So, what of the Kenyan safari Jenny and I planned and saved for over a decade? While I certainly envision more Grand Adventures in the future, I can say with confidence that this trip may be the high point for all our travels. It’s a collection of conversations, snapshots, and even dusty creases in my shoes that I do not ever want to wash away. I hope to fix these memories like photographs in an album I will keep, and then pass along. Toward that end, I want to tell you the story of our trip to Kenya.
We departed SFO and arrived in Dubai after a 15-hour flight, where we’d booked a room at the nearby Premier Inn: a quick respite before an additional five-hour flight to Nairobi the following day. Oh, how I wish we’d researched ways to stay within the security cordon during our layover, even if relying on a cramped airside capsule hotel, if only to avoid the hassles of passport control, customs checks, and airport shuttles (exiting and reentering the airport within a short span of hours). What’s worse, stepping into a broiling evening, struggling to interpret directions to our shuttle pick-up, Jenny and I were quickly snared by a taxi scam: an apparently uniformed official, with what looked like an official badge, assuring us that we’d need to wait about an hour for the next hotel shuttle (despite having read that they run every half-hour throughout the night). And, oh no, he exclaimed, we’d just missed the last shuttle!
It didn’t take long for me to recognize the subtlety and sophistication of his pitch. It was me, after all, who first mentioned the prospect of grabbing a taxi. Our new friend set the scene, and we filled in the plot. And would you believe it? He was more than happy to summon one for us. Heck, he had an app that would call a cab to arrive within two minutes!
“Can we pay with a credit card?” I asked.
“No, local currency only. But that's no problem. The driver will stop off at an ATM!”
“No, local currency only. But that's no problem. The driver will stop off at an ATM!”
What about the price? He quoted a figure that seemed really high for a trip across the boulevard that separates the airport from our hotel. I felt a small portion of satisfaction in knowing enough to exclaim, “Dude, it's just across the street!” But, yeah, he had an explanation for that too.
Right then I knew for certain that we were being ripped off. And I was ready to abandon the conversation right then and there. But we were simply too tired to resist. So with sweat dripping down our backs from the Dubai heat, and post-15 hour flight exhaustion dimming our senses, we accepted the deal. Sure enough, just five minutes after we checked into the Premier Inn, the next scheduled shuttle disgorged its cargo of passengers. Yeah, I was annoyed. But then I took some comfort in knowing that we’d repeat the process when passing through Dubai upon our return. We'd get it right the second time!
The next day’s transit was relatively smooth. I remember enduring five-hour road trips when I was a little boy, driving from Dunedin to Tallahassee, Florida, to see family for holidays. My mom had to ply me with piles of books to help me manage my boredom. Fortunately, I’ve developed a tolerance, even an appreciation, for long trips since then, so the final leg of our journey to Kenya was no big deal. But what would happen then? Would we get snagged over a visa glitch? Would they reject our newly acquired yellow fever vaccination cards? Would we face some other sort of scam? Heck, would our bags even arrive? That's right: We learned the hard way that Emirates is stricter than most airlines about carry-on allotments. Thus, despite every fiber of my being crying out in protest, we were forced to check bags from San Francisco through Dubai to Nairobi. Fortunately, we experienced no difficulties upon arrival. Even better, Jenny’s friend Christine, who had once been a travel agent and was instrumental in helping to plan this trip, set us up with a driver, Micah, who would meet us at the airport.
Upon entering Nairobi traffic, I immediately recognized the wisdom of having a trusted local person handle the transfer. The city’s traffic, a cacophony of construction projects, cars and buses jockeying for position, and not a single stoplight along our route, was unwelcoming to clueless outsiders. So we gratefully leaned into conversation with Micah, who pointed out Maasai cattle grazing along the highway shoulders, explaining their cultural significance, and offered us an impromptu history lesson about Kenya’s emergence from British occupation in the 1960s. Jenny and I were buzzing with enthusiasm, geeking out with the opportunity to ask questions and gain insights about our temporary home. Before long we were checking into another short stay: the Acacia Tree Lodge in Nairobi’s Karen neighborhood (named after Out of Africa author Karen Blixen).
