Say what?
Yep. Somewhere between sisterly gossip and uncorking wine bottles, she and her sisters, Maureen and Beth, hatched the idea of a two-week safari in Kenya for January 2026. Going on a safari had not been on my Bucket List—it wasn’t even hovering near the bucket—but as she provided me with more details, a picture started to form in my mind: viewing wild animals in their own wild element… sleeping in a tent with the sounds of the African night just outside… relishing those legendary sunsets on the savanna… dodging malaria and black mambas…
Sold. Count me in.
Maureen’s husband, Harv, was coming as well, though Beth and her husband would have to bow out. That brought us to four on this grand escapade. Maureen took the lead and coordinated most of the logistics with a safari outfit recommended by her friends, who had already tested the waters—or, more accurately, the dust and bumpy river crossings—and came home raving about it. In the end, all we had to do was buy plane tickets. No agonizing over every detail, no spreadsheets of potential itineraries, no late-night debates about which park versus which lodge. The arrangements had already been made for us by the safari company: completely turn-key, just show up with your luggage. And just like that, a safari that I never thought to wish for was added to the calendar.
The word “safari” comes from the Swahili language, meaning “journey” or “travel,” and is derived from the Arabic word safar. Originally, it meant any trip from one place to another: a passage through space and, with luck, a shift in perspective. Starting in the late 19th century, the word safari came to mean African big-game hunting expeditions aimed at tracking and shooting lions, elephants, and other wildlife. That era romanticized the Great White Hunter and its danger and glory, while ignoring the toll it took on megafauna and ecosystems. The trophies they sought were horns and hides.
Today, “going on safari” usually refers to eco-tourism and wildlife viewing—being in nature to observe, appreciate, and protect. The shooting is done with cameras, not guns. And the trophies are photographs, stories, and the rush y0u get when an elephant ambles right past your vehicle, or a leopard emerges from the tall grass in front of you.
Like I said, the trip fell in my lap. Six months later, we were flying to Kenya.
“Jambo, jambo!” the driver greeted and stowed our luggage in the back.
We took the tollway into the city, and by the time we reached the stylish Tribe Hotel, my brain was shutting down. Check-in was a blur, and once inside our room, we washed up and hit the sack. No unpacking—just lights out.
Late the next morning, we met Maureen and Harv for breakfast in the hotel’s patio café. They looked as jet-lagged as we felt, jarred by the ten-hour time difference. Over our meal, we made our first executive decision: Day 1 would be easygoing. No ambitious sightseeing. Wander through the big shopping mall across the way. Take naps (Harv and I were adamant). Eventually, our bodies would catch up to Nairobi time.
Nairobi was founded by the British in 1899 to serve as a railroad depot for the Uganda Railway being constructed from Mombasa to Lake Victoria. It sits on a semi-tropical highland plain at 6,000 feet—midway between Mombasa and Lake Victoria—in an area of streams and marshes that the native Maasai called Enkare Nyrobi (“place of cool waters”). The settlement became a boomtown, and later the provincial capital of Great Britain’s East Africa Protectorate. British settlers came for the climate and for farming and trade. Many of the Indian laborers who built the railway stayed, opening businesses that anchored the city’s commerce. When Kenya gained independence in 1963, it was the obvious choice to be the nation’s capital. Today, Nairobi has over five million residents and is the financial hub for East and Central Africa. It also has a robust startup and tech industry, earning it the nickname “Silicon Savannah.”
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| Lobby of the Tribe Hotel. |
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| Lunch at the mall. We settled on Kuku's Kitchen to sample dishes from the Swahili Coast. Oh, and that's Maureen & Harv on the left. You'll be seeing more of them. |
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| Bantu warriors |
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| Live entertainment on Sunday afternoons. |
On the morning of Day 2, the four of us meet our driver, Mwadime, in front of the hotel and slide into his transit van. We have sites to see. The Tribe Hotel is located in the leafy Gigiri district, where enormous trees lean into the roads, vegetation spills over high walls, and half-hidden international embassies are sheltered behind gates. The American embassy and United Nations compound are just around the corner, lending a diplomatic flair to the ride as we start out.
