After an unforgettable time in Samburu and Lake Naivasha, it was time to head to the crown jewel of Kenya’s wilderness—Maasai Mara. The drive from Naivasha was smooth, the scenery rolling and expansive. Somewhere along the highway, I was treated to a scene straight out of a nature documentary: giraffes casually crossing the road while long-haul trucks bound for Uganda came to a respectful stop. That moment said everything—Kenya, like India, is a land where humans and animals have coexisted for centuries. The roads might belong to us, but the land? It belongs to all.

An Influencer Moment… That Was Real

I arrived at my lodge in the Nashulai Maasai Conservancy, adjacent to the Mara Reserve. As I was being briefed, someone mentioned that wildlife often roams the property—zebras, giraffes, antelopes, the works. I smiled politely, silently filing it away under “influencer exaggeration.”

But as I walked into my tent, I stopped in my tracks. Two zebras were grazing calmly right outside. Unbothered by my presence. Completely at home. Apparently, those influencer videos were real after all.

Into the Mara

Post-lunch, I was itching to head into the Mara Game Reserve, but Denis—my guide and voice of reason—suggested we wait till 3:00 PM for better sightings. By 2:30, I was already in the vehicle.

As soon as we entered the park, the Mara began to unfold its magic.

First, a lone elephant stood tall in the golden grass.
“In India, elephants are considered lucky,” I told Denis.
He smiled, “Then Mara is welcoming you.”

Next came herds of zebras, followed by wildebeest, impalas, and Thomson’s gazelles grazing together in peaceful coexistence. The giraffes soon followed—towering, gentle silhouettes against the sky. One of them turned ever so slightly, as if offering a perfect pose. I took the shot.

The Leopard in the Tree

Suddenly, the radio crackled with excitement. Denis stepped on the gas. We arrived at a clearing where at least 20 vehicles had gathered under a single tree. Up in its branches, a leopard, perfectly camouflaged, draped across the limbs with feline grace. Through the binoculars, I spotted its kill—an impala—tucked carefully into a crook of the tree.

And then, as if aware of all the attention, the leopard shifted. Slowly, dramatically, from one branch to another. And then descended—regal, deliberate, unhurried—before disappearing into the grass. A moment I will never forget.

More Elephants, Lion Cubs, and a Buffalo Parade

We continued, only to find a larger herd of elephants, slowly making their way to a lone tree. One stopped to scratch its back, reminding me once again how relatable elephants are—gentle giants with very human gestures.

Further along, two vehicles stood near a bush, cameras poised. We slowed down and waited. Soon, three lionesses emerged, followed by a tumble of cubs, rolling and pouncing on each other in playful chaos. For a few minutes, we all watched in reverent silence. But as more tourists gathered, the lions melted back into the bush.

As we turned to leave the park, thinking the day couldn’t offer more, a herd of Cape Buffaloes made their appearance—one of Africa’s Big Five. We waited as they crossed the road, closing the day with quiet power.

A Day of Living Documentaries

You can watch all the wildlife documentaries in the world, but nothing prepares you for the real thing—for the silence before a leopard moves, for the thunderous stillness of buffaloes, for the fluttering tails of lion cubs in grass.

The Mara doesn’t just show you wildlife—it welcomes you into its ancient rhythm. And on this day, it felt like it was opening its arms just for me.

My second day on the African safari began with unexpected laughter. Denis, my ever-practical guide, had insisted we start early—6:30 a.m. sharp—to catch the best wildlife action. Dutifully ready, I arrived at the lodge reception, eager for another day in Samburu.

As Denis prepared the safari vehicle, he opened the hood—a typical practice to allow unobstructed viewing from the top. Then he turned to me, paused, and stated, quite matter-of-factly, “You are short.”

He wasn’t wrong. At barely five feet, the open-top vantage point posed a bit of a challenge. But Denis, quick with a solution, added, “I think you can remove your shoes and stand on the seat.”

And that’s how my morning began—shoeless, grinning, and standing on the seat, ready to meet the wild.

Samburu is known for its unique quintet of wildlife—The Samburu Special Five: the Reticulated Giraffe, Grevy’s Zebra, Beisa Oryx, Somali Ostrich, and Gerenuk. These arid-adapted species are rarely seen in other Kenyan parks, making sightings here all the more special.

Our day opened with a gentle procession of Reticulated Giraffes, their elegant frames swaying as they nibbled the treetops, impervious to our awestruck gazes. Shortly after, a herd of impalas darted past, as if to say, Welcome to Samburu.

Then came the buzz on the radio—a herd of elephants had been spotted. We raced over and found them, including three playful calves, feeding leisurely as they made their way toward the river. We waited for the herd to cross the road. Just when we thought the last elephant had passed, the matriarch emerged—large, composed, and watchful. She brought up the rear like a regal guardian.

Soon, another radio alert sent us speeding across the terrain again—lions had been seen. In the tall grass, barely visible, we found three lionesses and four cubs, perfectly camouflaged. I raised my binoculars and scanned the horizon—impalas, zebras, and oryx were alert, nervously watching. The lionesses, thin and determined, moved slowly but purposefully toward the prey. In the wild, even the top predator must earn every meal.

As I was still processing the sheer majesty of these moments, Denis pointed out a pair of Gerenuks, the long-necked antelopes that stand upright to feed. But they darted off before we could get close.

Further ahead, a female Somali ostrich and her two young paused mid-stride, stared at us with curious eyes, and then—deciding we were harmless—ambled away.

Yet again, the radio crackled—a cheetah had been sighted. We sped to the location and found her resting in the shade, catching her breath beside a fresh kill—a Kirk’s dik-dik. Denis maneuvered the vehicle for the perfect view. The cheetah, the fastest creature on earth, was now a picture of stillness, her sides heaving gently as she gnawed at the bones.

Next on our checklist: the remaining members of the Samburu Five. After scanning the reserve for a while, we found them at last—Grevy’s Zebra and Beisa Oryx, grazing side by side under the open sky. Sightings complete, we began our journey back to the lodge, satisfied.

But Samburu wasn’t done with me yet.

As we rolled along, I noticed two elephants, one on either side of the road. “They’re courting,” Denis explained. We paused, holding our breath. Slowly, the two approached each other and gently touched trunks—a moment so tender it felt almost sacred. But the female clearly didn’t appreciate our intrusion. With a swish of her tail, she turned and walked away. The male turned to us and lingered. In his eyes, I imagined a mildly annoyed question: Did you really have to ruin that?

By now, the sun was high and the air heavy with heat. Just then, the radio crackled again—another lion sighting. We drove to the spot to find several safari vehicles gathered. A lion and a lioness lay in the shade, seemingly unfazed by their human audience. But as more vehicles arrived, the lion gave an irritated grunt, stood up, and disappeared into the bush, his privacy duly invaded.

Thus ended my second day in Samburu—a symphony of sightings, from giraffes to courting elephants, lions on the hunt to the cheetah at rest. The bush, with all its drama and dignity, had begun to reveal its soul. And I knew—this safari was only getting better.