(Here is a picture I captured from Safari at Ol Pejeta Conservancy: elephants are extremely social and live in matriarchal groups. The baby elephant is less than a year old yet is already learning key lessons from the mother including foraging, the social structure of the herd, and the intricacies of their geographical range.)
I learned an integral lesson some years ago, that when one sets out to do service they are often changed to a greater degree than the issue they initially sought to remedy. Nowhere has this insight been more apparent than in my recent travel throughout the enchanting land of Kenya: a place suffused with the combination of wondrous nature, a culture reared by ancient trade networks, and a people as kind as they are diverse. I embarked for Kenya under the impression that I would be helping Colobus Conservation, a primate conservation center on the Southeastern coast of the country. Our primary objective as a small team from Georgetown was to overhaul the existing educational exhibit in the conservation center, assist in data collection regarding human-primate interactions at local hotels, and to facilitate the day-to-day functions of the conservation center. I was absolutely thrilled to be able to share in the center's positive impact, but to be brutally honest: I was expecting to be more mesmerized with the Indian Ocean and the surrounding nature than the work itself (a real passion of mine is exploring the outdoors).
Contrary to expectation, what ensued was a month-long period that expanded my heart, intellect, and understanding of what it means to be selfless: what it means to be grateful for the opportunities one has. The people of Kenya, my peers from Georgetown, the natural wonders of the country, and the admirable work of Colobus Conservation have left on me an indelible mark. Author Brian Jackman puts it more eloquently: "Africa changes you forever, like nowhere on earth. Once you've been there, you will never be the same. But how do you describe its magic to someone who has never felt it? How can you explain the fascination of this vast, dusty continent, whose oldest roads are elephants paths?" The answers to Mr. Jackman's stirring question are manifold, but I will make an attempt to share that magic with you: by telling the stories of the people and conservation work that have provided me with forceful inspiration.
Colobus Conservation
Colobus Conservation is a small conservation center on the Southern coast of Kenya. Operating on a small budget, they deftly manage a slew of responsibilities ranging from primate veterinary work, to reintroduction operations, to animal-safe infrastructure development, to community education, to much more. Their continuous success is solely possible due to the selfless action of their dedicated team of volunteers. Let's meet a few of them.
Mwarabu: Pictured in the black polo in front of the sign, Mwarabu is the volunteer coordinator at Colobus. A man of great wisdom, he brings his years of experience in serving the environment to his job: teaching the volunteers of Colobus the nuances of effective conservation and the meta messages they need to take home with them in a world where forces of capital gain and convenience subvert actions necessary to preserve the environment. He is present in office from before seven a.m. to after 6 p.m., for 6 days a week. He told me himself, he gives so much effort to his work because "it was the animals' home first." Because "we can coexist." Yet Mwarabu is more than a dedicated employee. He is a friend to those he meets, treating all with a rare companionship and care. I will never forget the morning he picked up our group, and as we drove to the event of the day he handed us fresh Mandazi (a Kenyan breakfast pastry) and homemade tamarind juice. As we enjoyed the delicacies and passed traditional Swahili mud huts and young children walking to school down dirt paths in the dawn light, he told us of Kenyan culture. He stated how it is the custom that even when a family has no food for themselves if a guest arrives at the doorstep the family will find a way to feed the guest. Then, all they will ask in return, is that the guest provides a blessing to the family. The humility and selflessness in this custom moved me greatly. Such was one example of many of Mwarabu's tokens of wisdom. When I spoke to him more about his work and legacy, he imparted to me a line I will never forget: "Ensure when you go home that you grow your community, and not just your cognition." As people in an ambitious academic climate and workforce, I feel this is advice we can all benefit from.
Lakia: I can best describe Lakia as a universal grandmother or aunt. She has a peace and sweetness about her that makes you feel at home the instant you begin talking to her. When other volunteers tired after hours of data collection, Lakia would cover for them so they could rest. She left her paying job to volunteer at Colobus for months without salary until she could eventually be instated as a Colobus employee. She has two children that she tends to after long days of conservation work. Yet she focuses on none of these hardships, rather cherishing the cuteness of the resident monkeys or expressing great curiosity in the lives of her fellow volunteers. Lakia is someone who demonstrates the grace and serenity of character that I strive to embody. Not to mention, she is hilarious. There was one morning where she and I took a break from data collection so I could walk out to a sandbar that became available once the tide had receded. My poor judgment quickly became apparent, and I questioned my decision as I stepped on hundreds of meters of sharp shells and coral: holding my phone overhead all the while. As the tide came back in, I decided to ride a canoe back to shore. It was just my luck when the canoe flipped and everything including my phone went under. I managed to swim back holding my phone above water. My concern at the sequence events was immediately dispelled when I found Lakia laughing on shore, having watched the entire ordeal.