Driving further into the Karen countryside, we arrive at the Utamaduni Craft Center (Utamaduni is Swahili for “culture”), a shop with a history as eclectic as its merchandise. The Center was founded by Dr. Richard Leakey, a renowned paleoanthropologist, to support Kenyan artisans. Mostly housed in a large historic home, it is part art gallery, part market, and sustains local livelihoods while preserving craft traditions.
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| Giraffe Manor |
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| Giraffe Center |
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| A giraffe's tounge has the texture of Velcro. |
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| Utamaduni Craft Center |
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| Refreshments and lunch at Cultiva. |
We make a few more turns, and after a while, the pavement roughens. Storefronts give way to decrepit buildings and corrugated stalls as the neighborhood continues to fray, and then suddenly, there’s nothing but improvised structures everywhere. Rickety shelters have been thrown together with timber, cinder blocks, and corrugated tin, with patched roofs anchored down with rocks and old tires, all of this crammed impossibly close together.
The story of Kibera starts in 1904, when the British granted land outside the city to Sudanese soldiers who had served in the King’s African Rifles regiment. But problems started when Nairobi expanded and absorbed Kibera, and the colonial government reserved more neighborhoods for “Whites only,” pushing out thousands of Africans with nowhere to go. Many moved into Kibera, where the population grew unchecked. Today, government oversight is still minimal. Population estimates for Kibera range from 250,000 to 500,000 in one square mile of land. There is no formal infrastructure for sanitation, drinking water, or electricity. Along the road, small kiosks sell vegetables, phone credit, fried snacks, beer, and there’s even a makeshift carwash. Kids wave as we pass by. A woman walks along the side of the road, balancing a jerry can on her hip. The slum is alive with humanity (tour companies offer visits if you’re interested).
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| Kabera Slum |
On the morning of Day 3, we take our luggage to the front desk and check out. Julius Mukorah, our safari guide, is waiting in the lobby and immediately comes forward to introduce himself with a handshake and easy smile. He’ll be with us for the next four days, and it doesn’t take long to feel we’re in good hands. Outside, his Land Cruiser awaits—a stout vehicle capable of handling rugged terrain. As we climb in, he stows our gear in the back with practiced efficiency, like he’s done this countless times before. It doesn’t take long.
Our destination is the Ol Pejeta Conservancy, a four-hour drive from Nairobi. Once we’re clear of the city, the landscape widens into a patchwork of verdant hills and small farms. Banana and mango trees are laden with fruit, and roadside stands sell the harvest. Ahead, Mount Kenya grows larger, its jagged summit cutting into the sky. Rising to 17,057 feet in elevation, it’s the second-highest peak on the African continent and commands a noble presence over its surroundings.
Kenya straddles the equator and I knew we’d be crossing it soon. And when we reached it, we’d have to stop—there was something I had to do. You see, one of my daughters, Heather, is a 4th-grade schoolteacher, and she had given me an assignment (it’s a teacher thing) before I left home. I was to verify if toilet bowls really do flush counter-clockwise in the Southern Hemisphere, as opposed to clockwise in the Northern Hemisphere, because her class wanted to know. I’ve heard this claim a few times over the years, from different sources, and always filed it under Fun Science Myths. But a mission is a mission (and I didn’t want detention), so I share my plumbing research project with Julius. He grins and nods, and says, “That can be arranged.”
The phenomenon is called the Coriolis Effect: the noticeable deflection of moving objects caused by Earth’s rotation. Even when you’re “standing still,” you’re moving with the rotating Earth—and at the equator, that’s about 1,000 mph. But standing at one of the poles, you would only be spinning in place, one revolution per 24 hours. This difference in west-to-east rotational speed with latitude creates the Coriolis Effect. In the Northern Hemisphere, motion is deflected to the right, and in the Southern Hemisphere, to the left. It is why ocean currents rotate clockwise north of the equator, and counter-clockwise south of the equator. Is this effect observable when you flush a toilet? That was my assignment.
