Within moments of our arrival, we were surrounded by giraffes. Some were lighter in color, small and delicate, while others stood darker and immense, their long necks stretching to the canopies of the neighboring trees. It was what the locals called a “tower,” at least thirteen giraffes, moving gracefully through the landscape. They seemed unfazed by our presence, walking slowly as we followed in our rugged bush truck. Behind the wheel was Mohammad, who knows every inch of Meru National Park like the back of his hand. To him, this was routine. To us, it was pure magic. We hadn’t even reached camp yet, and already our minds were wondering, “can it get any better than this?”
As the red dirt road stretched ahead of us, that question was getting answered. With the sun beating down through open windows, we passed an obstinacy of buffalo nearly 100 strong, two zebras seeking shade under a lone acacia tree, as well as countless gazelle, kudu, dik-dik, and impala, each moving quietly across the plains. The radio crackled with news of a lion sighting nearby, but we needed to head to camp first—stomach pangs setting in after days of travel just to reach this enchanted place.
Leaving behind Saudi Arabia’s opulence, we had spent two nights in Nairobi before boarding a bush plane that delivered us to the heart of Kenya. Now, what had started as a trek to camp had transformed into an impromptu game drive through one of the most iconic, yet lesser known, parks in Africa. Safaris had always seemed like a far-off dream, something we’d imagined but never thought would become our reality. Yet here we were—in the thick of it, surrounded by the most beloved wildlife on earth.
It was everything you’d imagine an African bush camp to be—gorgeous, warm, welcoming, exotic to us coming from the other side of the world. The staff greeted us with wide smiles and cheerful calls of “Jambo!” and “Karibu!”—Swahili for hello and welcome. It was impossible not to feel deeply grateful just to be here, among people who call this seemingly perfect place home. Our cabins were ready and decked as if we were taking a step back into 50s and 60s safari life, complete with curious rock hyraxes at the doorstep, as if they had been waiting to greet us. Cute at first glance, these feisty rat-like creatures resembled Australian quokkas—minus the charm of their perpetual smile.
After a traditional East African lunch, it was time to test our luck back in the bush. Mohammed, the most seasoned wilderness guide here, warned us that spotting lions wasn’t always easy. But it felt like fate might be on our side. Elsa’s Kopje of the Elewana Collection, the camp we were posting up, was named after a famous lion cub raised and released into the wild here in Meru National Park. The story of George and Joy Adamson, the pioneers behind Elsa’s extraordinary tale, echoed across the camp in photos, artifacts and relics. Their legacy felt almost tangible, as though a lion encounter would be the perfect homage to their work.
In the 1950s, George and Joy Adamson embarked on a groundbreaking journey in Kenya. They adopted an orphaned lion cub, which they named Elsa, and raised her with the goal of returning her to the wild—a revolutionary and an unheard of idea at the time. The couple spent months preparing Elsa for survival, teaching her to hunt and thrive in the rugged terrain of Meru National Park. And against all odds, their efforts proved successful: Elsa became the first lioness successfully reintroduced to the wild, maintaining a remarkable bond with the Adamsons even after her release and raising cubs of her own. Her story captivated the world, highlighting the bond between humans and wildlife—putting a spotlight on the importance of conservation. Something that wasn’t fully understood at the time. Sadly, Elsa’s life was cut short in 1961 by a disease similar to malaria, called babesiosis, caused by a tick bite, marking the end of an epic chapter in wildlife history.
To parallel Elsa’s fate, the Adamsons’ lives also ended in tragedy. Joy Adamson was murdered in 1980 at her camp in Shaba National Reserve, initially thought to be a victim of a lion attack. It was later revealed she had been fatally stabbed, reportedly by her laborer, Paul Nakware Ekai, after a dispute. Ekai’s conviction came amid allegations of police torture and his own claims that Joy was a volatile employer who fired live bullets during arguments. Her strong-willed nature was acknowledged by colleagues, but these accounts remain contested.
While protecting rhinos in Kora National Park in 1989, he was ambushed and killed by Somali poachers. George’s fearless dedication to protecting wildlife ultimately cost him his life—revealing to the world the dangers conservationists faced at the time (and frankly still today.) Despite their violent ends, the Adamsons’ legacy lives on. Their pioneering work reshaped global attitudes toward conservation, highlighting the importance of preserving wildlife habitats and inspiring generations to carry on their mission. Even Sir David Attenborough credited their work for igniting global awareness about the natural world.
