Meeting Islam Face-to-Face

Mark Twain wrote, “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.”

Before I go any further, I want to be clear about what this story is and what it isn’t. This isn’t an attempt to explain Islam, defend it, criticize it, or persuade anyone to see it the way I do. It’s simply the story of what happened when curiosity replaced assumptions and real people replaced headlines. It is the story of my lived experience, of my own observations, my questions, and the feelings that formed as I stepped into a culture and faith I once only knew from a distance…Islam. These are my experiences alone, told as honestly as I can tell them.

A quick note on language: Islam or Islamic refer to the religion and its cultural concepts, while Muslim refers specifically to its followers.

Growing up in Warren, Ohio, you don’t get much exposure to Islam. As I sat down to write this, I tried to recall the first time I even heard the word Islam or Muslim. The earliest memory that came to my mind was of Cassius Clay announcing his conversion to the Nation of Islam and taking the name Muhammad Ali. A quick Google search reminded me that happened in March 1964, when I was not yet two years old. Therefore the memory must be my father’s voice, a boxing fan, explaining that the heavyweight champion I knew as Ali had once been someone else.

For most of my life, Islam felt like something distant, only in headlines from far-off places: Anwar Sadat’s assassination, the PLO and the Camp David Accords, names like Golda Meir and Menachem Begin, the countries of Iraq and Iran, Gaza, Palestine, and the West Bank, the Gulf War, ISIS, Al-Qaeda, the Taliban, Sunni and Shiite, and more recently, Hamas. These words, I believed, belonged to the Middle East, not to my Ohio hometown.

My grandmother offered the closest brush with that world. Twice, during my teenage years, she boarded a group tour to “the Holy Land,” traveling alone across cultures she had only read about. She brought back olive-wood carvings and stories of Bethlehem, the Wailing Wall, and floating in the Dead Sea. She spoke of being escorted off a plane in Egypt by armed militia and of walking the Gaza Strip. At the time, the political weight of her journey barely registered. Like many Americans, I remained sheltered, thinking distant conflicts stayed distant.

That illusion cracked in 1991 with the Gulf War and shattered a decade later on September 11, when the unimaginable reached our own soil.

Fast-forward to 2014, when I traded small-town Ohio for Paris, France. I moved into the 18th arrondissement, Montmartre, unaware that La Goutte d’Or, my new neighborhood, held one of the city’s largest Muslim communities. Montmartre quickly became my favorite corner of Paris; I wandered its streets and café-lined squares without giving much thought to the absence of wine glasses in many of the local cafés. I did, however, find myself drawn across the river to the Grande Mosquée de Paris and the Institut du Monde Arabe in the Latin Quarter. This marked my first real visit to a mosque, though I barely understood what I was seeing.

On January 7, 2015, violence shattered that curiosity. Just 4 kilometers (2.5 miles) from my flat, two French-born Algerian brothers stormed the offices of Charlie Hebdo during a weekly editorial meeting, killing twelve and wounding eleven. They claimed allegiance to al-Qaeda, avenging a satirical cartoon of the Prophet Muhammad. Paris fell silent and defiant at once. The next morning I walked to the site, spoke with a silver-haired journalist, who I later discovered was Anderson Cooper, and listened to the stunned city around us. Four days later I joined nearly two million people and dozens of world leaders in a march of unity, Paris carrying both sorrow and defiance.

Life pulled me east after that. In August 2015 I left for China, and the following summer was a month of travel through Tibet, Nepal, and finally the United Arab Emirates. Dubai was my first step into the Middle East and into an openly Islamic nation. I arrived during Ramadan, curious and respectful, watching a city adjust so visitors like me could eat while the majority fasted. For the first time I listened, really listened, to the Adhan, the call to prayer, its cadence settling over the heat-hazed skyline.

By February 2017 I had moved to the small Chinese town of Dong’e, where I discovered a small Lanzhou noodle shop and fell in love with its hand-pulled lamian. Over time it became clear that the owner was Muslim, part of a centuries-old community in northwest China’s Gansu province, where more than a million Muslims live. My map of Islam kept expanding, Paris, Dubai, Dong’e, each place reshaping what the word meant, each encounter revisiting old assumptions.

While living in Dong’e, I seized the chance to visit Xi’an, now China’s second most popular tourist destination. Once the eastern gateway of the Silk Road and home to the Terracotta Army of Emperor Qin Shi Huang, both UNESCO World Heritage sites, the city is also celebrated for its vibrant Muslim Quarter. Around 65,000 Chinese Muslims live and work there, filling Food Street with the scent of rou jia mo (shredded meat in warm pita), smoky lamb skewers, and sweet persimmon cakes. I wandered the quarter’s narrow lanes, pausing at the Great Mosque of Xi’an, first built in 742 and still serene after more than a millennium. Later, while trailing three women through twisting backstreets, I discovered Daxuexi Lane Mosque and, with their laughter and permission, captured their photo.

In an earlier post I mentioned a Paris friend who had moved to Bali and made me promise that I’d visit. She made good on her plan, and in February 2018 I arrived on the island for the first time. I knew most Balinese were Hindu, but I hadn’t realized that the rest of Indonesia is predominantly Muslim…about 80% nationwide. Because roughly 88% of Bali itself is Hindu, my encounters with the Muslim community were brief, mostly over delicious plates at small warungs or tiny street stalls run by Muslim families.

The following January, still recovering from a broken back, I sought sun and rest in Phuket, Thailand. I chose a guesthouse near Surin Beach, its name a nod to dear friends back in Warren, Ohio. I found myself in a largely Muslim neighborhood with two mosques nearby. Thailand is overwhelmingly Buddhist, yet about 5.5% of its people are Muslim. I didn’t learn much about the faith, but each dawn and dusk the call to prayer floated through my window, a reminder of the community around me before I wandered off to the beach.

That same injury had forced me to cancel a Paris trip planned for September 2018, but by May 2019 my cousins Bob and Sally and my friend Teri and I finally made it happen. Flying from China to Paris, I spotted a connection through Doha, Qatar, and arranged a day’s stopover. My timing once again coincided with Ramadan. Qatar’s arid desert spills into the blue of the Persian Gulf, and its capital, Doha, is a startling mix of futuristic skyscrapers and Islamic-inspired architecture. I joined a morning city tour, lingered in the bustling Souq Waqif, and admired the Blue Mosque until I accidentally wandered into the men’s prayer room and was gently and kindly redirected. Later I spent the afternoon exploring the city with Karen, a fellow Warrenite I’d met through a friend. I can’t claim deep insight into Islam from a single day, but I left with a feel for the rhythm of life there.