Kisite-Mpunguti Marine Reserve
We spent a day while on the coast, riding a decades old wooden fishing vessel to a pristine reef and remote island community nestled in the mangrove forest. As we cut through the sparkling emerald water, we were accompanied by playful bottlenose dolphins and balmy tropical trade winds. Aside the fact that I was stunned by the vibrant, healthy coral (an increasingly rare phenomenon), I spoke with a local fisherman named Aliman. He spoke of his life, days that begin well before the sun has risen. Days that require him to paddle for miles against the strong currents and winds to make his catch: both for his livelihood and his dinner. Yet he lives with a smile on his face, only speaking of his life with laughter and joy.
I was unprepared for how remarkable the island itself was. A small community resourced only by the daily catch and light captured in a few solar panels lives without security and shares power and water amongst themselves. The most luxurious homes are mud-steel huts, and the entire village is walkable in ten minutes. Yet there is an air of tranquility and content there. The hardship cannot be minimized, but I perceived no bitterness. Young children were singing tunes as we walked by, and the citizens of the village spoke to each other with warmth and laughter. They were the epitome of those who show grace and hospitality despite apparent needs they may have. I was amazed by the way they carried themselves. True to form, we were greeted with seafood straight from the Indian Ocean and a delicious coconut dessert.
Perhaps even more amazing is the conservation practices of the island. With little to no financial resources or infrastructure, they have instituted a plastic ban, use solar power, protect their mangrove forest, and perform sustainable fishing. This is better than many of the wealthiest nations in the world. The world should take a leaf from the book of the incredible Wasini Island.
The People of Ukunda
The coastal town we were staying in is known as Ukunda. It is a place of immense beauty, with the gentle waves of the Indian Ocean and its sea grass beds, the mischievous monkeys grabbing your fruit from the breakfast table, and the lush green foliage that breathes life in the tropical rain. Yet it bears the tale of two cities, boasting an unemployment rate near 50% where many have to spend the waking hours of each day walking the beach selling trinkets for enough shillings to get a single daily meal. Yet this reality is not reflected in the sentiment of the town's residents. You are everybody's "brother from another mother" or "Rafiki," which means "friend" in Kiswahili. It was heartbreaking to see some of what I saw, a man who couldn't afford antibiotics for his festering leg wound, wonderful people asking for money to gain necessary sustenance. Yet this poverty was contrasted with the smiles of the local people and their phrase "Hakuna Matata," which means "no worries." I befriended a coconut salesman named Ali, and I would see him on the beach every evening. He would share bits of his life story every time we met. I will never forget one evening when a guard had moved the belongings I brought to the water. I thought all my items were gone, but when I eventually ran into Ali he offered to help me. He dropped his coconuts, took time out of his selling hours, and helped me search for my things. A man with next to nothing still gave his time to help me. Such actions speak for themselves, and I aspire to carry that same kindness into my own interactions. Ali was one of many native Kenyans who provided this hospitality.
Maasai Mara and Ol Pejeta
I am immensely grateful to have rounded off this journey with a safari, where I was joined by my dad. Having a shared love for nature, we spent days photographing exotic wildlife and reveling in the majesty of the animals. The Maasai Mara is the Kenyan portion of the fabled Serengeti, boasting anything from lions, to elephants, to leopards, to hippos. It is named after the tribe initially found on those plains: the Maasai. Ol Pejeta is slightly to the north, taking a turn from the expansive grasslands and presenting a stark landscape of thorny acacias. Here the wildness is undeniable, where one day we saw two male lions aggressively defending a kill. It is also home to the last two Northern White Rhinos on Earth. While the charismatic tales of Africa's big game are endless, the Kenyan people working on the reserves and the reserve system itself are incredible.
Kenya has struck a unique deal where its economy simultaneously provides ownership of the land to indigenous peoples, effective conservation, and tourism-driven profit. Most protected lands that are not government-owned national parks are owned by local tribespeople: be it the Maasai, Kalenjin, etc. The tribes are able to continue operation on the land, including sustainable cattle-raising and settling. Yet conservancies (external organizations) lease the land from the tribespeople and then receive managing rights. With this privilege, they create ranger-protected nature reserves where a quota of tourists can annually enter and experience the wilderness. The profits are divided, some going to the limited number of safari camps on the reserves, some going to the conservancy, and the rest going to the native owners. It is a self-sustaining and profitable method of conservation.
The workers at the camps and guides on the game drives shared a commonality: most leave their families for months at a time to earn income that they can send home to their families. Yet they act with the utmost grace, humility, and hospitality. They sacrifice time with their loved ones so those loved ones will later be able to go to school and have broader opportunity. It was humbling to witness. Below are a few of my favorite safari shots I captured.
I have merely scratched the surface of my experiences with the incredible land and people of Kenya, but I hope I have conveyed some of its magic. If ever you find the opportunity to travel there, please take it. If you hope to go but do not yet see how you will be able, realize that all good things come "pole, pole." That's Kiswahili for slow, slow (a favorite phrase on the coast).
