In the far reaches of northern Kenya, where the land opens into vast skies and rugged, unforgiving terrain, live the Turkana and Samburu people. They are semi-nomadic pastoral communities whose lives revolve around their livestock and a constant movement in search of water and pasture. In an environment where farming is largely impossible, cattle, goats, and camels are not only a source of food and income, but the foundation of survival, culture, and identity. Homes are built from what the land provides. Made from timber frames, woven branches, and layers of mud, dung, hides, or thatch, these structures are designed to be temporary, carried and rebuilt as families move with the seasons. A typical day is shaped by the herd: early mornings spent moving animals to graze, long hours navigating dry landscapes, and evenings gathered around fires, sharing food, stories, and the responsibilities of protecting both livestock and family.

Yet even in this traditional way of life, change is steadily unfolding. Many communities are increasingly recognizing the importance of education, with children walking long distances or learning under trees when classrooms are out of reach. At the same time, long-held practices such as female genital mutilation are being challenged from within, slowly being phased out as awareness grows about its harm. It is a region where tradition and transition exist side by side. It is shaped by hardship, strength, and an evolving vision of the future.

Here, distance is not just measured in kilometers/miles but in hours of rough roads, washed-out paths after rain, and routes that can change from passable to impassable not just in a single storm, but in minutes. It is a place where remoteness is not an idea but a daily reality. Where access to schools, healthcare, and basic supplies depends as much on determination and community strength as it does on infrastructure.

The journey began in Nanyuki, where we used funds generously donated by friends and family to purchase essential supplies from local vendors. Bags of rice, maize, porridge flour, sugar, and other non-perishables were carefully loaded into the vehicle. Every item chosen with the needs of the school and surrounding community in mind. It was important to us to buy as much as possible locally in Nanyuki, knowing that even before reaching Baragoi, the impact had already begun to ripple outward.

We set off just after sunrise, leaving Mount Kenya behind. With coffee in hand for the road ahead, we began what was expected to be an 8–10 hour journey.

“So long, Nanyuki… Baragoi, here we come.”

The smooth tarmac roads of Nanyuki quickly gave way to smaller and smaller dirt roads as we headed north. Before long, we were slowing down to let zebras cross the road. Welcome to Kenya.

 

Traveling with us was Paul, a former colleague of Sammy’s from Ol Pejeta Conservancy. Since he was headed home to see his family for a few weeks and we were traveling in the same direction, he hitched a ride. Along the way we passed three men and two sheep sharing a motorcycle on their way to market, along with a few camels wandering near the road.

 

We stopped in a small town for lunch. The nyama choma wasn’t ready yet, so we settled for boiled meat served with ugali, chapati, and coleslaw. Then it was back on the road.

After lunch we enjoyed a stretch of tarmac, although “animal traffic” remained a constant feature of the journey. We crossed into Samburu County and made our way to Maralal, where we dropped off Paul. Before leaving, he wanted to make sure we took the safest route to Baragoi. Some roads had been completely washed out by flooding, while others were considered unsafe due to banditry. To make sure we didn’t miss the turn, he arranged for a boda boda rider to escort us out of town and then return Paul to his home. Eventually, with directions secured, the motorcycle turned back with Paul and we continued on our own.

The road over the mountains was rough in places, but the scenery was absolutely spectacular. Along the way we handed out cookies and lollipops to children we met in small villages. Little did we know what was waiting for us farther down the road.

After crossing the mountains, we encountered our first major obstacle. Heavy rains had sent water rushing down the slopes, creating a crossing that was impossible to navigate safely. We waited nearly an hour for the water level to drop before attempting the crossing. Once we made it through, another delay awaited us. The vehicle in front of us became stuck while climbing a muddy hill, adding another hour to our journey.

Finally moving again, we encountered a different kind of roadblock…animal traffic jams.

Camels. Sheep. Goats. Cows.

Such is life when traveling through a region where pastoralism is the way of life. We knew before leaving that morning that this wasn’t going to be a walk in the park.

More than eleven hours after leaving Nanyuki we finally arrived in Baragoi, a remote town in northern Samburu County. To put the journey into perspective, Baragoi is only about 310 kilometers (193 miles) from Nanyuki, yet the drive took over eleven hours, even with only a lunch stop and delays caused by flooding.

Baragoi is known for its rich pastoralist culture and the coexistence of Samburu and Turkana communities. After picking up school supplies, cooking oil, and a few other necessities, we continued on to Nachola Community Campsite, which would be our home for the next two nights.

The campsite is a community-owned ecotourism and conservation project in Nachola Village. Operating as a sustainable social enterprise, it helps fund education, wildlife conservation, and employment opportunities for local indigenous Turkana communities.

As we drove into camp, we were treated to one of the most spectacular African sunsets I’ve ever seen.

Dinner that evening was Ng’atiri, a traditional Turkana dried meat made by slicing goat, camel, and beef into thin strips and naturally sun-drying them. Alongside the meat, we enjoyed rice, cabbage, chapati, and greens.

The camp was completely off-grid and powered entirely by solar energy. My tent was surprisingly comfortable and even came with a private outdoor shower and toilet. After such a long day on the road, it felt like luxury.

