Tell Us a Story from One of Your Trips That Sounds Like a Lie
This following is part of the Wanderlust Game Co. ongoing blog series where the author chose a card from the Wanderlust Table: Travel Deck as a writing prompt.
Bathing with a hippopotamus is possible.
In late 2019, my girlfriend and I journeyed across western Kenya to visit a remote island on Lake Victoria called Mfangano. Our intention was to try to understand the people more clearly by volunteering in a community.
One lengthy bus journey later we arrived at the lakeside village of Mbita and proceeded to ask for directions to the ferry from a local fisherwoman, who also seemed half asleep herself. We found the departure point, boarded the rusty barge and were en route to the island.
Sitting on the vessel's damp deck we could see the island nearby. Perched high along its tropical trees were an assortment of snow-coloured birds chirping moodily in their nests. Below them, to our shock, were an abundance of hippopotamus families. The different groups peacefully drifted about the ocean-sized lake, grunting and bellowing and would often mysteriously vanish below the water’s surface. I didn't even notice when the ferry landed ashore. We quickly stumbled off with our grubby backpacks and began our search for our pre-arranged transport with a friend of our host family.
“Luke! Lucila!” cried out a thickly accented voice and we spun to see the owner. “I’m Daniel” said the lean and muscled man, quite shyly. “Can I help you with your bags? Are you ready?”
A flurry of action presided as we zoomed along the bumpy road on an overloaded motorcycle. David delivered us in front of an overgrown driveway and directed us to follow it. We bid our farewells and after 30 seconds of scrambling up the trail we reached a clearing encircled by palms and bushes. In the centre of the small grove was a cluster of beautifully constructed straw and clay huts—our home for the stay. Out of the largest of the structures came our host family to greet us. A lot of hellos and hugs were exchanged as we met everyone: David the eldest son, George the younger son and the matriarch. We felt extremely welcome in their company and were ushered inside to eat a platter of freshly harvested, steamed fish. Kenyans are famously hospitable and kind people, and my thoughts about our chances of thriving here felt very promising.
The following morning we awoke at 8 a.m. from our cosy quarters. Mom kindly asked if we could go down to the lake with David to collect water for breakfast and if we liked, to have a bath. We agreed ecstatically and we were each given a yellow drum to collect the water. As the lake eventually came into clearer sight, I began to scan its surface searching for signs of life.
“We don’t normally come here at night or swim out into the deep” David yawned, “there is one hippo who lives around this area. All the others keep away because they are afraid of humans.”
For lunch we ate a white bait stew and rice. Then, we were tasked with building a vegetable patch. This grew into a three-day project of turning soil, cutting old banana trees for the plant boxes and planting tomato seedlings.
On the fourth morning of work, we found that the supposed loner hippopotamus had friends. Under the cover of darkness more than one of the animals had come and trashed our garden—leaving Godzilla-sized footprints in the soil and our demolished banana trunk boxes. It could have been funny if we hadn’t lost three days of work. But, because over half of the tomato seedlings would be lost, it was far from laughable. The people needed this food so we could only salvage what was left and hope that the hippo gang wouldn’t return.
After a week we became accustomed to bathing in the lake. We would often see fish and dragonflies. We continued bathing daily within its waters until one particular day when the situation changed.
There were hints of sunshine peeking through the clouds. It was pleasantly warm and we had just eaten a breakfast of mango and rice. In the calmness of the water, Lucila was waist deep washing herself while I lounged on the sandy bank cleaning my cracked feet. That was when I saw - floating approximately five metres out from Lucila - what looked like a hefty sized log. This was normal—a lot of plant matter drifted about the island's waters. But, I always had felt the urge to keenly watch the “plants” here in Africa. I was never totally certain of what they could be, and today my curiosity was warranted.
This was no log, but the head of a young hippo gliding through the water. It was unaggressive with its body movements, but its beady eyes and flared nostrils facing our way seemed like a problem.
I tried my best to be quiet as I hissed out to Lucila, “psssh”. She glanced at me and I replied by nodding in the direction of the youngling and mouthed “look”. She must have thought I was playing because she rolled her eyes and turned. Upon realisation of what she was seeing, she yelped, spun around, and began to wade rapidly for the shore.
“Come on Luc! Hurry, come one, hurry!!” I encouraged as she slipped and stumbled, but made it to the beach. I clasped her hand and we quickly made for it into the greenery leaving our belongings behind—completely naked.
We stopped after a minute panting and trying to catch our breath. I spluttered to Lucila, “That was the f**king hippo!”.
She didn't reply, but as if we had verbally agreed we slowly returned back to the beach—darting between the thickest of trees and keeping close to one another. Once we could see the glimmer of the lake again, we slowed down even more, eyes peeled for movement within, and out of the water.
Silence. We moved closer, spotting our belongings in their place... but no hippo. Frantically, we collected our garments and went back into the cover of the trees, dressed ourselves and jogged home to safety. We shared our story with the others. They didn't share our surprise!
“It happened to me last year!” a friend of David’s blurted out almost apologetically. Nobody can predict a hippo floating into your bathing space. This is life in Africa.
The remainder of our stay on Mfangano was with much less adrenaline than that day. Nonetheless, staying with a local family taught us much about the Kenyan lifestyle: their qualities and their hardships. Reflecting on this, Lucila and I conclude one thing for sure, never stop to watch the drifting plants in African waters!
Author bio:
Luke Kendall is from New Zealand. He’s been a travel writer since 2018, and a traveller since 2015 who has explored the world in a local way. He has backpacked and journalled through India, the Middle East and Africa. He strives to understand how people around the globe think, work, share and create.
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