The Maasai and Samburu of Laikipia, Kenya believe standing on the peak of Ol Lentille Mountain brings you closer to God. In times of drought, the women in the surrounding communities make the trek to the top to sing, raising their prayers for rain into the sky. I’ve been led up here in the day’s last honeyed light by my Maasai guide, Solomon Saidimu. While I don’t sing, there is a feeling of holiness in the monumental rock beneath my feet and the rolling green hills running toward the horizon.
At Ol Lentille, a community-owned lodge and 40,000-acre nature conservancy, every walk and game drive is threaded with cultural stories and traditional knowledge that imbue the landscape with a sense of divinity. Here, offerings of precious milk are poured over the roots of sacred fig trees and into the serpentine Tura River. The Indigenous reverence for nature is one that any traveler planning a trip to Kenya should take heed of.
Home to the Great Migration and the famous “Big Five” animals, Kenya tops the wish list for many safari enthusiasts—so much so that it’s becoming a problem. In late 2022, a video surfaced on Twitter showing a swarm of vehicles crowding cheetahs to witness a high-octane chase and kill, part of a growing issue where overzealous safari-goers in the Maasai Mara National Reserve—the country’s most popular destination—put animals at risk to get the perfect shot.
A growing body of evidence shows that overtourism in the Maasai Mara threatens wildlife (a 2018 study outlined how overtourism reduces the number of cheetahs that survive into adulthood, for example, while wildebeest numbers are dwindling due to overdevelopment). Even though tourism is far more controlled in the private conservancies surrounding the reserve, the Mara’s unparalleled popularity still means large swaths of the country aren’t benefiting fully from ecotourism—a lifeline for many people in Kenya—and other protected wilderness areas that are trying to expand may not be receiving the attention they deserve. I knew I wanted to discover another side of Kenya when I traveled there.
This is where UK-based Journeysmiths stepped in, suggesting I head to the country’s northern reaches, where the focus is more on cultural tourism. The travel company says 90 percent of their clientele want to see the Mara when they book a trip to Kenya, and while they only operate in the more sustainable conservancies, they still encourage guests to add a lesser-known destination to their itinerary. “People aren’t as aware of these experiences in the north,” says Laura Burdett-Munns, managing director at Journeysmiths. “This is for people who want to go beyond ticking off the Big Five and have an authentic experience of the Kenyan landscape and people.”
Each of the four Maasai and Samburu communities surrounding Ol Lentille lodge receives a share of the conservation fee levied on visitors, which is used for community development initiatives, and benefits from employment and tourism training opportunities. “It’s really important that we continue to expand conservation areas and to do that you need buy-in from the Kenyan people,” says Burdett-Munns. “They need to be empowered.” This is crucial when climate-accelerated drought is making their life as nomadic pastoralists living off the land extremely difficult, forcing some to consider other livelihoods.
“This last decade was the worst drought in my lifetime,” says Saidimu one afternoon as we trek along a dry tributary of the Tura River. Ancient acacia trees fringe our path, and the small, delicate nests of weaver birds drip from the branches like Christmas ornaments. Up until last November, when the region was washed with heavy rains, people would have to dig up to 30 meters in this riverbed to find water for themselves and their herds of cattle and goats. Now, the landscape has been flushed a rare green, lemon-yellow candle bush illuminates the riverbanks, and the villages have been celebrating. Everyone’s spirits seem buoyed, including the two young Maasai warriors, or morani—who are charged with protecting the land and herding their community’s livestock—who greet us along the way and ask to hold my hand for a picture.
It s these spontaneous moments with local people that I’ll remember here in Kenya’s hinterlands, in addition to the immediacy of nature. There’s every creature comfort I could want in my private villa at Ol Lentille, but it’s the wildlife outside, and the orchestra of birdsong always within earshot, that truly work their magic. On my last night at the lodge, moonlight paints the neighboring Hyena Hill, visible from my window, a milky blue, and the animals’ haunting hoots and snickers echo across the valley.
Traveling even farther north, a bumpy ride on a four-seater Cessna 185 lands in Samburu County, in the community-run Namunyak Wildlife Conservancy, which spans 850,000 acres of wilderness. I check into the Sarara Treehouses, stilted tented suites cradled by the Mathews Mountains and nestled in the canopy of a newly lush forest, thanks to recent rain. Much like Laikipia, Samburu has been drought-stricken for over a decade, but community-managed ecotourism here provides an alternate way of thriving. That evening, I fall asleep to the staccato of light rain on my canvas tent and the melodic cluck and trill of red-billed hornbills and superb starlings.
In the morning, my guide Ian Lekiluai leads me into the forest on a trail that winds uphill toward Warges Peak, one of three mountains in the Mathews Range considered sacred realms by the Samburu. Through the treetops, I spy the graceful head bob of reticulated giraffes, a threatened species found only in northern Kenya and small regions within Somalia and Ethiopia. Like Ol Lentille, the conservancy here is unfenced, allowing wildlife to wander freely and protecting important animal migration corridors. Lekiluai points out bushes peppered with incandescent lilac pentanisia flowers and a veritable pharmacy of medicinal plants. “This is the first thing you learn in Samburu,” says Lekiluai. “You have to know because it’s how we survive.”
In this remote wilderness, the Samburu have learned to treat the forest like the precious natural resource that it is—and that includes all the wildlife it’s home to. Samburu warriors are employed as rangers to protect the conservancy from poachers, and one group called the Twiga Walinzi is dedicated solely to protecting giraffes, an initiative of the Sarara Foundation, the philanthropic arm of the camp. On an evening game drive, the open-top jeep pitches and careens along a dusty, red dirt road. “I’d like you to see the view from up here!” says Lekiluai, pointing to the roof of the jeep and inviting me to take a seat. Clamoring up, I’m greeted by a sea of thorny acacias cast against the crenelated peaks of the Mathews Range. I hold on tight as the evening’s watery light bleeds through the clouds, and a herd of giraffes saunters regally through the forest. The night ends standing in the cool water of the Sarara River with a sundowner in hand, as my new friends, Ian and our accompanying ranger, Ltichilwa Lekupanai, tell me about life in the conservancy.
The Samburu’s close relationship with nature is even reflected in their name, which means “butterfly”. The vibrant blues, reds, and yellows of the local species are reflected in the men’s colorful skirts, or shukkas, and the intricate beadwork that the Butterfly People adorn themselves with. We learn about the latter one afternoon from a group of arrestingly beautiful young women. They craft bracelets for a small group of us, a camp initiative that acts as a revenue stream for the communities in addition to the percentage of each bed night that they receive.
On another day, I visit a local village, or manyatta, where people are celebrating the recent rain with song and dance, and I’m invited into a traditional hut made of wood with a low, patchwork roof of hide and grass. And on my last night, I’m treated to a private encore in the bush with the spectacular Ngoma, a traditional ritual dance. The cost of the experience (which is followed by a bush dinner) goes directly to the community, while allowing them to share and celebrate their cultural heritage with guests. In the glow of a fire, the Samburu move in a rhythmic, ecstatic circle, bobbing their necks and shoulders in time with a throaty chant. The sweet, heady ochre dye used in the warriors’ hair perfumes the air like incense.
In the gathering dusk, I’m invited to join in at the back of the line, and I do my best to fall in step. “Sarara” means ‘meeting place’ in the Samburu Maa dialect, and far from the din of safari vehicles and camera shutters, I feel a transcendent sense of kinship and communion. With the Samburu people whose hands I hold. With the green forest and looming blue mountains.