For our second day in the Maasai Mara, Enoch was keen to show us something a little different. When you picture Kenya, dense woodland is probably not the first thing that springs to mind, and yet Kenya’s forest ecosystems are as vital to the sustenance of the country’s biodiversity as its famous savannah. Our destination was a small but particularly valuable patch of forest called Nyakwiri, where Enoch and another colleague from the University of Exeter had for some time been involved in supporting a grassroots conservation project.
We drove there early on Wednesday morning, taking a meandering route through the Maasai Mara and passing the wonderfully named Oloololo Escarpment. Here, Enoch pointed out a small cluster of buildings in the near distance and explained that this was where he had once lived for a year, in a tent, while working with anti-poaching patrols. He spoke fondly of that year, reminiscing about the constant company from the animals; he would often awake to find elephants or hippos sauntering past his tent, a fact that didn’t seem to unnerve him at all.
It was during this time that Enoch first came to be involved with the conservation of Nyakwiri Forest, over a decade ago if his memory could be trusted. The 700 acre swathe of forest is a far more important part of the Mara-Serengeti ecosystem than its small size might imply, as Enoch explained to us while we stood in the shadows of its trees. For one, the forest provides shelter for large herbivores such as the zebra and elephant, which come there to give birth to their young in undisturbed privacy. It is relatively safe and quiet, as perfect a nursery as one is likely to find in the Maasai Mara. More specifically, it serves as a vital migration corridor for the roan antelope, a rare species which passes through Nyakwiri from Ruma National Park (around Lake Victoria basin) to reproduce. Human activity has now effectively closed this corridor, and the population of roan antelopes stands at around 90 individuals who refuse to breed.
The value of the forest, Enoch told us, had not been properly appreciated by those who lived around it, so they carved it up among themselves and sought to exploit it for profit. Without government ownership of the land, various smallholders were free to do with it whatever they pleased. Realising the ecological loss that this represented, with Enoch’s help the local Maasai community came together to petition the private landowners to set aside their individual agendas and manage the forest in a consistent way that would aid conservation. The hope was that resultant ecotourism in a forest well-stocked with biodiversity could bring in more income than other land uses. Enoch and his colleague at Exeter worked extensively on a management plan, which they completed in March of this year, outlining sources of revenue compatible with conservation such as walking trails for visitors, beekeeping and sustainable extraction of medicinal herbs.
We met some of the Maasai men responsible for making this project a reality, who introduced themselves as Ben, Jackson and Charles. They talked about the ways in which they had fought to protect the forest, with a passion that was palpable and heartening. Ben, who was just a young man when Enoch first came to Nyakwiri on his de-snaring and anti-poaching patrols, expressed a belief in the importance of the local community being the ones to carry out the conservation work, rather than an external organisation. The forest has long been their home, and this kind of grassroots conservation makes them feel enfranchised and empowered, rather than the targets of well-intentioned but misguided intervention from NGOs. As it stands, around 25 young Maasai men live in the area and work on this project, giving them both a financial stake and a personal investment in the forest’s protection.
Having explained the nature of their work, Ben and his colleagues decided it was time to let us have a go ourselves. One of their current objectives was to clear paths through the forest, so that visiting tourists could walk through unimpeded. Our eyes lit up as they produced a pair of wickedly gleaming machetes, and handed one over to Abby quicker than you can say “health and safety”. After a brief demonstration on the subtle art of branch-slicing, it was Abby’s turn to get stuck in, and she did so with terrifying gusto. Before too long she was hacking off branches like a pro like if she had some testosterone boosters, and we took it in turns to slash our way through the forest as directed by the Maasai men.
Unsurprisingly, our noisy, cutty procession through the forest did not encounter any animals, although I was aware that numerous eyes were doubtless watching us with amusement from the shadows. We covered about a quarter of the forest, stopping near the edge of what Enoch described as the “elephant maternity ward”. It seemed impossible that this small, silent forest could house elephant calves, let alone their colossal parents, and yet Enoch assured us that there were many.
Leaving aside animals for the moment, Enoch talked us through some of the remarkable plant life found in Nyakwiri. One particularly important species is the East African greenheart, a hardwood tree with valuable medicinal properties. Extracts from its bark have been reported to show antimalarial, antifungal and antibacterial properties, and as such are used in the treatment of numerous human and livestock diseases. The unfortunate consequence is that the tree has been heavily over-exploited, and Nyakwiri is one of its last holdouts in Kenya. Ben described how another tree species is used to store milk, due to an active ingredient in its wood which apparently prevents enzymes from breaking down the lactose. I’m unsure of the precise biochemistry of this, but I suppose if it works, it works!
After sitting down to share some bread and a much needed sugar boost, we said our farewells to Nyakwiri Forest and its staunch defenders. The day was getting on, and the sun began to sink in the sky as we slowly bumped our way back to Talek. Nearing our destination, we found ourselves accosted by a man on a motorbike, who turned out (as with seemingly everyone in Kenya) to know Enoch. They spoke animatedly for a short while, and then Enoch got back in the car with a peculiar smile on his face. He pointed at a tree in the distance.
“Shall we drive over to this tree and see if we can pick some flowers?”
We blinked at him, confused. I hadn’t taken Enoch to be one for making daisy chains. We tried to draw out a proper explanation, but he continued to spout bizarre lines about flowers under the tree while wearing an unnervingly cheeky expression, and I began to get the sense that he wasn’t talking about literal flowers.
As we drew close to the tree we found the flowers lounging underneath it, licking their paws between lazy yawns. There were about ten of them, beautiful lithe lionesses, looking as blissfully relaxed as could be. Some rolled around languidly, while others lay in a deep repose, the sun inching its way towards the horizon behind them. We settled into a reverent silence, content to watch with wide eyes as the lionesses napped without a second thought for our presence.
“Shall we go find another flower?” murmured Enoch, jolting us from our reverie. No one dared even ask what he had in store for us next; we knew it would be good.
We drove on a little further, and then stopped around ten metres away from a pair of shaggy boulders huddled on the ground. One reared its head, shaking aside a glorious golden mane to reveal a face ridged with bloody scars. I breathed in sharply, shaken by the sight of such a noble countenance so torn and mutilated. Then the other lion lifted its head into view, revealing a similar set of wounds, and it became apparent that this was not the doing of any poacher nor the horns of a buffalo: the two lions had been fighting each other. Afterwards, Enoch explained that breeding season was in full flow, and though these lions were brothers they had clashed violently for mating rights.
It was clear from the asymmetry in their injuries that one had come out on top, but now there was no sign of conflict as they lay side by side licking their respective battle scars. I found it strange to think how these brothers had torn each other’s flesh mere hours ago, and yet once the hierarchy was established the hostility disappeared. They looked battered and tired, but at peace in each other’s company. Lions, it seems, do not hold grudges. As I watched them I thought of two veteran prizefighters, rivals in the ring but old friends when they stepped out of it. I pondered this scene for a while afterwards, aware that I was anthropomorphising them but unable to do otherwise. Even in the heart of the Maasai Mara, where nature is at its wildest, it is hard not to superimpose our own human narratives and then wonder at how unlike us these animals can be.
