ON MY TIME IN KENYA
Thoughts from when I studied at Mpala Research Centre last spring and from this past summer at Lewa Wildlife Conservancy, where I researched buffalo and zebra.
Read about my time at Mpala studying with Princeton and fellow Columbia students last spring and my time at Lewa last summer by clicking the options on the right.
FEBRUARY 2, 2019
A fourteen hour plane ride followed by groggy introductions to 13 other students whom I’ll be learning with for the next three months. Six of us are from Columbia University and eight are from Princeton University. At the airport, there were some hurried ATM transactions, then a prayer for safety from our van driver to bless our five hour ride to Nanyuki, north of Nairobi, which is the town closest to Mpala Research Center, where we’ll be based. The drive was hot, cramped, but satisfying since our forced closeness facilitated the inevitable ice-breaking and satisfying too, since it allowed us to see quite a bit of Kenya.
I don’t know Kenya’s economic status but I’d be curious to hear about it. We passed several what I would describe as shack networks. Wooden stands of fruit, clothes, food, all jam-packed into labyrinths of rows and sections. A few police checkpoints. Half-finished hotels and apartment complexes, signs in English and Swahili, men shepherding cows and sheep. We stopped at a grocery store to get lunch, during which we received many looks, though not ones that came across as offensive, just curious ones. It was hot, so I ate a mango popsicle and paid for a girl from Princeton’s pineapple popsicle as she hadn’t gotten any shillings, the Kenyan currency. I smiles at myself for being prepared, though admittedly the shillings had been a spur of the moment decision at the airport.
Two hours later, we got to Nanyuki and approached a Western shopping mall, complete with a KFC. We met the two Princeton fellows doing research at Mpala, then got back in the van for a little more than an hour to the research center. The road was blossoming with potholes, to the point that we were swerving around one every few seconds. This made the drive uncomfortable, but also, at the same time, it was an appropriate introduction to the wild landscape we were approaching.
The research center came into view finally. It is a series of one-story, stone buildings across a fairly clear area in the bush. A dining area, two labs, a classroom, library, greenhouses, and the living facilities connected by dirt paths on which we almost immediately saw dikdiks (small dwarf antelopes the size of a small dog).
We had a briefing on safety and an overview of the center followed by our first game drive. I don’t know that there are words or a phrase tootling the sensation of fulfilling a childhood fantasy but the reality of that fantasy exceeding any expectation you had before. Amplifying a dream so that you’re transported back to that initial era of dreaming and you feel like you’re a child but you’re not, you’re in the present moment. This was my feeling during the game drive. Every animal was truly real and existing in such close proximity and I felt a pulse underneath the bush dust of elephants, zebras, hippos, eland, impala, jackals, and birds and their aliveness that I’ve only ever felt before in a few places.
We drove back, had dinner, and unpacked. The stars were there and I felt physically closer to them as I had to the sun that day. Brighter than they are in New York, a protective blanket of burning light that awoke a beautiful, spiritual serenity over the whole camp.
NYUMBANI
home in Swahili
FEBRUARY 3, 2019
7:30am game drive. It was optional but I couldn’t not go. I was glad I went to say the least. I sat next to Mwenda, one of the game guards and he taught me so much. He proudly showed the remains of a fish that a fish eagle had devoured near the hippo lagoon to the van. He told me impala would evade lions by jumping into a shrub while being chased, so that the lion was deterred by the thorns and went away. He told me about a time he held the tail of a squirrel while a snake held its head in its mouth. He told me how to tell the difference between male and female giraffes based on the orientation of their horns. He told me that elephants structured themselves in matriarchal communities of animals, in which the females chose their mates. He told me that giraffe meat was fragrant of the aromatic vegetation they ate, like fine herbs. He told me NYUMBANI meant HOME in Swahili.
The rest of the afternoon was calm, spent reading papers for our second class of the program, which doesn’t start until the end of February and is on the mammals and birds found in Kenya. All of us are trying to learn all the animals’ names as best we can. It feels like a vacation though. Breezy, sunny, I felt myself getting the beginning of a tan, and it was only the second day.
Another game drive in the afternoon during which we saw a lot of new animals. Ostrich, warthog, Kori bustard to name a few. We drove with the windows down up on the plateau that sits in Mpala, which featured long-grass fields with picturesque little acacia trees scattered. The sun was in perfect harmony with the wind and they lullabied me into a nap.
I woke up with powerful music playing in my head, an incredible animal in front of my eyes, a setting sun brushing my face. An elephant had quietly walked toward the road to eat from a tree. Being in the presence of an elephant for the first time was, to me, a symphony. When I opened my eyes from the nap, suddenly there was loud music from an invisible orchestra. If the mere proximity of a magnificent being like that can spontaneously, instantly, induce art that way, I think it means that there is some kind of connection between it, me, and something greater.
Bliss would be an understatement.
I started thinking about how this place feels like a land from a time past, plucked from long ago. But that seemed wrong, it seemed misguided. This place is not of an era of the past, it is just as vibrant and alive now. It is current, indicative of now, of this exact moment in time just as much as all our impressive human innovations are. As much as space travel, the internet, vaccines, this place and all its great lives are moments to the present.
MU
KENYA
Little Mount Kenya in Swahili
FEBRUARY 6, 2019
Early morning game drive, very cold, but being out in the bush before sunrise makes it worth it. We went in a van you can stand up in, which is fun on the bumpy dirt roads. Saw wild dogs, buffalo, a troop of baboons in some trees near the river, a large bull elephant with worn down tusks. Riding in silence with my coffee and the cold morning wind, subtly nodding ‘good morning’ to each herd of impala and zebra…I cannot see myself getting tired of this.