Following dinner, we spent about thirty minutes stargazing under some of the darkest skies I’ve ever experienced. With absolutely no light pollution, the stars seemed endless.

By 9:30 p.m., exhaustion finally caught up with us. We turned in for the night knowing an even bigger adventure awaited us the next day.

After an early night, it was an early morning. They say “early to bed and early to rise makes you healthy, wealthy, and wise.” I can’t speak for the healthy or wealthy part, but I certainly felt rich in experience that day.

I woke before sunrise and was treated to a spectacular dawn over the Turkana landscape. Shortly afterward, the camp staff brought coffee, and I settled under a tree beside the dying embers of the previous night’s fire. As I sat quietly enjoying the morning, I heard a commotion overhead. Looking up, I realized I had been joined by a troop of vervet monkeys, who seemed just as curious about me as I was a them.

Eventually the guys emerged from their tents, and we enjoyed a simple breakfast of hard-boiled eggs and chapati stuffed with cabbage and carrots. A few Turkana women and men passed through the campsite, and before long it was time to begin our day.

As we prepared to leave Nachola Community Campsite, we encountered a group of Turkana men who had spent the night sleeping beneath a large shade tree. They greeted us with singing and dancing and invited us to attend a wedding celebration taking place nearby.

In Turkana culture, weddings are multi-day ceremonies held near the bride’s family homestead. The groom and other men from the community spend the night beneath a sacred tree, preparing physically, mentally, and spiritually for the traditional rites that follow. These include the ceremonial spearing of a bull and the negotiation of bride wealth.

Many shade trees, such as the Ereng and Edung, are considered sacred in Turkana culture. They are gathering places where elders make important decisions, pray to Akuj, the Creator, and offer sacrifices. Spending the night beneath one is a time of reflection and a way to seek blessings and protection from ancestors before entering marriage.

We were honored by the invitation to witness the bull slaughter and wedding festivities. Unfortunately, flooding and the realities of our schedule made it impossible for us to attend.

Still, the day held something equally special.

After leaving the Turkana men, we drove to a nearby boarding school that Marco wanted to show us. Many of the students come from communities so far away that walking to school each day simply isn’t possible, making boarding their only option for accessing an education.

The teachers proudly showed us around the campus, including the boys’ and girls’ dormitories. One thing that immediately caught my attention was the school bell. When I heard it “ring,” I expected to see a traditional bell, but instead discovered a tire rim hanging in the schoolyard. Resourcefulness at its finest.

As we toured the school, we learned about some of the challenges facing the students and their families. Moved by what we saw, we decided to sponsor four students for the next term. The cost is just $25 per learner, which covers room, board, and schooling.

After taking a group photo, one of the teachers quietly shared a story that has stayed with me ever since. One of the young men we had met had lost his father only days earlier. He feared he would have to leave school because his mother could no longer afford the fees. The teacher had reassured him not to worry, telling him that somehow a way would be found for him to continue his education.

Hearing that, and knowing that help had arrived at exactly the right moment, was incredibly moving.

If you look at my photos, you’ll notice small red objects lined up on the ground. Those are solar lights. The school has no electricity, so the lights are used to illuminate the area at night whenever students need to leave the dormitories.

It was a powerful reminder that something as simple as education, something many of us take for granted, often requires extraordinary determination in places like this.

Nothing could have prepared me for the next welcome we received.

As we approached the community and the school under the tree, as I took to calling it, a group of women greeted us and escorted us down a hillside toward the children with singing and dancing. We had driven as far as the terrain allowed before meeting a motorcycle that carried some of the supplies. The rest we carried by hand down the hill.

 

Waiting for us was a school unlike any I had ever seen.

The children attend classes beneath a tree, using rocks as their desks and seats. Despite their limited resources, they had prepared songs to welcome us. Their smiles and enthusiasm were contagious.

We delivered notebooks, markers, pencils, sharpeners, and food supplies. Some of the mothers immediately began preparing porridge over an open fire. The local chief, along with community representatives, spoke and thanked us for making the journey.

One of the most touching moments came when I was presented with a beautiful handmade headdress. It was an unexpected gift and a gesture I will never forget.

The following morning, the school’s teacher walked approximately five kilometers to our campsite carrying another surprise. She had handmade bracelets with our names on them and wanted to personally give them to us before we left.

The joy, kindness, gratitude, and love we experienced from this community were overwhelming.

Before leaving Baragoi, we also wanted to do something practical that would make an immediate difference. Through the help of our friend Marco, we located a carpenter and commissioned benches for the school, along with two chairs for the volunteer teachers.

Recently, we received photos confirming that the benches had been delivered. Seeing the children sitting on them instead of rocks was incredibly rewarding. The two chairs for the teachers are also on their way.

We have also begun exploring the next phase of support by requesting estimates for a concrete slab that could serve as the foundation for a permanent school structure.

Looking ahead to our next trip, we hope to introduce solar cooking and beekeeping projects to the community. Our goal is not simply to provide supplies but to help create sustainable opportunities that can empower local women and generate income through honey production.

Our friend Sharon, who has extensive knowledge of beekeeping, has offered to assist with the project. While we will continue helping with educational and food supplies when needed, our long-term hope is to support solutions that strengthen the community’s self-sufficiency.

