“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way” Charles Dickens, A tale of two cities

In my case, I was going to the Farmers Choice Abattoir and then to the Keekonyokie Abattoir. (Nothing implied here about which is heaven or hell or best or worst.) Both have the same functionality: Cattle arrive at one end and beef exits the other. The basic processes are the same utilizing knives, saws, washtubs, hooks and hoses. However, there are many differences. Farmers Choice is more automated. It has much higher levels of sanitation and it serves a more upscale market. But what was most interesting to me was the different organizational structures.

To maximize utility and minimize the cost of beef to the consumer, an abattoir must operate at capacity, work efficiently and every part of the animal must be used. Farmers Choice and Keekonyokie attain these goals in vastly different ways.

Farmers Choice abattoir

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Off to the opera

“Do you want to go to the opera?” Jo O’Brian, our boss Mike Harrison’s wife, asked. “It’s Don Giovanni. I’m not sure if it will be live or a movie. It’s up in Nanyuki and Maggie and Al are putting together a picnic. It should be fun.” I immediately said “sure.” Formal entertainment around here is so rare that I’d attend just about anything; certainly Mozart and maybe even Wagner. John and Mike pursed their lips, looked skeptical then hesitantly agreed. They would go for the food. I could tell John was already planning to endure the experience by loading up on “savory bits” and wine and then sleeping it off during the show.

Don Giovanni in the bush, with an official play-bill and everything.

October 21, my seven-week vacation in the USA was over. I climbed aboard Delta flight 258 at 2:30 pm. After enduring seven and a half hours in the air, five hours sitting in Schiphol airport, eight more hours traversing Europe, the Mediterranean and northern Africa, waiting through customs and immigration where they took my temperature to make sure I wasn’t importing Ebola, I was back in Kenya. The trip was one I have done many times and is quite routine by now, but something felt different. This sense of routine gone awry continued.

I met Sammy, my usual driver. He drove me to the Pan Afric hotel where I was greeted warmly, had a chicken sandwich and beer for dinner, woke the next morning to the Pan Afric breakfast buffet, showed my hotel receipt to the security guard so he would let me out of the hotel and once again met Sammy for the trip to Lewa.

Lewa waiting for the rains.