The first year on the farm was difficult. The workers resented the new bosses that came on forcefully. God knows they hated the previous manager, but better the devil you know. Slowly, I began to bring individuals into our camp, onto our side.

I remember one day when the tide seemed to turn. I had swung into the compound returning from town and saw the workers crowded around excitedly. I walked toward the crowd, and to my horror, I saw Mike wrestling with the wildebeeste. His back against the fence, he wrestled with the beast, face to face, holding onto it's horns. We all held our breath.

Suddenly, Mike somehow flipped backwards over the fence, putting the flimsy barrier between them. In true Indiana Jones style, he reached under the fence and grabbed his baseball cap from the feet of the wildebeeste, giving a little tap with his cap to the bewildered opponent.
The crowd cheered at his bravery. I sighed in relief.

The squatters occupying the land were a constant struggle. They would graze their cows on the grass we had planted and we would chase them back, daily. Once in a while, they would riot, gathering stones to throw, as a high-pitched signal would call everyone within hearing distance to come push back against us. I have a photo of Mike standing alone facing them, as the poilice and our guards huddled behind the trucks.

The only thing that we had in common with these squatters was a mutual hatred of Joseph.

On the hill, there was an Colonial style house and go~down, a type of barn, and Joseph occupied both those days. I remember once having a heated argument with him about the true ownership of these two assets and he proclaimed that he had spent millions of shillings building this house.

He was Masai tribe and I very much doubted that he would have chosen that style of architecture. Also, people were coming forward with helpful local knowledge that made clear his shady tactics. The house was built for the field manager by the farm manager.

The sad story told to me was that men came to the gate one night asking for Chris, I believe they were looking for the manager that we had just fired because he had many enemies. The night watch man directed them to the house on the hill. The field manager was also named Chris. Through the window, they shot him dead, leaving his pregnant wife to run for her life, in the dark, down to the main house.

Joseph was not going to leave peacefully. In true Machiavellian style, we leased the surrounding land to the squatters ( yeah, I know) to graze their cows. Everyday he was surrounded by his enemies as we tried to push him out. His cows had been grazing blissfully on our lucerne fields every day. These greens we mixed into the ostrich food.
It was time to get him out.

Meanwhile, I was learning Swahili, but with a few funny mistakes. Like asking where were my underwear, instead of where are the jars, to the workers amusement.

I planted a raised vegetable garden then flowers and orchids around the house. We planted a huge garden and planted corn to feed the workers.

Mike and I began to socialize more often at a fun place called Masai Camp. With a coal fire hanging over the main table and rough decor, we met many ex-pats and we would exchange our stories at the round table. With friends, came parties and I loved to organize big affairs at our place.
I had a big hole dug, lined with stones, where I would cook a whole pig Hawaiian ~style. I baked wonderful cakes and we had lots of booze. Our parties, under the stars, on the vast lawn with flowering trees were famous.
We also entertained government officials. They would send a hand written note, inviting themselves, sometimes up to 30 people, for lunch. Sandwiches and light lunch were an insult to them, so I would serve a meaty pilau, roast lamb and dessert.

We had one askeri, watchman, named Lomboi. He would watch out for us like a hawk circling when we had lots of guests. During one of these official luncheons, a guy had taken two unopened bottles of Johnny Walker, which I had bought for a toast with our guests and put it into his bag. Lomboi had pulled me aside and pointed the guy out.
Embarrassing for everyone, but we had to call him out.
Sheepishly, he pulled the bottles from his bag, saying he thought it was a party gift. Lomboi would prove to be a true friend and incredible detective for us as time went by.

One night, one of our older gardeners was walking through the village. For no reason, some guy hit him with a big bag of corn. The old man fell, breaking his hip. I organized a lift to the hospital and went to visit him often. One day, they had changed his bed with another patient that resembled him. I entered the hospital unit and went to his bed. I was amazed how well the old man looked, until I realized that he was now in a bed by the window.
I gently tossed the imposter an orange as I made my way to the old man.
Crestfallen, he had mistakenly thought that he had a guardian angel, bringing him fruit.

The Americans now wanted to sell the ostriches and we found some buyers in Spain and Saudi. We began to construct special travelling crates for the airplane to ship them. Now we had to figure out how to extract our ostriches from Joseph.

Meanwhile, the bank wanted their money back from a loan taken for the farm years ago and never re-paid. Letters began arriving, threatening us with receivership.