Kenya Safari Adventure: Lions, Giraffes, and the Pothole Apocalypse
- Tricia Kampert
- May 21
- 13 min read
Updated: Aug 12
Arriving in Mombasa: A warm welcome and a long wait
I never planned on Africa. But somehow, there I was, descending into Mombasa, heart pounding, drenched in jet lag and wonder, with no clear idea why the air felt electric, like the start of something big. I told myself I was here for a safari in Amboseli and Tsavo, with a side of beach bliss in Watamu. But deep down, I knew better. Africa wasn’t going to be just another stamp in my passport… it had other plans. The kind that sneak up quietly, rearrange your insides, and leave you wondering who you were before you landed.
Stepping into Mombasa Airport was like slipping through a crack in reality straight into a fever dream of sweat, noise, and barely-contained mayhem. Lines? Optional. Rules? Negotiable. The air clung to our skin like a desperate ex, thick with humidity and the unmistakable scent of something about to happen. People surged forward with the quiet madness of the truly impatient, elbowing past with the subtlety of a stampede. We waited two hours, if you’re counting, in a steamy purgatory where time stood still and our bags vanished into the abyss. Two hours of breathing in body heat and blind hope. And just when we thought we’d been forgotten entirely… the adventure whispered, “Not yet. But almost.”
Meet the Jeep, the Guide, and the Strangers-Turned-Friends
When we finally staggered out of security- sweaty, disoriented, and approximately 12% melted—we were met with the kind of sight that makes your pulse skip: a rugged safari jeep parked just outside, dust-kissed and humming with potential, like it knew secrets it wasn’t ready to share. Next to it stood two strangers who looked equally travel-worn, but had that glint (you know the one) that says, “We’re going to get into some trouble together, aren’t we?” Our driver? Silent type. Sharp eyes. That unnerving calm that only comes from knowing exactly what he’s doing. He smiled like he’d already seen how it all ends. We didn’t know then that we’d hit the safari jackpot, that this unassuming man would lead us down backroads and through whispers of wilderness most never even know exist. We were off to Taita Hills in Tsavo East and the wild had just cracked open the door.
Road to Taita Hills: Where Elephants Roam and Giraffes Judge
The road to Taita Hills unfurled before us like a secret too good to keep: four long, hypnotic hours down a ribbon of highway that whispered, “Come closer... if you dare.” It cut through the landscape with a quiet kind of swagger, flanked by golden plains and the occasional lone tree standing like it knew something we didn’t. But it wasn’t the road that kept our eyes wide, it was what tiptoed alongside it. Giraffes emerged like ghosts from the brush, all limbs and elegance, moving with the slow-motion confidence of runway models who’d seen it all. A giraffe strutted up to our jeep like it was crashing our safari photoshoot: so close we were one blink away from it angling in for a selfie. Honestly, if it had lips, it would've said “Say cheese!” and tagged us on Insta.
And then, as if summoned by pure cinematic magic, elephants. Yes, elephants lumbering out of nowhere and meandering near the roadside like it was no big deal. Back in North Huntingdon, Pennsylvania, we dodge deer. Here, the deer were hundreds of pounds more and wildly more majestic.
It was surreal, like driving through a documentary where the fourth wall didn’t exist. The animals didn’t flinch, didn’t flee. They belonged. We, on the other hand, were just wide-eyed intruders in their kingdom, pressing our faces to the glass like kids in a candy shop where the candy could trample your jeep.
Dust, Driving, and Real-Life Kenya
The deeper we ventured, the more the wild began to blur with humans, like the land itself couldn’t decide if it wanted to be a nature documentary or a gritty indie film. Small towns popped up along the roadside like secrets whispered into the dust. Tin roofs glinted under the sun, clay walls stood stubbornly against the elements, and everything seemed held together by determination and string. Children dashed barefoot across the red earth with wild, joyful energy, and women moved with a kind of quiet grace, balancing buckets and baskets like queens with invisible crowns.
Then came the smoke. Thin, curling columns rising from slow-burning piles of trash, perfuming the air with the unmistakable scent of “you’re not in Kansas anymore.” It was strange, haunting, and oddly beautiful in the way only real life can be.
