All in Good Faith
A personal essay about camping in Tsavo West, Kenya.
Following a long day of bouncing in a safari jeep, dripping in sweat and squinting in bright sunlight to see wild animals in the distance, enjoying delicious but copious amounts of Kenyan cuisine, and hearing the word "Jambo!" thrown at me by every local I passed, I finally find myself in the unorthodox comfort of my lodgings: a tiny bungalow of mere polyester, mosquito-blocking mesh, and wooden framing. It's an unfamiliar but cozy cocoon equipped with dimly lit lanterns, soft blankets, and glass water bottles. The shower has no curtains, the windows and doors are covered only by a thin layer of mesh, and I could distinctly hear voices some feet away. It's a surreal experience spending the night in the African wilderness, but there is an underlying sense of unease rustling within. This is it? These thin polyester and mesh walls are my only protection against the creatures outside? And the strangers just a few cobblestone paths away?
Although I've been camping throughout my life, first in Texas and then Colorado, something about Kenya felt uncomfortably foreign to me. Camping in Texas, I was always with family and friends, staying with our campers in RV parks. These trips were filled with long drives, sipping coffee and scrambling eggs in the mornings, boating and swimming in lakes, or driving ATVs through the countryside. In the evenings, my dad cooked dinner outside over the grill while we lingered under the shade nearby, sipping cold drinks and laughing at stories from the day's adventures.
Colorado camping is a different lifestyle, consisting of my friends and I jamming the car with anything we may need in back-country Colorado, then driving through the evening to the campsite. That night, we'd arrive, unpack the tents in near-darkness, and settle for a few hours of sleep. But waking up in the mountains the following day made the night's work worth it. The next few days, we would venture on strenuous hikes, take polar plunges in blue alpine lakes, cook freeze-dried meals over a portable stove, and bundle up to stargaze at night. Camping always brings me peace amidst the chaos of life. So why was I so nervous in a tent in Africa?
Perhaps because these past places are familiar to me – areas I've grown up in and learned to love. I cherished my time in Texas, and Colorado is my home now. I know these places. But spending the day on a safari in Tsavo, I witnessed firsthand the creatures that prowled beyond the mesh walls: hippos lurking in the water, lions stalking in the tall grass, rhinos looming over watering holes, leopards lounging on trees, and monkeys stealing food with no remorse. Before this, I'd only seen these animals locked away in zoos. I watched them from afar, and those enclosures kept me from worrying about my proximity. Now, knowing what could skulk steps outside my lodging left me feeling tense. I rummage around the bungalow, trying my best to relax. I stumble on a trio of books, seemingly untouched for years. Curious, I pulled out one of the books titled West Tsavo: Travel Log. I flip the book open curiously and read:
““There is something about safari life that makes you forget all your sorrows and feel as if you had drunk half a bottle of champagne – bubbling over with heartfelt gratitude for being alive.” ”
And that was when it hit me.
I recall flying through the grasslands, plains, and Tsavo West mountains on the safari. The sun shines high overhead, and clouds sprinkle a perfectly blue sky. There are no signs of civilization for miles beside the roughly shaped road amidst natural, beautiful wildlife. The wind cools my baking skin beneath the Kenyan sun and tugs at my hair playfully. My friends surround me, their camera shutters clicking, amazed gasps, and laughter echoing across the savannah. Suddenly, a wave of gratitude crashes onto me: gratitude for being on a safari in Kenya, gratitude that such incredible friends surrounded me, gratitude for getting an opportunity to study abroad in such a unique way, gratitude for my parents for supporting me, and immense gratitude for being alive.
On the safari in Tsavo East, Kenya. Photo by Emily Lampi.
The passages in the travel log, some poetic and some excerpts, were unique, but all had one thing in common: they expressed love and gratitude for wild, untamed Africa. Why was I afraid? I'd grown to love Kenya in my short few days there. I shined with profound joy and gratitude for being alive simultaneously as these majestic creatures and wonderful people. So why didn't I have faith in their goodness?
Kenyan locals have faith that I've never seen before. I've never visited a place where everyone has been so kind, trusting, and open; they don't ask, "How are you doing?" and expect you to say, "Good," even if it's not true. They genuinely want to hear your stories and experiences. Though they possess fewer material objects, they seem to share everything and worry little about thievery or selfishness. I had to chase down my servers at restaurants to get the bill. It would have been so easy to walk out without paying, but of course I wouldn't do that.
Of course I wouldn't do that. Waiting for the server and paying was second nature, an unconscious thought. Kenyans trust that people and creatures are intrinsically good, and perhaps that makes them good. By believing, by having faith, they manifest it.
Here, humans are equal with the wildlife surrounding them. They trust that the animals won't harm them in their tents and trust in the people staying meters away. For a long time, I lacked this faith. But this place has shown me that having faith isn't a weakness or a naïve—it's a strength. It takes courage to believe in goodness, but we make it true by believing.
I hear small scuffles outside as I fall asleep: the pattering of feet, or perhaps paws, distant howls, and strange cries that I'd never heard before, the hum of voices echoing from the lodge and surrounding bungalows. Bundled up under the covers, I no longer feel afraid.
