Out of Africa: Bialetti

Out of Africa: Bialetti

Bialetti

Alfonso Bialetti (1888–1970) was an engineer who became famous for acquiring Luigi De Ponti's invention of the simple yet elegantly designed Moka Express coffeemaker. Designed in 1933, the coffee pot has been a style icon since the 1950s. It is the source of nostalgia and affection for many Italians, and is an essential and fashionable part of almost every Cucina Italiana (“Italian kitchen”). The Moka Express (pictured atop amber charcoal at my house in Kalemie, Eastern Democratic Republic of Congo) is a time-honored classic.

Kikopey Elmentaita, Kenya.

Kikopey farm is located on one of the most scenic locations in the Great Rift valley, and enjoys great views of Lake Elmentaita, the Eburru mountains, and Soysambu Conservation.

Lake Elmentaita, is a soda lake, in the eastern limb of East Africa's Great Rift Valley, about 140 km northwest of Nairobi, Kenya. Elmentaita is derived from the Masaai word muteita, meaning "dust place", a reference to the dry and dusty quality of the area, especially between January and March. In the south-to-north sequence of Rift Valley lakes, Elmenteita is located between Lake Naivasha and Lake Nakuru. At the southern end of the lake lie the "Kikopey" hot springs, in which the Tilapia Grahamii breed. The reedbeds nearby are fishing grounds for Night Herons and Pelicans.

History
The Lake Elmentaita area saw its first white settlement when Lord Delamere (1879-1931) established his Soysambu, a 48,000-acre (190 km2) ranch, on the western side of the lake. Delamere gifted the land nearest the lake to his brother-in-law, the Honorable Galbraith Lowry Egerton Cole (1881-1929), part of whose "Kekopey Ranch", where he is buried, is preserved today as the Lake Elmentaita Lodge. The nearby Soysambu estate is still occupied by Lord Delamere's descendants, while Ututu House was built by Thomas P. G. Cholmondeley who was also instrumental in setting up the Soysambu Conservancy. The Conservancy covers 2/3 of the shoreline and is home to over 12000 mammals. Lake Elementaita has been a Ramsar site since 2005 and UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2011. Over 400 bird species have been recorded in the Lake Nakuru/Lake Elmentaita basin.

Elmentaita attracts visiting flamingoes, both the Greater and Lesser varieties, which feed on the lake's crustacean and insect larvae and on its suspended blue-green algae, respectively. Lake Elementeita is the only breeding ground for the great white Pelican in Kenya and Neighboring countries. Tilapia were introduced to the lake from Lake Magadi in 1962.

The lake is normally very shallow (< 1 m deep) and bordered by trona-encrusted mudflats during the dry seasons. During the late Pleistocene and early Holocene, Lake Elmenteita was at times united with and expanded Lake Nakuru, forming a much larger dilute lake. Remnants of the former joined lake are preserved as sediments at various locations around the lake basins, including former shorelines.

Nearby sites to visit:
Nearby is the Kariandusi Museum, at an important prehistoric site where stone handaxes and cleavers were discovered in 1928 by Dr. Louis Leakey. Elementaita Badlands is a lava flow to the south of the lake, covered in bush and including some spectacularly scenic peaks.

Lake Nakuru national park, sunk deep in the cleft of the Great Rift Valley, one of earth’s most phenomenal geological features, ringed by shoals of extinct and dormant volcanoes and presided over by the Menengai Crater, one of the largest craters in the world, lie the turquoise-shimmering waters of Lake Nakuru.

Flamingo-frosted, salt-encrusted, acacia-haloed and guarded by the prehistoric splendour of a grey-green forest of Euphorbia candelabrum, Lake Nakuru National Park offers sanctuary to some of the world’s most endangered creatures.

Huge Elephant Tusks in Bandundu, Congo

As Director of Laboratories at the Rockefeller Foundation's International Health Division, Dr. Wilbur A. Sawyer served as a delegate to various international health conferences. Returning from a conference on yellow fever in Cape Town in November 1932, he passed through the Belgian Congo (now Democratic Republic of the Congo) to talk with officials there about yellow fever surveys. He took several pictures of these elephant tusks to send to his son Billy. Here Sawyer holds up one tusk to show its length compared to his own height of 5'8". The caption on the back of the photograph reads, "Dec. 24, 1932. The largest of the tusks compared with height of W.A.S. Out of focus."