After we got back, we had a long lecture with Dr. Martins on malaria, chickengunya, and lymphatic filariasis, all of which are mosquito-borne diseases and cause many problems in East Africa. This is part of our first of the four classes we’ll take here in Kenya, and is centered on vector biology. Vectors are any organisms that carry diseases to other organisms, mosquitoes are a prime example. Through field-based learning like this, we’ll hopefully walk away with a full-bodied comprehension of the complexity of mosquitoes and malaria in Kenya, having examined and handled these disease vehicles with our own hands, seeing for ourselves the tiny creatures responsible for so much human pain. Dr. Martins is a brilliant biologist, critical thinker, Kenya expert. He’s reserved but still deliberate, enunciating words carefully. Despite not gesturing enthusiastically, telling jokes, or conversing very much with the students, he is still very engaging.
The afternoon was spent reading another long paper and taking a quiz on it. The paper was on the relationship between climate change and mosquito-borne diseases, how global warming and its effects will change their transmission. It’s an area of study that, like so many facets of the climate change discussion, is under-researched and underfunded. It’s a logical connection though, as temperatures rise and areas of higher latitudes get warmer, the range of those diseases will also grow. Control programs will need to be continuously expanded, which will be made more difficult of course by problems involving politics, economics, and culture.
We went on a small hike up Mu Kenya in the late afternoon. I got to ride with Dr. Martins again on the way there, along with his two dogs, Dudu and Barabara. They took turns on my lap, looking out the window. They’re Jack Russels and follow Dr. Martins everywhere. They’re fearless—Barabara began growling protectively when we drove by a wild dog.
I’m not sure how tall Mu Kenya is, but once we were up it, it felt high. MU KENYA means LITTLE MOUNT KENYA in Swahili. We were told we’d be collecting samples of more mosquitoes up there, but we didn’t end up doing that, instead just sitting on top of the rock formation, enjoying the panoramic view of Mpala. Dr. Martins was quiet, petting his dogs on his own little section of rock, only speaking when a student asked him a question about the flora or fauna of Mpala. I felt, slightly, that we were disturbing him with our conversations, our laughs, ruining the peaceful survey he was conducting over the land. But I hope, maybe, that the sounds of our content voices synced with the flow of the grass and the trees and the animals, and made him happy we were there.
"OUR VERY CONTACT WITH NATURE HAS AN IMMENSELY RESTORATIVE QUALITY."
-St. John Paul the Great
FEBRUARY 8, 2019
A long drive this morning to another nearby conservancy called NAIBUNGA, a Swahili word that translates to something like COMING TOGETHER. We didn’t know beforehand how long the drive would be, so we all were a little surprised when it took over three hours to get there. It’s all bumpy dirt roads here, so writing legibly, reading, or looking at my phone is out of the question really. You’re forced into contemplation and meditation on your surroundings, another demand given by where you are that you can’t fully control. To be pushed into quiet thought like that is a relief from the usual cacophony of mental noise that occurs. I sat by the window and just looked outside for those hours, slipping into prayer at one point unknowingly. I was reminded of the John Paul II quote I heard a little while ago, “Our very contact with nature has an immensely restorative quality.” As simple as that sentiment is, it runs true in those hours in the car.
Lunch at the top of a rock formation, where we had another unbeatable panoramic view. Sat under the shade of a tree, happened to be one of the species that is special to the Maasai. They give the leaves of this tree to their infants to boost their immune system, told to me and another student by the director of the conservancy. He then brought up an interesting project he and other conservancies in the area are working on— it would be a little protected first containing rare trees important to the Maasai for their rituals and ceremonies that would serve to educate visitors about tribal traditions as well as give the local Maasai a safe place to gather those materials. This way, they wouldn’t be taking from trees on the actual conservancy, which has proved a problem recently for Naibunga. I liked that idea a lot, an impressive transection of culture, conservation, education, and community.
We hiked though a sand river to get back from the rocks. They’re called luggas and they flash flood when it rains. In the dry season, people dig into them for groundwater. I never thought I’d find myself trekking through miles of a barren riverbed in the heat of an African sun, a sun much closer than my sun in the U.S., behind a guard whose family were Maasai, one of the most prominent tribes in Kenya. I never thought I’d find myself shielding my face from the sand swept up by the palm of an equatorial wind, looking left and right at eroded riverbanks along which the twisted roots of thirsty acacia trees snaked in, looking for water. I never thought any of it.
FEBRUARY 9, 2019
We drove to the Kenya Wildlife Conservancy’s animal orphanage this morning, which is outside Nanyuki close to the base of Mt. Kenya. Eucalyptus trees created shady coverings over the road; they were taller than I was expecting. We passed a Benedictine monastery, a school, a World Vision center. I’m curious how many places like that are the products of colonization and how many were well-received by the community when they were established.
When we turned onto the road to the orphanage, I instantly knew this place was special. Like peaceful sentinels, those eucalyptus trees lined the main entrance path, holding each other’s branches across the way—a welcome arch. The wildlife here are all at the orphanage because they were either found injured or alone or unable otherwise to survive in the wild. Some are being rehabilitated for reentry into the wild and others will stay here forever.