We arrive in Nanyuki around noon, when the sun is directly overhead and the heat is at its peak. It’s a small town with dusty side streets and busy retail shops, motorbikes and matatus puttering about, and beyond the haze looms the towering Mt. Kenya. Julius turns off the highway here, next to a large sign that says “EQUATOR” and parks in a gravel lot. We all got out of the car to stretch. Julius strides over to an acacia tree and has a word with a group of men standing in its shade. In short order, he returns with one of them.
The man that Julius brings over introduces himself as Phillip—polite and soft-spoken, with the practiced air of someone who’s met many skeptics. He’s dressed in a neatly-buttoned collared shirt; long sleeves; Swahili beadwork on the cuffs. In his left hand, he carries his “lab equipment:” a plastic bucket filled with water, and a plastic bowl with a small hole in the bottom.
After illuminating us on how the Coriolis Effect works, Professor Phillip got right to business. From the equator sign, he goes twenty paces into the Northern Hemisphere and sets up the experiment: fills the bowl with water from the bucket; sets the bucket on the ground and gently places two tiny sticks on the surface of the water in the bowl. Maureen and Harv crowd in on one side with Ter and I on the other side, all four of us leaning in to get a closer view. As soon as the water in the bowl starts to drain out through the little hole at the bottom, the sticks begin to turn clockwise—just like the Coriolis Effect mandates. Hmm.
“Now,” Phillip says, “we go south of equator and do it again.”
Returning to the equator sign, Phillip takes twenty paces into the Southern Hemisphere and repeats the process. I watch him closely, looking for any sleight-of-hand moves as he gently drops the sticks into the bowl of water. And as the water drains out, the sticks begin to turn… counter-clockwise! Whoa.
“Now the final test,” says Phillip.
We’re back at the equator sign again, standing precisely on the enigmatic line that divides north from south. Phillip sets the bucket on the ground after filling the bowl and lays the sticks on the water’s surface. We all lean in, watching. Waiting. The water drains from the bowl in a steady thread… But the sticks don’t move, and the water is still.
No. Frickin. Way. I am gob-smacked. Physics and showmanship have come together to silence my inner skeptic. Standing on the equator (traveling 1,000 mph), watching motionless water and feeling the sun on my face, I grin like a kid who’s had at a coin pulled from behind their ear.
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| At the Equator with our diploma. |
We arrive at the Ol Pejeta Conservancy around noon, the last ten miles via a graded dirt road. Julian turns into Sweetwaters Camp, which will be our lodging for the next three nights. At the open-air reception lobby where we check in, we are presented with cool towels, warm smiles, ice water, a quick rundown of meals and amenities, and then we’re shown to our “tents.” However, it’s a tent in name only, because the canvas walls are the only nod to camping. Inside are hardwood floors, a king bed, and a full bathroom with modern plumbing and electricity, just rustic enough to remind you that you’re in the bush. Screened windows wrap around the tent, filling it with light and a soft breeze while keeping insects out. Let’s call it “glamping.”
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| Our "tent" overlooked the watering hole. |
Ol Pejeta is directly on the equator, our camp, just 300 yards north of the line. The land was once part of the British colonial “White Highlands,” designated in the early 1900s for White settlers only (and the native Maasai living there at the time were forced to relocate). It was then developed into a large cattle ranch, owned and managed by various British ranchers over the years. Even a flamboyant, international arms dealer, who had played a pivotal role in the Iran-Contra affair, owned it at one time—though the cattle were long gone by then.
After Kenya’s independence, relentless poaching threatened to wipe out entire species of megafauna, and in response, wildlife conservationists turned the old ranch into a refuge for endangered black rhinos in 1988. Further land acquisitions sixteen years later tripled the size of the reserve and cemented a new vision. Renamed the Ol Pejeta Conservancy, it broadened its mission from rhino protection to holistic wildlife conservation and sustainable land management. Today, it covers 140 square miles.
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| Marabou Stork. |
At four o’clock we meet Julius in the parking lot by his Land Cruiser, but before we leave, he shares some items of import. First, he tells us the animals are most active early in the morning and before sundown, and thus our drives will follow their routine. Midday is for napping, reading, or whatever floats your boat. The second thing he stressed was to NEVER get out of the vehicle without his OK. Never.