P.S. The above photos are courtesy of the National Library of Medicine.
The National Library of Medicine's Profiles in Science program has made every effort to secure proper permissions for posting items on the web site. In this instance, however, it has either not been possible to identify or contact the current copyright owner. If you have information regarding the copyright owner, please contact: profiles@nlm.nih.gov

In the footsteps of Hemingway in Africa

Borrowed from Arabic and used by almost anyone venturing on a trip, the word "safari" means journey in Kiswahili, the lingua franca of East Africa. It is a word packed with romance and adventure, conjuring up vivid images of wild creatures, immense views, and smells of campfires and canvas. It is a magical word that always leads to one unique and unforgettable destination: Africa.

So, here I was on safari again, this time in the company of three Masai warriors. After a sultry night under canvas, I lifted a veil of white mosquito netting off my bed and, listening to the birds singing and doves crooning, got ready for the day ahead as we began to retrace some of the journeys of Ernest Hemingway.

I wanted to view Africa on foot, and no better company to have than the Masai. Anyone who has been to East Africa has probably heard or seen something of the Masai, for they live in great harmony with this big game country, and their reservations meet along the border between southern Kenya and northern Tanzania, where Hemingway used to venture on safari.

All around, old and young Masai men, women, and children roam freely among the wild animals that share the land with them. Masai men and boys, spears in hand, guard their herds of cattle, while in circular encampments of dung plastered huts, women and girls go about their household tasks wearing colorful beaded necklaces and armlets. Near them play timid children whose bodies are often covered with flies due to the presence of cattle.

The most impressive of the Masai are their young warriors known as "elmorani", whose red-ochered and greased hair is braided into pigtails. Their ocher-painted bodies are magnificent works of muscle partially covered by two yards of bright red calico knotted over their right shoulders. Projecting ominously under the cloth — at each man’s right side — is a short, wicked-looking sword, known as an Olalem or Simi.

Masai warriors, once the scourge of East Africa, used to — and, on occasion, still —raid neighboring tribes as well as other Masai encampments for cattle, and often spear lions and leopards that molest their stock. They regard their code and way of life as supreme and consider all other people inferior. In the history of East Africa, missionaries have made almost no Masai converts, nor has the white man offered much in a material way to attract them. Masai were never held in slavery, as the slave traders feared them and stayed away from their territories.

On the day we began our quest, the night was mystical, the air filled with the sounds of hyenas and heavy with the strong smell of rancid sheep fat smeared over the bodies of the Masai warriors. Gulping down freshly brewed coffee and discovering the surrounding views bathed in the soft pink rays of dawn, we started our walk breathing in the crisp air. In an instant, I felt the wonder of this ancient place and understood — as have others before me — Hemingway’s love affair with Africa.

As a boy of eleven and already trained in woodcraft by his father, young Hemingway was fascinated by the African mammals mounted in family groups in Chicago’s Field Museum of Natural History. Twenty-four years later, Hemingway found that nothing he had read had prepared him for the beauty of Africa. He returned there several times, spending a total of ten months in the course of his life, and turned his experiences into highly successful stories.

He first came here in 1933, at the age of thirty-four, on a two-month safari with his second wife, Pauline, and Charles Thompson, a Key West fishing companion. Professional hunter Philip Hope Percival accompanied Hemingway on his safaris, and, in 1954, Hemingway pronounced that “Philip Percival is the finest man I know.” Percival found Hemingway “a reliable person in the bush and highly observant.”

In fact, Hemingway loved Africa and was an exceptional safari enthusiast. Keen and robust, he happily undertook many arduous and sometimes frustrating stalks after big game. But now, in an era in which hunting is banned in Kenya, I retraced Hemingway’s trails mostly on foot in the company of the Masai — whom he admired — with cameras and film instead of rifles and bullets.

Dressed in their bright red blankets and carrying long sharp spears, the Masai led the way across the tawny plains with views of snow-capped Kilimanjaro at the horizon. The colors were dry and burnt, and the grasses gave off a strong-spiced aromatic fragrance. After an hour of steady walking, we spotted a pride of lions, but as soon as the wind carried our smell, they ran and took shelter in a small thicket, not to be seen again. We continued silently till we approached a waterhole where an abrupt halt brought us to two lions gorging themselves on a wildebeest carcass. We ducked to watch in awe and were close enough to hear the tearing of sinews and crunching of bones. As a bold hooded vulture crept up to the carcass to steal a bite, the lions roared at him, and he retreated briefly only to sneak up again for another mouthful.

