Winged ballerinas of white alabaster and cream sporting pink highlights and black tips strut across the aqua blue mirror that has become their stage for an uncorreagraphed spectacle.
Sunlight graces the “mirror” brilliantly illuminating its vibrance, revealing contrasting shades of aqua, cyan and indigo as it cascades down across the glassy water, then gently dances on the ripples of Lake Nakuru’s shoreline before darting ashore, disappearing in the trees.
The scenery speaks with such imagery, as if light moves the objects more than the gentle breeze, which wafts up the brine of the salt lake into my nostrils. I close my eyes and inhale as it acts more powerfully than any man made narcotic, streaming away cares and tensions leaving me in a peaceful state. All muzungu baggage must be discarded, as Africa has no tolerance for it when crossing through rite of passage.
Its flamingos are the ballerinas who suddenly spread their wings triggering a flash of pink, turned magenta, turned crimson as they take flight into streaming rays of sunlight, leaving the concourse on a brief semi-circular flight pattern before landing fifty yards from where they embarked.
It all speaks to me in a mystical experience unparalleled by anything but a direct encounter with Almighty God.
I watch the landing of new, smaller ballerinas, donning pink plumage. The greater and lesser troupes interweave in their dance amongst each other. The lesser flamingos, with brighter pink plumage, dance intermittently with their larger cousins, the greater flamingos, bending over so gracefully to snatch tasty morsels out of the salty brine waters.
My feet sink in the sandy salt-crusted marsh as I photograph with my eyes and camera. I only brought the camera to show folks back home what I’ve seen for like Karen Von Blixen, the colors of Africa are vividly etched in my mind, my soul, my spirit.
I’m reminded of a line by Bob Seger in his classic “Traveling Man”, only Bob didn’t get it quite right. He talks only of women he has known in the past. But in comparison to this, where one sees a mural of agape love painted by God’s finger, if Bob’s little affairs are all he has to make him a wealthy soul, Bob has to be the poorest guy on the planet. It’s the experiences like this at Lake Nakuru etching indelible impressions on my mind that truly make me a wealthy soul.
