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Kenya Diary – Day Three: From Rift Valleys to Hippo Eyes

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On the third day of my African safari, I bid farewell to Samburu, my heart still full from the wildlife encounters of the past two days. As the vehicle wound its way out of the park in the early morning, nature gifted me a parting glance—giraffes, impalas, gerenuks, and dik-diks crossing our path, calm and unhurried, as if they knew I needed one last look.

My next destination: Lake Naivasha, nestled within the legendary Great Rift Valley. After all those geography lessons in school, how could I possibly be in Africa and not stand somewhere within the mighty Rift?

The drive was long, but it held one geographical delight—the Equator crossing. We stopped at a modest joint proudly announcing our latitude. I stepped out, stretched my legs (yes, even short ones need a break), and soaked in the moment. Just then, a young man offered to take my photo with the sign. We got chatting—and to my surprise, he turned out to be a three-time Chandigarh Marathon winner. Africa, always full of unexpected meetings.

We arrived at Lake Naivasha, a tranquil freshwater lake formed in a volcanic depression, fed by underground springs and the Malewa and Gilgil Rivers. It’s a haven for hippos and over 400 species of birds.

Out on a boat ride, the lake unfolded its quiet drama. Hippos peeked at us from beneath the water’s surface—eyes, ears, and a hint of a snout. Meanwhile, the skies and shores dazzled with avian beauty:
🦢 Great White Pelican
🦅 African Fish Eagle
🪶 Goliath Heron, African Spoonbill, Egyptian Goose, Cormorants, and Lapwings.

One pelican stood out—a veteran with part of its left wing missing. Boats usually toss it a fish, and it catches it mid-air, a little lakeside ritual. But when our guide tossed one, the pelican missed. Even the best have off days.

Next came a walk on Crescent Island, the exposed rim of an ancient volcanic crater. The island gained fame in the film Out of Africa—for which it was stocked with wildlife, including the Big Five. Post-production, the predators were removed, but herbivores like zebras, giraffes, impalas, and waterbucks wandered in during drier years, when a land corridor connected the island to the mainland. With the lake’s water levels now high, the animals are marooned—but serene and accustomed to visitors. They barely blinked as we walked past.

Still, I yearned for a closer view of the hippos. My guide steered the boat toward a quiet cove known for sightings. We waited. Eventually, a family of hippos emerged—but they were not thrilled to see us. One male even performed a mock charge to make his point. We backed off.

Rain clouds gathered, and a drizzle began to fall as we circled back to the landing point. That’s when we saw them again—the same hippo family, now on the shore. My guide began calling softly and tossing vegetables near an open patch. That was the cue.

Out came the giants, waddling forward like seasoned performers hitting their mark. Standing just a few feet away, I finally got the close-up I had been waiting for.

The day ended with a full heart and a camera roll full of hippos. This trip… it keeps unfolding in the most unexpected and beautiful ways.

Kenya Diary – Day Two: Of Giants, Hunters, and a Spoiled Romance

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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.

Waking Dreams: First Impressions of Kenya

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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.

Tracing Flowers, Faith, and Forgotten Thrones: A Walk Through Mehrauli’s Living History

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Delhi doesn’t reveal itself all at once. It unspools in layers — a whisper here, a ruin there, a breeze carrying the scent of marigolds and memory. On a quiet Sunday morning, I joined a heritage walk curated by Enroute Indian History, tracing the sacred and ceremonial path of Phoolwalon ki Sair — the annual festival of flowers, peace, and communal harmony held in Mehrauli.

But what I encountered was far more than just a trail of rituals — it was a journey through the soul of Delhi.

Where the City Began: Yogmaya Temple

Our walk began at the Yogmaya Temple, one of the few surviving temples from ancient Delhi and possibly as old as the city itself. It stands tucked away in the heart of Mehrauli, quiet yet powerful, like the still eye of a storm that has raged for centuries around it.

Long before Mehrauli acquired its present name, the area was known as Yoginipur — the city of yoginis. The temple, dedicated to Goddess Yogmaya (a sister of Krishna in mythology), still plays a central role during Phoolwalon ki Sair, with floral offerings made here alongside those at the nearby Dargah. As we stood beneath the age-worn arches, time itself seemed to slow down.

A Tomb with a Curse: Adam Khan’s Memorial

Not far from the temple, we made a detour to the tomb of Adam Khan, a monument steeped in local lore. Adam Khan, the foster brother of Akbar, was executed for treason, flung twice from the ramparts of Agra Fort to ensure death.

His tomb stands out for its Indo-Islamic architecture, reminiscent of Delhi Sultanate-era design rather than typical Mughal grandeur. It is said that no local woman of Mehrauli visits the tomb, believing it to be cursed. The only women who do are usually tourists or history students, like us. The air around the tomb is oddly heavy — less reverence, more caution.

A Sacred Journey: Dargah of Khwaja Bakhtiyar Kaki

We then followed the festival’s spiritual trail to the Dargah of Khwaja Bakhtiyar Kaki, the 13th-century Sufi saint and disciple of Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti of Ajmer. A contemporary of Sultan Iltutmish, Kaki is revered as one of Delhi’s patron saints, and his shrine continues to draw pilgrims, politicians, and poets.

It is said that every ruler of Delhi sought the blessings of Sufi saints to gain legitimacy, and this Dargah, in particular, carries that aura of sanctified power.

As we stepped inside the whitewashed courtyard, a qawwal seated by the gateway began to sing. His voice, deep and raw, cut through the morning stillness, carrying the lyrics of Chaap Tilak. The Dargah came alive — not with grandeur, but with music, faith, and centuries of longing.

A Forgotten Well of Healing: Gandak ki Bawli

On the way to the Dargah, we stopped at the near-forgotten Gandak ki Bawli — a stepwell slowly sinking into neglect, yet once central to local life. Gifted by Iltutmish to the Dargah, the stepwell was believed to possess healing powers, and pilgrims would take a dip in its waters before offering prayers.

Later studies revealed the water had a high sulphur content, lending some scientific basis to the belief that it could cure skin ailments and other illnesses. Today, the water is stagnant, the steps cracked, but the legend still lingers — like a half-remembered dream.

Where the Empire Withered: Zafar Mahal

The final stop of our walk was the Zafar Mahal, the summer residence of Bahadur Shah Zafar, Delhi’s last Mughal emperor. Mehrauli, cooler than the rest of Delhi due to its elevation and greenery, became the seasonal retreat of the royal court. And this retreat wasn’t symbolic — the emperor moved with his whole retinue, even shifting the throne to Mehrauli for the duration.

Inside the Mahal is the Moti Masjid, a private prayer space built by Zafar himself. But the site is not just a reminder of royal solitude — it is also the stage for a powerful piece of local lore.

People in Mehrauli still say that the proximity of Zafar Mahal to the Dargah was a fateful misstep. “Sufi badshah se bada hota hai,” they say — a Sufi saint is greater than a king. Perhaps it was no coincidence, they whisper, that the Mughal Empire collapsed soon after. Bahadur Shah Zafar, the poet-emperor, would eventually die in exile, far from his beloved Delhi, and never be laid to rest in the tomb he had built for himself beside the Dargah.

A City of Shadows and Fragrance

As I walked back through Mehrauli’s bylanes, the scent of mogra, the hum of old qawwalis, and the echoes of royal processions accompanied me. Delhi, I realized, isn’t just a city of monuments — it is a city of memory, myth, and mood. Every stone here remembers. Every shrine still breathes.

Phoolwalon ki Sair may be celebrated once a year, but the path it takes is eternal — a living map of Delhi’s soul, etched in fragrance, footsteps, and faith.