When we entered the actual orphanage, my heart flooded with sympathy and hope. It was a tranquil, expansive Eden with unimposing enclosures for some animals and some animals roaming freely. We met some of the endangered eastern mountain bongos, whose habitats are quickly being destroyed. I can’t describe adequately what it is like to stand next to an animal whose species is critically endangered, numbering less than 100. I looked at the young bongo’s eyes and thought about whether or not the animal was at all aware of the status of her kind, or if this shaded haven offered a shield from the sad truth. As animals are so often far more intuitive than humans, I could only imagine that these bongos somehow knew that they fate of who they are is at risk.
Llamas and monkeys and other ostriches walked through the grass peacefully. A tortoise named Speedy comically posed as a rock near a garden amounts other actual rocks. A sweet cape buffalo calf and a warthog nuzzled each other in a corner, inseparable friends. I fed a few monkeys some carrots and corn from the palm of my hand, which they graciously, and surprisingly gracefully, took. So many times I’ve considered why it is I feel so much love for all animals but I haven’t come up with a good answer yet. It just is that way.
For lunch, we stopped at Cape Chestnut, which by all accounts seemed to be an expat hangout a la a Hemingway novel. In a grove of tall trees, a bungalow with a covered porch sat, on which weather-beaten men with expensive-looking watches sipped wine and smoked. A stately, but old, dog walked around, in and out of the French doors. Inside was a lounge of softened leather and smooth wood floors. Black and white photos of past safari adventures hung on the walls. A woman whose name I didn’t catch seemed to be the show runner, giving orders in Swahili to the staff, making drinks behind the bar and then taking a minute every now and then to sit with her patrons and share a laugh. I would have loved to spend the whole afternoon there: write a bit, be romantically pensive, maybe knock back a cognac, etc.
The afternoon and evening were characterized by an unexpected event. After I worked out and showered, I was in my room changing when a fellow student knocked on my door. She said, “I heard you’ve gotten a few bugs out of people’s rooms so I was thinking maybe you’d be good with mammals too. A squirrel fell in the toilet.” I rushed into the bathroom to see for myself and sure enough, a soaking baby squirrel was clawing at the sides of the toilet bowl, struggling to get out. I grabbed an old t-shirt and scooped him out, then corralled him back outside and began working on some readings for class.
A little while later, another student came to the dining area claiming that there was a wet, dead squirrel in front of her room. I knew it wasn’t dead but was nervous for it so I walked back to the rooms. He was on the ground, shivering, and breathing heavily, still sopping wet and seemingly weak. I got a new t-shirt and scooped him up again, trying to get him dry and warm. His eyes could barely stay open as I stroked his head, and I was scared he was too cold.
Ended up putting him on top of a hot water bottle, wrapped in my shirt, to warm him up during dinner. The meal felt long because I was so eager to check on him. When I finally did get back to him, he was alert, energized, and appeared totally rejuvenated. He scurried around the room reassuringly. I was so happy and opened the door for him and out into the cool night he went.
Again, I don’t know why I was instinctively inclined to rescue and care for this tiny animal. I don’t know why I am that way and others aren’t. I’m still figuring that inherent part of me out. All I can do is hope whatever it is, gift or genetics or missing piece or extra piece, leads me to do something helpful for this planet.
-Spying on Whales
VIFARU
rhino in Swahili
FEBRUARY 13, 2019
A morning drive to remember. Toy Story sky with the perfect white clouds. I think clouds like that make the sky look bluer, since they offer a contrast and they emphasize that perfect blue. We were driving to Ol Jogi, a neighboring conservancy, to visit some black rhinos and see some of the vector-borne diseases they carry. Hard to think of diseases though when you’re standing in a truck with an open roof, watching trees and rocks and animals pass in bright sunlight that you’d pay someone to recreate in a photo studio, all as that perfectly cold Kenyan morning wind whips your hair into place and hits your cheek. Perfectly warm, perfectly wild, perfectly vibrant, perfectly energizing and relaxing at the same time.
At Ol Jogi, we had the pleasure of meeting Meimei, a two-year old black rhino with some health issues being raised and monitored at the conservancy. We got to interact with her and she loved attention. She rubbed her muddy back on us like a puppy, made sweet little bleating noises, butted her head into our legs. It was surreal to play with her like we did.
We emphasize our human relationships so much in our individual lives—our dynamics with friends, with partners, coworkers, family, strangers. We analyze others’ body language to points of obsession and engage with one another physically and verbally with a real intentionality. We do this so much and for good reason, but I think engagements with the trillions of other lives on the planet, those animal lives especially, are vital to personal progress, are significant, are worth thinking about. The physical relationship you can have with another is not exclusive human, and yet, it is precisely because we are human that our physical relationships seem to matter. We claimed the title of conqueror, but we can change that to steward if we try.
The next thing that is worth noting is likely one of the most cathartic, impactful, tragic, touching events I will ever experience. We drove to Ol Pejeta, another conservancy an hour or so from Ol Jogi. The last two living northern white rhinos live there. The last two in the world. Fatu and Nagin are their names, and Nagin is Fatu’s daughter. We got to sit with them in their large, expansive field for awhile, witnessing a species that might go extinct in our lifetime. In awe, we sat with them. A sad beauty shrouded these magnificent creatures, who were indubitably aware of their existence and of their mortality. Graceful beasts of the utmost power, a power only experienced by a few.