By February 2020 I had relocated to Warsaw, Poland, a country where nearly nine out of ten people identify as Catholic. I didn’t expect much connection with Islam. Then, in June 2021, a new flatmate arrived: Ali, from Iran. Our paths overlapped only briefly. I left for the summer in Bulgaria and he moved on before I returned, but even that fleeting encounter became another paragraph in the story I was living, one that kept nudging me toward places and people connected to Islam. After Bulgaria, before settling back in Warsaw, I traveled on to Egypt and Morocco, beginning a stretch of experiences that would deepen me in ways I couldn’t yet imagine.

What I didn’t realize then was that my curiosity about the world would slowly take me to a faith and culture I barely knew. It didn’t happen in one defining moment, but in a string of small encounters, unexpected conversations, and people who opened their lives to me with generosity. Each experience nudged me further along a path I didn’t yet understand, but it somehow felt alright, as if the universe kept whispering, keep going.

That whisper followed me first to Egypt where Islamic Cairo and Coptic Cairo lived side by side in a way that felt both ancient and modern. Wandering the narrow streets, I could feel the history, mosques and churches, two worlds living together in a way that made me pay attention. It wasn’t my first brush with faith on my travels but it was the first time I stood closely between two spiritual traditions that many feel are worlds apart, yet I could see how deeply they shaped the people around me, and I began to understand that the distance between them was smaller than the world likes to believe. Just different expressions of a shared faith in something greater.

From Cairo, my journey carried me to my first encounter with Morocco and its people. From the little research I had done, I knew I wanted to visit the Hassan II Mosque. It is the second-largest functioning mosque in Africa and the seventh-largest in the world. With an estimated four million mosques worldwide (as of 2019), being number seven is no small thing. Inside, it can accommodate 25,000 people, with space for another 80,000 worshipers outside. I was absolutely blown away.

I took a guided tour, but to be perfectly honest, I didn’t learn much about the religion itself. While staying in the medina in Marrakech, I listened to the daily calls to prayer and visited the Saadian Tombs and Bahia Palace, but only on a tourist level, without much thought to Islam.

I took side trips to Essaouira, Casablanca, and the Ourika Valley and noticed women wearing hijabs and niqabs. Something I accepted simply as part of the culture, without questions and without answers.

It wouldn’t be until later, after another short trip to Morocco in 2023, and then what was meant to be a three-month stay that somehow stretched into a year plus, that my understanding of Islam began to take a different shape. I have other stories to tell about the moments and people who expanded my understanding before I returned in December 2024. But the clearest turning points didn’t come from monuments or call to prayer drifting through a medina. They came from the people themselves. Each encounter adding a little more depth, a little more truth, to what had once been just distant observation.

One of those turning points came several months before Kelaa, through my next flatmate, Zaka. His family was Muslim They are from Azerbaijan, though he himself wasn’t practicing at the time he became my flatmate. In May 2024, his parents came to visit and stayed with us, and suddenly I found myself welcomed into their world in the most natural, everyday ways. I learned about their culture over shared meals, long conversations translated by Tarlan (another flatmate from Azerbaijan) and Zaka, and time spent in the kitchen with his mother. Who patiently shared her recipes and, more importantly, explained why she chose to wear a hijab. It was the first time I had been able to ask real questions, not as a tourist or an outsider, but as a guest invited to understand.

As she spoke to Zaka, who translated for me, she explained that the reasons women wear a hijab, a scarf that covers the head and hair, can come from many places: personal belief, family tradition, culture, or religion. She wore her hijab whenever men outside her immediate family were present, so when it was just the two of us at home, she often didn’t have it on. But since our other flatmate, Tarlan, wasn’t part of her immediate family, she wore it whenever he was around, even if her husband or Zaka were the only others there.

She told me it was a sign of respect for her husband. Hair, she said, is often seen as something beautiful, something meant only for him to see. She also shared that some women choose to wear a niqab, where only the eyes show, or a burqa, which covers the entire body and face with a mesh screen over the eyes. And she emphasized that in most Islamic communities, what a woman chooses to wear, or not wear, is ultimately her decision. Many Muslim women leave their head and hair uncovered altogether.

Looking back now, I can see that Warsaw was a bridge. My brief friendship with Ali and later the generosity of Zaka’s family didn’t suddenly answer my questions about Islam, but they changed the way I asked them. Somewhere along the way, strangers became friends, and “Muslims” became people with names, families, traditions, laughter, and everyday lives.

Then came Morocco.

When I finally left Morocco after more than a year, I realized the greatest lessons I carried away had very little to do with religion itself. They were about hospitality, generosity, family, patience, and the willingness to open a door to someone who arrived knowing almost nothing. I fasted during Ramadan, celebrated Eid with friends, shared countless meals, asked uncomfortable questions, and was trusted with honest answers. I didn’t leave Morocco as an expert on Islam, far from it. But I left with something much more valuable: the understanding that no faith, culture, or group of people can be understood through headlines, politics, or social media alone.

Today I live in Kenya, where I still hear the call to prayer from time to time and still meet Muslims in my daily life. But Morocco changed the way I see those moments. What once sounded foreign, the call to prayer, now seems as ordinary as the church bells I grew up hearing in small-town Ohio.

If travel has taught me anything, it’s this: people are almost never as simple as the stories we tell about them from a distance. Every country I’ve called home has challenged something I thought I knew. Morocco challenged one of my oldest assumptions. It reminded me that understanding doesn’t always begin with agreement; it begins with listening, asking respectful questions, and allowing people to tell their own stories.

Perhaps that’s what Mark Twain meant all along. Travel doesn’t tell us what to think. It simply reminds us that no headline, no stereotype, and no opinion can ever compete with meeting people face-to-face.

Laikipia Wildlife Forum – Protecting Wildlife Through Collaboration

When most people think of wildlife conservation in Kenya, they picture elephants, lions, and rhinos roaming vast protected areas. What they often don’t see is the complex network of organizations, communities, landowners, researchers, and conservationists working behind the scenes to ensure that people and wildlife can coexist. That’s where the Laikipia Wildlife Forum (LWF) comes in.

Founded in 1992, LWF is a membership-based organization that brings together private conservancies, community conservancies, ranches, tourism operators, researchers, and local communities across Laikipia County. Its mission is to promote the sustainable conservation of wildlife and natural resources while supporting the livelihoods of the people who share the landscape with that wildlife.