And the driving? Oh, the driving. Picture a high-speed ballet with a touch of madness. Our jeep zigzagged between lumbering trucks and yawning potholes the size of bathtubs making me feel right at home in good ole Pittsburgh, sometimes with inches to spare, sometimes with divine intervention. Horns honked like jazz solos, tires skidded through dust, and the whole thing felt like a chase scene from a movie we hadn’t auditioned for. And the kicker? This was just the warm-up. The park, our destination, was still somewhere up ahead, waiting with a sly smile and a thousand untold stories.
Into Tsavo East: Wildlife, Fevers, and Pure Magic
Despite my safari fever (not the metaphorical kind), I couldn’t miss our first game drive through Tsavo East National Park... I refused to rest. Who could nap when the wild was whispering your name? We barely had time to fling our bags onto the lodge floor before we were back in the safari jeep, cameras cocked, eyes peeled, hearts pounding with that delicious mix of exhaustion and anticipation.
And then they arrived. Not people. Not dreams. Giants. Elephants emerged from the rust-red haze like ancient gods dusted in clay, their movements slow and deliberate, as if time itself bent politely around them. Zebras marched in striped unity, their patterns so dizzying I half-expected them to glitch like holograms. Giraffes strolled in with their impossible necks, looking down on us all with the aloof elegance of runway models. Baboons scuttled past with babies clinging on like furry little hitchhikers; adorable, sure, but also clearly training for a post-apocalyptic scavenger squad.
Above us, the skies burst into color. Birds flitted like confetti from some invisible celebration; blue rollers tumbling through the air, yellow weavers zipping like sunbeams, hornbills flashing beaks that belonged in a cartoon. And through it all, our driver sat there, calm and unbothered, tossing out species names and fun facts like a safari sommelier. Every detail mattered. Every second felt like it could unravel into magic.
And honestly? Fever or not…I was all in.
At one point, we came across another safari jeep; tilted, sunken, and looking very much like it had lost an argument with the road. Half-swallowed by the clay, its tires spun in place, throwing mud like a toddler flinging pudding. The night’s rain had turned the earth into treacherous red velvet; beautiful, yes, but tricky as hell. A small crew was already at work, knee-deep and grim-faced, trying to dig the beast free. No drama, no panic, just a quiet resignation that in this land, nature doesn’t take requests.
We watched from our vehicle like rubberneckers at a safari soap opera, grateful we weren’t the ones starring in that particular episode. Our own jeep rolled on, unbothered and smug, like it had something to prove. And maybe it did.
Because while others floundered, we were gliding, thanks to our driver whose skills were becoming suspiciously supernatural. He didn’t just navigate the bush; he read it, predicted it, bent it. Hidden trails parted for him. Animals showed up right on cue. I started to suspect he might have struck a deal with the spirits of the savanna… or at least had a few powerful friends among the local elephants.
But honestly, who cared how he did it? We were in motion, gliding past the chaos with wide eyes and pounding hearts, the land unfolding in front of us like a living story we were lucky enough to sneak into.
The real magic was just beginning.
After hours of bouncing across roads that could double as obstacle courses and dodging potholes big enough to hold secrets (or small hippos), we finally pulled into Salt Lick Lodge just as the sky began melting into a smoky orange. It wasn’t just a lodge, it was something out of a fever dream. Perched on stilts above the plains like some kind of floating mirage, it shimmered in the twilight, lanterns glowing softly like fireflies that knew they were putting on a show.
Dinner was served by candlelight, of course, because electricity is optional but ambiance is not. Outside, the savanna whispered. You could hear it; low calls in the distance, something rustling in the bushes just beyond the deck, the soft thud of unseen feet. Every sound was a question. Every flicker in the shadows, a story just out of reach. The conversation at dinner was hushed, reverent even, as though we might summon something wild just by speaking too loudly.
And later, in our elevated room above the plains, tucked behind the soft veil of mosquito netting that made us feel like we were wrapped in a secret, we surrendered to sleep. The hum of insects and the sigh of wind pressed in around us, warm and ancient.
Outside our window, the African night unfolded in silence. And somewhere out there, a lion was probably watching us sleep.
From Tsavo East to Amboseli: Bumpy Roads and Borderline Regret
We slipped out of Salt Lick before the sun even had a chance to wake up, the sky still groggy and dark. The air was cooler than expected, one of those false comforts that fools you into thinking the day will be gentle. Spoiler: it wouldn’t be. We loaded into the jeep, still blinking sleep from our eyes, and rolled into the pre-dawn hush, tires crunching softly over dirt that was pretending to be dry. It wasn’t.
