Kenya hear me now?
By Rob Bloom

When I first told people that my wife Julie and I were going on a two-week safari to Kenya, the typical comment would be “whyinthehell would you go a country where mosquitoes make up 75% of the population?”

I’d respond by diving into an intellectual (read: piling it on with a shovel) explanation about how only AFTER one travels to the underserved countries of the world and sees firsthand the horrible realities of poverty can one TRULY appreciate the simple things in life, such as iPods, stadium seating, and turkey bacon. Oh, and to make this spiel as convincing as possible, I’d say the whole thing while dressed up like Sally “Feed the Children” Struthers.

For some reason, despite my blonde wig and tears, the explanation would fall flat. The person would merely stare at me, obviously confused because somehow the sounds that I had just produced, upon hitting the air, were mysteriously transformed from English into total Gibberish (for additional information on this bizarre syndrome, do a Google for “Commander-in-Chief”), leaving me with no choice but to admit, “my in-laws live there and they’re paying for us to go, ‘kay?” With the "why" question now answered, the person’s comments would soon filter back to a familiar subject:

a) the size of the mosquitoes that would be biting us.
b) the various extremities that would require amputation should we get bitten.

Having been thoroughly convinced that Julie and I really were going to be the guests of honor at the Mosquito Kingdom’s all-you-can-eat buffet (“baby mosquitoes eat free!”), I arranged for us to get a few dozen vaccinations to protect us from, not only the dreaded Kenyan mosquitoes and other trip-ruiners like Malaria and Typhus, but also from repeated phone calls with an individual who despite sounding like my mother, was clearly an alien being that began each sentence with “something terrible could happen to you…” and ended with “…then I’ll never have grandchildren.”

So right after our travel vaccinations, which is really just a nicer way of saying “painful shots that won’t be covered by insurance”, the doctor launched into this terrific explanation of what we should expect from Kenya, in regards to animals, vegetation, and tribal culture. Or at least Julie told me it was terrific. Unfortunately I was too busy hallucinating from the 10 gallons of vaccine that had just been pumped into my body, leaving me caring less about Kenya’s poisonous Acacia trees and more about why the doctor now had two heads.

The next three weeks passed by quickly, a period of time that was mostly uneventful, with the exception of the day I picked up our travel medicines at CVS only to discover my name was now Ron Bloom and, judging from the prescription the pharmacist gave me, apparently in need of a certain kind of cream for a certain area of the body that certainly hurts when one sits down. Whatever. We were going to Kenya (and my skin had never been so smooth!).

The big day finally arrived and Julie and I left Philadelphia (where mosquitoes make up a mere 47% of the population) and began traveling to Kenya, a country that’s made news in recent years with several major earth-shattering, life-changing events like the 1998 bombing of the U.S. Embassy by al Qaeda, a landmark democratic election in 2002, and most notably, the place where paparazzi nabbed photos of Brad and Angelina (gasp!) together, officially cementing their status as a couple! But before we could arrive in “The Dark Continent,” there were a few stops to make.

First up was Paris, or more specifically, Charles de Gaulle International Airport (motto: “Rush all you’d like, but you’ll never make your connecting flight!”). Readers that have experienced the madness of trying to change terminals for a connecting flight know this is nearly impossible to do unless, of course, you have a minimum of two days between flights and/or are fortunate enough to meet a friendly airport representative who, understanding that you might be scared [censored]-less by the thought of a missed connection, takes the time to slowly explain to you exactly where you need to go. (Then again, maybe it’s easier just to stay home.) But really, in all fairness to the folks at Charles de Gaulle, the process of Julie and me going through Customs probably would’ve gone a whole lot faster if, when asked what our purpose in France was, I hadn’t told the Customs Officer: “We’re here to find the Holy Grail, sir.”

Our next layover was in London where I’m happy to report, we actually LEFT the airport and spent a few hours in the city. It was a very enjoyable afternoon — and that’s not just ‘the four pints of Guiness I had’ talking. The Londoners were very friendly, especially the gentleman who helped me gather the correct assortment of coins so I could use the pay toilet outside of Big Ben.

As you can tell, the trip thus far had been quite the adventure. And we were only getting started.