As a volunteer with LWF, I’ve quickly learned that conservation is about far more than protecting animals. It’s about water resources, land management, community engagement, education, conflict mitigation, and creating solutions that benefit both people and wildlife. Laikipia Wildlife Forum’s work spans several key areas of focus, including wildlife conservation, water resource management, sustainable tourism, rangeland management, conservation education, and land-use planning. Together, these efforts support a balanced approach to protecting biodiversity while promoting sustainable livelihoods for local communities. Every meeting, field visit, and conversation has revealed another layer of the challenges and opportunities that come with managing one of Kenya’s most important ecosystems.

My first field visit was to Nkandone Comprehensive School on World Environment Day, where I joined their Adopt-a-Tree program in partnership with LWF. Each learner is assigned a tree that they are responsible for nurturing, watering, weeding, and caring for it as it grows. The idea is simple but powerful: the tree becomes theirs. Hopefully, years later, they can return to the school and proudly show their family ‘their’ tree.

Laikipia Wildlife Forum has found the Adopt-a-Tree program to be highly successful, with around 70% of trees surviving their first year. When learners understand that the responsibility rests with them, they take real ownership of the project, and that sense of accountability is what makes the initiative so effective.

During my volunteer experience, I’ve had the opportunity to learn from conservation professionals and partner organizations, beginning with Soil-Carbon Certification Services (SCCS), where I was introduced to the concept of carbon credits. I learned how changes in land management such as improved grazing practices, tree planting, restoration, and better soil stewardship can increase the amount of carbon stored in soils. These gains can then be measured and verified, allowing landowners and communities to potentially earn income or services through carbon markets while also supporting climate change mitigation and ecosystem restoration.

Next, I was fortunate to sit in on a meeting with Space for Giants. The focus was on human–elephant conflict in Laikipia County, with particular attention to Shamanek Forest. One of the most surprising things I learned was just how significant Laikipia is in Kenya’s conservation landscape. I had no idea that this county is home to Kenya’s second-largest elephant population. The landscape supports an extraordinary diversity of wildlife while also being home to pastoral communities, farmers, ranchers, and growing towns. Balancing these competing needs is no small task, yet it sits at the heart of the work being done by organizations like Laikipia Wildlife Forum.

A few blocks from my house, elephants taking a late night walk down a main street. Example of human-elephant conflict.

One memorable example discussed was a well-known bull elephant named Naledi, who is often reported raiding crops in surrounding areas, an illustration of the very real challenges of coexistence between wildlife and people living on the same land.

I was also introduced to EarthRanger, a real-time wildlife monitoring system that tracks the movement of collared animals, including elephants like Naledi. Tools like this help conservation teams better understand movement patterns, identify conflict hotspots, and respond more quickly to incidents. In Naledi’s case, monitoring data has shown how he moves between protected areas such as Ol Pejeta, sometimes gathering younger bulls and leading them toward farms. These insights that are crucial for developing strategies to reduce crop raiding and improve coexistence.

These experiences have given me a much deeper appreciation for how much collaboration is required to protect wildlife corridors, reduce human–wildlife conflict, strengthen community conservation efforts, and ensure that future generations can continue to benefit from Kenya’s natural heritage.

After learning about the large-scale conservation efforts taking place across Laikipia, I quickly realized that protecting wildlife isn’t just happening in boardrooms, conservancies, and community meetings. It is also taking root in classrooms. One of the most encouraging aspects of my time with Laikipia Wildlife Forum has been seeing the investment being made in young people through environmental and conservation clubs in local schools. These programs help students develop a deeper understanding of the natural world around them while empowering them to become future conservation leaders. Over the past weeks, I have had the opportunity to visit schools including St. Moses Conservation Club and Brookwell Harmony School, where I witnessed firsthand the enthusiasm, creativity, and commitment of students who are already making a difference in their communities. Their passion offers hope that the future of conservation in Laikipia is in capable hands.

Along with my colleagues from Laikipia Wildlife Forum, I visited St. Moses Primary School and its Environmental and Conservation Club for a day of learning, conservation-themed games, and celebration. We spoke with the students about the importance of creating “green schools”…campuses that promote environmental stewardship through activities such as tree planting, waste reduction, recycling, and conservation education.

The highlight of the visit was recognizing three outstanding students who were among the winners of the annual Environmental Awareness Competition organized by the African Fund for Endangered Wildlife (AFEW) and the Giraffe Centre in Nairobi. The competition encourages young people across Kenya to learn about wildlife conservation and environmental protection while expressing their knowledge through art, writing, and other creative projects.

This year, 301 students from across Kenya were recognized as winners. Of those, an impressive 17 came from schools in Nanyuki, demonstrating the region’s strong commitment to environmental education. St. Moses Primary School achieved an especially remarkable distinction, placing third nationally among participating schools. One of its students earned first place in Kenya in the Junior Secondary School Art category, while two additional students were also recognized among the competition’s winners.

The achievement shows not only the dedication and creativity of the students, but also the commitment of their teachers, school leadership, parents, and conservation partners who continue to nurture environmental awareness among young people. Seeing the pride on the students’ faces was a reminder that conservation is not only about protecting wildlife today It is about inspiring the next generation to become stewards of the natural world.

Congratulations to St. Moses Primary School, the winning students, their teachers, and all the schools in Nanyuki that participated. Your efforts are helping to build a future where both people and wildlife can thrive.

Over the past week plus, I have had the opportunity to spend time at Brookwell Harmony School, primarily with the PP1 class…the four-year-olds. If you’ve never spent a day with 79 preschoolers, let me assure you, they can generate an incredible amount of energy and noise!

One morning we worked on writing simple sentences: “This is a girl.” “This is a boy.” “This is a bag.” “This is a mat.” After the lessons, we sang, danced, and had plenty of fun. They definitely wore me out, but it was worth every minute. It was also assessment week, which means even these young learners were preparing for exams. Knowing they would soon be expected to sit quietly, focus, and do their best, it felt good to give them a chance to laugh, move, and simply be four years old. The remarkable thing is how quickly they transition. After all the excitement, when their teachers ask them to sit and listen, they do.

While most of my time has been spent in the PP1 classroom, I have had the opportunity to interact with students and staff throughout the school. Every Monday begins with an assembly where the flag is raised, announcements are shared, and the Scout troop takes the lead. There is a strong sense of community and pride that is evident from the moment the school day begins.

I have also come to appreciate the many people who work behind the scenes to make a school run. The kitchen staff prepare meals for hundreds of learners each day, and their work is every bit as important as what happens in the classroom. They are among the many unsung heroes who help create an environment where children can learn and thrive.

