Into the Outback

An epic and ancient landscape, deeply entwined with the artistic, musical, and spiritual traditions of Indigenous Australians, the Outback is one of the largest remaining, intact natural areas on Earth. A cultural, ecological, and geological wonder, I explore and capture these vibrant regions on foot and from the air.
 

Known for its Aboriginal peoples and its vast, ancient landscapes, the Outback is an incredibly special place for me. I think that once you get that distinctive red dust in your blood it never comes out.

My roots are deeply connected to the rural areas of western Queensland and from a very young age, the never-ending expanse of inland Australia has been something that has captivated me. Ever since I can remember, we would take long road trips out to a family-run cattle station, and there was always this great sense of wonder and adventure. In the Outback, you can travel for days in any direction and stumble across places that are unique, untouched, and rarely visited. It was on these early trips that I fell in love with the bush, the people, and its landscape. I’ve never stopped venturing back.

Pannawonica Hill, near the small town of Pannawonica, a tiny iron-ore mining settlement in the Pilbara region of Western Australia. // © Dan Proud

Drawn to remote, wide open spaces, to the dusty and the desolate, I have found that there are countless unique rocky outcrops and ridges to explore. From the arid and ancient regions of Kimberly and Pilbara in Western Australia, to the rugged, weathered peaks and dramatic rocky gorges found in the Flinders Ranges of South Australia, to the red centre and Australia’s most famous monolith, Uluru — it is not only the sheer size of the Outback that is astounding (it could encompass almost all of Europe), it is also home to some of the world’s most spectacular and untouched landscapes. Over the past few years, I’ve been lucky enough to photograph, film, and fly over these regions — both in light aircraft, and more recently, with drones.
 

The West MacDonnell Ranges, known as the West Macs, seen from the air. Found in Australia’s Red Centre, west of Alice Springs. // © Dan Proud

Deeply entwined with the landscape itself are the artistic, musical, and spiritual traditions of the Indigenous Australians, among the longest surviving cultural traditions in human history. Some 30,000 to 70,000 years ago — many millennia before the European colonisation that would come to threaten and profoundly disrupt many Aboriginal communities — the first inhabitants of Australia arrived from the north, making them amongst the world’s earlier mariners. They spread throughout the landmass, surviving even the harsh climatic conditions of the Last Glacial Maximum.

Evidence of ancient Aboriginal art is found all over the Outback, most notably at Uluru and Kakadu National Park in the Northern Territory. An impressive sandstone rock formation, Uluṟu — as it called by the Pitjantjatjara Anangu, the Aboriginal people of the area — or Ayers Rock, still holds great sacred and cultural significance for the local indigenous population. Appearing to change color at different times of year, this natural monolith is quite magnificent as it glows a deep red or purple at sunrise and sunset.
 

Uluru, or Ayers Rock, the huge sandstone monolith in Australia’s Red Centre, glows deep red at sunset. // © Dan Proud

It was only in 1606, little over four centuries ago, that the first known European landing was made by Dutch navigator Willem Janszoon on the western shore of Cape York, in Queensland. This discovery was closely followed by that of Dirk Hartog, another Dutch explorer, who sailed off course during a voyage in 1616 and landed on what is now known as Cape Inscription, thus discovering the coast of Western Australia.

For many decades to come, the true extent of the continent would not be known, and with the exception of further Dutch visits to the west, Australia remained largely unvisited. Although a number of shipwrecks are evidence that other Dutch and British navigators did encounter the coast during the 17th century, usually unintentionally, it would be over 150 years before the crew of HMS Endeavour, under the command of British explorer Lieutenant James Cook, sighted the east coast of Australia in 1770 and Europeans widely came to believe that the great, fabled southern continent existed.
 