What began as a journey to deliver school supplies became something much more meaningful. It was a reminder that education, kindness, and community can flourish anywhere…even in a classroom under a tree.

One of our final stops of the day was a small community near Baragoi where we delivered supplies to a woman who had recently suffered a stroke and was paralyzed on her left side. As members of the community explained what we had brought for her, she held tightly onto my hand and simply wouldn’t let go. Despite the language barrier, her gratitude was unmistakable.

After saying our goodbyes, we walked back up the hill to where our vehicle was parked beneath a tree. I climbed into the car and noticed the window was rolled down. Two boys, probably about fourteen or fifteen years old, wandered over and began looking at me. They stepped back, pointed in my direction, made faces, and burst into laughter.

At first, I assumed they were laughing at me. Not that I particularly cared, but I was curious what I had done to become the source of such amusement.

Our local guide quickly explained that the boys weren’t laughing at me at all. They were fascinated by their reflections in the side of our vehicle. Seeing themselves so clearly in a reflective surface was something entirely new and endlessly entertaining.

That was one of those rare “wow” moments that stops you in your tracks.

In a world where many of us see our reflection dozens of times a day without giving it a second thought, these boys found pure joy and wonder in something so simple. It was another powerful reminder of how differently people experience the world and how easily we take everyday things for granted.

We spent the remainder of the afternoon delivering supplies throughout the community, including to a family whose home had been destroyed by recent flooding. This is the same family supported in part by the owner of the house I rent in Nanyuki, who uses a portion of my rent to assist them.

As Friday evening approached, we found ourselves perched high above the surrounding landscape for a sundowner. Sitting there, feeling as though we were on top of the world, I watched the sun sink toward the horizon and reflected on everything we had experienced, the children learning under a tree, the generosity of people who had so little, the laughter of boys discovering their reflections, and the strength of communities supporting one another through difficult times.

It was the perfect ending to an equally amazing, humbling, and rewarding day.

Some days leave you tired. Others leave you changed.

This day did both.

 

Long before the wheelbarrows, the feeding routines, and unseen labor of conservation, this landscape at the foot of Mount Kenya was already carrying a larger story.

The origins of what is now the Mount Kenya Wildlife Conservancy are rooted in the vision of the Mount Kenya Safari Club, founded in 1959 as an exclusive retreat set against the slopes of Mount Kenya. At the time, it became a meeting point for travelers and public figures drawn to the beauty of the region and the wildlife that moved through it.

Adjacent to the club, the Mount Kenya Game Ranch was established by actor and conservationist William Holden and conservationist Don Hunt. What began as an extension of their shared concern for wildlife evolved into something far more purposeful: a working space for wildlife care, rehabilitation, and protection at a time when formal conservation structures in the region were unheard of. The Game Ranch became one of the earliest practical expressions of what it meant to actively intervene in the survival of endangered species in this part of Kenya and for that matter East Africa and the world.

After the death of William Holden, his legacy did not end with him. It was carried forward through the creation of the William Holden Wildlife Foundation, established with the support and continued dedication of soulmate, actress and conservation advocate Stefanie Powers. What began as a personal commitment to conservation and education evolved into a lasting foundation dedicated not only to protecting wildlife, but to shaping how people understand their relationship with it through education, awareness, and hands-on conservation work.

Over time, these efforts became increasingly interconnected. The Foundation’s work expanded alongside what is now the Mount Kenya Wildlife Conservancy, which manages the Animal Orphanage and broader conservation programs on the ground. Together, they form a closely linked system: one focused on education and legacy, the other on daily rehabilitation, animal care, and the long-term goal of rewilding.

Today, the Conservancy and the Animal Orphanage operate as part of a shared mission bridging rescue, rehabilitation, and eventual return to the wild. It is within this framework that everything else happens: the early morning feedings, the veterinary interventions, the behavioral monitoring, and the slow, deliberate work of preparing animals for life beyond human care.

And it is here, within this evolving system of protection and purpose, that the work I am currently part of takes place.

The wildlife doesn’t take care of itself here. Not anymore.

Before the first visitors arrive, before cameras are lifted and stories are told, the work has already begun. It’s in the unglamorous tasks, the wheelbarrows of manure, the scrubbing of enclosures, the careful cutting of meat to feed waiting carnivores and the kitty cats who beg. It’s the kind of work no one posts about, but without it, none of this would exist. Every clean space, every healthy animal, every moment a visitor pauses in awe is built on hours of effort most will never see.

And it doesn’t start or stop with the volunteers like me.

Behind every routine task is a team doing far more than most people ever see. They monitor health, prepare diets, watch behavior, and make decisions that balance care with the ultimate goal: rewilding. Because this place is not a zoo. It is a bridge between loss and survival, between human intervention and the hope of something returning to where it belongs.

And sometimes, in the middle of all that work, something extraordinary arrives.

Recently, four mountain bongos, rare, elusive, and hanging on by the thinnest thread in the wild now stand as a reminder of why every shovel, every scrub brush, every early morning matters.

