The morning air was crisp and biting as we left Serene Safari Lodge for our final adventure in Amboseli National Park. The sun struggled to rise above the mist clinging to the savanna, casting everything in a ghostly silver. Rani and I, unusually quiet in the back seats, watched as the first rays touched Mount Kilimanjaro. It peeked above the clouds like a shy giant, snow-capped and glorious. I almost forgot about the freezing cold.
Our game drive began like any other, but today it felt heavier somehow. The elephants we passed seemed larger, more imposing. Far away, through binoculars, we spotted a group of cheetahs chasing each other across the plain, a blur of golden speed. For a long while after, we circled the periphery but hardly saw the other wild animals we hoped to spot.
Around lunchtime, we parked at a safe spot above a plateau, preparing to trek to a hilltop. Before climbing, I braved the dilapidated bathrooms—dry, clean, but still with eerie beehives buzzing menacingly. I peed as fast as I could, shivering with unease, and followed the others up the hill.
At the peak, we settled on shaded platforms overlooking the savanna. Sandwiches and juice in hand, we waited for the clouds to clear Kilimanjaro’s summit. While we waited, we clicked photos together. Yellow birds chirped, elephants loomed in the distance below, zebras and wildebeests drank at the lake below, and hippos floated lazily in the water. Acacia trees dotted the landscape, and even a far-off airstrip gleamed in the sun. For once, Rani and I shared a moment quietly—no teasing, no whining. It felt strangely nice.
The drive back from the plateau took us across the ghost town again. The eerie silence of the abandoned cottages, broken only by the wobbling of the vehicle, lulled some of us into dozing—until the tyre went POP. Right in the middle of the ruined resort. John, our driver, sighed and muttered something about “classic safari luck.” He jumped out to inspect the damage, only to frown at the flat tyre.
The foggy ruins loomed around us. Rani clutched Mom’s hand; I tried to look brave, though my legs shook like jelly. Then the ground trembled—softly at first, then violently. Two massive elephants emerged from the fog, trunks swinging, tusks gleaming. Panic struck instantly.
John instructed us to stay calm, but one elephant’s trunk grazed the windshield. With a swing, it could have toppled the vehicle. Rani was nearest the window when instinct kicked in—I grabbed her hand and yanked her away, throwing open the opposite door and sprinting into the nearest crumbling cottage. Dad followed, dragging everyone else to safety, and John found his way in after us. We slammed the door shut just as the elephants trumpeted outside, their victory rumble echoing through hollow walls, shaking dust from the ceiling.
And then came the circus of animals. Lions lounged lazily in the distance, hyenas barked eerily as they circled our apartment, and baboons chattered from the rooftops. Broken windows aside, we found one small room still intact. It felt like a glass zoo—we were the exhibit, and the wild animals were the spectators. I realized how trapped animals must feel in zoos.
One long, nerve-wracking hour passed. We whispered, laughed nervously, peeked through cracks, and tried not to breathe too loudly. Finally, bored elephants stomped away, reluctantly followed by the other entourage. John kept updating the authorities over phone, and soon another vehicle arrived. We bolted inside, hearts still pounding, and drove straight back to the resort.
By sunset, exhaustion had replaced adrenaline. “I want no more adventures,” I muttered. “Neither do I, dear,” Uncle Ravi agreed, smiling knowingly.
Over coffee, our story became the day’s highlight among other tourists. Laughter, guitar music, and camaraderie replaced fear. We visited the resort’s curio shop in the end, buying souvenirs for ourselves and friends back home.
The next day, our car drove us away, Kilimanjaro rising clear and towering behind us. With the clouds parted, we could see the entire mass stretching across the horizon. John explained how it was divided into distinct zones: the cultivated base of farmland and villages; the dense rainforest; heath and moorland with hardy shrubs; the rocky alpine desert; and the icy arctic summit, capped with snow even at the equator.
Side by side on the plane, Rani and I shared photos, laughed at each other’s silly poses, and for the first time, truly felt like friends. Yet, five days later, her WhatsApp status betrayed me. There I was, standing atop a hill near a shrub, picking my nose, captioned: “Monkey spotting in Kenya.” Furious, I stared at the screen. Was it deliberate? Of course. Mom just laughed and shook her head. Rani was incorrigible, cunning, and impossible to fully trust. Revenge, dear reader, was already simmering in my mind.
Kenya Safari was over—the sunsets, terrifying elephants, ghost towns, and mischievous Rani behind us. But as I had learned long ago, with Rani around, the adventure of Sunny and Rani was far from over.
Read Episode 1: Episode 1 : The Insufferable Rani
Read Episode 2: Episode 2: The Journey begins
Read Episode 3: Episode 3: The Day of Felines
Read Episode 4: Episode 4: The Masai Village and Lake Naivasha
Read Episode 5: Episode 5: An Amboseli Safari Story