Trees in stark contrast with the vibrant orange of Uluru, or Ayers Rock. // © Dan Proud

Running in parallel ridges to the east and west of Alice Springs, through Australia’s Red Centre, lie the East and West MacDonnell Ranges, also known as the Macs. Most people imagine the Outback to be completely flat, but these mountains run for more than 600 kilometres and in places reach heights of over 1,500 metres. Formed 300 to 350 million years ago, folding, faulting, and erosion have since shaped the Macs to form numerous narrow gaps and gorges, and they contain many areas of cultural significance. Seen from the air, their undulating and intricate rock formations are spectacular.
 

The West MacDonnell Ranges seen from the air, in Australia’s Red Centre, west of Alice Springs. // © Dan Proud

Weather patterns in the Outback are also something that surprises many people. While often envisaged as a uniformly arid area, the Outback regions stretch from the northern to southern Australian coastlines, and encompass a number of climatic zones — including tropical and monsoonal climates in northern areas and temperate climates in the southerly regions. At times, dramatic dust and thunder storms roll in, soaking the dry ground and often causing flash flooding. Witnessing these storms is an incredible experience.
 

Dust and thunder storm meet near the tiny settlement of Innamincka, Southern Australia. Situated on the banks of Cooper Creek, it is surrounded by the Strzelecki, Tirari and Sturt Stony Deserts. // © Dan Proud

Reflecting its wide climatic and geological variation, the Outback contains a number of distinctive and ecologically-rich ecosystems, along with many well-adapted animals, such as the red kangaroo, the emu, and the dingo, which are often to be found hidden in the bushes to keep cool during the heat of the day. Recognised as one of the largest remaining, intact natural areas on Earth, the Outback is home to many important endemic species.

One such species is Adansonia gregorii, known locally as the boab tree, which is found nowhere else in the world but the Kimberley region of Western Australia, and east into the Northern Territory. With their striking swollen trunks, boab trees can reach up to five metres in diameter at their base, and amazingly, some individual trees are more than 1,500 years old, making them the oldest living beings in Australia, and among the oldest in the world.

For thousands of years, Indigenous Australians have used these giants for shelter, food and medicine; often collecting water from hollows within the tree, and using the white powder that fills the seed pods as food. Decorative paintings or carvings were also made on the outer surface of the fruit.
 

A boab tree growing in the Kimberly region of Western Australia. // © Dan Proud

Also found in the Kimberly region is the Cockburn Range, a magnificent sandstone escarpment that rises for 600 metres above the surrounding plains. Shaped like a vast fortress with towering orange cliffs, many rivers have cut through the formation to form steep-sided gorges. Flying above the Range at sunset, when the western face is lit up with a brilliant red glow, reveals another of the Outback’s epic and ancient landscapes.
 

Sunset flight over the Cockburn Ranges in Kimberley, Western Australia. // © Dan Proud

The geology of South Australia’s Outback is no less dramatic, and among the rugged, weathered peaks and rocky gorges of the Flinders Ranges, some of the oldest fossil evidence of animal life was discovered in 1946, in the Ediacara Hills. Similar fossils have been found in the Ranges since, but their locations are kept a closely guarded secret to protect these unique sites.
 

Cast in golden light, Bunyeroo Valley in Southern Australia. // © Dan Proud

The first humans to inhabit the Flinders Ranges were the Adnyamathanha people — meaning “hill people” or “rock people” — whose descendants still reside in the area, and also the Ndajurri people, who no longer exist. Cave paintings and rock engravings tell us that the Adnyamathanha have lived in this region for tens of thousands of years. Though my perspective is usually broad and from the air, in the nooks and crannies of these arid landscapes live the yellow-footed rock-wallaby, which neared extinction after the arrival of Europeans due to hunting and predation by foxes, and also two of the world’s smallest marsupials — the endangered dunnart, and the nocturnal, secretive planigale, smallest of all, often weighing less then five grams.
 

The dramatic Flinders Ranges of Southern Australia seen from above, photographed by drone. // © Dan Proud

Last but certainly not least, we come to the spectacular Pilbara region of Western Australia. Stretching over a vast area of more than 500,000 square kilometres in the north of Western Australia, it is home to some of Earth’s oldest rock formations, dating back an impressive two billion years.