At this point, Jenny decided that she would seek to understand and photograph every bird we saw, starting with the Speke’s weaver, an East African songbird notable for hanging upside down to build nests in acacia trees. Using this opportunity to practice with a new telephoto lens purchased for this trip, we fiddled with settings and reviewed modes of photography we’d not practiced in years. By nightfall, we considered finding a meal at our lodge. But our guide recommended the nearby Talisman Restaurant, and we were up for fun. So once again, as we have in many places around the world, Jenny and I found ourselves trusting Uber: that strangely dependable invitation to put our lives into an unknown driver’s hands. And, wow, am I glad we did. The Talisman was one of the nicest meals we ever enjoyed, particularly as the tables were nestled under trees, lit by mobile fireplaces, and buoyed by warm and gracious service.
The next morning we met another driver who shepherded us to the Sheldrick Elephant Orphanage, helping us navigate the lines and secure an ideal spot to watch animals saved from starvation and poaching. We arrived early enough to feel good about missing the crowds that accumulated behind us. And we gleefully took spots at the front of the rope to enjoy the elephants, who gracefully marched toward their mud bath. But eventually we recognized and practiced a more communal vibe, joining others who happily stepped aside to allow other folks to get their chances to commune with the elephants. Afterward, our driver offered an opportunity to visit Kobe Tough, a tourist magnet where women produce beaded handicrafts in an economy that affords little opportunity for single mothers, orphans, and widows. We were promised that the stop would be brief, and it was indeed a quick stop. But as soon as Jenny was invited to join the women for welcome dancing and singing, I knew that we would not leave without making several purchases. Meanwhile, all I could think about was getting to Giraffe Manor.
Although Jenny and I had long planned for some sort of Africa trip, our preparations solidified with one photograph that I saw online somewhere: an image of a giraffe sticking its neck through a window to join a well-heeled couple at breakfast. I saw that picture a couple of years back and knew: We would one day visit Giraffe Manor. Compared to any other lodge we’ve visited, the cost is astronomical (real White Lotus stuff). But ever since we set up a bank account to shift a hundred bucks a month to our Africa Fund, I realized that we had been saving for this precise experience. And, dang it, I was going to hang out with those giraffes. More importantly, we would get that photograph!
Arriving at the grand lawns, vine-covered architecture, and luxurious interiors of the Manor, we were met by the manager who dazzled us with the various amenities at our disposal. Inside there is a bar, with staff just waiting to make any kind of cocktails I might desire. All included, of course. Want to see giraffes at the nearby center, before they amble their ways here? No problem! One of our staff will walk you past the “Pumbaas” (post-Lion King nicknames for warthogs) and ensure that you have all the time with the animals that you wish. Don’t want what’s on the menu? Ask for anything you like and the chef will pull it together. Oh, and don’t forget to join us at five for tea time with the giraffes! It was all simply too much for two working-class kids. Not that I minded the prospect of a make-your-own Gin-and-Tonic bar downstairs from our room (with six kinds of gin, of course). And yet all the while I remained stressed about the next morning. Would we be able to experience that gloriously sublime moment with the giraffes at breakfast?
At first we had a pretty good plan, with our next flight being scheduled for early afternoon. Plenty of time to stay as long as we'd like that morning. But I could not shake my apprehension. You see, Jenny alerted me a few days before our Kenya departure that Safarilink had canceled our scheduled flight and tossed us onto an earlier departure, which would squeeze the amount of breakfast time with the giraffes. What’s worse, our room was located in the so-called Garden Manor, which is where the animals would visit after their early stops at the older house. Even now I recall asking ChatGPT for trip reports. Would it be possible that we might miss our chance? With computer-generated maps and large-language-model-aided psychology, I was assured that the odds were pretty good: We’d still experience adequate time with the giraffes through the windows. Still, I stressed to the repeated reminder that these are wild animals; they are aware of touristic habits, but they don’t always follow human timetables.