Their journey here began thousands of miles away in Czechia, part of a long-running conservation effort to bring this critically endangered subspecies back to its native home. Carefully bred in European conservation programs, these bongos represent more than survival. They represent a return. A second chance at reclaiming the forests where they once moved freely.

Now, after that journey, they are here on Kenyan soil, in a place working relentlessly to prepare them for what comes next.

And that’s the thing about this conservancy. From the outside, Mount Kenya Wildlife Conservancy is beautiful in the way you expect with lush gardens, shaded pathways, the outline of Mount Kenya rising beyond it all. There are moments that feel suspended in time, where the only sounds are birdsong, the rustle of movement through the trees, and a soft steady drizzle until, during this season, thunder cracks the quiet and rain pounds heavily against the tin roof. This place gives me such a feeling of peace.

But underneath that beauty is constant motion. The staff moves with purpose. Each person is an essential part of the day’s rhythm. There is a natural flow to life here…feeding, cleaning, observing, repairing, and preparing. Each person knows their role. Even the gardens serve more than beauty. They are an integral part of the ecosystem sustaining everything around them.

Wherever you look you can see the balance, the exchange between care and wildness. It’s easy to walk through and see only the surface. It’s harder and far more meaningful to understand what it takes to keep it all alive.

I’m learning that firsthand.

Most days don’t begin with anything extraordinary. They begin with a wheelbarrow. With gloves. With a rake. With a shovel. With the kind of work that reminds you very quickly that conservation is not a concept. It’s physical, it’s constant, and it’s often messy. We clear manure to keep the grounds healthy and welcoming, we scrub enclosures, we prepare food, and sometimes that means cutting through large portions of a whole cow so that the carnivores can eat.

It’s not glamorous. It’s not the part people imagine when they think of working with wildlife. But it’s necessary work.

And somewhere between the routine and the repetition, you start to see things differently. You notice the small details. The way an animal responds, the importance of feeding times, the satisfaction at the end of the day even though my body aches. You begin to understand that every task, no matter how small it seems, is part of something much bigger.

And then there are the people who do this every day. Not for a few days per week, like me, but as their life’s work.

The staff here carry a depth of knowledge and commitment that you can’t fully grasp from the outside. They know these animals, their histories, their behaviors, their needs. They make judgment calls that balance care with the ultimate goal of returning as much wildness as possible. They show up, day after day, doing the kind of work that rarely gets attention but makes everything else possible.

Over the coming days, I’ll be sitting down with some of them, hearing their stories, learning what brought them here, and what keeps them doing this work. Because behind every animal, every success, every second chance…there are people whose stories deserve to be told too.

And I’m beginning to realize, this place isn’t just about saving animals. It’s about the people who dedicate their lives to making sure there’s still something left to save.

Because long after the visitors leave, long after the stories are told and the photographs fade, it is their hands, their choices, and their persistence that determine whether this work means anything at all.

And that is where this story truly continues.

Part Two: The people behind the work; their faces, their voices, their memories, and what keeps them showing up, day after day.

 

I’m packing tonight. The suitcase is open. The call to prayer drifts through the window. Someone just sent me a message I won’t answer the same way once I’m gone.

Tomorrow, I leave Kelaa.

Like every place I’ve left, it won’t look dramatic from the outside. No airport epiphanies. No cinematic soundtrack. Just dust on my shoes and thoughts in my head. And in that solitary ride to the airport, I’ll hear the voices of café conversations and the laughter that doesn’t stop just because I’m leaving. Life will continue in Kelaa exactly as it did before I arrived. Nothing looks monumental.

And yet, I feel it.

Maybe it’s not the energy that follows me. Maybe it waits in places like Kelaa. In side streets and shared taxis. In cafés where tea glasses and nos nos outnumber words. In young men standing at the edge of their future.

I joke about being an “accidental Wendy.”

But in Kelaa, it didn’t feel like a metaphor.

It felt like responsibility.

Like realizing you’re standing at someone else’s crossroads, and they’re watching…not for you to rescue them, but to see which direction you believe they’re capable of taking.

If the Global Edition is about energy, Kelaa is also about presence. It’s what happens when you don’t simply pass through the Lost Boys…

You sit with them.

And in Kelaa, that presence had a name.

Said.

He was the first person I met when I stepped off the bus, tired and uncertain, scanning the station after the ride from Marrakech. Before I knew the cafés with the best nos nos, before I learned the streets or which souk sold the freshest vegetables, I knew his constant presence.

There is something poetic about that…that the first face to greet me in Kelaa will also be the last one I see, as he places my suitcase into the taxi and sends me off on the quiet, solitary ride back to Marrakech, alone with my thoughts and the memories of fourteen months in Morocco riding beside me.

Some people don’t change your life by doing something big. They show up at the beginning and the end, and somehow, what happens in between becomes everything.

When I first met Said, I thought he was older than his twenty-four years. There was a confidence about him as he stepped in and took charge of my introduction to Kelaa, the English school, the culture, the rhythm of daily life. He coordinated the volunteers, handled the details, and quickly became the person everyone turned to when something was needed.

But to me, he became far more than that.

