Many many moons ago boys often met behind a block of classes of the primary school I attended to sort out their differences. We were in lower primary and we felt strongly that the sun shouldn’t go down on a disagreement, so we resorted to physical aggression because our diplomatic skills were underdeveloped then. We seemed to share a common mantra: men (sic) should never start fights but they should never walk away from them either. So we traded a few punches, scuffed up a bit and then later went home to do our homework. Boys being boys, nobody died.
Here is how that cookie crumbled. So, two boys who had a bone to pick arranged to meet behind that class block after school. Every boy showed up with his posse. The two boys handed their schoolbags to one of their cronies and then stood facing each other, like in a professional boxing weighing-in event. They stood like this for a bit, noses almost touching. You didn’t blink because it showed weakness.
So one boy would ask the other boy why he told Pete from Class 4B that his father was a drunkard, to which the other boy would reply: “And why did you say I still wet my bed and come to school smelling of urine?” The rest of the boys – now making a small circle around these two titans – would be dutifully stoking the fires with jibes and jeers. Then there would follow a bit of pushing around, a bit of shoving about, but do you know how the first punch eventually got thrown? How the fight really started?
When one of the boys stamped on the shoes of his opponent.
Lifting your leg and stepping on the toes of the other boy was dropping the gauntlet at his feet. A declaration of war – yes, but it was also a sign of ridicule, of disrespect, it was like him calling your sister a whore. And so when someone stepped on your shoes – a challenge – the gloves came off and you hit them on the face; with your small fist or with your forehead. The fight would quickly get underway to mad cheers. Ah, childhood.
Unfortunately this post is not about two small Neanderthals pounding each other into a gory mess. It’s not about aggression. This is about honor. This is about the respect boys accorded their shoes, and themselves by that extension. Nobody stepped on your shoes and you picked your school bag and went home. You fought him. Many years on, if I find myself in a queue and someone accidentally steps on my shoes I get very fleeting flashes of violence. I hear someone from Class 3Y saying, “Ahyayayayaah! Did you see that?”
In short, you are your shoes.
This blog is a little over two years old now (yes, I forgot to write a 2-year celebratory post). We started off in a little bed-sit at WordPress where we didn’t pay rent and we used a baby Meko and ate bread and eggs daily. And we got water on the taps about twice a week. We had only about fewer than 100 friends, but we loved that house and we made memories. Then we came here, to High School. We have since broken our voices (and grown boobs, for the ladies and er, Gitts and Jeff).
To help keep the lights on here, KIWI has come on board.
As common decency dictates, when someone comes to your house and say – look, I will pay your rent – you have to acknowledge them. Thus this whole talk about shoes.
Women say the first things they look at are a man’s shoes. Shoes say a lot about the kind of guy you are, which means your shoes will define you. In fact how the world looks at you starts from your feet. George Bush got a shoe thrown at him to show how low he had sunk as a man. And when you want to make a positive image, the Englishmen say you “put your best foot forward.” But you don’t put a scruffy foot forward; you present a polished foot because it presents you before you open your mouth.
And in that breath of presenting a polished front, I’m going to get a bit mushy today.
We, as guys, need help in the romance department once in a while because, admit it, being romantic isn’t easy because you can’t keep repeating the things you did two months ago just because they worked. But borrowing ideas isn’t bad, what is bad is not trying at all. And since Easter is here with us, gentlemen, we might be required to take the ladies for a retreat of sort, for a holiday. And also since sharing is caring, and since we all share a common fate, I will share some travel destinations that you can take her to that will earn you brownie points and- hopefully – keep you out of the doghouse.
To borrow KIWI’s words, these places will “bring out the shine in you.”
Ngorongoro Serena Safari Lodge, Tanzania.
Get your yellow fever shot, fill your tank and drive to Arusha. There, turn the nose of your car and head north. The landscape is breathtaking; there, the world lies down on its back and it gets so flat you can see all the way to Accra. It’s windy and dust swirls in the horizon and when it abates, you will spot Maasais in the distant, leaning on their canes, nonchalantly looking after their cattle. Notice how their red shukas juxtapose brilliantly against the brown landscape.
Don’t let the needle go over 100km/hr because you need to drink in this scenery. Driving down this road is like driving through a car commercial. At some point you will pull over and your woman will swing one lovely leg after the other and step out. She will, through her huge sunglasses, look out into the scorched earth and into the horizon. She will cross her hands across her chest and sigh. Take a picture of her as the ambitious wind blows into her and, in the process, outlining her bewitching figure through that sundress that makes your tongue heavy and your breath short with desire. Freeze that moment, it’s special.
When you finally get to the lodge you will see that it precariously clutches on the lip of one of largest and most perfect volcanic crater in the world; The Ngorongoro Crater. This is where the earth yawns.
She will enjoy the game drives in the crater. But if she isn’t into Lions and Warthogs, sit her before one of the many fireplaces in the lodge at night (it’s bleeding cold down there) with a glass of wine and watch the flames dance in her eyes.
Borana Lodge, Laikipia
I have written about Borana before, but because they read my story and the lodge manager, Flick, was gracious enough to say she would put another hat in the post to replace the one their Lion chewed, I will write about them again.
Every girl loves to go to a place where all her friends haven’t been to. But only so that she can rub it in their poor faces. Borana Lodge is that lodge; it’s exclusive, brilliantly high-end and luxurious. She will love the idea of having a huge cottage that overlooks a cinematic valley. She will love when you go for the horse rides into the wild, staring at Elephants and Cheetahs. She will love the fact that she can sit naked by her private dip-pool in the cottage and read a book as you read her body.