So there we were at 6:30 a.m., as soon as we could enter our dining area. I was trying to enjoy our meal and conversation, struggling not to stress Jenny with my anxiety, but all I could think about was: Why are the giraffes over there? When will they come over here?
“Hakuna Matata,” our server assured me.
Yes, really, that's what she said.
She could not promise, but she was determined to help us have our moment. And sure enough, she worked with another staff member to invite, beg, entice, and cajole giraffes to plod their ways to our part of the manor. All to no avail. The beasts would occasionally lean in our direction, only to be distracted back to their chosen course.
“I’ve got you,” our server promised us.
And I believed her. She really was trying.
But those darned giraffes would not be budged from their rounds. Gradually, but with increasing speed, the minutes ticked away and I realized that we would not get the photograph that inspired this whole expensive journey in the first place. A would-be Stoic, I recited that perfect line from The Untouchables (voiced by a veteran cop trying to train a young Eliot Ness): “Don’t wait for it to happen. Don’t even want it to happen. Just watch what does happen.” I tried, I really did. But eventually I had to allow that it just wasn't going to happen. This was not victory over my covetousness; it was abandonment of hope.
Thankfully Jenny would not accept that fate. She saw that the giraffes had congregated at the other building and recommended that we make our way there immediately. For some reason, I couldn't imagine doing so. We were assigned to this building, and I couldn't bear the prospect of breaking the rules. And our server and her colleagues had truly tried to help us. But Jenny would have none of it. We’d waited long enough, and we had an early plane to catch. It was now or never. So I followed her as we crossed the path and entered the other breakfast room, discovering that other folks had made the same decision. I surveyed the scene and came to understand Jenny’s wisdom. Now was the time to advocate for ourselves. Not rudely. And without ignorance of the fact that everyone here hoped for their own giraffe encounter. But, just as we found at the Elephant Orphanage, it soon became clear that no one would begrudge us finding a seat near the open window with the giraffe leaning in.
So we waited as folks assumed the sacred spot, feeding giraffes at breakfast time while friends and family snapped photos. All at once, I felt a bit silly, recognizing the artifice of the moment. I looked toward the manager and other employees. Was I doing the wrong thing? They responded with smiles and encouragement. At last, I sat in the chair, satisfied at the prospect of a quick moment. Just one shot was all it’d take. Jenny insisted, though, that I sit a while longer. The giraffes weren’t going anywhere, we’d waited a suitable amount of time, and, damn it, this was what we’d come to do! Soon enough, I invited Jenny to take the seat. But she insisted that I stay. I felt such a wave of gratitude and love, and some embarrassment too. All my years of trying, struggling, often failing, to master my need to control things, and I still have so much to learn. If I were a real Stoic, I thought, I’d delete the photos immediately, to prove that I would not be enslaved by my desires. But doing so would rebuke Jenny’s kindness and determination on my behalf. Instead, I savored a few tears that flowed at the culmination of the moment, and I hugged just about every person in my way as we departed Giraffe Manor for the next part of our adventure.
Heading to Wilson Airport, we drove past Kibera (pron. Kee-BEE-rah): a community of between 500,000 and one million human beings living in Africa’s largest slum. Even now I cannot reconcile the disconnect between where we had spent the previous night, and where people today survive on less than two dollars a day. I thought about some of the places Jenny and I have visited in previous journeys (broken-tooth neighborhoods in Detroit, abandoned villages in Chernobyl, the Aida refugee camp in the West Bank) and I felt our privilege stinging like a sunburn: the freedom to drive past the misery of others, the technology to keep the windows rolled up. I imagined that we would return one day, taking a tour led by earnest guides hoping to wake up some outsiders to the plight of strangers who share a temporary abode on a small planet. But I knew that our ability to understand this place, to any extent, would require us to abandon our protections for much longer than a quick lecture and photo tour. I thought about the times we were assured that our fees paid to various Kenyan organizations allowed us to do some good (“The children are smiling because they are grateful for your contributions!”), but I can never know for sure.
