Travellin' Road... Samburu Village, Kenya
- Ashley Rae
- Aug 2, 2020
- 3 min read
Updated: Sep 5, 2020
Have you ever been to a place that's had such a deep impact on you that it became a part of you as soon as you stepped off the plane? I have.
These places pulled me in so quickly and so deeply. The air burrows in your lungs, energizing your body; electricity charging through your every cell. As soon as I stepped on the tarmac, I had this urge to kick off my shoes and touch the earth with my bare feet. I wanted to feel the clay, the dirt. I wanted to feel the earth’s vibrations. It was like there was a silent chant of my name rising up, calling out to a long-lost descendant finally stepping on the threshold of their ancestral home.
In all my travels to domestic cities and foreign lands, this has happened only twice. And one of these times was when I travelled to Kenya.
The first full day there, after hours of driving, our group stopped at a village in Samburu. Here, we met Gabriel, the village liaison—a villager who goes to college and learns/speaks English so they can come back and serve as the village’s spokesperson to the outside world.
Gabriel, in his soft voice that was as soothing as raindrops lightly tapping on the leaves of palm trees explained the ways of the villagers, including a wedding ceremony in which the women of my tour group participated.
After the “ceremony,” we mingled with the men and women of the village and I remember the women came up to me, grabbing my hands and touching my face and arms the way you do when you finally see a friend or relative you haven’t seen in a long time. We smiled at each other and they started speaking to me, but sadly I couldn’t reply. I didn’t know what they were saying. I didn’t know how to respond.
Gabriel translated a few phrases between us, but then he gently pulled me aside from everyone else. He looked at me for a few seconds with his piercing eyes.
“The women want to know why you are dark like us,” he paused. “But can’t speak our language.”
I looked at him and right there it hit me: They didn’t know that some brothers and sisters were stolen from their lands and transported like cattle across an ocean.
I stood there and stared back at him just thinking and wondering and recounting in my head all the history I’ve learned, and finally, after what seemed like hours but was probably a matter of milliseconds, I just said that I was from the States.
“Maybe your parents are from here,” Gabriel said.
I shook my head. “No, they were born in the states.”
Gabriel persisted. “Then, maybe your grandparents or great-grandparents.”
I grinned slightly. “No,” I paused for a second. “They were from the States, too. We don’t… we don't really know where we come from.”
And maybe Gabriel could see the distant sadness in my eyes as I answered him. Maybe he understood all that I left unsaid. Finally, he tilted his head and grinned to match mine, however his was filled with understanding and hope.
“You are home now,” he said, his eyes twinkling. He slowly walked away but his stride was so long that he made up the distance to the group of women in three steps.
I will never forget how welcomed these women made me feel. I will always remember the women who, as soon as our two groups met up and mingled, grabbed my hand and held onto it, only letting go during a photo and when my group started to leave.
I can’t even begin to explain how this experience changed me and how deeply it touched my heart and soul. Even now, six years later (yes, SIX YEARS!!!), I find myself thinking about these women and how they saw me as kin, how they greeted me and wanted to communicate with me. I often think, if only… If only I knew their language. If only I was able to tell them how much I felt their love and sense of community, and how they made me feel at home.
I have hundreds of great memories from my travels around Kenya, but this particular stop—that lasted maybe two hours, tops—seemed to set the tone for the rest of my trip, and it will stay close to my heart for as long as I live.
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