I tried to cherish each passing second and when they said it was time for us to leave, it felt far too soon to say goodbye. I felt pangs of sadness. Empathy could not be fully realized because we had never, nor will we likely ever in our lives, found ourselves looking at tomorrow as possibly the final day of our species. The cliff’s edge—we’ll probably never be forced there like Fatu and Nagin.
In the truck, I stood up with my head out of the roof and watched them as we drove off. I could not look away and stayed with my tear-filled eyes, fixed on them until they were out of sight.
We drove toward Mpala, got charged by a big male black rhino on the way. We pulled up to him to take photos, but he was angry because we got too close, and he expressed that anger. We’ve gotten too close on a grand scale too, and he knew that. Too close to species that now are endangered. Too close to the point of voracious, careless exploitation. We’ve gotten far too close to the wild, and it is enough to make you cry.
KAKAMEGA
a week in the rainforest
FEBRUARY 18, 2019 - FEBRUARY 22, 2019
Our first full day in Kakamega started with a full breakfast, which I soon learned was one of the highlights of being at the rainforest. Our meals were feasts. We stayed at a retreat center in the middle of the forest, which was a series of quaint cottages on a last trimmed lawn, flanked by untouched rainforest. They all sported wide front porches with lots of comfortable wicker furniture, and decor out of an 80’s sitcom. Tea was served everyday in the afternoon with cake, and lunch and dinner always came with dessert. We were well-taken care of, and it felt like a vacation because of it.
We went on a hike after breakfast. Chilly and damp, but happy to be in a real rainforest after years of pretending to be in one as a kid. Along the path, colorful butterflies burst out of ginormous clusters of bushes and flowers every second. Monkeys, turacos, and bee-eaters sang from every direction. The ground was soft and the canopy of the trees overwhelmingly high and full of the promise of the continuance of all things innocent and good, hope manifested.
In the afternoon, we went to try to collect some freshwater crabs, which often carry black fly larvae, the vector for schistosomiasis. We hunted for them in a stream, which was overladen with brush and pretty narrow. My decades of Atlantic crab hunting could not have better prepared me for this. My competitive spirit kicked in, and finding these elusive crabs became my sole focus for those two hours or so.
Then, one of the most angering events to occur so far. I found a crab under a rock and was using a slow, steady, gradual approach to capture it. I knew if I rushed it, I’d stir up the water too much and the crab would disappear, especially because I was using a plastic cup rather than a net. Our forest guide came up to me and asked, “Did you find one?”
“Yeah, he’s under there here so I’m going to try to get him slowly,” I replied.
“Here, move out of the way and I’ll try,” he said. And he proceeded to move me out of the spot I was in, then attempt to capture the crab, lose the crab obviously, then say to me, “Aw, looks like you lost him.”
It takes a perfectly balanced cocktail of dynamics and circumstances to truly upset me, and this moment was that exact mix. Fortunately, the next day, I did finally catch a crab. We plucked some fly larvae off his back then released him back into the stream. I think everyone realized how competitive through the crab hunting, especially when my mood was significantly better after catching the crab.
The day after my successful hunt, we got up early to venture to a bat cave. I realized quickly inside that caves are challenging spaces. This one was maybe six feet tall and four or so feet wide. To be sequestered by the earth, forced into a space smaller than the ones we typically dwell in, is daunting. It is a mental obstacle to really succumb to the earth, to the cave, to its inhabitants. It forced self sacrifice and humility. You are naturally overpowered when in a cave, even with a flashlight. The earth itself is on all sides of you; for once you cannot say you stand on ground, on the earth, you are in the earth.
Since this was the final week of our first course, we had an exam and presented our final papers on Friday. While I was giving my presentation on bats and mosquitoes as they interact with pesticides, three great blue turacos flew over my head, which I didn't know about until someone told me after. As one of the most beautiful birds in the forest, I felt like it was the rainforest giving me a little blessing, a little affirmation, maybe a little luck with those three birds.
Our final morning in Kakamega was spent watching the sunrise from a hillside. I was hesitant to roll out of my bed at 5:00 am, to leave the gentle sound of rain on the roof paired with a fluffy comforter. It was worth it though. The mist rolling over the canopy and the smell of freshly rain-washed flowers and trees and the colors were almost a performance. The cohesion of all the elements of the rainforest seems artificially synced. Your senses receive one sweet rush that somehow encompasses every one of the many individual scents and sounds and sights of the vast environment. It all made me realize that I’d miss this place more than I had thought.
LEWA
five days on the open savanna
"SOME BRANCHES ON THE TREE OF LIFE BECOME QUITE PERSONAL, FOR REASONS THAT ARE DIFFICULT TO EXPLAIN."
MARCH 9, 2019- A LOOK BACK AT THE PAST WEEK
We just got back from five days spent at Lewa Wildlife Conservancy, which is a little north of Mpala. It marked the second week of our second course here, which is focused on ecology and animal behavior. It’s been a fast-paced class, with group papers due every few days on the field studies we’re conducting. We’ve mostly been working on studies related to acacia trees, one of the most common species here. We’ve looked at elephant damage on them, how ants protect them from big herbivores, and at Lewa, how they recruit seedlings for black rhinos to eat. In between all that, there’s been bird and mammal quizzes and lots of scientific papers to read, but the tediousness of all that schoolwork was far outweighed by everything about Lewa.