Seen from the air, parts of the Pilbara can sometimes resemble another planet. Yet the greens and yellows of the acacia trees, the hardy shrubs, and the drought-resistant Triodia spinifex grasses — contrasting so spectacularly with the brilliant orange and ochre of the land itself — remind us that life can flourish and adapt even in the most challenging of conditions.
 

The vibrant colors and unusual contours of the mineral-rich Pilbara landscape in Western Australia. // © Dan Proud

Known also for its vast mineral deposits, for many years the Pilbara has been a mining powerhouse for crude oil, natural gas, salt, and iron ore. Today, although the fragile ecosystems of this area have been damaged by these extractive industries, a number of Aboriginal and environmentally sensitive areas now have protected status in the Pilbara — including the stark and beautiful Karijini National Park with its deep gorges and striking canyons.
 

Stunning displays of rock layers at Hancock Gorge in the Pilbara. // © Dan Proud

Culturally, Australia’s Outback regions will always be deeply ingrained in our country’s heritage, history, and folklore. For Indigenous Australians, creation of the land itself is believed to be the work of heroic ancestral figures who traveled across a formless expanse, creating sacred sites on their travels. Ecologically, it is one of the most untouched and intact natural areas we have left on the planet, and home to a plethora of important endemic species. Geologically, it represents a vast and ancient landscape — one of the most unique on Earth and one that I could never tire of exploring. Every time I head up into the air or set out to photograph the Outback, I’m blown away.
 

Dotted with acacia trees, the striking landscape of Pilbara’s Outback region at dusk. // © Dan Proud

THIS ARTICLE WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON MAPTIA.

DAN PROUD

Dan Proud is a Queensland-based photographer and film maker with a passion for aerial cinematography and capturing the magical wide open spaces of Australia. 

INDONESIA: The Kingdom of Bantar Gebang

“The world has enough for everyone’s need, but not enough for everyone’s greed.” — Mahatma Gandhi

On the Indonesian island of Java, twenty kilometres from the fast-growing capital city Jakarta, is a malodorous, contaminated world with towering hills of half-decomposed waste, that stretches as far as the eye can see. This monstrosity is Bantar Gebang, the largest uncovered landfill site in Southeast Asia. It is also home to over 3,000 families, many with young children, who make a living amongst the garbage, scavenging what they can.

Jakarta, home to over 10 million people, produces more than 7,000 square metres of garbage per day — a figure that is still growing — and every year hundreds of thousands of tons of trash are indiscriminately dumped here, in the nearby district of Bekasi, at the massive Bantar Gebang landfill.

For the few outsiders who come to experience this place first-hand, it is a shocking wake-up call for the consequences of our over-consumption of the planet’s resources and the desperate need for better waste management. In a society enamoured with all things disposable, we are constantly having to find somewhere to put our rubbish. As general rule, far out of our sight.
 

On the road towards Bantar Gebang, what hits you first is the smell. Even before you arrive at the site, an overpowering stench of decomposing organic matter steadily invades the atmosphere. Next, the buzzing clouds of flies appear, and finally, the first mountains of waste come distantly into view. Many workers who move here say that when they first arrive they cannot eat, and that the smell makes them vomit constantly for the first few weeks.
 

Working day in, day out at the landfill, handling the rotting, decomposing rubbish with little to no protection takes a serious toll on the basic health of all the inhabitants here.

Yet, Bantar Gebang has become the poorest people’s El Dorado, a lucrative and chaotic place of individual enterprise where hundreds of families come to salvage what can be resold or eaten. Alongside the stray cats, goats, and cockroaches, they wade knee-deep through decomposing vegetables, soiled clothes, broken furniture, and festering waste of every kind, loading their baskets with glass bottles, tins, and plastics. Business here is booming, and the scavengers, some of them children as young as five, make around 30,000 rupiah (£2.20) a day. For many, this is as good a wage as they will find.

Every day new trucks arrive with more than 8,000 tones of rubbish from Jakarta, depositing their load anywhere they can find space, while bulldozers giant mechanical arms shift and mould the ever-growing mountains of waste.
 

