Who Shipped All This Sand?

Before travelling to Kenya, I considered myself a reasonably intelligent man.

I worked in London, paid my taxes, assembled flat-pack furniture without usually having anything left over, and could navigate the London Underground without consulting my phone every thirty seconds.

I was not an expert on Africa, of course, but I had watched documentaries. I knew about lions, elephants, giraffes and the annual wildebeest migration. I knew that Kenya had national parks and that the weather could be hot.

What I did not know was that Africa could contain quite so much sand.

My name is Oliver Bennett, and my education began on the third day of my first Kenyan safari, somewhere in the vast wilderness of Tsavo.

Our guide was called Joseph. He was a calm, patient man with the remarkable ability to answer almost any question without making the person asking it feel foolish.

Almost any question.

I would later discover that I could test even the patience of a saint.

We had been driving for some time when Joseph turned the vehicle onto a track overlooking an enormous, dry riverbed. It stretched across the landscape, broad and pale beneath the morning sun, with sandy banks, scattered stones and patches of vegetation along the edges.

I looked out of the window.

Then I looked again.

The sheer amount of sand was astonishing.

Back home, sand came in manageable quantities. There was sand in children’s playgrounds, sand on beaches, and occasionally sand in your shoes after a holiday in Spain.

This was different.

This looked like somebody had emptied an entire continent’s supply of sand into one place and then forgotten to stop.

Nature has a rather impressive logistics department.

I leaned forward between the seats.

“Joseph?”

“Yes, Oliver?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

I pointed towards the riverbed.

“Who shipped all this sand?”

There was silence.

Joseph kept his eyes on the track.

“Sorry?” he asked.

“The sand,” I repeated. “All of it. Who brought it here?”

For a moment, I genuinely thought he had not heard me.

Then I noticed his shoulders move slightly.

“Ah,” he said. “The sand.”

“Yes. There must be millions of tonnes of it. Did it come by truck? Ship? Train?”

Joseph cleared his throat.

“Nature brought it here, Oliver.”

“Nature?”

“Yes.”

I nodded slowly, trying to make sense of this.

“But surely not all at once?”

Joseph pressed his lips together.

“No, Oliver. Not all at once.”

I was impressed by the scale of the operation.

“Goodness. That must have taken years.”

Joseph looked straight ahead.

“Yes, Oliver. Many years.”

I settled back in my seat, satisfied that I had learnt something interesting.

Behind me, I heard a strange noise.

It sounded like someone trying to cough while swallowing a laugh.

I turned around.

My wife, Sarah, was staring out of the opposite window with both hands pressed against her mouth. Our fellow travellers, a retired couple from Manchester, had suddenly become fascinated by their camera settings.

I looked at them suspiciously.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Sarah said, her voice trembling.

I turned back to Joseph.

“Does the government manage the sand shipments, or is it a private company?”

That was when Joseph lost the battle.

He let out a loud laugh, shook his head and pulled the vehicle to a stop. The others exploded.

Sarah bent forward, laughing so hard that she could barely breathe. The gentleman from Manchester slapped his knee. His wife wiped tears from her eyes.

I sat there, increasingly offended.

“What is wrong with everyone?”

Joseph took a deep breath.

“Oliver, nobody ships the sand. This is a natural riverbed. Over time, water and weather move soil and sediment through the landscape. When the river is dry, you can see the sand and sediment left behind.”

I stared at the riverbed.

Then I stared at him.

“Oh.”

The laughter began again.

I felt my face grow hot.

“Well, how was I supposed to know?” I protested. “You people have so much of it!”

That only made things worse.

Joseph was laughing so hard that he had to step out of the vehicle for a moment.

I crossed my arms.

“I am never asking another question on this trip.”

Sarah finally managed to sit upright.

“Oliver, darling,” she said, “you asked who delivered the sand.”

“I was curious!”

“You thought somebody ordered it!”

“I thought it was a reasonable question!”

She patted my knee.

“Of course, darling.”

That was the voice she used when she knew I was wrong but had decided not to make things worse.

I remained quiet for the next twenty minutes, determined to restore my dignity through silence.

Unfortunately, Tsavo had other plans.

We rounded a bend and came upon a magnificent elephant standing near a patch of vegetation. Joseph slowed the vehicle and explained that we should keep a respectful distance and remain quiet.

Everyone reached for their cameras.

I took several photographs, then lowered mine.

“Joseph?”

Sarah closed her eyes.

“Oliver, please.”

“I only want to ask one thing.”

Joseph smiled cautiously.

“Go ahead.”

I pointed towards the elephant.

“How much does one of those cost?”

For one glorious second, nobody moved.

Then the entire vehicle erupted.

Even Joseph had to lean against the steering wheel, laughing.

Sarah turned towards me.

“Cost? You think they’re selling them?”

“No! I meant how much does it cost to feed one? They’re enormous. They must eat a fortune.”

Joseph wiped his eyes.

“That, Oliver, is a much better question.”

He explained that elephants consume huge quantities of vegetation every day, and we spent the next several minutes discussing their feeding habits.

I was relieved. At last, I had asked something sensible.

Or so I thought.

Later that afternoon, we stopped at a viewpoint overlooking a wide stretch of wilderness. Joseph explained how animals moved through the landscape in search of food and water, and how the changing seasons affected their behaviour.

I was listening carefully.

Very carefully.

I had learnt my lesson.

No more questions about sand. No questions about elephant prices. No questions about whether giraffes needed special neck pillows.

I was going to behave like an educated man.

Then I noticed a distant hill.

“Joseph?”

Sarah groaned.

I held up a hand.

“Just one more. I promise.”

Joseph turned towards me.

“Yes, Oliver?”

“Who owns that hill?”

Sarah made a sound that frightened a nearby bird.

Joseph stared at me for a moment.

Then he smiled.

“Oliver, I think you should write a book.”

“About what?”

“Your questions.”

I considered this.

It was not a bad idea.

That evening, back at camp, the four of us sat around a table sharing stories from the day. The retired couple had already given me a new nickname: The Sand Inspector.

Whenever somebody mentioned the landscape, the gentleman from Manchester would clear his throat and ask whether we had checked the delivery notes.

I threatened to leave the table.

They offered to help me find the shipping company.

I refused to speak to them for the rest of dinner.

The next morning, however, I had recovered sufficiently to join Joseph for another game drive.

We were travelling along a dusty track when he pointed out a large bird standing in the grass.

“Oliver,” he said, “do you know what that is?”

I studied it carefully.

“No,” I admitted. “What is it?”

Joseph smiled.

“An ostrich.”

I nodded.

“Excellent. And does it lay its eggs locally, or are those imported too?”

Joseph stopped the vehicle.

Sarah started laughing before he had even turned around.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I became a legend in one small safari camp in Tsavo.

For years afterwards, whenever the guides gathered around the fire and someone asked whether a guest had said anything particularly memorable, Joseph would tell them about the Englishman who thought the sand had been shipped in.

I never did find out who delivered it.

But I have since learnt that nature has a rather impressive logistics department.