He didn’t just help me navigate logistics. He became my closest friend in Kelaa. The one I confided in. The one who walked the city with me, showed me its corners, helped me find what I needed before I even knew how to ask. When I injured my back, he was simply there with no hesitation, no question. Somewhere along the way, he stopped being just a friend and became family.

My story in Kelaa wouldn’t be complete without Said.

I mentioned in the China edition that sometimes the “Lost Boys” saved me. In Kelaa, I think the truth is simpler. We were there for each other. In fourteen months, I can count on one hand the days we didn’t see or at least speak to each other.

Then everything changed.

Because of my back injury, I couldn’t travel by plane, and my visa was expiring. I needed to go north to the Spanish enclave of Ceuta located on the African continent. The plan was simple in theory. I would cross from Morocco into Spain on foot, turn around, and walk back into Morocco to reset my ninety days.

But getting there was another story.

The journey was roughly 500 miles, about 850 kilometers, and would take close to ten hours by car. After finding a driver, Said told me he would come with me.

Partly to help me.

And partly because he had made a decision of his own.

He was leaving the English school, ready to step into something new, though I’m not sure either of us could have fully said what that meant yet. The plan was to travel together… and then leave him to go on to Tangier.

Because we were heading into the heat of summer, we decided to travel through the cooler hours of the night. The road stretched ahead of us in darkness, the world was quieter, slower, and yes, cooler. Around 1 a.m., we stopped for BBQ at roadside stand. It was one of those moments that stays with you. After that, the rhythm of the drive took over, and we both slept through much of the remaining journey.

By late morning, we reached the border.

With my back still not fully healed, the walk across and back was slow. Each step reminded me I wasn’t at full strength, but I made it. My passport was stamped, and just like that, I had another ninety days.

Simple in theory. Harder in reality.

Before taking Said to the bus station to continue on to Tangier, we made one last stop at the beach. The guys went for a swim. It was a carefree moment. I stayed back, watching, somewhere between the present and already remembering it.

Then, we grabbed something to eat, stretching out the time just a little longer, and then headed to the station.

At that point, I thought it was goodbye or as I prefer to say, until we meet again.

I was still holding on to the plan that I would recover, make my way to Bulgaria, work the summer camp I had committed to.

But life, as I’ve learned, doesn’t always follow the plan you’ve so carefully laid out.

I wasn’t well enough to go. Not to travel, and certainly not to do the work waiting for me there.

And Said…

Not long after we parted ways, he experienced an unexpected loss in his family. Whatever new chapter he had been preparing to step into was put on hold, and he, too, found his way back to Kelaa.

Because somewhere between leaving and returning, something had changed, not just in us, but in what Kelaa had become to me.

The villa I had been living in was changing hands, and suddenly I needed a new place to land. With help from the English school, I found myself settling into another villa. It was a bit farther out, removed from the neighborhood I had grown used to, and no longer within walking distance of the main part of town or my go-to spot, Café Simple.

That café had become more than just a place to sit. The owner and her husband had become friends, and I found myself there several days a week, sharing time more than just coffee. But getting there wasn’t always simple. Zenib couldn’t always come to pick me up, and I quickly realized I needed something more reliable.

As always, Said stepped in.

He found a taxi driver we could call. Someone dependable, someone who would come whenever one of us reached out, sometimes even using his personal car. It was a small thing on the surface, but it became part of my days, another link that held everything together.

And through Said, my world in Kelaa continued to expand.

He had slowly been introducing me to others, Nassro, Rida, Ayoub, Mohamed… a few more “Lost Boys,” each carrying their own story. What began as passing conversations turned into something more. Nos nos for me, tea for them. Short drives that turned into road trips. Evenings that stretched longer than expected. Visits to an olive farm, wandering through Marrakech, experiencing the Tbourida, shared moments that didn’t feel significant at the time but somehow became exactly that.

And before I realized it, it wasn’t just Said and me anymore.

Somewhere along the way, without ever naming it, we had become something like a team.

Nassro, Said’s cousin, helped me with my French, switching effortlessly between languages and patiently guiding me through the ones I stumbled over. Rida often returned to the countryside to work on his family’s farm, but when he was in Kelaa, there was a calm presence about him. He was also an imam, and when he recited the Quran, his voice carried a beauty that made everything else fade into the background.

Whenever they came to my home to eat, there was an unspoken routine. I would cook, and they would insist on cleaning, leaving me no choice but to sit, talk, and be part of the conversation. It was never even a discussion. It was just how it was done.

Ayoub, also an imam, split his time between Kelaa and Italy, where he led prayers at a mosque. When he was in town, he brought an energy that usually meant we were going somewhere. He practiced hijama and ran a honey shop, but what I came to know most was that when Ayoub was around, we were getting in a car and heading out, no detailed plan required.

Mohamed was different in his own way. He was the one who leaned into conversation, the kind that goes a layer deeper than expected. He would drive us to Marrakech for the day, and somewhere between the road and the return, we’d find ourselves in discussions that stayed with you long after they ended.

Each of them brought something distinct to the group. Different paths, different responsibilities, different ways of seeing the world, but somehow, it all fit together.

And then there were the ones who passed through.