One thing that has particularly impressed me is how well the students care for their campus and their knowledge of the natural world around them. Environmental awareness isn’t simply taught as a lesson; it appears to be an integral part of the schools’s culture.

Most of all, I have been inspired by the two PP1 teachers I work alongside each day. Teaching four-year-olds requires endless patience, creativity, and energy, and they bring all of those qualities to the classroom. The love they have for their learners and their passion for their profession are evident in everything they do. Watching them interact with the children has been a reminder that some of the most important work in the world happens in classrooms, one young learner at a time.

My time at Brookwell has been filled with laughter, learning, and a renewed appreciation for the educators who help shape the next generation. The children may leave me exhausted at the end of the day, but they also leave me smiling.

It’s currently mid-term break, so I’m not at the schools, but I did learn about something really special that happened recently. This is the competition I mentioned earlier in the post, and it was also the prize awarded to the learners. With support from LWF, learners were taken to Nairobi where 18 students from schools across Laikipia, Meru, and Nyeri were recognised at the Kenya School of Law as conservation champions through the AFEW Kenya Giraffe Centre Environmental Awareness Competition.

Through art and essays on partnerships in conservation, these students showed a deep understanding of how people, wildlife, and habitats are all connected. It’s inspiring to see young learners stepping into these roles as thinkers and changemakers.

They also visited the Giraffe Centre for a hands-on experience and took part in interactive conservation learning activities. It’s a great example of how impactful conservation education can be when it goes beyond the classroom.

Looking back on my first weeks with Laikipia Wildlife Forum, one thing has become clear: conservation is about far more than protecting wildlife. It is about partnerships. It is communities and conservation organizations working together. It is teachers inspiring curiosity, students finding their voices, and young people learning that they have a role to play in protecting the world around them.

Whether I was sitting in meetings discussing human-elephant conflict, celebrating student conservation champions, or helping four-year-olds write their first sentences, I kept seeing the bigger picture. Conservation is built one relationship, one lesson, and one opportunity at a time. Wildlife conservation does not begin when a ranger steps into the field. It begins when a child plants a tree, learns the value of a giraffe or an elephant, and understands that the future of both wildlife and people are connected.

I am grateful for the opportunity to learn from the dedicated staff of Laikipia Wildlife Forum, the educators who shape young minds every day, and the students whose enthusiasm gives me hope for what lies ahead. I look forward to continuing this journey, strengthening these partnerships, and discovering more of the remarkable work being done across Laikipia to ensure that both people and wildlife can thrive together.

Because in the end, the future of conservation may not rest in the hands of the people teaching today’s lessons, but in the hands of the children listening.

The Road to Baragoi – Places Most People Never See – Part One

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.

Between Care and Wildness – A Glimpse Into the Mount Kenya Animal Orphanage

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.

An “Accidental” Wendy and her “Lost Boys” – Kelaa Edition

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.

Mermaids, Aliens, and “the” Ohio State – A Month in Nanyuki

At Nanyuki DEB Primary School, the classrooms may not have the newest technology or the fanciest buildings, but they have something far more powerful…curiosity. Sometimes the best conversations start with the most unexpected questions. In one classroom in Nanyuki, Kenya, a group of ten and eleven year olds wanted to know if I believed in mermaids. A moment later someone asked about Area 51, aliens, and whether dragons are real. Another student wanted to know if I had ever seen Ohio State University. And then, just as quickly, the questions turned deeper: Why do people die? Why do we have different skin colors? They spoke about the challenges young people face growing up in Kenya today. And in the very next breath, someone asked if, when traveling by plane, I had ever seen the end of a rainbow.

Sitting in those classrooms at Nanyuki DEB School, I realized this wasn’t just a visit to a school. It was a window into the curiosity, imagination, and very real concerns of the young people growing up here. A reminder that classrooms everywhere are filled with the same thing, young minds trying to understand the world.

After those questions, the lesson continued. The classrooms are full, desks are shared, and with limited resources, I found myself at the front of the room, chalk in hand, writing on a cracked blackboard. Their voices echoed back in unison, repeating each sentence I had written.

Maybe it’s because I am a visitor, a white woman from the USA, but the eagerness here doesn’t feel limited at all. Hands shoot up quickly. Students lean forward, laugh easily, smile often. They want to know. They want to understand. They want to trace the lines of my tattoos and hear the stories behind them. They reach for my hair, commenting on how “soft” it is. Their curiosity isn’t just about the lesson…it’s about the world beyond it, and about me as a small piece of that world.

It doesn’t remind me of classrooms back home, filled with the latest technology. I haven’t seen a copy machine here, or a computer, or a PowerPoint projector, things that felt standard even in rural China. In many ways, it couldn’t be more different. And yet, the one thing that carries across every border, every language, every system is that same curiosity I saw in those first questions. And a smile really is a universal language.

One thing that did surprise me is that, aside from Kiswahili lessons, subjects like math, science, and agriculture are all taught in English. It’s a reminder of how much language shapes access and opportunity.

Over the years of teaching English in different parts of the world, I’ve learned that what matters most isn’t technology or perfectly planned lessons. It’s your time. A nonjudgmental ear. A kind smile. If you take the time to listen, really listen, not just to respond, the young people will meet you there. They will engage. They will share. And more often than not, they will teach you far more than you ever expected to teach them.

For many families in Kenya, especially those living in remote areas or in deep poverty, access to healthcare is not a given. It’s a challenge. The cost of transportation alone can be enough to keep people from ever reaching a clinic. In those cases, families often turn first to traditional healers within their communities for answers and care.

Adding to that reality are deeply rooted beliefs and widespread stigma surrounding disability. This is not unique to Kenya. It exists in many parts of the world, but here it can be especially visible. Some still believe that disabilities are caused by curses, witchcraft, evil spirits, or even wrongdoing within a family. These beliefs don’t just exist in theory; they shape how children are treated. Some are hidden away. Some are neglected, abandoned, or abused. And in the most heartbreaking cases, some are not allowed to live beyond birth.

Organizations like Sang’ida Foundation are working to change that narrative. As described by the Climate Justice Resilience Fund, Sang’ida is a women-led organization advocating for the rights of children with disabilities, their mothers, and primary caregivers in pastoralist communities across Laikipia County. Founded by a mother raising a child with disabilities, it was born out of a need to challenge harmful cultural norms and create space for inclusion, dignity, and care. In a region already facing drought, human-wildlife conflict, and environmental strain, their work ensures that those most often left behind are not forgotten.

Alongside my time at the primary school, I have visited the Sang’ida Safe House twice. There, I met children whose lives look nothing like a typical classroom experience. Many have been abandoned or hidden away because of severe disabilities. Children who, in some cases, were never given the chance to simply be seen.