We withdrew silently, and after keeping a good pace of steady walking for three miles, found ourselves in another encounter. A herd of zebra caught us off-guard and came galloping towards us like a division of cavalry. After being momentarily dazed by the sudden approach, we quickly ran towards a huge anthill, which served us well as a solid fortress in this flood of thundering hooves.

It was a fantastic moment. The ant-hill diverted the herd. They streamed past us on either side at a mad gallop, their powerful beats shaking the ground, and, like a divided river, joined up again behind us. Whatever had alarmed them was unclear, but as we crouched behind the anthill smothered in red dust and looking up at this forest of legs flashing past us, we were reminded of a chariot race in some historic film, and we remained in our places until the thunder faded and the dust slowly cleared.

Shortly after that overwhelming experience, we resumed our walk and by mid morning came across a herd of elephant strolling as peacefully as if they had "an appointment at the end of the world". We sought the shade of an acacia by a nearby river to watch them drinking and bathing. There were twenty-eight of them— bulls, cows and calves — and we watched them twisting their trunks round and round as they fed, wrenching sheaves of grass, its swish like the soft murmur of waves. A bit apart from the feeding group, two of the males interlocked their trunks and began some sort of stupendous display of wrestling. Their giant trunks became rigid as they tugged and swayed. First one then the other would yield a step as they strove in a mighty deadlock. Then they loosened their grip of one another and sparred till the ivory rang. It was a great sound, and I marveled that their tusks did not splinter under the massive impact. They repeated that show for a period of twenty minutes before stopping to resume bathing and feeding.

We left the elephants in peace and took another trail on the chance of coming upon other game, but the sun was too hot. Feeling tired, we decided to nap under a huge tree whose trunk was already gilded by the setting sun. Awakened by the distant sounds of more elephants busily stripping tree bark with their tusks, we headed back to camp discussing how deftly elephants use their trunks to take hold of a little bit of frayed edge that we could scarcely have taken hold of with our fingers.

Around us the plains spread out to the far mountains, which melted into the night. Above all, standing like an ominous sentinel, Mt. Kilimanjaro glowed faintly, its snowy peak illuminated by the first bright stars. When we arrived at camp that evening, the fire was leaping up under the roof of an acacia, and out came an amazing chorus of crickets, night birds, and the distant moaning of lions. I sat with a drink in hand, listening to the sounds of Africa, looking up from the living flames to the thousands of stars already shining brightly in crystal purity while a full moon wrapped the plains in its golden aura.

Having lived in Africa for so many years, I’ve developed knowledge of the various sounds and was able to tell what was happening even though I couldn’t see many of the events. After supper, the night was so beautiful that I couldn’t leave it, so I read a few pages in a book, sketched and wrote in my journal and kept feeding logs into the fire as thoughts of my halcyon safari days drifted in my head.

The Masai sat wrapped in their red blankets singing and praising the night, while the dancing flames illuminated their merry brown faces. I rose from the fire and went up to sit among some nearby rocks. Around midnight, the camp slept, and the silence was absolute.

The moon had gone, the surrounding landscape had withdrawn into the shadows, and I was aware only of the stars winking in the depths of this African space. I came back, stirred the logs to a blaze and longed, for once, for someone to share the surrounding beauty. I wrote letters and read till my eyes felt heavy with slumber and soon retreated to the comfort of my bed.

We explored miles of wild Africa on foot, and a few weeks later, when the morning came to leave the campsites and my Masai companions, it was heart-wrenching to go. Leaving them and the acacia trees that had sheltered my tent was like saying goodbye forever to old friends.

On the last leg of my safari, I stayed at Cottar’s 1920s camp at Masai Mara, which portrays the original spirit and essence of Hemingway’s safari. In fact, few safari outfitters in East Africa can boast a history as rich and colorful as that of Cottar’s. Their camp recreates the golden days of old Africa’s safaris and is reminiscent of a great era of romance, elegance and adventure.