I can’t wrap up this chapter without mentioning two of the many volunteers, Trace and Eric, both from the U.S., who arrived in Kelaa toward the end of my time there. Not at the same time, but each, in their own way, became part of our circle.

After Trace left, our paths crossed again in Paris. We spent a day together there in early December, and I found myself introducing him to my favorite spots in a city that had once, many years ago, been new to me.

Eric and I connected in a different way. His work with YMCA camps mirrored my own past, thirty-four years at my local YMCA, and there was an immediate understanding in that shared background. Some connections don’t need much explanation.

They were only with us for a short time, but like so many moments in Kelaa, their presence lingered longer than expected.

I joke about being an “accidental Wendy.”

At first, it felt like a lighthearted way to describe something I didn’t fully understand. A passing comment, a metaphor that fit just enough to make people smile.

But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like a joke.

Because being there in Kelaa, really being there, was never about rescuing anyone or having answers. It was about showing up. Sitting at the table. Listening to dreams that were still taking shape. Believing in possibilities that didn’t always feel within reach.

It was about presence.

And maybe that’s what a Wendy really is.

Not someone who leads the way… but someone who reminds you that there is a way.

When I left Kelaa, I carried all of them with me, the conversations, the laughter, the road trips, the routines that somehow became everything. I knew life would continue there, just as it always had.

But I also knew something had changed.

Not just for me.

For all of us.

Sometime after I had gone, I received a message from Nassro.

“We are lucky to have a great friend like you, thank you the best Wendy for everything.”

The thing is… he had no idea about the story. No reference to Peter Pan. No context for the name I had been carrying.

 

And somehow, that made it mean even more.

Because maybe it was never about the story at all.

Maybe it was just about what happens when people find each other, for a moment in time, at exactly the point they need to.

And in the end, it came back to where it all began.

Said.

The same presence who met me at the bus station when I first arrived in Kelaa was there again on the day I left. No big moment. No dramatic goodbye. Just the familiarity we had always shared.

He lifted my suitcase and placed it into the taxi.

We didn’t need to say much.

Some goodbyes don’t ask for words.

I got in, closed the door, and as the car pulled away toward Marrakech, I found myself alone with my thoughts, just like I had imagined the night before while packing. The road stretched ahead, familiar and uncertain all at once, while behind me, life in Kelaa continued on… just as it always would.

Nothing looked monumental.

And yet, I felt it.

 

 

March 1st I arrived in Nanyuki, Kenya, still very much a newcomer and still finding my footing in a new place. Sometimes travel moves slowly, giving you time to settle into a place before it surprises you. And sometimes, just a week after arriving, you find yourself sitting in the middle of a celebration for International Women’s Day with women from the Maasai community.

They had gathered to celebrate empowerment and resilience, sharing stories of strength, change, and hope. I didn’t always understand the language being spoken, but sitting in that circle of women, listening, watching, feeling their energy, I realized I didn’t need to. The joy, the power, and the determination of these women shaping their families, their communities, and their futures spoke clearly enough. In that moment, the language was universal.

It was one of those unexpected gifts travel gives you. The kind where you realize you’re not just passing through a place, but you’ve been invited to witness something important.

But to truly understand the strength in that circle of women, you first have to understand the realities of life in a pastoral community.

A pastoral community is a social and economic system centered around the herding of livestock, primarily cattle, goats, and sheep. These animals are not just a source of food or income; they shape daily life, social roles, and cultural identity. For Maasai women, being part of a pastoralist society often means a life of intense labor and responsibility.

While speaking with a woman I met in Nanyuki, someone who works closely with Maasai communities and runs a safe house for young people with disabilities, I began to understand some of these realities more clearly. Many of the children she cares for were shunned by their communities, sometimes because disabilities are believed to be a curse, and sometimes simply because families lack the resources to support them.

She also explained how the demands of pastoral life affect families. When grazing becomes scarce, the person responsible for the herd (the mother) may leave the community for months at a time, moving livestock to areas with better pasture and water. During those periods, families rely heavily on extended networks of co-wives, relatives, and elders to care for children and maintain the household.

Before I share more about the IWD gathering itself, it helps to understand a few key aspects of life for Maasai women. Their role within pastoral communities is both central and complex. Women carry much of the daily responsibility that keeps families and villages functioning, yet they often have limited access to resources such as land or livestock ownership. Alongside these economic realities, they also face cultural challenges from traditions like female genital mutilation (FGM) to the pressures of maintaining households in a changing world. At the same time, these roles are slowly shifting, as education, advocacy, and community leadership open new possibilities for Maasai women and girls.

It was against this backdrop that the three-day International Women’s Day gathering was held at Storms Resort just outside of Nanyuki. I was invited by Sharon, who works with Laikipia Permaculture. The event brought together Maasai women from across the region and was funded by the Italian Agency for Development Cooperation – AICS through its Development & Health Support program in Kenya, allowing the women to participate at no cost.

At the end of the event, Sharon shared with me a document titled Women’s Memorandum of Issues – Sauti ya Mama Workshop 2026. The memorandum was developed/written during the first two days of the workshop by the participants and outlines many of the challenges women and girls continue to face despite legal protections meant to guarantee equality. It addresses Advocacy and Legal Protection, Land and Environment, Leadership and Governance, Livelihood and Innovation, and GBV (Gender-Based Violence) and SRHR (Sexual Reproductive Health Rights).