And then we were dropped into the cramped quarters of Nairobi’s domestic airport where we could catch a Safarilink prop plane north to the Kicheche Laikipia Camp, about 150 miles north of Kenya’s capital. Stepping over a pile of luggage stowed in the rear of the plane, I fretted for a moment that our seats had already been occupied. “It’s a free-for-all here,” one passenger said with a smile. “It’s all good,” I replied, as we buckled in for a bumpy ride. Actually it was pretty fun, seemingly following the roads on our northerly trek, and the trip was quick: only taking an hour.
Turns out, we were lucky. Safarilink works kind of like a bus line, dropping off passengers at a string of airstrips. Our stop just happened to be next. Within an hour we offloaded our bags and met our next driver at Kamok Airstrip. Compared to the modest facilities we’d departed, our destination was spartan: literally nothing in the area but the airstrip and concrete bathrooms surrounded by boma fencing. Meeting our driver we bounced along rutted roads, greeting zebras, gazelles, and cattle, heading for Kicheche Laikipia Camp in Ol Pejeta (pron. peh-JEYE-tah) Private Conservancy. Along the way I thought about Swahili words and phrases that would guide us throughout our journey. Yes, we’d grown accustomed to hearing “Hakuna Matata,” the well-known call for “No worries” that Disney tried to trademark upon the success of The Lion King. We then added “Jambo” for “Greetings,” “Pole pole,” which means “slowly” or “little by little,” and “Asante sana,” for “thank you very much,” to our repertoire. And how thankful we felt!
Arriving at Kicheche Laikipia Camp we quickly appreciated our choice for “glamping” over camping. The camp features six tents arranged along a watering hole with its own resident elephant, hippo, and flocks of chattering birds, while our tent included a full-sized bed, en-suite bathroom, and veranda. After unpacking, we made our way to the nearby dining area whose chef was determined to fill us with double-sized portions of each meal and was generous enough to create a special chicken soup packed with veggies and bone broth to accommodate Jenny’s sensitive digestive system. To be honest, we both could have imagined just hanging around the camp for a day or so, just enjoying the comfortably relaxed vibe. But these folks pack each day with adventure. Thus it was time to meet William, our driver and guide for the next three days.
Of all people we met on this portion of the trip, it was William who helped us get the most of our safari. He kept his Land Cruiser stocked with blankets, chargers, and other amenities (including tables and chairs for breakfasts, and special kits for “sundowner” afternoon cocktails). And he plotted our excursions, based on advice shared by game wardens and other guides, so that we never had to search for too long before spotting all sorts of wildlife, including the so-called big five: lions, leopards, elephants, rhinoceroses, and Cape buffalo. Best of all, we saw these animals in their natural habitat, their beauty sometimes set in picturesque frames and sometimes in moments of stark reality. We saw a lioness briefly accept the sexual accostation of her mate, before shrugging him off; we witnessed an impala in the middle of giving birth, bloody discharge hanging low; and as I’ll share later in this story, we encountered moments of fierce combat that were both amazing and terrifying.
Throughout our time we were continually amazed by William’s knowledge about flora and fauna along with his ability to transform his vehicle into a scalpel or battering ram depending on road conditions. Indeed, this was one of the most notable parts of our trip, the fact that we had managed to secure private drives (just for Jenny and me) throughout our entire safari, so that we could concentrate on the places and animals that interested us the most, staying or departing whenever we pleased. And while we generally stuck with dirt roads and well-worn paths, William had absolutely no problem taking us cross-country when he spotted something interesting.
