It was a plumb assignment early in my Getaway career. The Great Migration. Damn, it was going to be good. As it turns out, it wasn’t. At least not until the very, very end.
Five of us waited on the grass runway beside a limp windsock. We were a forlorn bunch. Our Kenyan safari had gone all limp, robbed of its climax. Yes, there’d been good sightings – plenty of fornicating mammals and any number of kills – but we’d come to the Masai Mara for the wildebeest migration and had not been rewarded.
A chartered Cessna landed and the pilot stepped out. He looked vaguely Eastern European with a bushy moustache, sunglasses, red cravat and dismissive manner. Chivvying us into our seats, he tossed the luggage aboard and we…