We painted together, at least those who were able. There weren’t many words, but there didn’t need to be. The connection came through color, through presence, through sitting side by side under the shade of a tree. Everyone was included. Even those who couldn’t participate in the painting were part of the moment. Just by being there, just by being seen.

And then there is Furaha Foundation, where a different kind of story unfolds.

The foundation provides a home for children between the ages of two and fourteen, while also continuing to support others who have been reintegrated back into their families and communities. Many of the children who arrive here come from difficult circumstances like loss, instability, or situations where care and protection were no longer guaranteed. Factors like poverty, illness, family breakdown, and the lasting effects of HIV/AIDS have left some without the consistent support every child deserves.

Furaha’s vision is to create a space where these children are not only safe, but nurtured. Where they have access to education, counseling, and the opportunity to grow up with the same sense of possibility as any other child.

What I saw there were young people living together, not just surviving, but building something that felt like a family.

During my visit, some of them were gathered around open fires, making chapati for the week ahead. There was laughter, teamwork, a rhythm to it all. They handed me a warm piece, fresh off the fire, and for a moment I wasn’t an outsider observing. I was simply included.

Nearby, others sat quietly reading, or talking and laughing in small groups. Nothing about it felt forced. It felt lived-in. It felt real.

And maybe that’s what stayed with me most. Not just the structure of the place, or even the mission behind it, but the feeling of it. In a space born out of hardship, there was still joy. Still connection. Still something that looked a lot like home. Which, by the way, the word Furaha in Kiswahili means joy and standing there, it felt like exactly the right name.

As I reflect on this first month in Nanyuki, I keep coming back to that word in different forms. In the curiosity-filled classrooms of the primary school. In the quiet presence at Sang’ida. In the laughter around an open fire at Furaha. Different places, different stories, different realities, but all connected by something deeply human. A desire to be seen. To be understood. To belong. And in each of these spaces, in their own way, I’ve been reminded that even in the most unexpected places, joy finds a way to exist and to be shared.

A Seat in the Circle – An Unexpected International Women’s Day

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.

Agnes Ngeno, center, signing the document

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.

Everywhere, the Same Heartbeat

From Asia to Europe to Africa to small-town America, I’ve seen how different our worlds appear and how alike we truly are. We may cook different meals, pray in different ways, or celebrate under different stars, but what we seek, the connection, the comfort, the laughter is the same. Wherever I go, I find the same joy in gathering, sharing, and belonging. Proof that people are far more alike than different, no matter how far from home we roam.

Sometimes the world feels impossibly vast. It is a mosaic of languages, a myriad of landscapes, and a multitude of traditions. Yet, the further I wander, the smaller it becomes. I felt it in Paris, where café tables held laughter and conversation that was music to my ears even when I didn’t understand all the words. I felt it in Xiashan, that small rural village in China, where I met a girl from my hometown in Ohio. I felt it in Warsaw with the never-ending rotation of flat mates who became like family. It followed me to Bulgaria where I reunited with young people I met nearly twenty years ago. And now, I feel it again here in Morocco.

Everywhere I’ve gone, I’ve been reminded of something that was painted on a classroom building at a school where I volunteered in Bali: Allow differences, respect differences, until differences are no longer different. Those words have followed me across the continents, from cobblestoned streets in Europe to the sand dunes of Morocco, all whispering the same truth as Indonesia’s national motto, Bhinneka Tunggal Ika – Unity in Diversity.

Maybe that’s why travel still feels a bit like Neverland to me. I don’t mean the place where I refuse to grow up, but that state of wonder that doesn’t fade. It’s a way of seeing the world with open eyes and an open heart. Its finding familiar in the foreign. The music changes, the spices taste different, the languages take on new rhythms. But I’m in a world that keeps reminding me to believe in a little magic.

Here in Kelaa, Morocco, I was invited to a wedding. All I knew about Moroccan wedding celebrations was they often start late in the evening and finish at dawn. I also knew I would need a special caftan. Luckily, one of my friends from the school and a relative of the groom, scouted caftans for me and sent photos. All I had to do was go pick it up and pay the rental fee of 100 dirham (10 euro). This includes laundry service. The other amazing thing? They simply placed the caftan in a bag, handed it to me, and off I went. No ID, no paperwork. But I’ve been in Kelaa long enough to know they could easily find me if I didn’t return it.

I was told by Khadija, my caftan finder, that we would go to the wedding around 21:30. As I was getting dressed, I realized I had no idea how to fasten the belt. Fortunately my downstairs neighbor who is my landlord, sent his wife up to help. When Khadija arrived she told me I needed more eye makeup. She had gifted me an Amazigh wooden applicator with homemade kohl which is a black powder consisting of sulfur, malachite, galena and animal fats. I had no idea how to put it on, so she applied it to my eyes and we set off for the wedding a little after 22:00.

When we arrived we were offered a shot of milk in a small silver cup and a date. This symbolizes wishes for a sweet, pure, and prosperous life. By the time we arrived, we had missed the Amariya procession where the couple makes their entrance on elevated platforms called amariyas, carried by the attendants. This symbolizes their elevated status as king and queen for the night. The bride is attended by a negafa, who helps her with up to seven outfit changes, each representing a different region of Morocco.

Stepping into the wedding was like stepping into a living kaleidoscope. The female guests were dressed in brilliant caftans in every shade of the rainbow. The room was filled with pulsing music and women dancing. The men lingered mostly outside chatting, until the baskets of khobz (round Moroccan bread) and plates of roasted chicken started arriving. They quickly made their way to the tables.

I sat there surrounded by people I didn’t know (Khadija was at another table) and whose words I couldn’t understand. As I looked around, I realized how much I did understand…the common language of joy, a shared meal, and laughter. A community gathered to celebrate something beautiful. It wasn’t so different from weddings back home in the USA. It was families crowded around tables, friends leaning close to talk over the music, and generations joining together in laughter. The songs and traditions were different, but the sentiment was the same…love, belonging, and the simple happiness of being together.

Several days after the wedding I had the opportunity to experience the final day of the four-day Tbourida with some Moroccan friends. Tbourida is a Moroccan equestrian performance dating back to the sixteenth century. It simulates a succession of military parades reconstructed according to ancestral Arab-Amazigh rituals. Riders in their tribal costumes charge toward the crowd, the men fire antique rifles into the air as the horses stop just in front of the crowd. The Tbourida in 2021 was placed on the UNESCO list of Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity.