Many families are accompanied by their young children, who live in the most insanitary conditions imaginable, in this breeding ground for germs and disease. You often see them padding about, barefoot in the rubbish, looking for something which could be used as a toy. Some children slip and injure themselves, and when wounds become infected, there is no medical service available on-site to help them. Many also suffer from suffer skin infections, bronchial problems, and intestinal worms from working on the landfill.
 

Amir, whose home is amongst these mounds of rubbish, waits for his mum who is working behind him. His favourite toy? A digger.

Some of these children were born here, brought into the world amongst the towering mounds of rotting waste that dominate the horizon. Every day, while parents are retrieving what they can resell or eat, these young children wait patiently for the next meal they will share as a family. This meal is often consumed directly off the ground, amidst the flies, foul odours, and trash.
 

The Bantar Gebang landfill was built on rice paddy fields in the district of Bekasi in 1989, and for some here, this is all they have ever known. Many are unskilled workers who have been scavenging in streets and rubbish bins their whole lives. Others, who once made their living digging the earth, are the former rice farmers whose land has been swallowed up by the relentless tide of garbage. Today, they all make a living by digging the ever-expanding “mountains” of Bantar Gebang, searching for their own personal treasure.
 

In this filthy and chaotic universe, I begin to understand how one man’s trash becomes another man’s means of survival.

Here, everything old finds a new purpose. Abandoned sofas and tables are often huddled together in impromptu ‘cafes’ where workers will pause to share a cigarette or have a cold drink, while ... You will also hear the call of Bantar Gebang’s resident imams wafting out over the landscapes of trash, but despite a strong sense of community at the landfill, many workers say that they are stigmatised and avoided if they ever cross its boundaries.
 

Today, the landfill is home to an estimated 3,000 families, and as Jakarta’s waste keeps growing, so does its population. Almost all residents live in makeshift shelters built from tarpaulins and scraps of metal as protection against the sun and rain. Those who have been there longer have fashioned huts from pieces of scrap wood, cardboard, old rugs, plastic advertisements, and nails rummaged from the landfill. During the rainy season, flood water rises and seeps into these dwellings. The water that is used to fulfill their daily needs is drawn from groundwater infected by leakages and sewage.

During the days I spend documenting life at Bantar Gebang, I do my best to show humanity, to take an interest in those living here, to simply be myself, and to convey that I consider those living and working here my equals.

Yet the foul smell is inescapable, the heat suffocating, and whenever I move I sweat, though I make no effort. When you find yourself in conditions like these, in an environment rife with the evidence of inequality, the only thing you feel is an overwhelming sense of gratefulness to have been able to satisfy your basic needs and a burning desire to do something to help. With my foreigner’s gaze, I cannot help but compare my everyday life to that of the men, women and children whose photographs I take. Some of them simply have no point of comparison, and live in acceptance of their condition.
 

Nila, one of the children who is growing up at the Bantar Gebang landfill, bathes her little brother in their family’s shelter.

Following the day-to-day existence of the people who call Bantar Gebang their home was also a lesson in the incredible strength and resilience of the human spirit. In the midst of these challenging conditions, people of all ages proved to me that love and joy will always exist even in the worst of places.
 

Andi, only a few years old, plays amongst the mounds of rubbish as his mother sifts through to salvage what she can.Andi, only a few years old, plays amongst the mounds of rubbish as his mother sifts through to salvage what she can.

On this occasion, I had travelled to Bantar Gebang to learn how I could assist the remarkable Resa Boenard. Brought to the area by her parents when she was just ten months old, Resa grew up one of Bantar Gebang’s children, surrounded by these vast, decaying mountains. At first her parent’s home was among rice fields, today, fifty metres of trash tower outside her windows.

Unlike so many others who live and work here, Resa had the chance to attend secondary school and to complete her studies, experiencing life outside this place, despite frequent bullying by her classmates for living on a landfill. Later, unable to afford the fees to attend university or to pursue her dream of becoming a doctor, Resa felt compelled to move back to Bantar Gebang, deciding that she would dedicate her time to helping the people here.
 