As the document states:

“Despite constitutional, legal, and international commitments to gender equality, women and girls continue to face significant and systemic barriers that hinder their full participation in social, economic, and political life. This memorandum outlines critical issues requiring immediate policy, legislative, and social interventions to ensure safety, equality, and dignity.”

Reading those words gave deeper meaning to what I experienced that afternoon.

What also struck me that afternoon was the presence of male public officials and respected representatives of the Maasai community. Their attendance and their willingness to sign a document in support of the women’s concerns signaled that the conversations happening that weekend were meant to reach beyond the gathering itself. The memorandum outlined a wide range of issues affecting women and girls.

While the memorandum spans more than twenty pages, a few of the issues it highlighted stood out.

One section addressed “Cultural and Social Barriers to Women’s Land Ownership.” The recommendations called for community awareness and education around women’s land rights, with outreach directed toward men, elders, youth, and the wider community.

Another issue identified was “Low Literacy Levels Among Women,” which can limit women’s confidence and ability to participate fully in community and civic life. Among the recommendations were the introduction of community-based adult literacy programs for indigenous women and stronger support for the education of girls and young women.

The memorandum also addressed the “Exclusion of Women from Decision Making.” Recommendations included implementing affirmative action policies to increase women’s representation and providing training and capacity-building opportunities for women in governance and leadership roles.

Closely related were “Cultural Barriers and Gender Norms” that discourage women from stepping into leadership positions. Cultural expectations tied to marital status and traditional gender roles can restrict women’s participation in public life. The memorandum recommended community education around gender equality and inclusive leadership, along with encouraging greater engagement from men as advocates for equality.

Because women and girls in Narok and Laikipia counties continue to face challenges in accessing quality health services and exercising their Sexual and Reproductive Health (SRH) rights, the memorandum also devoted significant attention to issues related to gender-based violence and reproductive health.

One concern identified was “Myths, Misconceptions, and Cultural Barriers to SRH Services.” Recommendations included community education encouraging safe hospital deliveries and promoting greater use of maternal health services in health facilities.

Another critical issue was “Weak Gender-Based Violence (GBV) Reporting and Justice Mechanisms.” The memorandum called for stronger pathways to justice for survivors through formal legal systems, as well as improved confidentiality and protection mechanisms.

The memorandum outlined the issues and recommendations. That afternoon, I witnessed the voices behind them.

In her closing speech, Agnes Ngeno, County Director Gender, State Department for Gender Narok, summed up the purpose of the gathering. She reminded the audience that the theme for International Women’s Day 2026 was “Rights. Justice. Action. For All Women and Girls,” and is a call to move beyond rhetoric. Gender equality, she said, is rooted in fundamental human rights and requires strong legal protections, real justice, and immediate collective action to ensure that no woman or girl is left behind.

She also emphasized that International Women’s Day 2026 is a critical moment to reaffirm Kenya’s commitment to the rights of women and girls. While progress has been made, the world continues to face overlapping crises and an erosion of rights, including the rising threat of femicide. The day, she explained, serves both as a platform to confront systemic barriers and as a moment to celebrate the achievements of women leading the way in areas such as STEM, leadership, and financial inclusion.

Following her remarks, the memorandum was formally signed by representatives present at the gathering: women leaders who helped draft the document, government officials, and male representatives of the Maasai community who voiced their support for the issues and recommendations raised during the weekend.

As the gathering ended and the memorandum was signed, the room shifted from solemn determination to celebration. A cake was brought out, and soon voices rose in singing, laughter, and dancing as the women marked International Women’s Day together. Earlier that afternoon, I had sat quietly among them, listening to voices I could not always understand, but by the end of the day, the meaning was clear. These women were claiming their rights, their dignity, and their place in shaping the future of their communities.

Sitting in that circle, I was reminded that “we are more alike, my friends, than we are unalike” (Maya Angelou). Their stories and strength were both unique and universal. And as Margaret Mead said, “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.” In that room, I saw it happen. Women, steadfast and courageous, shaping the future for themselves, their communities, and generations to come.

 

“I alone cannot change the world, but I can cast a stone across the water to create many ripples.” – Mother Teresa

 

We never really know the ripples we leave behind in the lives of others. Sometimes we wonder if the small things we do make any difference at all. Then, out of the blue, a message arrives that reminds us, yes, they do. Sometimes it’s just a passing smile, sometimes it’s a conversation that lingers, and sometimes, it’s a connection that changes you both.

I’m a 63-year old woman from Ohio now living and volunteering in Kelaa, Morocco. Here, at the English School, I meet students from all walks of life. There are students from elementary to adults. All bright, curious, searching, each one with their own dreams and challenges. In February, I met her, Fatima Ezzahra, on an ordinary afternoon at the school in Kelaa. She was 18, a Muslim girl with wide eyes and words that tumbled out faster than I could catch them, I teased her about how much she talked, and she laughed with a kind of sparkle that made me laugh too. Something clicked right there, the in-between space of two strangers from very different worlds.

