On a December day, at the tail end of the “short” rainy season, our 27-mile drive through Kenya’s Samburu region took three hours. My safari guide, Joseph, offered a fair—if understated—warning: “This may get a bit bumpy.”
After crossing a smooth portion of the Chinese-built Great North Highway, which leads to Ethiopia, we jostled over pockmarked clay roads. Soon settling into a rhythm, Joseph maintained control of the Land Rover with excellent skills honed over 15 years of experience.
We were traveling to the one place in East Africa where it is possible to track rhinos: the 1,330-square-mile Sera Wildlife Conservancy, here in Kenya. Occupied by around 16,000 people who live in villages, the conservancy is located within the remote Samburu region, north of the equator.
It is one of the few remaining secrets in safari travel. “No pollution. No buildings. No car engines. And no people we can see, apart from us,” said my seatmate, Robert, a Samburu waiter at another property, who joined us on the journey.
My destination, Saruni Rhino (part of the Saruni Basecamp safari company), is the only lodge in the conservancy. The view upon arrival was striking. The camp spread out like an oasis. A swimming pool lay under fan-shaped doum palms that rattled with green monkeys. Visiting in December, I was the first guest of the new season. The rugged habitat was full of predators such as hyenas and lions, but the small team inspired total trust, and my banda, or stone cottage, thatched with dried coconut-palm leaves, was secure.
My porch overlooked the dry bed of the Kauro River. As night fell, it gave an illusion of being seaside at the beach. Inside, the floor was strewn with soft, worn kilims, and my four-poster bed was draped in mosquito netting. (Late-rainy-season insects were still biting.) I was too excited to sleep. At 4:30 a.m., Robert knocked, carrying hot coffee and milk.
Soon, Joseph was driving to the 41-square-mile Sera Community Rhino Sanctuary, a conservation project aimed at re-introducing black rhinos to the region. Until 30 years ago, it was their original habitat in Kenya, but due to widespread poaching, they were relocated to other game reserves where they could be better protected.
In 2015, the Samburu community, with the support of the Northern Rangelands Trust (the conservation group that oversees management of the conservancy), created the sanctuary, and took responsibility for the care of 10 returned rhinos in their shared ancestral homeland. Today, free to breed in the wild, there are 22 black and five white rhinos.
As we drove, the sun rose through dense Commiphora thicket, and the wind smelled like a Jo Malone boutique. Joseph leaned to pick me a nosegay of white gardenia volkensii blossoms. We were accompanied by Lekarato, an anti-poaching ranger from the Sera Wildlife Conservancy, who was armed with a German G3 rifle—not for rhinos, but for the unlikely event of encountering a poacher. “It has not happened here, but we cannot say it never will,” Joseph explained.
Today, free to breed in the wild, there are 22 black and five white rhinos.
At the gate, we were joined by Thomas, a ranger and rhino monitor, gripping a rungu, a traditional tribal weapon similar to a baseball bat. The sanctuary is entirely staffed by local Samburu, who are well trained in wildlife conservation and have deep knowledge of the territory. Thomas carried a walkie-talkie, which occasionally crackled. In addition, rhinos are fitted with a chip in their horn, which the guards can access throughout the conservancy to ascertain their safety and whereabouts.
We parked on a cascading dome of rock, and Joseph pointed to tracks in the sand, noting the direction of the toes, which we followed on foot, single file. The animals have abysmal eyesight, but their sense of smell is stronger than that of a shark, so trackers need to check the direction of the wind to be sure they do not catch our scent. But Joseph patiently assured me that there was slim chance of being charged by a rhino. They are shy, he said, and more likely to run from you rather than toward you.
After about 400 yards, we learned that female Sarah and male Tulifu, two white rhinos, were just down the path. Above us, loud chirrs from red-billed oxpeckers ratted us out. “That’s how rhinos survive in the thicket,” said Joseph. “Excellent security guards.”
We clambered up a raised stone outcrop for safety, since rhinos are not skilled climbers. Joseph whispered, “There they are.” From the perch, I watched these two colossal beings go about their day, relaxed despite our presence, and free of harm. When Tulifu turned to leave, he halted for a moment, and I gazed at his profile. Joseph explained that white rhinos are not named for their color but for their grass-grazing square mouth, after wyd, the Afrikaans word for “wide.” Black rhinos, by contrast, have hooked lips that cut and crunch tree branches.
The four of us sat in camp chairs for bush breakfast: French-press coffee, omelets, and granola loaded with cashews. But soon we were on the move. Word arrived that Lojipu had been spotted. He is a nine-year-old black rhino who was abandoned by his mother and raised for a spell at a local elephant sanctuary. In 2018 he returned, and after careful nurturing he is becoming more independent and elusive.
We barreled across the grassland and stopped suddenly. The sight was terrifying as well as transcendent. One-ton Lojipu emerged from under the shade of an overhanging rock and moved in our direction. “He is feeling friendly today,” Thomas said. Often, Thomas added, he disappears into a trench, only to reappear for water and food.
His marvelous head held high, Lojopu strolled slowly, like a megalith on legs, straight for our vehicle. Thomas assured me that we were safe, and I could even pat him, since he had long been in the presence of humans.
I felt his leathery hide and dared touch his strangely whiskery horn. It was an entity more valuable than diamonds, and because of that, these animals had been subjected to unfathomable cruelty. But here, the rhinoceros is winning. And for the first time that day, my pulse slowed down.
Marcia DeSanctis is a contributing writer at Travel + Leisure and writes essays and stories for Vogue,Town & Country, Departures, and BBC Travel. Her collection of travel essays is called A Hard Place to Leave: Stories from a Restless Life