“Just because we are born among rubbish, doesn’t mean we are rubbish. My commitment to the people and young people here, it is still big in my heart. I have to do it.”  — Resa, founder of BGBJ

Determined to give other children living on the landfill the same opportunity she had, Resa has re-named the landfill ‘The Kingdom of Bantar Gebang’ and started an organisation called BGBJ, which stands for ‘the seeds of Bantar Gebang’, along with her British friend and co-founder John Devlin. Resa believes that the children at the landfill are like seeds, and when nurtured and supported, they will be able to gain an education and to see that they can become something else. At first, with no funding or other support, Resa simply opened her home to the children living on the dumpsite, and began.

Today, with both a hostel and community hub on the landfill, BGBJ aims to develop a healthy and sustainable way out of poverty for the children and families who live and work here, through education and employment. Since 2014, volunteers and travellers have been helping Resa to expand her work and to turn her neighbourhood into what she calls, “the best dump ever”. 

Here you can watch a short video interview I made with Resa during my time there. The positive spirit in Reza’s home and at BGBJ is simply amazing.
 

Sita, one of the young children whose families call the landfill their home, searches for toys amongst the rubbish.

Last year, waste management in Jakarta underwent a major shake-up, with multiple blockades and protests preventing trucks from entering the landfill, after disputes erupted between the Jakarta administration and their Bekasi counterparts. Angry at the stench of the never-ending stream of passing garbage trucks hauling waste to the landfill, which were now violating working hours and using a prohibited road, the protesters nearly paralysed Jakarta’s waste management during early November. The disputes were finally resolved when the city’s acting governor visited Bantar Gebang and promised to double the compensation provided for households located near the landfill to Rp 600,000 (around USD $45) every three months.
 

Ina, one of the luckier Bantar Gebang children, whose family have a small home with some concrete walls.

Though officials have admitted that Jakarta may need at least ten years to start fully addressing its significant waste management issues, some things look set to change. Recent initiatives to trap methane produced by the landfill and build on-site recycling facilities have eased Bantar Gebang’s pollution, and in 2016 a landmark agreement was made with Finnish energy company Fortum to develop an intermediate treatment facility (ITF) in the capital. 

Despite expert concerns that the incinerator at this new ITF may emit hazardous substances if plastic waste is not properly removed, it is expected to process 2,000 to 2,200 tonnes of waste per day, and is intended to help reduce the city’s long-term dependency on the Bantar Gebang landfill. Three more bids are currently being conducted for further ITFs in the city.
 

For now, however, life remains the same for the families and children of the Kingdom of Bantar Gebang, where Resa is affectionately called the ‘queen’. 

Taking things one day, and one project, at a time, BGBJ is not waiting for the government to take action and has ambitious plans for improving the lives of the children and families living at Bantar Gebang, such as a new school, a workshop, a tool shed, improved sanitation, and a computer lab. For the past year, they have also been hosting backpackers and travellers, who come to offer English lessons and to go on jalan-jalan or walkabout around the dumpsite. Providing an amazing opportunity for eco-tourism and cultural exchange these events have been a wonderful success with the kids.
 

So far, BGBJ has been completely independent, funding improvements with their own personal savings, with money generated from the day trips and overnight stays, and with donations from individuals and groups.

Today, they are raising USD $5,000 in seed funds for a workshop that will enable BGBJ to establish a sustainable social enterprise, called ‘BGBJ Style’. With the goal of producing a range of merchandise and upcycled products from the landfill, they have already begun by developing and producing their own natural insect repellant, balms, and candles. Offering alternative employment to some of the parents of BGBJ kids, this enterprise will generate an income so that BGBJ can continue to pay for and improve its services.
 

Nila, who lives with her family in a homemade shelter at the Bantar Gebang landfill, peeps out from behind a makeshift curtain.

