Travel Diary

14 July

Today at Aina Home Children is a day of leisure.

Saturdays at AINA Children’s Home are a mix of play and responsibility. School is only in the morning, leaving the children and young people with more free time. Playtime alternates with daily tasks—showers are taken, laundry is done, and rooms are aired out. While the little ones are exempt, the older children (eight and up) are expected to help. Clothes are hung out to dry in the open air, each garment marked inside with a permanent marker—either with the child’s name or a number indicating their age (e.g., 7 years). Once dry, the clothes are gathered and taken to a large room where the children sort them into piles: nursery, boys, and girls. I lend a hand, and when we start collecting the pants, laughter fills the room—it’s the perfect moment to get acquainted.
“How old are you?”
“Is the name Wendy used in Italy? What about Milde? Or Kanana?”
“What do you like to eat? Do you like pizza? And beans? Have you been to Canada? How about Japan?”
“You look Indian with this hair!”

Long hair is an unbelievable sight for the girls, who all have their heads shaved for hygiene reasons. I’m quickly surrounded by a group of young girls, all eager to play hairdresser, squabbling over who gets the honor of braiding my hair. Everything fascinates them—hairpins, rubber bands, clips. Earrings, too, are a rare treat that some of them have yet to experience.
Meanwhile, the boys take me on a tour of the farm, proudly narrating the family tree of each animal.
“This pig is the mother of this one, this one, and this one.”
“Come see the calves! Take a picture!”
The cattle are all named after people the children know, including the village coordinator—a 25-year-old Roman woman whom they love and respect as a provider.

For me, it’s essential to climb a small hill to see the egg a hen has just laid.
Then, we peek through tiny windows to observe the feed storage, the work tools, and even the neighbor’s ox beyond the netted fence.

Suddenly, a commotion—everyone dashes toward the gate. Someone has brought lollipops. Shouts of joy fill the air, the sweet scent of strawberries lingers, and soon, red-tinted tongues are everywhere.
The day unfolds like this, seamlessly blending responsibilities with moments of joy. It begins under a gray sky, peeling peas, and ends bathed in warm sunlight, surrounded by the laughter and songs of the 100 children living at Meru Home—some orphans, others with parents too poor to care for them, who made the painful yet loving choice to entrust them to a better future.
A future filled with the same love these children so effortlessly give.

15th July

Every 15th of the month, AINA village celebrates all children born in that month. It’s a way to ensure that everyone gets a birthday party—after all, hosting 100 individual celebrations would be impossible.
A special menu is prepared: tonight, it’s baked potatoes and fried catfish. To drink, there’s pineapple juice—made by boiling pineapples to extract every drop of sweetness. And, of course, a big cake.
The children are ecstatic, shouting and singing, their dark faces dusted with powdered sugar and their hands sticky with frosting. We, too, get caught up in the joy, clapping along, tapping rhythms on tables and benches, even improvising small dance routines.
The birthday celebrants gather in front of the cake, and together, they make the first cut. There are no presents, no balloons. The focus isn’t on the individual, but on the community—on celebrating together, even on the day, or rather, the month, of one’s birthday.

17th July

Spending time in Nchiru means waking up as soon as the sun rises because there are no shutters on the windows; greeting the farmers, who, armed with boots and tools, move around like Lego men; waiting for the three little ones from the village—Victor, Christine, and Angel—to spot us so we can watch them run toward us, laughing their heads off.
It means looking forward to snack time, where we exchange high-fives with the children and young people arriving at the canteen in their sometimes patched-up uniforms; breathing in fresh air—the kind you’ve longed for through months of work and rushed weekends. You know that, at some point in the day, you’ll get at least one banter, one shot at a basket, one hug (given and received), one dazzling white smile, one unexpected animal invading your space, one shower that turns into a battle with either missing water or a clogged drain, and one playful illusion from Maria Rosa: “Run, I think I saw an elephant!” (A pure hallucination, born from the stories of elephants emerging from the forest across the way—though we know we won’t be that lucky.) And, of course, one delicious meal from Federica, crafted from just a handful of ingredients.
It’s having a book on the bedside table—bought especially for this trip—still unopened. It was meant to be a companion, but the ones beside you are more than enough.
After a full day, one that deserves its own entry in a daily journal, I settle into my canopy bed, embraced by the mosquito net. A wave of melancholy washes over me as my thoughts leap forward—like a determined cricket—toward the inevitable return home. The feeling is impossible to describe, an ache deep in the chest. But just as quickly, the cricket turns into a shrimp—taking a step back, grounding me in the present. The African present.
Today, we went to the market in Meru and decided to return to the village on a motorbike. In Meru, many young men make a living riding motorbike taxis—loud, lively machines decked out with flags and blaring music. The three of us pile onto one, as is customary here: the driver, a trustworthy young man, Maria Rosa, and me.
To our right, the sunset is breathtaking, the wind rushing past as the bike speeds along. Maria Rosa and I burst into laughter, bouncing on the seat as we hit potholes in the dirt road. In that moment, I turn to her and say, “Mari, we are in Africa!”

And I think that’s what matters most—that I used the verb in the present tense. And present tense, as we’ve been taught, also means gift.

