Kenya lies in East Africa, straddling the equator. The Great Rift Valley cuts through the country from north to south, and the land sits at an average of about 1,500 meters above sea level. English is the official language, but most Kenyans speak Swahili. The word we heard most often was “Jambo,” which means “hello” in Swahili.
Kenya only has two seasons: a wet season and a dry season. Every year in late July and early August, as the rainy season arrives, the herbivores of Kenya’s plains migrate from Tanzania, Kenya’s neighbor to the south, into Kenya in order to survive. When the dry season returns, they begin the long journey back to Tanzania. This great cycle is known as the world-famous Great Migration of East Africa’s wildlife. In mid-August last year, I traveled all the way to Kenya to witness this grand spectacle for myself.
Our guide, Mr. Ali, had told us the day before that we needed to leave for the game reserve at first light. So, we woke up early and picked up the picnic lunches prepared by the hotel. Setting out before sunrise, we were eager for a day of adventure in the wild.
The early morning breeze was cool and gentle, and the sunlight softly radiant. Some were deep in the soil, while others were faint and almost hidden. They appeared and disappeared, as if the grasslands themselves held secret paths. The scent of the trees, sometimes strong and near, then light and distant, drifted in and filled our senses. I felt that the aroma was so rich and full, it seemed as if it was about to speak.
The morning landscape was utterly different from what we’d seen the afternoon before. Now there were animals as far as the eye could see. Everywhere we went, we encountered huge herds of wildebeest accompanied by zebras, all leisurely enjoying a feast on the lush green grasses of the Maasai Mara.
When we arrived in Kenya, the wildebeest migration had already come to a brief halt. The life of the wildebeest is an endless cycle: to survive, they follow the rains and chase the green pastures. From mid-July to early August each year, as the dry season advances northward, millions of wildebeest migrate from northern Tanzania to the Mara River at the Tanzania–Kenya border. In waves, they brave the swift currents of the river, crossing into Kenya’s Maasai Mara grasslands. That’s why this time of year is the very best time to visit Kenya.
By late November, the wildebeest gather again and move back south, returning to Tanzania, which by then is verdant and refreshed by the rains. Along the Mara River, two deadly creatures lie in wait for the crossing herds: one is the world’s largest and most ferocious Nile crocodile, and the other is the so-called “king of the river,” the hippopotamus. The Mara River is the final barrier the wildebeest must cross during their great migration. If they make it over, they reach a haven of plentiful water and grass; if they fail, most will die from the lack of food and water.
And so, the biannual Mara River crossings produce one heart-pounding scene after another. In the span of those crossings, the wildebeests’ wild drive to survive, the suspense of evading predators, and the tragic fate of those caught by hunters are all vividly on display. Yet to live, the wildebeest have no choice. They continue, year after year, to play the role of vulnerable protagonists in this epic migration.
Our Jeep drove across the vast grassland, moving in fits and starts. Great stretches of savanna, some areas yellow, others green, spread out before us. And great herds of animals, some dark, some light, grazed near and far, high and low. Zebras, which formed a vast population on the African plains, their black-and-white stripes visible in almost every direction, and wildebeest and antelopes were everywhere. Just then, our guide’s radio crackled: someone had spotted a large animal and was calling everyone over. Our driver stepped on the gas and headed straight toward a clump of bushes. In the distance, we saw seven or eight vehicles clustered together, their occupants quietly aiming long-lensed cameras into the brush. “There must be lions,” our experienced guide murmured.
Our jeep rolled to a gentle stop near the thicket. Suddenly, five or six adorable lion cubs bounded joyfully out of the bushes! We let out quiet exclamations of delight and hurried to raise our cameras. A moment later, three adult lionesses emerged behind the cubs. They cast us a cautious glance, then sprawled out comfortably to bask in the morning sun. After all, lions are the kings and queens of the savanna. This was their domain, and we were nothing more than powerless, uninvited guests, posing no threat to them. The cubs, less than ten meters from us, romped and tumbled to their hearts’ content, while the mothers gazed on indulgently. It was a beautiful scene of familial bliss.
As we continued our safari, we were unexpectedly privileged to witness the birth of new life and the profound love of a mother. While driving past another herd of zebras, my father, who had been busy taking photos, suddenly cried out in excitement. There, in the middle of the herd, a mother zebra was lying on the grass, giving birth to her baby! We all held our breath and watched this extraordinary moment with equal measures of worry and wonder. We felt the selflessness of a mother’s love, the warmth of family bonds, the sincerity of devotion, and the solidarity of companionship in the animal world of the East African savanna.
But nature is always so stark, real. Life and death can play out in the blink of an eye. We had barely finished basking in the joy of new life when, just a few minutes later, we saw a lioness in full sprint, chasing down one of the wildebeest from a herd. In no time, she lunged and brought the wildebeest crashing to the ground. Its helpless bleating was heart-rending. After a brief struggle, the wildebeest finally ceased resisting. The lioness then dragged her prey under a tree and leisurely began to enjoy her meal for the day. Such is nature: life and death come so suddenly, with no room for choice.
Our jeep moved onward, stopping and going, as time felt both frozen and fleeting. In all directions, as far as the eye could see, we were surrounded by a sea of wildebeest and zebras, numbering in the millions. Our jeep crept forward, driving against the tide of their migration. No language on earth could adequately describe such magnificence. Not even a television program could fully capture what was before our eyes. It was something that had to be experienced in person. And there I was, in that little corner forgotten by time, quietly savoring the endless peril and vitality of the animal kingdom.
Before the trip, I had done some homework and learned about the concept of the Big Five, the five great African beasts: lion, leopard, rhinoceros, elephant, and Cape buffalo. During our days in Kenya, we were lucky enough to spot all the legendary “Big Five.” The term comes from the old days of trophy hunting, when these creatures were deemed the most difficult and dangerous animals to hunt on foot.
Today, with wild populations becoming ever more endangered, the historical notion of the Big Five has taken on a new meaning. These animals have become priority targets for conservation. To see all five of them roaming free on the boundless savanna was a thrill beyond words, a highlight of our journey that left us ecstatic.
By the time we left the Maasai Mara, the sunset was already shimmering in a brilliant array of colors, like a handful of shattered jewels scattered across the vast grassland. In the short few days I spent in this animal paradise, I watched a mighty lion pride stride across the plains, felt my heart ache at the tragic great migration of the wildebeest, rejoiced at the birth of a zebra’s new life, and admired the leisurely, elegant stroll of giraffes. I had witnessed the magic of life, the selflessness of maternal love, the warmth of family bonds, and of course, the cruel reality of nature’s survival of the fittest.
This land is truly a paradise for the animals. It is their real home, while we humans are merely rushing visitors. I was deeply moved, even to the point of tears, by every life that blossomed on this soil. I feel fortunate that I was able to visit this different world, even if it was only as a short-term guest. Peering out of the car window, I took one last look at the endless grasslands, which looked like a faraway dreamland, warm and tranquil, free as you, free as me. The clear air and gentle breeze made my heart come to rest quietly, though tinged with a faint wistfulness.
In my heart, I silently whispered: Farewell, beautiful Maasai Mara. Farewell, beautiful Kenya!