into the heart of maasai mara.
Hello peeps!
Welcome back!
The road from Nakuru to the Maasai Mara isn’t just a route on a map — it’s a test of patience, endurance, and sometimes even sanity. By the time the last bump rattles your bones, you start wondering if the Mara is a myth, a story told to lure travelers into an endless ride. But then, just when doubt creeps in, the land opens, the horizon stretches wide, and Africa lays out its crown jewel before you.
For me, it wasn’t just about reaching the Mara. It was about reaching it with Ida, As, and Tita — companions I’ve shared border crossings, mountain roads, and market haggles with. We’ve tasted plov in Samarkand, clung to marshrutkas in Kyrgyzstan, wandered Almaty’s boulevards. But nothing prepared us for what waited beyond those park gates: a lion on the rocks, bathed in firelight, welcoming us into the wild.
This was not just another journey. This was the Mara.
the road that never ends.
We left Nakuru after breakfast, fueled by eggs, toast, and the quiet excitement of knowing that today we were heading into the Maasai Mara — the crown jewel of Kenya’s parks. The truck rumbled out of the city, weaving through farmlands and towns that blurred into dust and chatter.
The road tested us. Every pothole felt like a deliberate prank, every bump a reminder that the Mara doesn’t come easy. I caught myself muttering in my heart, “Even my mum’s rendang cooks faster than this road.” It was the kind of thought Ida, As, and Tita would immediately recognize on my face without me saying a word.
We’ve been through too much together. In Uzbekistan, we bargained at Samarkand’s bazaar until our backpacks bulged with souvenirs. In Kyrgyzstan, we clung to the edges of a marshrutka as it climbed mountain passes, the driver blasting local pop music while goats stared at us through the windows. And in Kazakhstan, we sat in Almaty cafés, laughing over bowls of laghman noodles and making wild plans for “the next adventure.” That history of chaos and laughter is what kept us sane now, bouncing along Kenyan roads.
By the time we rolled into Narok, hunger gnawed at us. We tore into bread wrapped in brown paper, washed down with ice-cold sodas, before pushing on toward the horizon.
arrival at kambu mara camp.
The land flattened into endless savannah, acacia trees dotting the skyline like brushstrokes on a giant canvas. At last, after hours of dust and jolts, we reached Kambu Mara Camp.
The welcome was warm and simple: a quick tour of our canvas tents tucked under trees, and a massive late lunch of rice, fish, and pizza. It wasn’t fancy, but after the road we’d conquered, it tasted like a king’s feast.
But there was no lingering — the Mara itself was waiting.
golden hours on the plains.
By 4:30pm, we were bouncing into safari jeeps, cameras ready, hearts racing. The park gate swung open, and suddenly the Mara unfolded in front of us.
First came the giraffes. Towering and calm, their long necks painted against the sky, moving with the kind of grace that made the whole jeep fall silent. Next were the zebras, huddled together like a living pattern of black and white, their tails flicking rhythmically as if rehearsed. Wildebeests dotted the horizon, dark smudges moving across glowing grass.
And then, the moment we’ll never forget.
On a rocky outcrop, bathed in molten light, lay a lion. His mane burned gold in the evening sun, his head raised high, eyes scanning the plains. He yawned, wide and deliberate, showing off teeth that gleamed like ivory knives. We stared, awestruck. No words, just the hum of the jeep engine and the frantic clicking of cameras. Ida leaned forward, As whispered under her breath, and Tita’s grin stretched wide — all of us captured in a silence only wonder can bring.
The drive carried us deeper into the plains. Impalas bounded in graceful arcs, giraffes turned into silhouettes against the sinking sun, and a lone elephant lumbered quietly at the edge of the trees. The golden hour cast everything in fire and shadow. It felt unreal, like we were wandering inside a dream that refused to end.
night at camp.
By the time we returned, the Mara had given us its blessing. Stars pricked the sky, lanterns lit the pathways, and the smell of campfire smoke hung in the air. Dinner was served, the night alive with laughter as we edited the photos about the lion on the rocks and every dazzling detail.
Later, zipped into canvas tents, the soundscape of Africa took over: the whine of crickets, the call of night birds, and somewhere far off, the whoop of hyenas. As I drifted to sleep, one thought circled in my mind:
We’ve shared plov in Samarkand, laghman in Almaty, horse rides by Issyk-Kul, and now another plov in the Mara. Different lands, same laughter. Different journeys, same bond. And somehow, the adventures just keep getting better.
Speak to you soon!
Emir xx
