We stood at the edge of a dusty corral under the equatorial sun, surrounded by thick wooden posts topped with plastic jugs of goat’s milk. Each jug was fitted with a red rubber nipple, waiting. From across the enclosure, young elephants began to appear — ears flapping, trunks curling, feet kicking up clouds of orange dust as they hurried forward. It was feeding time at Reteti Elephant Sanctuary.
What unfolded felt less like a spectacle and more like a daily ritual. Keepers tipped milk into eager mouths, singing a traditional chant that praised the elephants for eating well. Some calves managed to clutch a jug with their trunks, gulping down lunch independently. These were orphaned elephants, rescued after becoming separated from their herds, and cared for by the local Samburu community.
We were midway through a two-week journey across Kenya that combined traditional safari routes with encounters that revealed the human side of conservation. Along the way, it became clear that wildlife protection here is inseparable from local livelihoods. At Reteti, the challenge of feeding orphaned elephants was solved not through imported solutions, but through goat’s milk supplied by nearby villages. More than 1,200 Samburu women sell hundreds of litres daily, creating steady income and a measure of financial independence.
Reteti employs around 100 Samburu people and is notable for being entirely Indigenous-run. As one keeper explained, elephants are not just animals to protect; they underpin the local economy, linking conservation to survival rather than sentiment.
The journey itself reflected the scale of the landscape. Long drives unfolded slowly, crossing crowded highways and deeply rutted backroads. Within hours of entering Amboseli National Park, we saw elephants, lions, giraffe, zebras, and a fleeting glimpse of a leopard. We also met members of Team Lioness, an all-women anti-poaching unit — the first women in their Maasai community to work outside the home.
At Sheldrick Wildlife Trust in Nairobi, elephant care took on an intimate dimension, with keepers sleeping alongside orphaned calves. At Ol Pejeta Conservancy, we encountered Najin, one of the last two northern white rhinos on earth, living under constant protection as scientists work to prevent the species’ extinction.
Conservation here also grapples with conflict. Elephants destroy crops, predators kill livestock, and patience can wear thin. In one Maasai village, beehives formed a protective ring around farmland — the sound and sting of bees deterring much larger animals.
Our stays mirrored this balance between comfort and context. At Kileleoni Mara Gateway House, hospitality felt personal rather than polished. Proceeds from the guesthouse support women who have escaped abusive relationships, grounding the experience in tangible outcomes.
By the end of the journey, it was clear that “safari” — meaning journey — extended far beyond wildlife sightings. It became a lesson in how conservation works best when it listens, adapts, and includes the people who live closest to the land.
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