, Sabuk's Samburu guide, introduced himself in hesitant English. Samburu people are like the Masai to whom they are related; their language, customs and diet are similar, and both are tall and thin with fine, narrow features. Gus wore a traditional shuka, or cloth tied diagonally at the shoulder, abeaded headdress, necklaces and sandals made from tire treads. He also carried a heavy stick and rifle and exuded such competence that we felt at ease.
The Samburu area is light on the exotic animals such as lions, but there are plenty of elephant and buffalo, the most dangerous animals in Africa, some would say.
One morning, we climbed on Sabuk's trained camels for a safari with a twist. Brought from Somalia and used as pack animals, camels do well in Kenya's hot, dry climate. Gus refused to ride. "Gus' legs better," he said. For Samburu, like Masai, walking is as natural as sleeping. They can cover hundreds of miles in a few days.
Patrick, who is no longer the skinny kid he once was, sat astride one ornery beast dutifully answering my questions about the tumult that is Kenyan politics and the relationship among Kenya's 47 tribes.
In 2007, post-election riots broke out in Nairobi, morphing into several months of inter-tribal warfare. The city ground to a halt. Tourism dried up. It wasn't until 2009 that visitors returned in numbers. Kenya is peaceful again, and it seems more organized and Nairobi safer than during my previous visits in the late '90s.
Having lived through several political upheavals, Patrick was matter of fact in his explanations of tribal frictions. He did, however, look tortured on a camel. Having come here to learn more about the Samburu tribe, I was eager for a village visit, which happened one orange-lit afternoon. Lobarishereki, the closest village, was a 40-minute drive from Sabuk, and its school was the only one within a 50-mile radius. It had three cinderblock classrooms for 250 children. Outside, a group of scrawny boys played soccer on a dusty playground with a ball made from plastic bags tied with string.
The Samburu have suffered from three years of drought, and the children, while thin, were in uniform, no matter how torn or ill fitting.
"Some of these children walk nine miles each way to come to school," said Maina Kiboi, the headmaster. "But they feel lucky to be here."
Two 18-year-old boys sat like Goliaths among the third-graders, finally coming to school because their cows had died of starvation.
Down the road at the boma, or village, shave-headed Samburu women, who wore wide beaded necklaces and headdresses, swarmed out to greet us. Pushing aside baby goats, they invited us into their dark, smoke-filled huts, which have neither electricity nor running water.