We climb into the LC and head out of Sweetwater Camp, the graded dirt road ultimately turning into a rough track. Julius reduces speed, but we’re still tossed around in back, gripping the Oh-Shit handles for stability as he rolls over boulders in a dry stream bed, and I get the feeling this will be a normal occurrence over the next several days.
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| Our LC |
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| Thomson's gazelles |
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| Cape buffalo bull. The bird in his left ear is an oxpecker, which plucks out ticks. |
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| Black rhinos |
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| Southern white rhino |
We also spent considerable time searching for a cheetah. Guides talk to each other over the radio, sharing hot tips and sightings, and Julius received a lead on a cat. We diligently roamed the area where it was supposedly sighted, eyes scanning the grass and trees. Every shadow looked promising; every termite mound could be a cat—until it’s not. This is the wild outdoors, not a zoo. And the cheetah remained a rumor.
It’s late in the day when we catch a glimpse of several lions laying in the tall grass. Hawkeye Julius spotted them first, about a hundred feet off the road. They are well camouflaged: just tawny shapes in the brush and the flick of a tail. Julius kills the engine and we wait to see if they’ll move into the open. And we wait. And wait. Eventually it became clear that they weren’t going to do what we wanted—which, when you think about it, is typical cat behavior. By the time we start back to camp, the sun is sinking below the horizon. Along the way, we pass by a mother elephant and her baby, just off the road. They ignore us.
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| Lions in the brush |
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| Impala |
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| Mother and baby |
Our alarm goes off at 5:30 AM. It’s pitch-dark. Half-asleep, Terry and I roll out of bed and get dressed while the coffee brews. It’s a little chilly, but light fleece jackets will suffice. Like mountaineering, the day starts early and demands quick prep to get out the door. We quickly eat cheese and pastries, wash it down with coffee, then it’s time to go.
Maureen and Harv are waiting for us outside. We walk together to the parking lot, the lodge lights casting long shadows across the grounds, and find Julius waiting for us at the LC.
“Morning, morning,” he says with a wide grin.
And thus, the day begins—actually, that’s how every safari morning will begin. We have no idea where Julius is headed as he steers into the bush, but he moves with the confidence of someone navigating his own neighborhood. The engine rumbles beneath us as we jolt along anonymous dirt tracks, each bump shaking loose a little more of the night. We scan the tree line for any movement, but the world remains dormant—or so it seems until Julius slams on the brakes. We lurch to a stop and look to where he’s pointing into a nearby marsh. It takes a moment to see it, but then… A leopard! It’s crouched low in the reeds, muscles coiled, its dappled coat blending into the terrain quite effectively. Clearly it is stalking something.
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| Leopard on the hunt. |
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| Day break. |
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| Southern white rhino at sunrise. |
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| Cape buffalo cow. |
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| Cape buffalo bulls. |
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| Another southern white rhino. |
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| Grant's gazzelle |
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| Warthogs |
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| Jackel |
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| Reticulated giraffe. The bird on her neck is plucking out ticks. |
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| Zebra |
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| More zebras |
It doesn’t take long before elephants emerge from the trees, one by one, in single file. They amble to the lake with an unhurried stride and line up along the shore to drink. Extending their trunks gracefully into the water, they siphon up a load and squirt it into their mouths (elephants drink over 50 gallons per day). One of the bulls is enormous, probably over six tons. We watch on as the heat builds, shadows shrink, and the bush grows quiet as if everything has stepped back to let the elephants slake their thirst. There’s no finale or grand display, just the rhythm of trunks lifting and lowering into the water. We’ll eventually drive back to camp. But for now, the world has shrunk to this idyllic scene at the water’s edge.
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| Elephants at the reservoir. |
Our late-afternoon/evening drive began with a visit to Ol Pejeta’s Endangered Species Compound—the discreet and grittier part of the Conservancy where the fight to save endangered wildlife, especially rhinos, feels immediate and real.