Mahatma Gandhi once said, “Be the change that you wish to see in the world.” and it is up to all of us to do our bit. For my part, I have been inspired to do everything I can to help support Resa’s work. I hope you will join me.

Resa Boenard, the inspiring founder of BGBJ, with some the kids growing up at Bantar Gebang landfill.

Please help me support this amazing local organisation through their current GoFundMe campaign, where you will find more stories and details. More information can also be found about their work through the BGBJ website.
 

THIS ARTICLE WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON MAPTIA.

ALEXANDRE SATTLER

Alexandre Sattler is a photographer, traveler, and producer of audio documentaries on our planet's diverse cultures, our shared humanity, and the environment.

Visions of Kenya

A long time went by before I was able to understand this trip. Sometimes, the present is not understood until it becomes the past. Kenya belongs to a continent of origins, remote and distant, and for now, for better or worse, many of its vast and beautiful rural areas remain far from the globalised world.

In a matter of two weeks I had organised everything. Bought the tickets from Buenos Aires to Mombasa, got the necessary vaccines, packed my things and let my friends know I was leaving. “I’m going to Kenya for a month, alone, just my backpack and camera, nothing else.” It was a long flight to Mombasa. I was very tired and somewhat nervous about it all. At the airport in Mombasa the image of a rhino gave me goosebumps. I had arrived.

— Mombasa —

The first morning I was woken by the heat and the unrelenting racket made by the many crows that inhabit Mombasa. I looked outside the window to see Africa for the first time: bonfire smoke on the sides of the street, women selling fresh fruit right outside our building, next to them, I saw other women with beautiful braids in their hair, and a little further away, a man selling plants. Here, life takes place on the streets.

He was selling onions on the side of the road to Nairobi

I enjoy travelling alone and getting to know different cultures, in the most simple and genuine way possible, simply by being there, and merely observing. Trying not to alter what I see, to be inconspicuous. But in Mombasa, I was noticed right away. I am a white Argentinian, in a city where almost everyone is black. It was impossible to remain unseen.

Sunday morning is a social time for families at the public beach

The first few days were filled with nervousness and anxiety. I was alone in a place completely different to my own, full of tension and expectations about what the trip might become. Was I going to be able to adapt to Africa? I just wanted to let go, come to know the locals, let down my resistance, and give myself up to whatever had to happen.
 

Eddie lives inside a garbage container in Mombasa. The day I left Kenya, I gave Eddie all of my clothes.

Two days went by and I decided it was time to get out of the city. Venturing into the more rural areas of Kenya would be better than staying in Mombasa. Leaving my big backpack behind, I grabbed my camera, my flip flops, swimming trunks, and my kikoy — a traditional man’s wraparound worn on the Swahili coast of East Africa, especially in Kenya. It protected me from the sun and from the stares too. I took a tuk-tuk to the south of town, then a ferry, and then a three-hour matatu — one of Kenya’s colourful buses. My destination was Wasini Island, a small island in the south, where people usually snorkel for a few hours and then leave. I wanted to stay, at least for a few days.

School children on the road from Mombasa to Kilifi / She was sleeping in the matatu along the way.

I was greeted by Abdullah, who was surprised to meet a foreigner who wanted to stay longer than a few hours. I got on a small boat and crossed the island with two guys who were carrying huge machine guns, which they used to absentmindedly scratch their feet and faces — I had never seen such big weapons. 
 

Baobab tree lit up at night

— Wasini —

Wasini is a coral rock island that during its hey-day was a popular summer destination for retired and wealthy Europeans who wanted to enjoy the heat and beaches of Kenya. The day I arrived, there was just one dutchman and me, and the rest of the island was a small fisherman’s village. Abdullah cooked a fish for me with great care, and later made me visit the “tourist attractions,” which meant very little to me.

 

Coral stones in the Indian Ocean

I met someone who said he would take me over to the other side of the island along a path that would pass through the mangroves. I told him I had very little to tip him with, as I had left all my money in Mombasa. He gently insisted on taking me and I followed him. We walked through the island for a long time and I started to worry, thinking about where this stranger was actually taking me. The sun had started to set and as is common in many places in Kenya, there was no electric light.
 