Here let me emphasize that our driver, along with all of the many folks who work at the camps in which we stayed, was scrupulous about following park rules. Just because we spent a small fortune for this trip, there was no doubt of our obligation to follow safety regulations, avoid frightening the animals with excessive noise or illumination, or otherwise run roughshod around the conservancy. Indeed, we often saw armed park rangers near locations that had attracted several vehicles, ensuring that no more than five could congregate near the animals. In these moments, we observed drivers (ostensibly competing for ideal locations to delight their passengers) offering each other greetings, advice, and even turns at especially fortuitous spots, carefully navigating their vehicles around each other. It was a reminder that, for all of our privilege, we were visitors in other folks’ homes and workplaces. Our brief sojourn must not upset natural and human relationships. Despite our occasional requests for unscheduled stops and chances to reposition for better photos, I fervently hope that we were respectful guests.
“Look, look, look!”
That was my recurring exclamation on pretty much an hourly basis. Sometimes those thrills required lengthy periods of patience, such as when we waited for a mama leopard to awaken from her slumber. “Did she just flick her tail?” Her cub would occasionally practice his most fearsome pouncing maneuvers, only for his mom to respond with a half-hearted swat.
Among our favorite moments in Laikipia was a morning search for giraffes. Yes, we’d seen our fill at the Manor, but there is something unforgettable about seeing these majestic animals padding their ways across the savannah - that was until a younger one tried picking a fight. I didn’t notice at first, but Jenny and William spotted them right away: a smaller giraffe sidled up to a larger specimen, seemingly sporting for a confrontation. At first they crossed necks almost gently, playfully.
“Thwomp!”
Suddenly the tougher giraffe swung his hornlike ossicones like a two-headed club, hammering them into the chest of his rival. At first the sound was muffled, until a sharp “crack” near the legs that signaled that the game had become serious. The larger giraffe was willing to inflict real damage if the interloper dared to continue. Neither was injured, and they walked off together after a couple of minutes. But something tells me that the juvenile learned a painful lesson that morning.
Another day in Laikipia, we began with a gorgeous sunrise at Mount Kenya, and the sight of lions and cubs gorging on the bloody carcass of an unfortunate buffalo. Throughout the day, we bounded across the savannah in search of rhinos, elephants, and zebras, before taking a hike with an even more advanced naturalist than our driver. This time we also had an armed ranger to accompany us. Again we were impressed, and maybe a little alarmed, by the amount of time our new friends dedicated to explaining how we must follow strict instructions to avoid getting gored, trampled, or simply eaten by any one of the large and inhospitable beasts roaming the high plateau. Jenny was, as always, entranced with the opportunity to learn about birds and other wildlife. Me, I was mostly focused on the storms roiling around us, amazed that we could see rains streaming in every direction. Of course I found myself singing “I bless the rains down in Africa” from that danged Toto song, but quietly. Mostly I remember our guide’s lesson about teaching.
The naturalist described the training necessary for his job, noting the need to cultivate habits of careful observation. He shifted our attention to a pile of dung, explaining its important role in the local ecosystem before returning to some of the lessons he learned. One of his teachers, he recalled, emphasized the need to get a personal appreciation for animal droppings, how even taking a small taste would be essential to fully understand the variety of wildlife on the savannah. Our guide described the scene: a group of students gathered around a pile of dung like this one. The teacher inserted a finger, took a sniff, and then ate. Then he turned to his charges:
“Now it’s your turn.”
While a few paused, one student proudly devoured a piece. He was a dedicated learner, all right. But he failed to recall the lesson about careful observation. His teacher, you see, played a trick on his students, bringing the dung near his lips with one finger but actually licking another. Only the most attentive in the group noticed. The first student, despite his rush to prove himself, ended up teaching a lesson more vividly than any instructor could conjure: Look closely, pay attention to detail, lest you end up eating shit.