At some point, while you lounge by the main swimming pool that ends abruptly on a cliff, a cliff that falls many meters down, you will fetch her a drink, preferably with an umbrella. And you, with a cockeyed smile, will tell her that there is nowhere else in the world you’d rather be than watch her choke on swimming pool water. She will smile and roll her eyes. But that’s about 2,000 brownie points for you right there, old chap. You will need to redeem them one day when you piss her off. And you will piss her off.
Sarova Mara Game Camp, Mara.
First, if you go please say a big wassup to one of the most charismatic lodge managers you will ever meet; Francis Msengeti. Ola, big boy! And the Sarova Mara is exquisite. But also, there is something about the Maasai Mara; it’s like the end of the world where nature embraces you in its unadulterated form. The Mara always wants the best for you. It wants you to score.
Now, women love romantic productions. At Sarova
camp, they will organise an elaborate dinner in manyatta-like enclosure. Roaring torches will replace electricity. There will be mellow music from a pianist pelting Swahili love songs and a huge buffet served on traditional pots.
Later, a band of Maasai’s will leap into the air in song and dance. It’s a carnival. But forget the Maasais; don’t get your eyes off her the whole evening. Flirt with her shamelessly and keep sending her drinks, that way you will get funnier and more attractive as the night progresses.
The Sand at Nomad, Diani.
Oh sand. Women love to walk on a virgin white beach and have sand between their toes. Offer to carry her sandals. Take her snorkelling. You might spot that fish called Sweetlips and if she marvels at her lips tell her – tongue-in-cheek that the chap who named that fish should have waited a bit to meet you first before naming that fish. She will giggle and slap off your snorkel. Spread sunscreen on her back even if all you want to do is get a cold beer at the bar. At night sit her at the beach and listen to the tide moan. There is something mercurial about the sea that stirs something in the hardest of hearts. The sea softens everything. She will rest her head on your shoulders. Sorry, make that broad shoulders. While seated there, she will want to jabber on about something she has talked about a hundred times before; like the ass who is her boss. Let her. In fact once in a while, egg her on by making comments like, “My God, what a prick!” They all love when you are on their side, even when they are wrong.
Finch Hattons, Tsavo West.
Bush luxury, that’s what Finch Hattons is. But Finch is great for couples that want to steer their relationship back on track, which is great because the silence at the lodge is deafening. There is a huge crocodile there called Idi Amin, he’s ugly as sin but it’s fun to watch him bask in the sun most mornings.
If you can, get a cottage that overlooks the still water body and spend time on your porch. One evening, after dinner, crack open a bottle of wine, sink in the comfortable safari chairs and hold her feet on your laps. Rub them gently as you tell her ridiculous fictitious stories that make her giggle hysterically. The only danger with this is that when the wine finally gets to her head and the laughter sips into her heart she will, at some point, ask you: “So, where do you see us three years from now?”
Tawi Lodge, Amboselli.
On my list of memorable places, this lodge ranks high up there. It’s quaint and gorgeous. Plus, it overlooks Mount Kilimanjaro. Dinner is served under the stars and when you glance over at the tip of the mountain, the moon makes the glacier glow like a white ember. It’s awe-inspiring. If you are lucky Dominique, the owner, will disappear downstairs in their wine cellar and re-emerge with something from 1985.
By all means go for the balloon ride at the crack of dawn. While up there, with the sound of the flame breathing life into the balloon, watch dusk turn into light. Watch the sun emerge from the East and look at the moon run away from it. The orange glow of the sun colours the earth with life and if you stare below, you will see Amboselli’s dried out rivers run the earth like a jagged varicose vein. And when dawn finally comes, inspired by the sun, gently draw her to you by her waist and kiss her. Truth is, gentlemen, your woman will forget many kisses. Not that one.
Rusinga Island Lodge, Rusinga.
Don’t fly straight down to the lodge because half the fun is in the journey. Fly to Kisumu (international airport, wah!) then hop onto a matatu at stend (that’s how guys in Kisumu call the main bus stop, a corruption of the word Stage). Pick an old matatu, sit by the window and on your way (2-hr smooth journey), point out places even if you aren’t sure, she won’t know the difference. “You see those hills? Beyond them is Obama’s shags,” you will say, close to her left ear. “And that road will lead you to Rapho’s shags, Rarieda.”
You will get to a place called Luanda K’Otieno where you will jump into a ferry headed to Mbita town (45-mins). Make sure you help with all the luggage – excluding her purse. In the ferry, stand opposite her and wink at her occasionally then watch her blush furiously as the men in the ferry stare at her soft ebony skin and sparkling smile and wonder how a man can ever got so lucky like you have.
From Mbita you will get to the lodge by cab. After that ride, she will think you are the most adventurous guy. Ever. That’s like 1,500 brownie points, which is a lot but unfortunately not enough to save you if you ever forgot when you guys met.
If there ever were a Garden of Eden in Nyanza, this lodge would be it. It’s paradise in the middle of nowhere! It’s green and picturesque and intimate.
Take her to Tom Mboya Mausoleum and Takawiri Island with its deserted white sandy beaches and palm trees and there, convince her to join you for a naked swim. At night dinner will be served on a jetty shimmering with candles. The ghoulish voices of fishermen out in the night will be presented at your feet by a mellow wind. Reach out and hold her hand, but don’t say a word. You won’t need to.
Gentlemen, if these lodges don’t bring out your shine, you will sleep soundly knowing that you tried.
Ps. To SC Johnson thanks for the support and welcome to the fray.