Their story remains a cornerstone of conservation history. Yet, as Mohammed pointed out, the full truth of their lives and deaths—especially Joy’s—may never be known. Elsa’s story is the proof of the bond between humans and wildlife, but the Adamsons’ complex and controversial legacy also serves as a look into the challenges and sacrifices that come with protecting the natural world. It’s not easy, nor will it ever be, not even in a time when the world is beginning to embrace the unprecedented importance of conservation.
Mohammed told us it would be an hour’s drive to where he suspected we could spot lions. But if the drive to camp was any indication of time, we knew it’d be longer. Every five minutes, without exaggeration, we stopped to marvel at the wildlife. By the time we arrived, we’d already added crocodiles, terrapins, warthogs, hyenas, and hornbills to our growing list of animal sightings. The sheer volume of life was overwhelming—almost impossible to process as we wove through the bush.
About two hours in, we stumbled upon a buffalo carcass. It was massive, the body hollowed out with blood still fresh on its face. This kill wasn’t old, and it definitely wasn’t a solo job. Mohammed scanned the tall, tan grass around us, certain we weren’t alone. Moments later, we found them: fifteen female lions lounging in the shade. They yawned, rolled, and stretched lazily, their full bellies betraying the effort it had taken to bring down such a beast. We were no more than three meters away, jaws dropped at the sight of these ferocious predators in such a state of calm. For 45 minutes, we sat spellbound, watching the pride interact, as if we weren’t even there. It didn’t feel real—especially once they returned to the buffalo remains to feed again. These lions, kin to Elsa, carried on her legacy and that of George and Joy Adamson right before our eyes. A rare window into history that can’t be found anywhere else like this.
As we drove back to camp, the Meru National Park painted its masterpiece. The sunset bathed the park in electric shades of orange, pink, and red, illuminating the flora’s earthy tans, greens, and browns. In the distance, faint lights glimmered from the Meru villagers’ farms, which draw life from the park’s rivers. Baby elephants dashed across the tracks, halting us in our tracks. Giraffes stretched upward in masses like a living skyline, while baboon families watched us warily from the shrubs, plotting and planning when to make their mad dash up to the trees.
As night fell, Meru transformed. Hyena eyes glowed in the distance, and nocturnal creatures began their cautious emergence. Mohammed, ever watchful, knew it was time to head back to camp—it wasn’t safe to linger in this African bush after dark. But just before we reached our newfound home, an elusive leopard graced us with its presence, a final sight to marvel at before we were escorted to our cabins for the night by guards capable of warding off unwanted wildlife encounters.
The next morning began at 5:30 a.m., with plans to revisit the lions, check on the buffalo carcass, and try our luck spotting more action. Before noon, we’d encountered zebras, elephants, hippos, and more giraffes than we could count. Velvet monkeys swung through the trees, baby crocodiles slipped into the water, and herds of antelope and buffalo scattered at our approach. The famed hornbill (popularized by the Lion King’s own “Zazu”), made regular appearances, adding a touch of nostalgia to our treks.
If left untouched, nature thrives. And that’s exactly what’s happening in Meru National Park, even amidst the omnipresence of a changing climate. While droughts and water scarcity are commonplace here, the park’s rivers and streams often barren and weak, in October of 2024, the wildlife was abundant. George and Joy Adamson understood the value of ecosystems like this withstanding the test of time. They knew seeing wildlife up close inspires appreciation and protecting their habitats ensures survival. They certainly were on to something.
In decades past, four times as many animals roamed these plains, but even now, the abundance remains truly astonishing. Despite experiencing a drastically different baseline than George and Joy had, the remarkable wildlife we witnessed made our expedition worthy of high praise. As fragile as nature is, it is also resilient, and Africa proves that recovery is possible. We talked in the bush truck about how we could be more like Joy Adamson (minus the fiery outbursts of course) in our everyday lives and pondered what her life must have been like. Leaving this place already felt impossible, and we’d only been here two days with 28 more to go. Africa has a way of gripping your soul—its iconic species, untamed beauty, and raw energy are unlike anything felt in the world.
When the dream of Africa becomes a reality, it awakens something primordial. A bond forms, despite the vast differences between this place and the world you might know. Within hours, Africa will compel you to protect it. In Meru, we saw life that we’d never seen before, and life that we hope those in generations to come will still get the chance to witness themselves. Mohammed and the camp team told us, “Consider this your second home.” And for us, it already felt that way.
To be continued …
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