In the 1970s and ‘80s, Kenya experienced a catastrophic poaching crisis. Ninety percent of its elephant population was killed for their ivory tusks during that period, and 98% of black rhinos were killed for their horns, pushing the species to the brink of extinction. The turning point came when President Daniel Moi appointed Dr. Richard Leakey as director of the new Kenya Wildlife Service (KWS). Pushing the envelope, Leakey revolutionized wildlife conservation by granting KWS rangers a “shoot-to-kill” directive when confronting poachers. It proved very effective.
Kenya faced a second poaching crisis around 2009-2014 when international crime syndicates got into the business, using military-grade weapons, night-vision gear, and sophisticated smuggling networks. KWS responded by becoming more paramilitary and deploying elite, heavily-armed units against organized gangs. This, too, was very effective. Today, the elephant population has rebounded to about 42,000, and black rhinos are up to roughly 1,800. These gains show the positive impact of conservation efforts, but the numbers remain below historic levels—a sad reminder of what was lost. And Kenya is not alone: its neighbor countries have all experienced the same poaching nightmare to some degree.
Julius pulls into the Endangered Species Compound and checks in at the office. This is a special place where we have come: it’s home to the last two northern white rhinos in the world. They lead a pampered life in a 700-acre enclosure with an electric double fence and 24-hour protection by armed guards—measures made necessary by human greed. To keep the rhinos at ease, only four brief public visits are allowed each day. We had the three o’clock slot.
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| Peter talks to us about rhinos before entering the enclosure. He's been working with them for 27 years, and has been primary caretaker for Najin and Fatu since they arrived here in 2009. |
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| Chilling out under an acacia tree. Najin on the left, Fatu on the right. Third rhino in back is a southern white to keep them company. |
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| Najin in the foreground. |
Peter swings his legs out of the vehicle and lights to the ground. He strides over to the water trough and picks up a bucket of carrots—which, supposedly, rhinos love—shaking it vigorously towards where they’re lying in the shade. They don’t budge. Undaunted, he calmly walks over to Fatu and strokes her big leathery head, talking to her in low, gentle tones. You can feel the love he has for his “girls,” and as their prime caretaker, you know he’d do anything to protect them from harm. Then he turns to us, grinning, and says we can get out of the vehicle, one at a time, and pose next to Najin and Fatu for a photo.
I’m thinking, “Nope.” So, we nominate Maureen to go first. Harv seconds it.
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| Maureen goes for the photo op. "A little closer, Mo." |
Harv goes next, looking braver than I feel. He edges in close, giving us his best “I’m-totally-fine-with-this” smile. Then it’s my turn. I slide out, my feet landing with less confidence than I’d hoped—in my head, I’m already filling out the medical insurance paperwork (“Well, you see, I was standing next to these rhinos, when…”). Step by step, I come closer, until I’m standing beside the last two northern white rhinos on the planet. Both of them are clearly aware of my presence but remain unfazed.
Terry goes last. She walks over, nonchalant, and stands for her photo. It should be a triumphant moment—an intimate encounter with two magnificent animals—but what settles over me is sadness. It’s heartbreaking to bear witness, not because Najin and Fatu aren’t well cared for, but because they are the last of their kind. The line ends here without hope. Hope in the way Peter knows that giving up isn’t an option. Hope in the way the world has rallied around them, and that science will prevail. Hope.
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| Yellow-billed stork |
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| Sign post marking the equator. |
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| Bat-eared foxes at the entrance to their borrow. |
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| Oryxes |
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| Young zebra stallions play-fighting for dominance. |
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| A common stallion tactic is to bite the lower leg of his opponent. |
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| Young lioness, about 2 years old. |
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| Young lioness with mother. The prominent females in each pride are collared to collect data and track movement. |
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| Young females usually remain with the pride, while males are kicked out around age two. |
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| There are 80+ lions in Ol Pejeta Conservancy, with 6 to 7 prides. |
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| Mount Kenya |
We’re moving camp today, and it’s a three-hour drive to the next one. After breakfast we return to our tent cabin to finish packing and hunt down a rogue sock (mine of course). One last glance around to assure we have everything accounted for, and then it’s time to move on. Next stop: Samburu.