It all started in 1919, and, today, the same excellent tradition and luxurious camping continues with the founder’s grandnephew Calvin Cottar and his wife Louise. Calvin grew up in the bush and knows it well. As did Hemingway, he holds a title as an honorary game warden and is one of Africa’s best guides.

Cottar’s camp has seven massive white canvas tents. Each has huge ceilings and is luxuriously furnished with every detail true to the original safari style, such as Victorian furniture and four-poster beds. Each tent has an en-suite bathroom with flushing toilet and a classic canvas shower filled on demand with hot water that has been heated over a log fire to the client’s preferred temperature.

After a refreshing hot shower has washed away the day’s dust, dining at the mess tent by candlelight is an exquisite affair with a gourmet three-course menu accompanied by rivers of wine and champagne. Port and cigars around the campfire complete a night redolent with the elegance and charm of Africa’s best safaris.

At dawn’s first light, I heard the patter of footsteps outside the tent, a faint call, and a beaming face appeared at the tent flap balancing on his head a tray holding biscuits and a flask of steaming coffee. Drowsily, I headed into the open-air shower to quickly freshen up, while, muffled by the morning mist, a lion roared up in the plains, content after a successful night hunt.

Excitement grew at the thought of another day in the African bush. I sat outside the tent on canvas-slung rocking chairs sipping coffee and admiring the immense views in front of me. My eyes scanned in all directions, searching the plains for signs of activity.

Clad in comfortable khakis, I grabbed my camera bag and headed for the mess tent to meet with two Masai trackers. We started at a slow pace, stopping now and then to examine some fresh tracks left by impala, Kudu, or Cape buffalo. The grass was too tall for proper game viewing, and although tracks confirmed a wealth of game, we saw none.

By mid-morning we started to get hungry and headed back to camp for a hearty buffet breakfast served on a trestle table. Siesta followed, and lunchtime arrived quicker than expected with its deliciously prepared entrée and dessert followed by coffee and tea.

Around four o’clock, freshly baked scones, jam and tea were served in the shade of a tree,and soon we were off on an evening game drive. A Masai sat on the car’s roof scrutinizing the bush for any tracks of lions or hyenas.

Tension mounted as he suddenly signaled to slow down. We scanned the surroundings and
there, under a sickle bush, were two lionesses with cubs. The driver carefully inched forward,maneuvering the vehicle through rocks and shrubs. The lions lazily observed our approach but, to our dismay, fled before a single picture was taken.
While the car bounced along the rocky terrain, the wonder of the bush kept unfolding
around us. Herds of zebra and gazelle galloped off while wildebeests snorted and
dashed around in circles. As daylight turned to dusk, there were giraffe, stately and elegant,on the horizon, and soon the sky was a riot of vivid oranges, mauves and pinks unlike anything I had ever witnessed.

Night in Africa is sudden. As we headed back to camp, eyes of nocturnal animals glowed in the lights’ beams. Jackals leaped in the distance, crickets came alive and nightjar flew up from the sandy tracks. On the western horizon, the evening star shined brightly as the air turned chilly. As we rounded the last bend in the track, the camp appeared, a myriad flickering paraffin lanterns hanging in the trees. I could imagine the camp caretakers filling up the shower bucket while an evening chorus twittered in the nearby trees. And with the sound of laughter and the smell of wood smoke filling the evening air, I headed for a quick hot shower before dinner.

Later, making my way along the narrow pathway back to the dining tent, I heard the distant moan of a lion and the whooping call of hyenas, and my thoughts turned to Karen Blixen, who once wrote, “Here I am where I ought to be…”

A huge log fire nearby the dining tent sent a fountain of sparks into the night, and the leaping flames reflected on the faces of the Masai warriors. Everyone was happily discussing the day’s safari, while the soft breeze brought the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

Towards midnight, we took up empty petrol cans used for heating water and practiced
roaring into them. We were trying for a deep roar, when, to our amazement, lions
actually grunted in answer. We grunted back, and again they answered, coming nearer and nearer till they burst into a tremendous roar. Compared to our puny effort, it was magnificently deafening, and they roared till the air thrilled and quivered with great vibrations. Their majestic waves of sound rippled out into the dark night and echoed through the open plains.

Suddenly, Africa was mute. Even the hyenas were silent, and I thought, Papa would have loved that!