Very quickly, the roads turned from "questionable" to "this-can’t-be-legal." The drive from Tsavo East to Amboseli National Park was less “scenic route” and more “did-the-jeep-just-dislocate-my-spine?” Narrow dirt paths had been warped into muddy minefields by the rain, and our tires were not just rolling, they were negotiating. Along the way, we passed massive trucks and other safari jeeps that had given up on forward motion altogether, their wheels swallowed by mud like a warning. Some drivers stood knee-deep in muck, looking vaguely betrayed by the earth itself.
But our guy? Unbothered. He navigated through the chaos with the calm of someone who’s seen it all and decided long ago that panic was for tourists.
The farther we went, the more the landscape changed. Towns began to rise from the dust—crooked little settlements made of tin and whatever else held shape. Kids with wide eyes and bare feet ran alongside the jeep, their hands tapping the windows, reaching in, brushing our arms, asking, without words, for something sweet, something soft, something. Their need was quiet, but undeniable. It clung to us long after the jeep moved on.
Then came Kajiado. The air felt different there; thicker with something we couldn’t name. And that’s when we met the Maasai.
They didn’t appear so much as materialize, tall and proud, wrapped in vibrant reds and blues that shimmered like war paint under the sun. They welcomed us not with words, but with rhythm.. feet thumping the earth, chants rolling through the air like ancient spells. Then, in a move that was part honor, part test (and entirely delightful), they pulled us into the dance.
And we danced. Badly. Gloriously. Out of step and grinning like fools.
After the welcome, they led us into their village. Mud walls, stick roofs, homes built by hand and wisdom. Every inch had purpose. Every word they spoke carried pride about the cattle they raised, the harmony they lived in, the way they thrived without the noise of the outside world. But the part that lodged deep in our hearts? The school. A single room. Sparse. Quiet. And bursting with hope. It was clear: this stop wasn’t just another “experience.” It was the soul of the trip. And it changed us.
Then, just when we thought the road had nothing left to show us, we arrived in Amboseli.
And there, just peeking through the clouds like a shy deity, was Kilimanjaro, its snow-capped crown hovering in the distance like it was keeping an eye on us.
We hadn’t even unpacked, but the jeep was already purring, ready for another round. And we? We were all in.
Because the wild wasn’t waiting. It was calling.
Amboseli did not ease us in. It didn’t whisper or welcome. It roared.
The moment we passed the gates, it felt like crossing into a living myth. The air buzzed, not with insects, though they had their say, but with a kind of tension, like the whole park was holding its breath. The landscape was flatter than Tsavo, but don't be fooled: it was far from plain. Swamps shimmered under the weight of the sky, reflecting every mood shift in the clouds above. Dust devils twirled on distant plains like spirits with somewhere to be. And in the middle of it all? Us. Tiny, giddy, and completely unprepared.
Kilimanjaro loomed in the distance, a quiet god cloaked in mist. Sometimes, if you blinked too slowly, it vanished altogether as if to remind us that beauty here is borrowed, never promised.
And then… the lions.
They came not with drama, but with swagger. The first one we saw was an enormous male, his mane tousled like a rockstar’s after a night out and was stretched in the grass, belly up, completely indifferent to our stares. He glanced at us once, then yawned with the kind of lazy menace that says, I’m letting you look. For now.
Lions Roared, I Froze, and the Stars Came Out
That night, as we settled beneath another gauzy curtain of mosquito netting, our limbs heavy with exhaustion and awe, we expected silence, maybe the occasional chirp or rustle to lull us to sleep. What we got instead was something… grander.
At first, it sounded like thunder rolling in. But then came the second blast; low, guttural, and unmistakably alive. A lion’s roar. Not distant. Not faint. Loud. Immediate. Uncomfortably close. The kind of sound that reaches inside your chest and grabs hold of your heartbeat just to remind you who’s really in charge out here.
We froze.
Then exchanged wide-eyed looks that said everything without saying a word: Did you hear that? Are we safe? Should we be Googling “how to survive a lion encounter in your sleep?”
The lodge staff, of course, acted like it was just another Tuesday. But for us, tucked into our canvas-walled bungalow with nothing but netting and bravado between us and the king of the savanna, it was thrilling. Terrifying. Completely unforgettable.