We were crossing the path with this guy, while a fisherman was preparing his bait. I asked to take a picture of him, and he accepted.

We kept on walking until we finally reached the other side of the island. The mangrove trees continued all the way into the sea, and it was a very beautiful sight. I calmly took a breath, my guide had not deceived me. At that moment I felt that if I had managed to get to such a remote place with a complete stranger, then it meant that the rest of my trip would turn out alright. It was a feeling I had. Complete trust.
 

Among the mangroves

— Kilifi —

I spent a few days in Wasini and then returned to Mombasa to continue northwards along the coast, towards Kilifi. In Kilifi there was a very impressive hostel, but when I entered I had the feeling of being out from what I have been seeing. Luckily, I decided to walk towards the beach, where I found a beautiful sunset.
 

Little sisters playing together in a tree near their home.

The beach was deserted. It was actually an estuary, very serene. I loved rural Kenya, so far away from the cities. As I sat with my camera I saw a kid walking in the distance. As he approached me I waved, then he waved back and continued to walk. A few hours later, the kid returned and I went over to have a chat. He responded by asking me if I knew how to hunt crabs. His name was Buda.
 

Portrait of Buda

We became friends and I met all of his brothers and sisters as well. They were many, and lived on the coast with their aunts and cousins. Most families in Kenya live with their extended family, and the women are in charge of the houses. Men are absent most of the time, often spending time with friends, away from their homes.
 

Full of joy in the ocean / Fishermen and family in the early morning

I quickly became very fond of Buda and his siblings, and they became fond of me. Every time I came down to the beach, they would arrive to greet me. I spent whole days on the beach, sometimes helping them gather wood for making fires, or finding things their mother had asked for — I learnt a lot about their culture and way of life, which was not always easy. Buda and Nuzrah were the eldest siblings and spoke better English. They taught me a lot of words in Swahili, their native tongue.
 

Portrait of Nuzrah

One of the days we spent together I brought them a football, a water gun and a jumping rope. We played with them, they taught me beach games, and every now and then we would all go for a swim. It was with great grief that I said goodbye to these children, as I had to continue travelling towards the west of the country. They stayed with me until I left, and their mother also came to say goodbye.
 

Portrait of Buda / Jumping rope / Portrait of Mwanaisha

— Amboselli —

I took a tuk-tuk back to Mombasa, thinking about everything I was experiencing. It felt so powerful and different, making me reflect on my own life, and how grateful I was for the opportunity to travel. The following dayay I left for Amboselli National Park. Enormous and open, there were no fences around it. Animals are not easy to see. You might spend a whole day walking around and only encounter a few zebras.

Morning of the Zebras

But the immensity and beauty of the landscape was truly dazzling to me, sometimes reminding me of my native Patagonia, similarly wild and empty in its own way. I also thought about the devastation humans have caused to the natural environment, and the complex challenges local and international communities face as they attempt to tackle and reverse this.
 

Afternoon of the elephants

I spent my whole childhood fascinated by documentaries on Animal Planet, or Discovery Channel. I could not quite believe I was there, in these vast landscapes. The animals were so big, so strong. They had very little to do with the image I had of elephants in zoos or television. And the trees, they were so magical, I really have no words to describe them.
 

Masai walking in the early morning / Just a beautiful tree, in my first moments in the park

A long time went by before I was able to understand this trip. Sometimes, the present is not understood until it becomes the past. 

When I travel, I seek to explore places that will surprise and challenge me, and from that surprise create beautiful experiences and photographic visions of what I have witnessed. Kenya belongs to a continent of origins, remote and distant, and for now, for better or worse, many of its vast rural areas remain far from the globalised world.
 

Early morning at Tsavo. There is always magic in the first hours of the day.

THIS ARTICLE WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON MAPTIA.

FRAN PROVEDO

Fran Provedo is a photographer and Architect from Argentina. Passionate about nature, and what is invisible in it.