Thinking of East Africa throughout my life, there’s always been one image that comes to mind: the iconic acacia tree. Often standing alone on the savanna, silhouetted against a glowing sunset, it’s a symbol of resilience, woven into the cultural and ecological identity of the region. Also known as the “desert date,” it provides food, shelter, and medicine, sustaining people and wildlife alike. And while most imagine the Big Five—lion, leopard, buffalo, elephant, and rhino—when picturing East Africa, for me, it was always this tree that stood front and center in my imagination.
So, when I saw one in person for the first time as we arrived at the famed Maasai Mara, it was like a lifetime of imagining had come full circle. After three decades, I was finally here. Africa had always seemed so far away, a distant world containing nothing similar to my home. But as I trekked through East Africa, I felt something I didn’t expect: familiarity. The acacia tree was so recognizable, so deeply imprinted in my memory, that the Maasai Mara felt oddly like somewhere I had always known.
Beyond the landscapes I had long imagined, it was also the people who made me feel welcome. Everyone I met had a kindness in their eyes, a willingness, and unwavering interest in sharing their world with me. It was genuine, effortless. The more questions I asked, the more open my newfound Kenyan friends became, and before I knew it, truer bonds began forming. I could already feel that leaving this place was going to be hard. And while on safari, I found myself quietly scheming ways to make it last just a little longer.
Compared to the solitude of Meru National Park and the sweeping landscapes of Loisaba Conservancy, the Mara was busy. Given this is a world-famous safari destination, there was no chance we’d be alone on the vast golden plains. Families, couples, honeymooners, seasoned travelers—all drawn here by the same magnetic pull. After a single game drive, I understood why. The wildlife encounters in this region are beyond anything I had ever experienced. Intense, raw, and unfathomably close.
Hippos bickered and splashed in the Mara River, hyenas tore into a fresh kill while vultures hovered nearby, male lions led their prides into the night for the hunt, and ostriches wandered in the distance like prehistoric relics. Around every corner, something new, something special, something I had only ever dreamed of seeing for myself. And through it all, I couldn’t help but contemplate the fate of these wild spaces. That they need to stay exactly as they are so it’s not just my generation left bewildered and amazed.
Specifically, the trees—and of course, the beloved acacia. Seeing it stand alone, with nothing around it, told a much heavier story than I had anticipated. The plant life here offered clues to understanding the long and complex relationship between people, wildlife, and the land itself.
These trees were once part of a dense forest that stretched across the Mara. Over generations, they were cleared by the Maasai, semi-nomadic pastoralists who have lived here for centuries. As cattle herders, they relied on open grasslands to sustain their livestock. To create space and keep predators at bay, they cut down sections of forest, using the thorny branches to build protective enclosures, or bomas, around their settlements. But the landscape adapted. The trees that remained became markers of change, standing as lone sentinels in an ecosystem that had evolved alongside human presence. It was hard not to feel at odds with this tree’s complex past.
Then there was another plant, one I had never even heard of before coming to East Africa: the elephant pepper plant. I had no idea this unassuming shrub would become a defining part of my time in the Mara. Elephants love its fruit, yet its fiery spice has been cleverly repurposed to reduce human-wildlife conflict. Farmers mix elephant pepper with oil or dung to create chili fences or burn chili-infused bricks. The strong scent irritates elephants’ sensitive trunks, encouraging them to steer clear of farmland without causing them any harm.
Meanwhile, at the Elephant Pepper Camp where we were staying, we did the opposite—we planted a pepper tree to help rewild the land. Here, instead of keeping elephants away, the goal was to restore balance by attracting them back into the reserve in a safe, responsible way. It was a small but meaningful act that symbolized the constant push and pull of conservation. Everywhere we go on this expedition, the same truth emerges: balance is everything. Learning to live alongside one another, and the natural world, has been the theme of every stop on this massive trail around the world and back again.
Every morning in the Mara, we’d wake to the distant sound of elephants. Branches snapping, trees shaking, their heavy footsteps cutting through the quiet dawn. They moved with intent—teaching their young, searching for food, taking what was theirs. At camp, we plucked twigs from the pepper tree to brush our teeth, which we came to learn is a simple, natural substitute for toothpaste. Then we’d set out on safari, tracking the herds.
When we finally found them, time slowed in a way that only feels possible in the wild. The best part? Watching baby elephants learn how to use their trunks, swirling them around so unsure what was stuck to their head. The sheer size of the herds, the closeness of it all, left us speechless. We felt drawn toward this ancient place, and eager to help, in any way we could, the important work being done here. We wanted others to feel what we were feeling—to experience this deep, undeniable connection to a place that, for so many, is a world away.
Like the acacia tree, this pepper plant also tells a more significant story. Of what it’s taken to survive out here, how the flora and fauna have had to adapt to a world of coexistence. The land here is a living, breathing system shaped by those who depend on it. The harder I looked, the more I saw how every tree, every blade of grass, every river bend carried a history of resilience that connected the entire wilderness of East Africa. The Maasai Mara was such a powerful place to witness wildlife in full force. But more so, it was a place to start truly understanding the interconnectedness of living things, both big and small.
To be continued …
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