After three days in Laikipia, it was time to pack for the final leg of our journey. By this point, despite the best efforts of the chef and staff to provide tummy-friendly meals, Jenny began to feel thoroughly awful on our last night, so much so that we contacted Anita, the camp manager, via walkie-talkie. Within a few minutes, she brought over a small pharmacy of OTC solutions. Anita also noted her experience in reiki, promising that Jenny would receive a wave of healing energy in about 15 minutes “if you’re receptive.” Starting to fear that we might be confronting a real medical problem, we both promised to be as open-minded as possible. And sure enough, her ministrations, along with a good night’s sleep, brought relief. Just in time, as our next flight would send us south toward the Tanzania border. Our destination: Mara North Private Conservancy.
Boarding another cramped prop plane, we were delighted to learn that, once again, our destination was the next stop. Even better, since this camp was run by the Kicheche organization, Anita had already contacted our destination to ensure that they would provide soothing food to help Jenny stay healthy. Upon our arrival, we found staff waiting with trays of fresh-made drinks and a warm welcome to our tent. Again, we found a comfortable bed, an excellent shower, and all sorts of amenities. This time, though, we also noticed monkeys dancing around our windows, scattering whenever we got too close. Another unique quality of this stop was an invitation to be seated with larger groups of guests. Yes, we could have stuck with private dining, but the opportunity to get to know travelers from around the world was too intoxicating (so were the constant offers of complimentary booze). Thus Jenny and I found ourselves in the pleasant company of fellow travelers, happy to share stories of our daily photo safaris.
As with our previous lodging, mornings in Mara North typically began at about 5:30, with a staff member bringing thermoses of tea, coffee, or hot water as requested. We’d then meet our driver (Brian, for this part of the trip) and snuggle under blankets and hot water bottles to ward off the chill. Then we’d head off on whatever adventure our new friend could conjure: giraffes, lions, hyenas, elephants, baboons, leopards, and cheetahs. And, of course, so many birds! In Laikipia we were drawn to guinea fowl, since they reminded us so much of our hens back home. In Mara North, the standout was the stern-looking secretary bird hunting the grasslands for snakes and occasionally expanding its crest of feathers that resembled black quill pens. By around 9, Brian would set up breakfast, with Jenny and me trying to help without getting excessively in his way. Then by 11-ish, we’d return for lunch, a cocktail, and a break to edit photos. Then by 4 we’d head out again, scaling hills of volcanic rock to find perches for animal watching. We’d return to camp by around 7, with both of us committing to quick dinners, only to get engulfed by conversations that stretched late into the evening. A staff member would lead us by flashlight past antelope and buffalo that freely roamed the camp, and we’d slip into sleep with the sounds of the jungle outside our tent.
Perhaps, I wondered, we were becoming jaded to the luxurious rhythms of this place, even when Brian recommended that we return to an especially fortuitous spot to see cheetahs. “Oh,” I thought, “More boulder-hopping.” But then we spotted them in gorgeous falling light, as storm clouds began to surround us. As usual, we waited for them to sleep and lull, wondering if the cheetahs were waiting for us to leave. But eventually they roused (“Look, look, look!”) and I found myself gleefully studying their movements with surprisingly decent binoculars that we’d purchased for the trip. The sky was starting to glow silver when Brian recommended we search for lions. We joined a small community of Land Cruisers and quickly found the big cats. They were dozing, having recently consumed a hearty meal. No problem; we'd seen more than enough for one afternoon. More than happy to return to camp, Jenny and I anticipated hot showers and a big dinner. But Brian thought we should try just one more place. So, we bounced along rutted trails and hippo paths. "One more lion," I thought, "and then it's time we call it a day." After parking, though, we heard roaring, shrieking, and a bloody struggle from within the bush. Hyenas had surrounded a lioness who had taken down a topi antelope and were engaged in fierce, bone-crunching combat.