After watching the horses race down the field, we wandered in search of something to eat. We ended up under a small tent where a man was frying sfenj or Moroccan donuts, golden and crisp. We ordered a basket, along with a few hard-boiled eggs, and I soon learned the local trick of smashing the donut into a “boat,” nestle the egg inside, and eat it like a breakfast sandwich. Some women brought us steaming mint tea, and we settled in for what turned out to be a most unexpected yet delightful repas.

Afterward, we drifted through rows of stalls with trinkets and jewelry shiny in the afternoon sun, piles of herbs and spices perfuming the air, and t-shirts swaying in the breeze. We stopped again to watch the next round of riders, their synchronized charge racing down the field. While we stood there, a young boy approached shyly, greeted me in English, and shook my hand as his friends giggled nearby. My friends explained he’d been dared to do it. Just behind me, a man was spinning clouds of pink cotton candy. We ended up buying half a dozen sticks for the boys…a sweet reward for bravery.

As we made our way back to the car, it struck me how familiar it all felt. Between the dust in the air, the scent of horses and hay, and the laughter of children, I could have been back at the Trumbull County Fair in Ohio. Not in appearance, but in essence. The hum of the crowd, the shared delight in simple pleasures like popcorn, cotton candy, and plastic toys that might not last the day but would certainly be loved for the moment. Whether in Morocco or middle America, people gather for the same reason: to belong, to laugh, and to share joy together. The details changed, but the heartbeat was the same.

Beyond the grand celebrations, it’s the smaller rituals that reveal our shared humanity most clearly. In the local hammam, the communal bathhouse, women gather not just to cleanse, but to connect. They talk, tease, share family stories, and laugh in the steamy warmth.

It reminds me of women’s spa days back home, or long lunches that stretch lazily into afternoon. It’s the same comfort of friendship, the same release of laughter that only comes when you’re surrounded by people who understand you.

Across the world, I’ve found this rhythm in a thousand different forms…over wine in a Paris café, in a Warsaw market, sharing dumplings in China, or at a diner in small-town Ohio. The settings change, but the essence remains unchanged. People coming together to share the simplest and richest parts of life.

After so many places, I’ve stopped searching for the line that separates different from same. In Morocco, at a wedding, laughter floated around tables just like it does at family gatherings back home. At the Tbourida, families cheered while children ran past, sticky-fingered with cotton candy…the same sweetness I remember from summer fairs in Ohio. In Europe, too, I’ve felt it at Sunday picnics along the Seine, in the playful banter of summer camp in Bulgaria, and in the quiet joy of people simply being together.

The settings change, the music, the colors, the customs, but the feeling doesn’t. Everywhere, people want the same simple things: good food, good company, and a place that feels like home. I used to think home was a point on a map, but I’ve learned it’s something more like a familiar heartbeat I recognize wherever kindness and connection live.

Maybe that’s the quiet truth I keep chasing. Unity doesn’t erase difference; it celebrates it. The magic isn’t only in faraway places, but in the way every place holds a reflection of home. The more I travel, the more I understand that the world’s beauty doesn’t lie in how different we are, but in how familiar we can feel, even in the most unfamiliar places.

The world isn’t as divided as it looks. Maybe, if we allow and respect our differences long enough, we’ll start to see they were bridges all along. Maybe that’s the true magic of this Neverland of mine, discovering that no matter how far we wander, the heartbeat of home echoes everywhere.

Allow differences, respect differences, until differences are no longer different.

Letters I’ll Never Send – to the people, places, and moments I left a piece of myself

Some stories don’t need an audience. Some goodbyes don’t need to be spoken. And some letters, the ones that write themselves in my head on quiet nights, whispered through thoughts and dreams, are meant only to remind me how deeply I’ve lived.

These are mine. Letters I’ll never send! To the people, places, and moments that shaped me; to the corners of the world that taught me what home can mean.

Dear Warren, Ohio,

I may have started life in Fort Meade, Maryland, but you were the beginning. The backdrop of a small town with the sound of trains that made me dream of elsewhere.

You raised me knowing to go home when the streetlights came on. You gave me an education which made me curious, with a longing to wander, and a family whose love traveled with me long after I boarded my first plane. Even now, no matter how far I go, your streetlights glow in my memory. AND one day, I will come home.

Dear Mom and Dad,

You named me Wendy. A name borrowed from imagination and given to a girl who would one day learn to fly.

You filled my world with books, maps, and National Geographic magazines that made the globe feel both infinite and reachable. You were my first teachers: parents, providers of wisdom, and permissive provocateurs who never clipped my wings, even when you worried where they might take me. Thank you for the gift of curiosity. It became the passport to everything I’ve ever loved.

Dear Mark,

You’ve always been my biggest cheerleader and my best friend.

From the start, you believed in every wild idea I chased, even when it meant watching me disappear across oceans. You reminded me where I came from, kept the laughter alive in the spaces between our worlds, and never let distance dull our bond. No matter how far I roam, knowing you’re in my corner makes every place feel a little more like home.

Dear Tom,

You were the love that taught me how deep connection can go and how fragile timing can be.

We dreamed together once, of places and possibilities, and though the road eventually led me away, part of me was always tracing those dreams we never took. You were both anchor and catalyst. The ache that became my compass. I’ve carried you quietly across continents, tucked between journal pages and border stamps. Maybe love doesn’t have to last to leave a mark. Maybe it just has to open a door.

Dear Paris,

You were my first dream, my leap across the pond, and my first step into the unknown.

You taught me how to take care of myself when everything felt foreign. I arrived with a suitcase and an open mind, and left with stories and a desire to share my Paris with anyone who would listen or travel with me. You showed me beauty, history, the thrill of discovery and somehow, I fall more in love with you each time I return.

Dear Julie,

You were the girl behind the counter at the corner café in Montmartre. The one who always remembered how I liked my coffee in the morning and poured my wine the moment you spotted me walking down the street toward Café Chappe at night. You always had a dining recommendation, and it was always the right choice.

Between my tiny cups of espresso and glasses of rosé, we shared our dreams. Yours was Bali.

I still remember the sparkle in your eyes when you made me promise that if you ever made it there, I would visit. And I did. You kept your promise to yourself, and I found my way to Bali. Then, because of the family I met there during my visit to you, I found my way back again.

Dear China,

You were my test and my teacher and sometimes, you were tough. I laughed. I cried. I stumbled through tones and translations, but learned that kindness doesn’t need a dictionary. I was frustrated at times and decided you were the place I loved to hate, yet hated to love.