That night, the wild didn’t whisper, it roared. And we listened.
Tomorrow, we’d wake up changed. Tomorrow, the cheetahs would come.
By the time the sun cracked the horizon with a yawn of gold and pink, we were already back in the jeep; sleep-deprived, mildly shaken from the midnight lion opera, and buzzing with anticipation. The savanna had more secrets to spill, and we weren’t about to miss a single one.
We didn’t have to wait long.
Out of the tall grass, as if summoned by some invisible cue, she appeared: a cheetah. Sleek, still, and unnervingly graceful, with amber eyes that looked straight through you. She didn’t blink. Didn’t twitch. Just crouched, every muscle coiled in silence. We held our breath like extras in a nature documentary who’d accidentally wandered on set. The moment stretched, wild and electric, until with a flick of her tail, she vanished into the brush, her ghostly presence leaving behind an invisible trail of goosebumps.
But the wild wasn’t done with us yet.
Hippos bobbed in muddy pools like half-submerged boulders with resting grump face. Hyenas slinked along the tree line, laughing at private jokes that probably ended in bloodshed. Water buffalo gathered like a furry mob, eyes suspicious and horns dialed to “don’t even think about it.”
And just as we thought the show was winding down, the lions returned… again. This time, on the move. Silent. Purposeful. Shadows with teeth. They strode past us as if we were invisible, or irrelevant, which, in their kingdom, we were.
It was the kind of day that rewired your senses. Where everything smelled like dust and adrenaline. Where time bent around sightings. Where even blinking felt like a risk.
And as the sun dipped low again, turning the grasslands molten and the air thick with the kind of hush only the wild can conjure, we knew we’d reached the final note of this chapter.
Next stop: Tsavo West, where the wilds get swampy, the beetles get bold, and the monkeys get… mischievous.
Tsavo West: Swamps, Hippos & Giraffe Cameos
Tsavo West—a brooding, beautiful patch of Kenya where the wild felt a little wilder, the green a little greener, and the air thick with secrets. The land here didn’t whisper; it pulsed. Gone were the wide-open plains of before. Now, the road curled like a question mark through tangled brush and overgrown paths, leading us straight into swamp country.
And oh, the swamp didn’t disappoint.
Hippos floated like overfed myths, grunting from the shadows, while crocodiles glided just beneath the surface; patient, still, and a little too smug for creatures with murder-eyes. It was a place that demanded your full attention, the kind of place where nature didn’t ask permission; it simply was.
Our lodge, if you could call such a stilted, open-air masterpiece a lodge, hovered above the wilderness like a watchtower for the curious. Its sprawling viewing deck gave us front-row seats to a nightly performance that felt both intimate and otherworldly. As darkness fell and the stars blinked awake, the watering hole below came alive.
No fanfare. No announcement. Just quiet arrivals.
An elephant, emerging like a ghost from the black. Then zebras, striped and spectral in the moonlight. A few buffalo lumbered in, heavy and deliberate. A giraffe appeared almost theatrically, legs awkward, neck impeccable. They didn’t speak, but they didn’t have to. They moved in turns, like dancers following ancient choreography.And there we were, barely breathing on that deck, clutching our mugs of tea or something stronger, wrapped in blankets and disbelief. Not tourists. Witnesses.
Whatever magic lived in Tsavo West, it didn’t shout.
It hummed.
From the Wild to Watamu: Safari Ends, Ocean Begins
The next morning, with red dust still clinging to our boots and a camera roll bursting at the seams, we began the long drive back toward Mombasa. The wilderness, it seemed, wasn’t done with us yet: baobab trees stood like ancient guardians along the road, and the occasional baboon stared us down like we owed it rent.
Somewhere along the way, we stopped for what can only be described as a farewell feast, an unapologetically bold, spice-laden lunch that made our taste buds sit up and salute. Platters of roasted meats, warm chapati, and fragrant stews covered the table like a culinary love letter to East Africa. Every bite felt like a thank-you note from the wild. And we accepted it, of course, with zero grace and maximum enthusiasm.
Bellies full and hearts heavier than we let on, we rolled onward to Watamu, a sleepy coastal town where the roar of lions would be traded for the whisper of waves, and safari boots swapped for sandy toes.
But that… that’s a story that deserves its own spotlight.
Stay tuned for Part 2. Things are about to get salty.
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