I strained my eyes trying to see through the thick, heavily scored airplane window, searching for a pre-dawn glimpse of something that would tell me I was about to land in Kenya. I was tired and keyed up, nervous about my first trip to Africa. Years of watching wildlife documentaries and supporting wildlife conservation had created an urgent desire to see it all firsthand, especially elephants. I wanted to see elephants striding free, crisscrossing the savanna in a timeless rhythm beat by the rains and droughts of each year. I was afraid to wait any longer. Time was running out for the great herds of East Africa. Every year they dwindled and diminished, hemmed in by ever-growing human habitation.

John and I planned a 10 day safari following the classic route taking in Nairobi, Amboseli, Mt. Kenya, the Aberdares, Lake Nakuru, and the Maasai Mara. We chose a safari company which offered an opportunity to participate in a reforestation project. We stayed in everything from hotels to mountain lodges to tents (though admittedly the tented camp was as luxurious as a hotel). During the planning stages friends kept saying enviously, "This will be the trip of a lifetime!" "Oh, no," I always replied firmly, "This is just the first trip."

We got inoculated against four or five uncomfortable diseases and I got bonus inoculations for polio and tetnus since I'd never had any of my childhood shots due to a religious exemption. The doctor at the Infectious Diseases clinic acted like I'd been raised by wolves. I don't think he'd ever met a Christian Scientist before. Anyway, the shots didn't hurt and I didn't contract anything worse than an evil gastrointestinal disorder which struck everyone on the safari. We were careful about drinking and brushing our teeth with bottled water but we had to bathe in local water so the bout of Turista was probably inevitable.

My eyestrain was in vain; it was still velvety black even after our luggage came bumping around the baggage carousel. My suitcase had imploded somewhere between Nashville and Nairobi. I didn't care. I was elated to have arrived at all. I looked at my multicolored visa and entry stamp in my passport and rechecked my camera while we waited for the rest of the group to arrive.

Before we left on our trip John and I got kidded a lot about the fact that we were taking a Super-8 movie camera instead of a camcorder. Our friends thought we were goofy to take such ancient technology when we could have bought a really nice video camera and made our own high-tech wildlife documentary. Yeah, right. Sure, those itsy-bitsy camcorders that recorded sound and light simultaneously had immense potential. You know what everyone who used one got? Hours of unseen people saying, "Dang, I'm out of film," or "Oooh, look at that one," and lots of animals with their backs to the camera. Whereas we, happily devoid of sound recording capabilities, got shot after superb shot of animals looking right at us (and then going back to grazing or sleeping). Why? Super-8 cameras make a distinct whirring sound. Score one for ancient technology.

After waiting for a late British Air flight we were finally collected in one place and piled into the six safari minivans for the trip into Nairobi. The sky, pale with daybreak, was dusted with high feathery clouds. As we pulled out onto the main road I was electrified to spot a small herd of impala grazing near the perimeter fence. Beyond was softly undulating savanna dotted with yellow fever acacias and brilliant jewel-toned bougainvillea. The sight of those spiral antlers in the long golden grass under a dawn sky thrilled me to the core. Welcome home, I thought. I smiled and abandoned myself to the luxury of living from moment to moment in the honey-colored day.

The moments were awfully long between arrival and check-in. The departing tour group was running late and our rooms weren't ready. I tucked myself into one of the intricately carved ebony chairs in the lobby and looked at the huge, exotic flowers in the atrium garden. Birds chattered and swooped through the small trees, shielded by the luxurious foliage. It was hard to tell where nature left off and artifice began. Just as I decided the flamboyant fronds and flowers in tall vases near every door must be made of silk, a hotel employee arrived with fresh-cut antherium, bird-of-paradise, and palm leaves to replace anything that looked marginally wilted.

At last we were taken to our room. Left to our own devices until the noon orientation meeting we tried to sleep but couldn't quite manage it. Two days of flights and endless waiting around airports had depleted our resources including my happy ability to sleep anywhere any time. I lay on my bed and listened to the morning traffic of Nairobi. A mysterious object purporting to be a mosquito-chip burner hummed and gave off a scent of mothballs. I gave up and went to find the tour director to see about getting my suitcase repaired. Everyone I passed in the hallways smiled and said, "Jambo" in a pleasant voice. "Jambo, jambo," I replied, a little shy about my grasp of Swahili but willing to say hello to everyone I met.

The tour director and I drove into central Nairobi to the Swissair office with my imploded suitcase. While Ibrahim was upstairs persuasively explaining the absolute necessity of repairing my suitcase within 48 hours to the polite but complacent Swissair personnel, I stood on the sidewalk of Mama Ngina Street and watched the people go by. Veiled women from the predominantly Muslim coastal tribes mingled with men wearing European-style suits and white shirts uncreased by the equatorial heat. Women on their way to the market carried enormous baskets of fruit, vegetables, cloth and other goods on their heads, weaving expertly in and out of traffic. The ordinary buses and cars shared the road with overloaded matatus, that staple of African transportation consisting of minivans, buses and trucks lavishly painted with heroic or political mottoes and converted to haul as many people as could cram their way in or on the vehicle. Men shook each other's hands when they met and when they parted. The colors were vivid, parrot-bright kinte cloth competing with shimmering silks and sober blue or gray wool. Above all shone the African faces, the beautiful endless variations in warm brown and black. I fell in love with Nairobi at once.