The landscape of Lewa is defined by expansive, open land, flanked by rolling hills, and all of it underneath thick clouds with glowing edges. What you think of when you think of the savanna. It’s the start of the rainy season in Kenya, so sunlight is filtered through that crystalline after-rain air, making for gorgeous beams peeking through trees, through the clouds. We went on a game drive that night, and within an hour came upon four male lions, less than 20 meters or so from our LandRover. They were in the shade, napping. When one of those kings looked up for the first time, and I saw his face, there was a tangible but silent explosion of excitement from everyone in the car. We watched them for half an hour or so, and I think we all could’ve stayed longer. A good luck sign to see lions on our
I knew the second day, MARCH 4, was going to be one I remembered from the time I woke up and the clouds looked like they were painted onto the sky. After working in the field gathering lots of data on acacia tree heights, we went on a pre-dinner game drive. Dustin, our professor, was driving and six other students and me were riding with him, bouncing back and forth along the dirt roads as he sped along.
The light was again perfect and so was the air and everyone was just happy. We saw a herd of elephant on a hillside and an oryx running to the sunset and a lone black rhino on a plain. We drove up to an escarpment overlooking the conservancy and took ridiculous pictures that made it feel like we had all always been lifelong friends. We laughed really hard, harder when we went over the big bumps, all glad to be cruising on dirt roads getting bruised ribs from slamming against the sides of a crowded LandRover in real big sky country.
MARCH 5 marked the day I was measured when a buffalo entered our campsite at 3am and came within feet of me in my solo tent. I say measured in reference to the few elements in the world that represent scales against which a person can really know how big they are in the scheme of things. How strong they are, how brave they are, how fearful they are, all in relation to forces far greater than humans. Star-scapes, cliffs, the ocean, this buffalo—they all let you know your size.
I woke up to a loud breathing, paired with footsteps and the sound of clods of grass getting pulled up violently. I knew it was a buffalo, one of the most violent animals at Lewa. I listened as the animal approached my tent, then bumped into it, and that’s when the fear set in. the tent shook and I shook. Under my covers I dove instinctively into a frozen, smaller version of myself and my hearing peaked. Then, more footsteps. From my bed, I watched out my two mesh windows as the buffalo passed my tent slowly. It felt like a dream, and I can’t remember a moment when I was so scared but also so in awe. The buffalo was so much bigger than I realized and I was intimidated and humbled. My tiny existence and all that I say that I am was measured right up against this dangerous midnight giant, who peacefully moved on some time later.
MARCH 7, 2019
Thursday was the day we were finally done gathering data for our research, and the celebration was a final evening drive after showering layers of dirt and tension and stress of the day off at camp. More lions under a tree as the sun was setting provided a beautiful final picture, and we all were so content with that. Then, two curious rhinos approached from behind us, and it was a case of wildlife whiplash. I was scrambling to snap pictures of the rhinos, who were within a few feet of the car, and the lions who were close by on the other side, all the while juggling binoculars and trying not to step on the toes of the other students leaning out of the roof with me. Being surrounded by two species who could kill you isn’t something I ever thought I’d experience, even here in Kenya, and I had a prickly but invigorating sensation of fear the whole time. Eventually, the rhino left, but only after one of them bluff charged and reset everyone’s heartbeat.
MARCH 8, 2019
We presented our data to the research staff of Lewa on Friday morning, and I was lucky to get to be one of the student presenters of our group. The question Lewa had posed about the efficacy of their elephant exclusion zones was asked in earnest hope that we’d come back with relevant results, to help them better manage the rhinos and elephants, and we did. We found that the fences were good at recruiting acacia saplings, but that there is also room for fence improvement. It was satisfying to explain our project to them, and know that this information would be used to provoke more conversations about how to accomplish the organization’s conservation goals. To be a part of the actual conservation, something I have wanted to do this whole time, emboldened my confidence and desire to help further. It made for a great end to our time at Lewa.
Something about Lewa, and really all the protected areas in Kenya we’ve visited to better illustrate it- this place is a fierce rush of gold glitter blowing at you, producing in you the same surge of life felt when one submerges herself in the ocean for the first time in awhile. A wind of forceful, infinite, glorious gold dust that coats your body warmly. And all that good from that dust you get is indicative, I think, that good is timeless. It blows on no one’s timeline. It makes you think the dust will keep coming.
MARCH 15, 2019
We went on a game drive around 5:00, a random event that was only happening because one of the student’s husband was visiting and climbing with us. Everyone agreed that he should see the wildlife before he left, so we piled into vans, all thinking it would be a relaxing drive.
An eland foraging was the first animal we saw, followed by a pair of giraffes comically staring at us dead-on. They were almost the exact same height, and stood right next to one another. We kept thinking they’d move eventually, but just continued staring, unmoving, as if they thought we couldn’t see them if they didn’t move.
Then I spotted some elephant in the bush, who proceeded to jubilantly parade across the road. There were five or six, including a baby who grabbed onto his mom’s tail at one point, which induced sighs of admiration from everyone in the car.
Jackson drove us to the airstrip next. Even though we’ve been here over a month now, the sun and the neon clouds still impressed us all, still pushed each one of us to comment on its beauty, even though it’s the same sky we’ve been seeing for weeks. To be consistently impressed, almost everyday, by something unchanging is rare. We took lots of pictures, watched two jackals kick up the red sand as they ran, watched a striped hyena do the same.
