Whistling Thorns is a place literally in the middle of nowhere. But, you get pretty good pizzas there.

It lies on the pipeline road that connects the highway to Tanzania with the road to lake magadi. Kinda like connecting two points without a name on the map with a straight line. With the workhorse Pug 504 loaded up we made good speed. While a bitch in city traffic, the Pug is a master of the Kenyan highway. This arrow straight-road passes through savannah of the Tsavo eco-system. There aren't many people living here, traffic on the road is practically non-existent.

The massive trailer trucks that criss-cross Kenyan highways don't pass here. Just, some kids in a pickup, getting sloshed on a crate of beer, leaping over speed bumps like they didn't exist (surely, daddy pays for broken suspension). An occasional group of women walking along the road carrying vegetables on their head, wearing colors as bright as their laughter. A low-slung M3 arrogantly blazes past us.

We hit a rough patch of road, pock-marked with deep potholes. Very soon we catch up with M3 guy, now reduced to a careful crawl over the sieve like road. JS can't resist making fun of M3 guy, as we overtake him in a cloud of trail-dust. He gives us the middle finger salute. We hotfoot it from there to Whistling Thorns.

Whistling thorns is basic, but perfect. No traffic noise, no television blasting with football and music videos. Just, the tall bush grass dancing in tune with the rasping of the crickets. They are probably practicing to join the Joe Cocker fan club. Time to chill. Giant pizzas certainly go very well with cold beer and a swimming pool.

There is a woman selling hand-crafted trinkets, after a bit of haggling she sells me a bracelet made out of cowrie shells. I grab a smoke by the pool, and the same woman walks by, and we start chatting. She travels from Nairobi to whistling thorns, three times a week carrying the trinkets. Business isn’t very good, I hear. People go for cheap imitation jewelry nowadays. She gets very tired traveling up and down, could I give her some smokes? And she is very interested in my smokes. Then it struck me; clearly, a case of mistaken identity.

I am smoking mangalore ganesh beedis, she thinks I am smoking weed (Beedis are traditional tobacco cigarettes from India, instead of paper the baccy is wrapped in a leaf). Her face lights up when I give her ten beedis. She will be high on supper-time foufou and beedis today. Talk about placebos...