From shared taxis to last-minute dinners I couldn’t refuse because someone would “lose face,” to students and friends who became like family. You taught me that humanity has its own universal accent. I still carry your chaos. And, dear Xiashan, I will always consider you my home in the Middle Kingdom.

And because I can’t choose one, to all the Alinas, Alices, Rabbies, Peters, Pauls, and all the Chinese names I can’t remember, you made me fall in love with your country, your culture, and your people. You turned six months into four years and gave me an inside look at a nation that, until recently, had only begun to open its doors to foreigners.

You gave me a language written in characters instead of letters, words and numbers I still recall today, a love of real Chinese food, and a lifelong appreciation for your history. And though personal space was never your strong suit, you filled every inch of my life with color, laughter, and unforgettable stories. I am forever grateful for the time I spent with all of you.

Dear Bali,

You were the soft landing after the chaos of China.

You wrapped me in sunlight, incense, love, and sea salt. You reminded me that healing can be found in water, laughter, family, prayer, meditation, and the mystical ways of the Balian, Cok Rai, the healer who felt what I couldn’t explain. In your temples and in your hearts, I learned how to breathe again…deeply, gratefully, without hurry.

I discovered the joy of simple things: the sound of wind chimes over rice fields, the gamelan at the temple, the call of the gecko, and the sweet scent of frangipani that will never leave me.

Dear Ketut, Koming, Kirana, and Kiera,

You were truly my Balinese family. I fell in love with you on my first visit to Peliatan, near Ubud. You welcomed me as if I had always belonged. You invited me into your home, your rituals, your laughter, your lives.

You included me in daily offerings and temple ceremonies, took me to a Balinese wedding, and before I left, invited me back to participate in Ketut’s mother’s Ngaben, the sacred cremation ceremony. I returned, and you welcomed me not as a guest but as family.

When I left again, I knew I would return, not for days or weeks, but for months. During that time, I learned so much about Balinese culture, but more than anything, you taught me the meaning of belonging.

When I finally had to leave for the U.S., you made me promise to come back. I planned to return in May 2020, but the world stopped turning, and I couldn’t get there. You even planned a surprise for me at the airport: the new addition to your family, little Kinara.

You will always be Bali to me.

Dear Poland,

I arrived just before the world stopped turning. You became my shelter in uncertain times. I was grateful to spend the pandemic within your borders. I went from face-to-face English lessons to online sessions and found unexpected connection through a screen.

I lived in the heart of your capital, where a never-ending rotation of international flatmates kept life interesting, and human, during a time when the world felt paused. Through those encounters, I built deep friendships that carried me through the quiet months.

More than anything, you gave me a new respect for your country and your people. For the way you endured, rebuilt, and kept moving forward no matter how heavy the history or how long the winter.

Poland, thank you for showing me the meaning of resilience.

Dear Valeria, Zeka, Anu, Anil, Tarlan, and Klara,

In the revolving door of flatmates, you are the ones who stayed nearest and dearest. I can’t imagine my life in Warsaw without you in it.

Valeria, the broken tub bonded our friendship as tightly as the repair job on the hole you made.

Anu and Anil, celebrating Nepalese holidays with you and your friends brought such light into the long winters, and I’ll never forget the joy I felt when your son was born.

Zeka, Tarlan, and Klara, what can I say? We had some mad Friday nights. Cocktails, Frank Sinatra and Elvis on the turntable, friends over for those ridiculous games, like Cards Against Humanity, laughter echoing through the flat long after the music stopped and you headed to the club and I headed to bed.

I probably wouldn’t have stayed nearly five years if it hadn’t been for all of you.

Dear Bulgaria,

Your chapter started more than twenty years ago, when four teenagers from Gabrovo came to Warren, Ohio. No matter how often you say, I’ll come see you someday, it rarely happens when decades and oceans lie between.

When I was living in Poland, I received an offer to teach English at Zenira Camp on the Black Sea. It was an unexpected door to my past and a chance to fulfill a long-kept promise to visit those four young people from Bulgaria.

Not only did you reunite me with the teenagers who were now in their thirties by the time I made the trip, but you also gave me a new cast of characters through Zenira Camp and four unforgettable summers on the Black Sea.

You gave me the gift of return and reminded me that some stories really do come full circle.

Dear Hristian, Tony, Pako (Pavel), and Yani,

Our chapter began more than twenty years ago in Warren, Ohio, when I met four teenagers from Gabrovo, Bulgaria, who stole my heart.

Pako, having you live with me and Tom may have been a precursor to why I’m so drawn to homestays. It’s the best way to immerse yourself in a culture.

Hristian, you always made me laugh and still do to this day.

Tony and Yani, so young, sweet, and innocent back then, and now married with children of your own.

I can’t tell you how much it meant to reconnect with all of you after more than two decades. To see you again in your home country (even though two of you no longer live there), to meet your families, and to have you share your Bulgaria with me.

Seeing you all again was proof that time may pass, but love and laughter never fade.

Dear Tanzania,

You were another dream come true. You were my reminder of wonder.

As a little girl, I didn’t dream of sugarplums; I dreamed of epic sunsets behind massive acacia trees while giraffes and zebras wandered the plains. From your rock-strewn earth to your wide-open sky, you gave me awe. The endless stretch of the Serengeti left me breathless. I saw lions asleep beneath acacia trees, the great migration of wildebeest, and a horizon that felt infinite.

I remember the laughter of my small students who found joy in everything, the rhythm and vivid color of the Maasai market, and the sunsets that made time disappear. You reminded me that joy lives in the simple things and that gratitude can be spoken with a smile alone.

Dear Bright English Medium School,

I lived with you at the school. It was a forty-minute walk from the nearest town, if you could even call it that. I sometimes felt guilty eating my chapati, pasta, meat stew, and fresh fruit while you ate porridge for breakfast and rice and beans for lunch and dinner every single day. But I learned that gratitude is often served through food, and I have never met a more thankful group of children.

You were grateful for every moment we spent together. Whether it was chasing a battered water jug across the dusty field and kicking it into a lone soccer goal, or singing songs while keeping rhythm on an overturned pail. We didn’t always have electricity. I took bucket showers with water heated over a wood fire and washed my clothes by hand, hanging them to dry in the Tanzanian sun.

Thank you for showing me so much love, for reminding me that joy doesn’t come from having much, but from cherishing what you have. You gave me one of the most heartwarming experiences of my life and a forever home in my heart.

Dear Morocco,

Our story isn’t over yet. You were never part of my long-term plan, but somehow you became home.