We continued across the airstrip, zigzagging back and forth, feeling very close to the sky. Then, as we were watching a Grevy’s zebra against the sunset, someone saw lions. Jackson cruised to where they had pointed, and there underneath an acacia tree with a fresh eland carcass, were two male lions. It was our first time seeing them at Mpala, so everyone was very excited. They seemed to have had their fill of eland and were digesting, napping, yawning every now and then. We got within about 20 feet of them and got a good half hour or so with them before everyone back at Mpala heard about the sighting and drove over. We all parked ourselves in front of them.
Both lions silently demanded our reverence. Sharp intakes of breath in the face of Kenya’s apex predator. The magnificent light glazed them both in gold. It felt like church in those sunset moments with them, except the light didn’t have to be filtered through colored glass to create that sanctuary ambience. They were God in those sunset moments, in the sense that they just seemed to possess an omniscience that halted you. It was a church framed by mountains, with no walls. Comparing this scene to something human-made like organized religion is certainly anthropomorphizing the wild in a way. At the same time though, I’d argue that associating it with holiness and sanctity and the greatest enigmatic, universal power isn’t really anthropomorphizing, but instead further designating how inhuman the wild is, how far the wild is from human weakness and simplicity.
Sharp intakes of break watching the impossibly complex network of the lions’ muscles shift as they yawned and stretched and basked in the glow of the sunset. And the only thought that weaved its way through my head on the drive back was, “I don’t know that it could get better than this.”
MT. KENYA
summit in the snow
MARCH 16, 2019 - MARCH 19, 2019
At the gates to the park in which Mt. Kenya sits, our climbing guide, Cool John, met us and we all wrote our names in the log book before entering, which was a dusty notebook spanning years of mountain climbers from all over the world. Flipping through the pages revealed groups from South Korea to the Czech Republic, over decades. Then Jackson drove us to Camp Moses, which is where we stayed the night before the long hike. The camp is settled north of the mountain, at 3300 meters up, and is just two wooden longhouses with tin roofs. One of them had a kitchen and some offices and the staff rooms and the other had a series of bunk rooms and a table and chairs, where we stayed. All 11 of us slept in one bunk room, with bunkbeds stacked together post to post, giving the feeling that we were in the bowels of a ship or something. It was all bare bones—only hanging lightbulbs from the ceilings for light and squat toilets and sleeping bags on wooden bunkbeds. A minimalist depot in the middle of the lush Aberdare foothills.
To get acclimatized to the altitude, after lunch we hiked to the old weather station a little bit up the hill, maybe an hour. We took a break when we got there and walked around, peered inside. It was a little eerie—dilapidated buildings with peeling paint and strewn pieces of meteorological equipment. The wind was whipping and it was colder than the first time we came to Mt. Kenya a little while ago for a day hike. The vacant state of the weather station underlined our isolation from the rest of the world, and it felt nice to be so far away but also lonely. We’d be a concentrated group on this removed mission up a mountain for the next few days, no contact with anyone else for awhile.
MARCH 17, 2019
On the second day, we woke up at 6:30 to do our long hike: 14 kilometers in one day to Shipton, the camp at the base of Mt. Kenya. Mt. Kenya has three peaks that can be summited and were climbing to Lenana, the third-highest of the three. Eventually, after it got sunny and warm, we came to an overlook where we could see it. The mountain was snowcapped against a crystal sky, with fast-moving clouds hurrying in. I laid on a rock and slept for maybe five minutes with my hat over my face, powering up via the bright sun. We all ate a snack and gazed at the final valley we had to cross before Shipton. I encountered some boldly curious birds, maybe sparrows, and fed them a few pieces of macadamia nuts next to my rock.
As we transversed the valley, it got a little colder and began to hail so we all slowed down and put on rain jackets. We started to play a movie guessing game and the hail was so loud that we had to yell our guesses at each other, but it passed the time so well and before I knew it, I looked up and there was the mountain, a giant chunk of rock pointed at the sky, and there was Shipton.
Shipton was a longhouse with bunk rooms and long metal tables with wooden benches. No bigger than a small coffeeshop. The only two doors of the place didn’t really close unless you pushed them hard and finagled with the lock a bit. Once we were all inside huddled on the benches, sipping tea and coffee, hail outside, the continuous refrain was “Shut the door!” as it swung back and forth on its ageless hinges with each new entrant. A game of poker started and with the plastic cups of bitter instant coffee, the dirty mixed coins in place of poker chips, the wind throwing the doors open, it felt like some kind of old western inn in the winter, filled with weather-beaten cowboys and tired travelers. Hard to remember that we all were instead in Kenya.
MARCH 18, 2019
We went to bed early and then woke up at 2:30 am to summit. Some tea and cookies, lots of layers, and we were off. The climb to Lenana was just snow and dark and stars and the trust that Cool John and his team were leading us in the right direction. Not being able to see around you in that dark was slightly disconcerting, but every doubt I had was made up for by a glance at the band of the Milky Way that was visible above us. One shine of a flashlight on either side of me revealed that, sometimes, we were walking along a rocky ridge with sheer drops both to the right and left, less than a meter to shards of black rock slicing through the snow blanket. Nothing but my own balance stopping me from slipping.
