It’s difficult describing the alternating currents of serenity, wonder, anxiety, smallness, and, perhaps ultimately and most pervading, history, that Africa inspires. It feels old. Ancient. A kind of great rift in the modern world, particularly out in the wilds of nowhere, where we were. It’s a land of ornamental Acacia trees, sometimes solitary on the khaki-colored expanses of the Masia Mara, other times speckled but never crowded along the barren plains of the northern ranges. It’s pastures and unpaved roads, tire tracks cutting through dust and sand and short grasses. It’s windswept mountaintops. A place of low-hanging suns and very large skies. Like Hemingway, I found myself missing Africa before I had even left it. Such is its grasp.
These photos describe a very small and insulated spectrum of Kenya and Africa in general. They exist somewhere between fantasy and reality. They are from my honeymoon, which was already painted in a soft golden light. So enjoy them as I have, for what they are and nothing more.