Later we sat down together to record a podcast. We expected to stumble, to edit, to need multiple takes. Instead, the conversation flowed as if we had rehearsed it all our lives. Back and forth, idea to idea, like a well-played tennis match, laughter woven in between. We finished in one take, surprised at how seamless it felt. Our paths crossed only occasionally after that, but each time carried the same easy rhythm, as though no time had passed.

Fatima ended up studying every language offered at the English School, French, Spanish, Italian, German, and English. Little did I know at the time that this was her passport to the world, an avenue that would help her secure the visa to join her family in Italy.

When new foreign volunteers arrived, she was eager to meet them, anxious to share the beauty and history of Morocco. She would proudly show them her traditions and even teach them a few phrases of Moroccan Darija. When she finally completed her certifications in all the languages, she wrote a heartfelt farewell to the school.

In that letter she said that every volunteer, every culture, every accent had opened a new window for her. As I neared the end of her words, my eyes grew moist. Then came the final paragraph, and the tears fell freely:

“A very special thank you to Wendy. You may not realize how deeply you impacted me, but your words were like planting a small seed in thirsty soil. Today, that seed has started to grow within my soul.”

It made me pause and reflect on how often we underestimate the ordinary. A shared cup of tea, helping with English or Darija, or laughing over mispronunciations. These moments seem small at the time, but they can be turning points, even transformations. What felt natural and every day to me became lasting and meaningful to her. And she, in turn, has impacted me just as deeply. That is the quiet miracle of connection. We teach, we learn, we inspire, often across generations, cultures, and faiths.

Fatima, you have no idea the impact you made on me. From the moment I met you, I knew we were kindred spirits. Your passion for life and all that it has to offer touched me deeply. There is a quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson, “To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.” If I have planted a seed in you, or anyone else at the English School, then I will always believe that my time here in Kelaa has been successful.

Not long ago, the time came for her departure from Morocco. She was heading to Italy, stepping into a new life with both excitement and uncertainty. Four days before her departure, she came to see me. Our visit was lighthearted, short, and sweet. No long, drawn-out tearful goodbye, just the comfort of knowing the connection was already woven deeply between us. Before she left, she handed me a handwritten letter, the edges burned, rolled carefully and tied with a red ribbon. Along with it was a pen…simple, symbolic, and perfect for me as a writer. I believe it was her way of saying that our story together was not finished, that the ripples would continue long after the farewell.

Since her arrival in Italy, we’ve exchanged a few short messages. She told me of her ups and downs, of missing Morocco and the familiar streets of Kelaa. Yet, within each note, I could feel her gradually sliding into her new life, her roots from that seed reaching toward new soil.

Unbeknownst to her, these past couple of weeks, I haven’t been able to find the words to write, neither for my book nor my blog. The pages stayed blank. This was after I had already shared some of my earlier writings for my book with her.

Then yesterday, out of nowhere, she sent me a reel. It simply said: I would love to read your book. There’s just one problem. You have to write it. Later that very day, I saw a story she posted about our meeting and connection.

It hit me hard. I have always believed my purpose in this world was to see and to share this life through different eyes. I hoped in some small way I might make a difference, be the change I longed to see. And yet, here she was turning that mirror back on me.

Last night, after those small exchanges with Fatima, the words returned. They poured out too quickly for my pen to keep up.

A couple of things that stood out in her story:

“When I met her, I was standing on the edge of one world, and she on the other. Yet destiny carved a path between us. It was a small encounter in its form, yet immense in its meaning. A meeting that proved the universe is far greater than the geography that separates us, and that hearts need no maps to recognize their kindred.”

“She did not merely read my words-she read me. As though I were an open book resting in her hands. Few possess that rare gift: to see beyond words, to understand the silence, to decipher the tears that have not yet fallen. She was one of those rare souls.

“They say our differences are too many, enough to raise walls between us. Yet, I discovered that differences do not prevent souls from meeting. They may even become the bridge that draws us closer. Similarity might comfort us but difference teaches our hearts to expand. I will never forget her, for she was not just a passerby in my story, but a turning point, an indelible mark upon my journey.”

Her words were humbling. To her I had been a stone cast across her waters, a ripple she would carry into her new life. To me, she was the same. A reminder that the smallest connections can hold the deepest weight.

I saw in her my younger self. The dreamer, the romantic, the little bit of save the world. I feel as if my hopes and dreams will live on through Fatima and all who she touches long after I am gone.

Travel teaches you many things. How to navigate streets and public transportation, how to stumble through unfamiliar languages, how to show respect in different cultures, and that we all smile in the same language. But the greatest lessons I’ve found, come from the people who let you into their lives. We think we are only passing through, yet somehow we become part of each other’s stories.

I don’t know how far the ripples of our time together will travel…into Italy…into the years ahead of her life, but I do know this…they have already reached me and I am changed.

As I finish writing, I realize this story is not mine alone to tell. It belongs to both of us. I’ll close with the last words Fatima wrote in her story:

In her, I saw something of myself, something that made me believe that great encounters are never in vain, that the heart already knows its way home, and that nothing in this vast design is meaningless. Every moment, even the simplest, is but a chapter in a grander story we only understand when we look back and read it once again.”