Two hours in and we were just about an hour from the Lenana. The altitude was getting to my breathing, making me feel out of shape as I panted with each step . At this point, clearly-cut stars were replaced with a stripe of red light to the east on the horizon. As much as I disliked the vertical trudge through the snow up till then, I knew this last hour would be worth it. The wind grew stronger and every time I looked up to see how far the peak was, it still seemed farther yet. My energy had surged though, and I joyfully scrambled up behind Morgan, the other student ahead of me, the danger of it all amplifying my excitement. Ice, wind, and the riveting height I was at were all elements I hadn’t ever encountered but was happy to. Each time I pulled my body up over another crevice or boulder, my energy surged more. The stars were fully faded when Morgan and I reached the sign announcing the peak finally, the sky my favorite baby blue. A group of us took an out-of-breath photo at that sign and maybe we’ll all show it to our grandkids one day.
On the peak, we let out battle cries and wolf howls. I felt wild and fully embraced by nature. Mountain peaks are unavoidably spiritual and I guess always have been. My raspy howl against the icy morning air over all of Kenya was my hymn.
We enjoyed the view at 16,355 feet up and the 11 of us exchanged few words both out of reverence for the peak’s majesty and out of exhaustion. We took some pictures and cheered when each new person’s head poked up above the final rock at the peak’s edge. It was the same energy as the finish line of a marathon or the end of a hard-won game. We were all so unspeakably happy to be alive, to have survived it all, and to have successfully accomplished this incredible physical feat. Victors, each one of us. Our intense exhaustion and lack of breath was evidence that we were just victors, though, not conquerors of the mountain. The mountain was still king, as it fit into the same category as the ocean, the deserts of the American West—locales where a natural force physically beat you and reminded you, in a strong voice, that you were small.
The descent was so much fun. It hadn’t snowed for a year on Mt. Kenya and it had last night, leaving a fresh blanket for us to bound down. We slid down treacherous rifts as if we were skiing , then we jumped carelessly from bank to bank, all the way down, laughing. A joyous return, as if from battle. We rushed into Shipton, the first group to make it down the mountain, and high-fived each other for the millionth time at the door, everyone impressed with themselves as well as with each other.
Then we had breakfast inside. One of the best breakfasts I’ve ever had and likely ever will. Every subsequent climber was so happy when they reached the broken door and looked inside at the rest of the group holding steaming cups of tea at the table. Everyone was greeted with celebratory shouts and congratulatory remarks; everyone was so evidently proud of everyone else and I can’t remember an occasionI felt others’ pride in me swell to such a large wave in such a small amount of time. Mountain climbs tighten groups like that I guess.
TURKANA
desert pioneers for a week
APRIL 3, 2019 - APRIL 9, 2019
Big-picture-human questions out here in Turkana, the north-western, desert corner of Kenya. Yesterday was a 12 hour travel day to get here. Two flights on bumpy little planes in which the descents felt like free falls. I couldn’t help but smile because it almost felt like an amusement park ride. Landed and drove to the Turkana Basin Institute, where our fossil and evolution-based class will mostly occur. All 12 of us rode in the back of a truck on wooden benches, out bags piled up at our feet, hot air whipping our hair into our faces and making it hard to hear each other.
The institute and its surrounding land was simple. Barren, but alive nonetheless. Hot cradle of humanity, pillowed with sand. Incredible discoveries have been made by scientists at this institute, new hominin species, missing links in our evolution. It was sparse in terms of vegetation, had a nice view of the Turkwell River, and better instant coffee than Mpala. An old resident dog named Tom quickly became everyone’s best friend, and we all scratched our heads as to how she survived the soul-crunching heat of this place and still wagged her tail constantly.
The day after we arrived, we drove to Lothagam, an area of the desert known to be ripe with fossils of both animal and human ancestors. It contains chunks of sediment dating all the way back to the Miocene epoch, which lasted roughly between 23 and 5 million years ago, meaning fossils from that time period too. The ancient rivers that flowed through Lothagam and the intensely dry and hot landscape make for great fossil preservation. We could not take more than a step or two without seeing a fossil fragment of a prehistoric crocodile’s back or the tooth of a mammoth hippo from millions of years ago. We conducted two studies here—one focusing on the geology of the area and one on the fauna remains. We got to traverse parts of Lothagam that no man or woman has before. Uncharted layers of rock and sand, oceans of fossils, unmarred by development.
We camped for three long days, for the duration of which we were in an unending state of heat exhaustion but also an unending state of awe of this raw, untouched and unforgiving landscape. A landscape that reminded us of post-apocalyptic dystopias, Jurassic Park, and Star Wars. Meals under a canvas tent, at night amidst a clear black sky perforated by brilliant pricks of light traveling to us from years away. For fun during the hot afternoons, we gave each other Sharpie tattoos. The fossil project team came up with the name “Lotha-gang” for our group, so we branded ourselves accordingly. There was really not much else to do.
Wildlife encounters were few, but we did see a scorpion and a huge desert spider. As Turkana has been ranked as one of the hottest places in the world on some lists, not much else can live out here. The Turkana people, a tribe who live in the area, are really the only other living things. We visited one of their villages and took home some handmade palm brooms, which is one of the main income sources for them. The craftsmanship required to construct palm brooms is astounding, but that required to build family-size palm huts wowed me even more.
I drew a small crowd of kids while we were there. This was probably because I caught onto a game of peekaboo a few were playing, and became a fast friend and even dance partner to some. I found that the basic foundation of ring-around-the-rosy translates perfectly, with no oral explanation necessary. A great thing to know, to say the least.
RETURN TO LEWA
JULY 7, 2019
I’m back in Kenya after roughly two months in the US. Golden dust of this place swirling in my head again. I’m here conducting research for Lewa Wildlife Conservancy on the movement patterns and feeding behavior of Cape buffalo and plains zebra. This research is for the conservancy, but I’m also going to turn it into my senior thesis. It’s great to be here, Lewa was my favorite place we visited when I was here in the spring with my study abroad program.