All at once, a lioness burst toward us, chased by more than a half-dozen determined hyenas. The drizzle picked up and the skies grew almost completely dark, so much so that my modest Pixel could hardly capture the scene. But Jenny was fast, snapping a cascade of photos with our trusty Sony a6400. It seemed the hyenas were victorious, until the lioness circled back to send them scattering into the rain. Thereafter she exited the bush with a bloody prize in her jaws. Somehow, my Pixel seemed better suited to this moment, and I managed to score a few quick videos. Working in near darkness, facing increasingly heavy traces of moisture, then sheets of rain, made for a tough shoot; neither still nor moving images were ideal. But these pictures convey some sense of the shock, terror, and exhilaration that we felt. Jenny, Brian, and I celebrated the moment with our sundowner cocktails (“I heard you like Old Fashioneds!”) and then began our return journey as lightning filled the sky.
The highlight of our final full day in Mara North was a visit to a “traditional Maasai village”: a circular community of mud huts occupied by a community of semi-nomadic pastoral tribespeople. I never asked whether Maasai actually lived in this place or whether, as I suspected, this site was created to offer a curated experience for visitors. All I can say was that the piles of dung that peppered the place were undeniably real: useful when burned, we were told, to ward off mosquitoes.
Did we feel embarrassed in our “safari-tourist” attire at the artifice of the place, with children lined up to sing songs and crafts thoughtfully laid out for our post-visit delectation? Of course we did, especially when the villagers began the Adumu (the Maasai jumping dance). The tradition calls for the men to practice leaping into the air, aided by throaty chants and high-pitched yelps, hoping that the highest jumpers may attract the attention of Maasai women.
“Oh,” I thought to myself, “please don’t make me jump.”
But, of course, a warrior standing near me grabbed my hand, guided me forward, and then smiled as he withdrew his grasp. Yes, I’m sure I looked silly. But I was committed, and with the grinding churn of my new friends’ chants, I felt surprisingly light, almost as if I could fly. I leapt and leapt, opting to feel no shame. How could I? I came all this way to have this experience, no matter how manufactured it was for us. I would not shame my hosts by failing to pay some homage to their culture. Our Maasai guide, Dennis, in his red checkered shuka cloth, snapped about a hundred photos as I (all of 5’ 7”) jumped as high as I could, imagining I could reach the skies.
After about an hour of jumping, touring, and chatting, we headed just outside the village where the local folks had arranged their items, scooping up over a dozen wooden animals and other trinkets for friends and family back home. I remember attempting a nominal form of negotiation, as is the Kenyan practice, but opted to be grateful for almost whatever price they ended up charging us, since every purchase seemed to warrant review by the entire village assembled for this purpose. Returning to our camp, along the dusty, rocky KeNHA (Kenya National Highways Authority) road, we were met by our hosts who promptly asked whether I received my Maasai name. Having never heard of such a thing, I replied no and was promptly led to a woman who took one look at me and pronounced that I am now “Leshan,” having arrived during the time of rain.
We departed the next morning, after a final evening of excellent food and conversation, with Brian driving us to the airstrip. From there we flew less than an hour east to Wilson Airport. We met Micah there for a transfer to Nairobi international airport, assuring him that we would indeed count on his expertise should we return to Kenya. By this point I had abandoned any hope of carrying all of our luggage through the various stops of our journey and left our larger bags at the check-in counter. For me this is normally unthinkable, but the trip had worn down much of my stubborn need for control. “Hakuna Matata,” I whispered to myself. It’s a line from a Disney movie, but as Swahili speakers have long known, it’s also good advice.
From there we boarded an Emirates flight to Dubai, where we confidently avoided the taxi scammers, making our way back to an overnight hotel near the airport, returning to the gleaming opulence of DXB before boarding our final flight to San Francisco. While the whole return-process took almost two days, we frequently recognized the absurdity of the entire thing: hopping from California to Kenya via Dubai, and back, in times that would have astonished previous generations. And then, upon our arrival back home, plopping onto easy chairs to watch the evening news before jetlag sets in.
Even now, a couple of weeks after our return, crevasses in my shoes continue to hold specks of Kenyan soil - a reminder of what we saw, what we learned, and how small we are in the wide world. If this was the “Trip of a Lifetime,” then let my hope become realized, that a lifetime may yet hold more than one.
