I hopped out of the vehicle, lit a smoke and looked up at the heavy fruit hanging from a sausage tree. The fruit, James had told us, was used in the production of a sweet beer. The tree's name was apt: Indeed, its ripe ovaries resembled 2-foot-long brown sausages swaying in the light wind that was blowing through Kenya's Maasai Mara Game Reserve, where our vehicle had broken down.
Our guide James (his Maasai name, his real name was Kerempe) had navigated the Land Rover into a valley far from our tented camp and to the sausage tree. Here, he must have supposed, by a quiet stream, was as good a spot as any to be eaten by lions.
My friend Ashley stayed perched in the back seat of our vehicle as James tried to get a signal on one of his phones. The Douchenbergers looked placid.
We'd spotted the Douchenbergers the night before when they arrived at our small camp just outside the park. Apparently a couple, they were aloof around the other patrons. He wore khaki pants with rough boots, and she wore knee-high riding boots complemented by a matching white blouse and pants, possibly Prada. Together, they looked like players in a community theater production of "Out of Africa."
Over dinner that night, Ashley said, "You can tell a lot about people by what they wear on safari." I glanced down at my sneakers and agreed.
We promptly dubbed them the Douchenbergers and felt our assessment of them was justified the following morning when, asked by the camp manager if they would like to meet us before setting out together on a game drive, they declined.
So we had spoken barely two words to them that morning when James put the Land Rover in reverse beneath the sausage tree. And then came the sound of rending metal, and we moved no more.
The hills around us sloped gently, allowing us to see about half a mile in every direction. Nothing stirred aside from the savannah grass moving with the wind. There were no other vehicles and no big cats in sight, but then the cats had a habit of keeping a low profile until they were tearing soft innards from one's belly.
More importantly, no elephants had wandered into our happy valley. The bulls prize their personal space and have a habit of charging the loud mechanical beasts with high-end cameras pointing out of them that keep invading their domain.
"You must buy a Toyota," said Mr. Douchenberger, interrupting my inner dialogue recounting the ways I had learned I might die in Kenya. He, too, had hopped out of the vehicle and was now eyeing James incredulously.
"Pardon?" I said.
"These Land Rovers are old. Toyotas are much more reliable," he said. He then walked over to the sausage tree, behind which he relieved himself.
Zipping as he returned, Mr. Douchenberger approached James, who was still holding two phones to the sky.
We had met James our first night in camp, when he accompanied us to his nearby village. There, the children greeted Ashley and me with broad smiles, and we responded with "Sopa," a Maa word for "Hello," the only Maa word we knew.
The Maasai, generally a tall, athletic people, live in low-ceilinged huts made of branches plastered with cow dung that the sun bakes into a tough clay. Inside one, James' grandmother sterilized a milk jar with the red embers of a stick pulled from a fire. Ashley tried her hand at poking the stick into the jar, and later was offered a chance to do more women's work, milking one of the village's many cows. Cattle are quite important to the Maasai, both as a source of food and as a measure of status. The more cattle a man has, the higher his esteem among others in his village.
Ashley managed to grasp one of her chosen cow's udders. She avoided being kicked in the face, but she failed to procure any milk.
During our time with James, he was amiable and forthcoming, if a little goofy and overbold in the way young men can be. I was walking with James when I saw my first giraffe, which slipped silently from a stand of trees. In awe at the gracefulness of the animal towering above me a short distance away, my only cultural point of reference was the scene in "Jurassic Park" in which the jungle gives way to a sweeping vista of grazing dinosaurs. I don't get out much.
James' response to my obvious fascination was a laugh and a smile. He seemed eternally amused by the foreigners gawping at the landscape he called home.
He looked less than amused as Mr. Douchenberger approached.
"We can't get a signal out here," said Douchenberger, pointing to one of the phones.
James had no good response. He was clearly out of his depth.
It was then that another vehicle appeared on the horizon. My binoculars revealed it to be a Toyota Land Cruiser.
Now, we all had our hands in the air, desperately trying to flag down the other tourists. The vehicle kept moving. For a moment, we thought they would abandon us to go hunting for something more photogenic, like cheetahs. But then the Toyota turned and proceeded slowly into the valley, stopping on the other side of the stream.
James and Douchenberger crossed the water to talk to our fellow travelers. I stayed near the Land Rover with the women. It was the chivalrous thing to do.
A contingent returned across the stream, and the other driver crawled beneath our vehicle. The drive shaft was cracked, he reported. He and James set about jury-rigging a fix for the hardened-steel component using a rope that looked like thick baling twine.
As they labored on what turned out to be a hopeless cause, another vehicle appeared on a nearby hill, and then another. Apparently, we weren't as isolated as we had thought.
Both vehicles ventured into the valley, presumably following the first rule of thumb of safari: The best way to find interesting animals in a game park isn't to look for diving vultures. Rather, look for a group of SUVs that have stopped moving.
More people arrived and disembarked. We introduced ourselves, and everybody talked about the animals they had seen. There wasn't a single mechanic among us. And nobody had room for five more in their vehicle.
But somebody had room for one.
James had crossed back to the other side of the stream. We watched as he climbed into one of the vehicles parked there. The driver started the engine, and they were off.
"Where is he going?" asked Mrs. Douchenberger.
No one knew.
The other tourists eventually drifted off and returned to their game drives. Mrs. Douchenberger laughed.
"Who wants a beer?" said Mr. Douchenberger, pulling bottles of lager from a basket the camp chef had packed.
We ate our lunch, sandwiches, fruit salad and yogurt in the vehicle. The Douchenbergers had names, as it turned out, Marc and Bernadette. They were from Belgium. He was a builder and his son operated a hotel in Tanzania.
"You know, this is very dangerous. Elephants could come through here," said Marc.
"I know," I said.
"I think Warrior James is not a very good guide," said Bernadette.
"I think you're right," I said.
We talked amiably and drank our beers. It had been more than an hour since we had broken down.
Marc pointed toward a hill to the north. "Look, another vehicle," he said.
Another Land Cruiser approached, carrying a young couple. They stopped a few yards away.
"Do you need a ride?" asked the man driving.
Five minutes later, we were jammed into the Land Cruiser's back seat, bumping along a dirt road and scattering zebras from our path. I tried to not spill my beer.
One of the previous truckloads of tourists had gone to Mara Serena Lodge, an upscale safari outpost that most resembles a mountain resort, and found a rescue team for us. We arrived at Serena 20 minutes later and made a call to our camp. We drank wine on one of the lodge's terraces overlooking an enormous valley populated by baboons and wildebeest.
When we returned to camp that night, the manager, Thomas, wasn't there. He was out in the bush, salvaging the vehicle. He would spend most of the night there.
He would later apologize profusely for our predicament, and we didn't see James again.
While everyone else was justifiably angry with James for abandoning us, I couldn't help but feel sorry for him. He was not a very good safari guide, and the stories he told the white tourists around the campfire at night were jumbled and hard to follow, but I figure he was just in the wrong business.
I wish him many cattle.
Story by Dave Penn
dpenn@observer-reporter.com