Aidan Hartley

Juba In the run-up to this week’s referendum on Southern Sudan’s future, I flew to Juba with a bottle of Bushmills. The whiskey was for Dan Eiffe. When Sudan’s southern Christian rebels were on the brink of defeat, it was Dan who turned the war around. He has saved countless thousands from hunger. And he has played more of a role than any other Westerner in the creation of Africa’s newest nation, after centuries of bloodshed and slavery. I have encountered odd Western characters in Africa’s wars, such as the Belgian dwarf with a Napoleon complex who in 1994 helped Rwanda’s Hutus kill their taller Tutsi cousins. Dan is an entirely separate kind of oddity. Few of us have faced the dilemmas, or seen the evil, or risked death and damnation the way he has.

Laikipia I have a mob of finished Boran steers ready for the holidays. The butchers are suddenly chasing me and that’s a fine feeling. A year ago, we were in the worst drought for 50 years, with invasions of armed herders and 2,000 cattle. We were left with not a blade of grass. Our cattle were heartbreaking to see. Since then we’ve had rain every month. The animals have grown fat on rippling seas of red oat pasture. Now I must sell up, or I shall be penniless at Christmas. Or the Samburu will go mad with the temptation, rustle them and scoff the lot in the forest. The butchers come knocking. One says that in the name of the Lord he can’t pay a shilling more than one-oh-five per live-weight kilo.

Bangkok ‘Any Thai man who is not married is gay,’ said a Thai woman to me. ‘You could say that about many places,’ I observed. ‘Yes, but 80 per cent of Thai men are also effeminate,’ said a second Thai woman in the room. We were waiting to see a top politician. There were no local men present. I’ve never heard people complain like this about their males, except perhaps in Britain. These were Thais, not British women. I was delighted. I felt a wave of empowerment. I am no Greek god. But nor am I a ladyboy. Out on the streets of Bangkok, though, the pressure is pretty intense. I am glad we clearly stood out as journalists, rather than sex tourists. I mean, Matt the producer held a big camera and I was rigged up with a microphone.

Rift Valley The patriarch Jacob Mukhamia Omanyo, grandfather of my friend Celestina, was born in 1888 in western Kenya. For 119 years he lived a healthy life, falling sick only once in 1964, after a spider bit him. He married five wives, the first in 1924, his last in 1975. At his death of typhoid two years ago he rejoiced in having 21 surviving sons and daughters; 217 grandchildren, 450 great grandchildren and 24 great, great grandchildren. Omanyo fought for the British against von Lettow-Vorbeck in the first world war. But what made him special, back before the Versailles Armistice, was that he attended a Roman Catholic mission school when few others from his tribe believed in such things. Education helped him rise to become a senior chief, a magistrate and a landowner.

Rainy Season on the Cattle Stock Route From the side of the track, a Samburu youth waved me down. I stopped the vehicle. He was gorgeously dressed for market day: all feathers, beads, disks of aluminium, with ochre on his head and bare shoulders. He wore in his beaded belt a stabbing sword in a leather scabbard. In his left hand he carried a herding stick and metal-headed knobkerrie. In his right was a long spear with a teardrop blade at the point, and this he hid in the branches of a wait-a-bit thorn tree for safekeeping until his return. He loped towards me, spat in his palm and shook my hand. He asked for a lift and I told him to get in. I was on a supply run to town. In the back I carried empty butane tanks, crates of empty beer and soda bottles. It had rained overnight.

Laikipia ‘Let us go in amongst the cattle and talk,’ said the Councillor Jeremiah. That means a serious matter is to be discussed. It was evening, and the cattle were already in the boma. We went in, and Jeremiah let me know we must prepare for cattle rustling at Christmas. After the worst drought in half a century, pastoralists are out to restock and we have a fine Boran herd. It brings back memories. ‘Stolen!’ yelled the cowboy Lopiyor after lunch two Boxing Days ago. ‘Bandits! Cattle!’ I took seconds to respond. ‘What?’ Lopiyor, now leaning on his knees, panted. ‘Samburu! Rustled! Guns! Steers!’ I looked where Lopiyor pointed and saw a great plume of dust about two miles away. I tried to radio the authorities for help.

Kiwayu Island, Kenya I came on a holiday to unwind and decompress but I have just been handed the bill and so I think I will have that heart attack after all. We are at Mike’s Camp on the desert island of Kiwayu north of Lamu, my favourite place in the world. This is where Claire and I had our honeymoon ten years ago. Our anniversary coincided with a scare from my doctor, who says that for health reasons I should cut down on several activities that underpin my very identity. The journey to Kiwayu was set about with temptations. We flew to Lamu and lunched at Peponi’s Hotel while we waited for Mike’s speedboat out to the islands. From now until after Christmas the terrace at Peponi’s is a non-stop party. It was really hard to avoid getting sucked into the bar area.