Growing Up Wild: A Childhood in East Africa

An intimate reflection on my childhood in East Africa, exploring how a life rooted in nature and freedom influences my perspective and creative work today.

I've always loved being alone.

Not in a dramatic or isolating way, but in a quiet, steadying kind of way. The kind where time stretches out instead of closing in. Where nothing is being asked of you, and you’re free to just notice things as they are whether we see them or not.

Some of my earliest memories are just that. 

When I close my eyes, I can still see long stretches of East Africa rushing by swirling with earthy colors mixing with powerful scents.

This is the permanent blur of my young life as we headed out on another weekend of safari on this hot and sticky Friday afternoon.

Some of my favorite past times have been spent hanging out the window while my father drove us across East Africa. Hours and hours on the road. From the Congolese border to the middle of the Serengeti, watching the landscape shift slowly and people go about their daily lives.

I saw a lot out the window of that army green Nissan Patrol car.  Sometimes it was joy: weddings, birthdays, games, drinking, BBQ, kids playing… Sometimes it was not so good: bike crashes, fights, stonings, animal abuse, garbage….

It was life.

And it kept moving, just as we did.  I remember times where I begged my parents to stop so we could help, not understanding the concept of personal safety or why people would act that way. It was a school, this car. This Nissan Patrol taught me about the light and dark that is the balance of life.

At the time, it didn’t feel like anything significant. It was my normal. But looking back, I can see how significantly those moments shaped me as a woman.

I learnt how to observe. To notice subtle changes in light, color, movement as each held a story of a place and its people.  Like this one hot Friday afternoon…

We were heading West towards the Congolese border for a camping weekend or as it is called ¨safari¨ with the tree climbing lions of Ishasha and we just happened to get lost. It was now dark and we were on a small jungle road with the air thick and sticky even without the beating sun. We didn’t have AC so all windows were down with branches flicking jungle life into the car as we used all four tires to bump along the almost nonexistent mud hole that was the road. 

There we were. The 4 of us. Deep in the Jungle maybe in the Democratic Republic of the Congo or maybe still in Uganda, we were not entirely sure anymore.

My father was a big presence in those early years. Those drives and those adventures, that sense of movement with exploration constantly on the mind. My memories are tied to him in a way that’s hard to separate from the wildness.  He was born in Kenya and raised on a coffee farm on the slopes of Kilimanjaro and even though I haven’t seen him much recently, his influence is still there, woven into those early memories.

My mother, Jenny, is the opposite kind of presence in this world.  She is steady, grounding, and we are deeply connected. She’s a nutritionist and educator, but to me, she’s also my best friend and we live near by now in Todos Santos.

My brother took his path to the concrete jungle. He lives in New York and has built a life that, in many ways, is the different from mine and I admire him greatly for it. We’ve always moved through the world differently, but there’s a shared foundation underneath that goes deep and will forever be ours.

That sibling foundation began on not freaking out when we learnt that those arms of the jungle had whipped a large tarantula (and who knows what else) into our very dark car. So naturally, when we finally arrived 6 hours late and discovered all of our cozy hitchhikers, it was a test of our resolve. I could say I didn’t sleep well but this was a daily type of encounter so I slept quiet well until I woke up soaked in a warm drizzle. Damn Jungle.

The morning brought warm tea, bird songs, and a substantial river a few meters away FILLED with hippos. Oh, this was a fun weekend.

Looking back at all of it—the long drives, the quiet, the independence, the different paths within the same family.

I was learning how to be alone long before I understood why it mattered.

And I think that’s something I’ve carried into everything I do.

Into the way I travel, the way I work and especially into the way I create.

A lot of my process happens in that same space—alone, observant, letting something unfold without forcing it. The quiet I grew up with is the same quiet I return to when I’m making something.

It’s where I feel most clear.

And in a way, the work itself is an extension of just that. A translation of those moments spent watching, noticing, and letting the world move without needing to control it.

It still finds its way into everything I create.