African wildlife has held a magnetic pull on me for as long as I can remember—an affinity nurtured by countless hours spent watching Nat Geo and Discovery Channel documentaries. Over time, the dream of witnessing this raw, untamed wilderness evolved into a constant on my ever-expanding bucket list.
Lately, I’ve come to think of bucket lists not as final checklists but as wish wells—meant to be drawn from and replenished continually. The desire to visit Africa had been simmering quietly for years, but it was a chance encounter with an article on the Great Migration that finally tipped the balance. A flurry of research followed, and just like that, a trip to Kenya was set in motion.
The journey from New Delhi to Nairobi was long and tiring, but the moment I landed, a sense of quiet excitement took over. The true beginning of my Kenyan adventure, however, was the drive from Nairobi to Samburu. Samburu lies in northern Kenya, a rugged, remote stretch of land about five to six hours from the capital.
My driver and guide, Denis, was a revelation. Warm, curious, and deeply informed, he peppered our journey with questions—about Indian politics, elections, population, healthcare, and industry. It struck me how much Kenya and India, for all their geographic distance, shared in common: teeming populations, colonial histories, emerging economies, and an abiding concern for the future.
As we cruised down the highway, a lush green blur caught my eye. Denis noticed my curiosity and pointed out that the trees were mango orchards. “In February,” he said, “they’re filled with fruit, and people flock here from nearby villages.” To discover mangoes—India’s beloved king of fruits—thriving in a distant African land felt both surreal and oddly comforting.
A little later, we passed a village where two young girls were seated on the steps of a small shop. They waved enthusiastically at our vehicle. I smiled and waved back, instinctively transported to my childhood in Arunachal Pradesh, where I too would greet passing vehicles with the same innocent joy.
Denis chuckled, “Light-skinned people are rare in these parts—they’re happy you waved back.”
I was momentarily surprised. By Indian standards, I have a darker complexion, yet here, I was ‘light-skinned.’
When I told Denis this, he glanced at me through the rearview mirror and asked earnestly, “Is that good or bad?”
It was a simple question, but one loaded with cultural weight. How could I possibly explain the Indian obsession with fairness, the countless fairness creams, matrimonial filters, and coded compliments? I smiled, choosing instead to steer the conversation elsewhere.
Nearly six hours into our journey, we finally reached Samburu. My lodge was nestled inside the game reserve. As soon as we entered the park, I saw her—a lone giraffe standing tall, unbothered, majestic. Moments later, a zebra appeared. It felt as if the wildlife I’d spent decades admiring on screen had stepped forward to greet me in person.
My long-held wish was no longer just a dream. It was real, and it had only just begun.
Jajabor 