I came for what I thought would be three months, a brief stay, a new adventure. Then I arrived in Kelaa, still recovering from an ear infection, and somehow you wouldn’t let me go. I stayed. I taught. And when another injury and uncertainty found me again, you turned healing into belonging.

I’ll never forget the stillness and silence of the Sahara or the nights in Kelaa when the call to prayer floated through the air and I realized I was exactly where I was meant to be.

Like I said, our story isn’t over yet. But when this chapter does end, know that it was one of the most unexpected and beautiful of them all. A reminder that sometimes the places we never planned to go become the ones that affect us most.

Dear People of Morocco,

Because this chapter isn’t over yet, I’ll save my unsent letter for another time. But if I were to write them now, there would be too many to count.

I could fill pages with stories of shared coffee and tea, of strangers who showed kindness before they knew my name. I could write to the shopkeepers, the desert nomads, the children who shouted greetings while they kicked their soccer ball, and the friends who refused to let me leave until I ate more.

There are so many people, places, and moments that deserve their own letter, enough, perhaps, for a book all their own. For now, I’ll just say thank you for your warmth, your patience, and your endless capacity to make a foreigner feel at home.

PS: And so, for now, I’ll leave this last letter unwritten…

Some letters aren’t meant to arrive. They just need to be written. And with this one unfinished, I don’t know where the next postcard from the edge will come from, or who will become my next Dear So-and-So. But I can feel Kenya calling. It will be another story waiting, another letter unwritten. There are so many people, not only from the road but from home, to whom I could write a thousand letters, but know this: every one of them is already written on my heart. Maybe that’s how I dream by writing letters never sent, to people, places, and moments that made my life a living map of love.

Where the Path Still Breathes – Standing in Paris’ Forgotten Zoo

About an hour’s bus ride from central Paris, on the far edge of the city sits Chateau de Vincennes. What began in the 12^th century as a royal hunting lodge became, over centuries, a fortress fit for Charles V, and later a prison that held notables like the Marquis de Sade and Mirabeau. The chateau sits against the Bois de Vincennes. A little-known forest at the city’s edge.

I had visited the chateau before but never wandered into the forest itself. Tucked in one corner lies the Jardin d’Agronomie Tropicale. First created in 1899 as a research garden with greenhouses for cultivating colonial crops, the garden’s primary function was to test whether tropical and non-native plants and crops like coffee, vanilla, cacao, and banana could be grown in France. It was later transformed, in 1907, into a grand Colonial Exhibition. Afterward, it served briefly as a military hospital during WWI, then as research grounds, before slipping into neglect. When the city of Paris acquired it in 2003, the garden was reopened to the public in 2006, its overgrown ruins and monuments left as quiet witnesses to France’s colonial past.

Among the faded gateways and pavilions lingers a darker chapter, one many visitors may not know. In 1907, the garden also held a human zoo. People from the colonies were brought here and displayed in fabricated “villages” turned into living exhibits for curious crowds.

In April, my friend Cathy joined me in Paris. That day, I didn’t tell her where we were going. I wanted her to feel the full weight of the discovery. We boarded a bus to Nogent-sur-Marne and stepped off in an almost forgotten corner of the city. When we arrived the park was nearly deserted. No children’s laughter, no footsteps crunching on gravel, only stillness in every direction.

I came here knowing what this place once was, and perhaps that is why the silence felt so heavy. It was here, not centuries ago but within living memory, that men, women, and children were displayed like curiosities. The thought is barbaric, almost unimaginable, and yet it had happened right here beneath our feet.

The first thing we encountered was an ornate Chinese gateway, its colors dulled by time but still commanding attention. We wandered deeper into the garden, where vines curled over cracked stone and paths led to abandoned buildings. We passed only two other visitors. The emptiness made it easier to imagine the buzz of past crowds, voices rising in fascination while those on display endured their stares. In that silence the ghosts of the place made their presence known.

As we wandered, I couldn’t help but think back to what once stood here in 1907. Different “villages” had been constructed, each meant to represent a piece of the French colonial empire in Africa, Asia, and Oceania, including Madagascar, Sudan, Congo, Tunisia, Morocco, Laos, Cambodia, and Vietnam. The designers of the exhibition went to great lengths to recreate the life and culture of these places, or at least their version of it, right down to the architecture. The buildings, however, were only the stage. The “exhibit” was the people.

From May to October that year, over one million visitors passed through this garden. They came to watch men, women, and children, entire families, brought from the colonies, lured to Paris with promise of pay and opportunity, only to find themselves transformed into objects of spectacle. The line between human and specimen blurred until it all but disappeared. Behind wooden barriers, they became nameless faces, living displays to satisfy European curiosity.

What happened when the exhibition ended is a question without a clear answer. Few, if any, returned safely to their homelands. Many were likely swept into circus-like troupes that toured internationally, their lives reduced to performances for the rest of the world.

And Paris was not alone in this cruelty. Between 1870 and the 1930’s it’s estimated that more than 1.5 billion people visited similar exhibitions worldwide in cities such as Hamburg, London, Milan, Amsterdam, as well as New York and Chicago. Even as late as 1958, almost within my lifetime, the Universal Exposition in Brussels included a display of Congolese people behind fences. A so-called “village” of living humans. It was the last of its kind, finally closing when the exposition ended that October.

The Jardin d’Agronomie is hauntingly beautiful. We wandered through what remained of the villages. The pavilions sagging under the weight of time, their architecture now more a suggestion than structure. There is a manmade stream that winds toward a still and murky pond. The air is heavy with the silence of a place that once held noise, laughter, spectacle, and most likely sorrow.

Here and there, statues and war memorials from the 1931 Colonial Exhibition stood among the trees like guardians of memory. The garden itself was haunting, not just because of what remained, but what could no longer be seen. The people whose lives once filled this space. The war memorials told one story. The pavilions whispered another. Together they made a strange harmony of beauty and unease.

As we circled back to the ornate Chinese gateway, I found myself thinking about what it means to travel. Travel, I realized is not only about what delights the eye, but about where the heart hesitates and where history unsettles us. In the Jardin d’Agronomie Tropicale, beauty and cruelty lie side by side, and the ruins remind us that memory is fragile. It is our task not to look away.

Paris dazzles with its light, but here in this forgotten corner, I found its shadows. To walk these paths is to become a witness, to listen to what the silence is still trying to say. As James Baldwin once wrote, “Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.”

Some places you visit for beauty, others for truth. This garden holds both. And Paris may call itself the City of Light, but here, the shadows insist on being seen.

Down the Rabbit Hole

Landscapes, Lessons, and Love Stories: An Asian beginning, the Global Journey of a Nomadic Soul

Category: Africa