I did not expect to be back so soon, but connections were made and opportunities presented, and somehow, I found myself on a plane headed to Africa by myself a little over a week ago.
A little about my research: after a big population boom of the buffalo in 2018, the conservancy wondered why they were doing so much better than the other two big grazing species, plains zebra and white rhino. I’m mapping historical data, conducting my own distribution study and doing some vegetation surveys of the buffalo and zebra to help understand why. There’s a PhD student from Scotland here doing a study on the white rhinos so the hope is that, once all our fieldwork is done, the conservancy will have data that allows them to understand the reasoning behind the buffalo boom as well as more insight into the movements and behaviors of these three special species.
From a conservation perspective, the project’s a good one because these three species are indicator species for the conservancy, meaning that Lewa can tell the general health of the landscape from looking at how well the buffalo, zebra, and white rhino are doing. As climate change continues to hit equatorial regions with a heavier hand than elsewhere, mainly via more extreme seasonality and increased fires, knowing how these indicator species endure and adapt to these changes will allow Lewa to prepare the entire conservancy for these changes, some of which will be inevitable. Suffice to say I’m thrilled to be aiding in Lewa’s conservation efforts in this project.
So far, I’ve spent a lot of time in the office going through a ton of historical distribution, rainfall, and fire data, and today I finished up the third day of my distribution survey. Lots of hard work, but worth it to be amongst all this glittering, boundless, life every single day.
SAWA
ok in Swahili
JULY 17, 2019
Always loved driving. In middle school, before a movie started, my friends and I would sometimes play a few of the arcade games at the theater, and I always liked the race car ones the best. The day I was eligible to get my learner’s permit, I got it. I relished the times I’d get to drive around Las Vegas when I lived there, up against the mountains, the times I get to drive down 95 when I’m home in Virginia. It’s not something defining about me, not something I’ve ever said as my fun fact in get-to-know you exercises or anything, but it’s real. I think it’s developed after years of not having a car since I live in New York City, and not having a car other places I’ve lived.
Last summer, we sold our 20 year-old Ford Explorer since the repairs would have cost more than the car itself. That car always gave an adventure—from stalling out unexpectedly to making a constant, loud whirring noise that made you have to yell to the cashiers at drive-thrus. Once my dad had stripped it of its license plates before it was sold, it sat in the driveway for weeks. There was a June morning when I was home alone, and I decided to take it for one more drive before it became a steel and oil memory. I sped back and forth along our road, outside our neighborhood in front of the grocery store, pumped up with the glee of being slightly rebellious driving with no license plates. I saw a state trooper melting in the summertime haze, perched in his car on the side of the road. I know he saw me. I thought nothing of it, speeding past him with a nervous, but childishly mischievous look over my shoulder, like a kid when they know they’re about to break something but are too curious not to go through with whatever they’re doing. And it was one of my most genuinely happy moments that summer.
It’s an ages-old cliche that has its sun-beat fists wrapped tightly around my heart: the catharsis that comes with driving through an open space with music and windows down. I am a helpless victim to this wild west trope.
In Kenya: I originally thought the conservancy would have a car available for me to take around as I do my research, but they’ve got so many ongoing projects that it soon became apparent that they did not. I wasn’t planning on renting one while I was out here, but I decided to go through with it in order to be more autonomous and get in the field more often. Through a guy one of the other researchers knows, I got a good deal on an old Prado Land Cruiser, so I arranged to have it brought to the conservancy.
In the hours leading up to the delivery of the car, I sat anxiously at my camp, eyeing my phone for the time every few seconds, tapping my foot waiting to leave to retrieve the car. When the time came around for Sambiri, one of the rangers, to drive me to the main gate to pick it up, I sprang out of my seat with such vigor, it surprised me. After the ten minute drive to the gate, past impala and zebra in the pink light, I saw the little Land Cruiser and all her dents and scrapes and smiled. I’ve never had my own car, one that was really mine, this is as close as I’ve ever gotten.
After going through the details of the old green truck, I sat in the driver’s seat for the first time and immediately, as cheesy as it is, felt wholly unbound and powerful. This landscape of golden dust and all its wildlife ramp up my heart rate and also slow everything down, so to be able to experience that while driving around, another activity that taps on my heart—it’s almost too much.
Sambiri asked if I was ready to follow him back to camp with raised eyebrows and a quick, “SAWA?”
“SAWA” I replied, and then I drove back to camp.
Driving on the wrong side of the car and road didn’t phase me, nor did the rocky bits of the dirt roads. I put some music on, rolled my window down, and inhaled fully, while beaming for every tick and lion and hornbill to see. The sun was setting, and I passed a buffalo grazing alone. He picked up his head as I drove by, and, (the story would be great if we locked eyes here, but we didn’t, I don’t think) I couldn’t help but feel as though he was silently cheering me on in my maiden savanna ride.
Since the maiden ride, I’ve driven all over the conservancy to do the vegetation survey portion of my research. Simon, the ranger who I’ve been working with, said, “very good,” the other day in response to some off-roading I did to get to a buffalo feeding spot. Felt extra validated by that. Two days ago, I got to drive through a section of the conservancy at night, got to stop and watch a big impala herd under the moon, alone with them. Another day, another joy ride out here.