19th July

After almost a week at Aina Children’s Home, we feel at home. We’ve settled in well and are now going about our daily routines.
This morning, we finally finished organising the store. If you say that in Italy, you might imagine a department store, but here it’s a simple, rustic room with a tin roof and a few cupboards, inside which we’ve sorted all the clothing that arrived from Italy. Aina’s children and teenagers are curious; they sneak peeks inside, but the no touching rule is universal. We let them help in small ways—cutting pieces of tape, arranging empty boxes—but nothing more.
Among the sorted clothes, some were lovely, still carrying the fresh scent of Dixan detergent. Others, however, were in pitiful condition—ripped, threadbare, unwearable. There was even a bra that looked like it had been chewed by a dog. That kind of thing disgusts me, to be honest. As if being poor and hungry means you have to wear rags. But I swallow my frustration with a sigh, reminding myself that what matters is that most of the children will finally have replacements for their worn-out clothes.
Yesterday, we visited the big market in Meru and got lost in a whirlwind of colors—vibrant fruit, the smell of fried food, the constant chatter of the crowd. Between the stalls and the traffic, sheep and chickens peeked out, adding to the lively chaos.
Later, after an afternoon of coloring and drawing with the nursery kids, I witnessed a small moment that deeply moved me: the children, lined up with their large glasses of water, ready to take their medicine. Prince opened his mouth wide to show the house mother he had swallowed his pill. It was such a simple thing, yet it struck me—perhaps because of their diligence, the way they quietly followed the routine. Little Helene helped arrange the pillboxes with care. It’s a daily ritual, one that saves lives, and putting it into words now makes me feel its weight even more.
It was such a simple thing, yet it struck me—perhaps because of their diligence, the way they quietly followed the routine. Little Helene helped arrange the pillboxes with care. It’s a daily ritual, one that saves lives, and putting it into words now makes me feel its weight even more.
In the dormitories, some of the beds have stuffed animals—worn, crumpled, but cherished. In psychology, they call this the transitional object—something that replaces a mother’s presence until a child is ready to let go. Here, I hear stories of loss—mothers and fathers gone. Sometimes there is an uncle, a grandmother. Sometimes, there is no one.
African children grow up fast; they have no choice. The educators here do a fantastic job, preparing the kids for life beyond Aina, because one day, this chapter will end, and they will need to be strong and self-reliant. Still, the village will always be a family to them—just as it is for Mouthuma, 25, a university student who once lived here and has returned for a visit. We love having him around, especially when we need to call him for help with the bats that, all too often, find their way into our house.
Our affection for this place deepens every day, which makes the thought of leaving even harder.
As I kiss Wendy and she giggles, as if I were tickling her, I reflect on the fact that these children do not grow up with the kind of motherly contact we take for granted—cuddles, scratches, hugs. These things are not part of their daily routine, at least not in the way a mother would provide them. And yet, they are safe. They are fed, cared for, and protected.
Aina is a beacon in the dark.

22nd July

On Saturday morning, we head into town, where the sight of overloaded vehicles—packed with as many people as possible—never fails to amaze us. In the afternoon, we spend time with the children, who do everything they can to teach me a traditional Swahili song. After endless laughter and failed attempts, I finally get it!
Later, we bake a cake for Mrs. Rose, our neighbor, who was delighted to learn that Maria Rosa shares her name and gave her a small but precious gift. By now, everyone in the village knows us, and we’re warmly welcomed along the dirt roads and red earth paths.
As always, William, the night watchman, walks us to our door, armed with a torch and a spear—something that never fails to make us laugh. What makes us laugh even more is when, in our attempt to peek at the sleeping piglets, Federica and I manage to fall straight into a pit.
We finally pull up our sheets, tuck in the mosquito net, and… lala salama! (sleep peacefully).

23rd July

Vyette, Lilian, Ann, Kesline, Polline, Yvonne, Nora, Linda, Glory, Brian, Monene, Clifford, Kiroku, Manuel, Armstrong, Nicholas, Prince, Dennys, Moses, Victor, Kanana, Christine, Angel, Mobeen, Princess, Price, Wendy, Helene, Peter, Joy, Sharon, Polly, Joshua, Betty, Freeda, Rose, Faith… just a few of the 130 children in Aina village.
If one could count how many heads we stroked, how many hands we shook, how many hugs we gave, how many sweet kisses we shared, how many smiles stretched across our faces, how many eyes we met, how much we ran and chased, jumped, how many swings we pushed, how many flies we waved away, how many clothes we folded, how much red earth we lifted, how much fresh air we breathed, how many Hello and Jambo we greeted with our hands… all of it would be immeasurable.
Coming here, I fulfilled a lifelong dream. I arrived at their home and found smiles as big as their poverty, resilience that would drive a Westerner mad after just three days. The way they move—the effortless grace with which they pour tea mixed with milk, carry sacks of potatoes, dance to the rhythm of life, walk with children strapped to their backs, and smile, always. The way they pluck vegetables from the earth, style their hair, wear ill-fitting clothes from different seasons yet remain effortlessly beautiful, walk in shoes too big for their feet.
This is just a small glimpse of all that we have stepped into these past days, with our shoes and, more importantly, with all our hearts. Always giving thanks, for every compliment received, for every shared meal, for every simple aubergine offered.


We, the only white people in this village of black faces.

24th July

No one told us it would be heartbreaking
No one warned us about the rivers of tears we would shed.

The little ones hadn’t fully understood—until tonight, when it was gently explained to them in Swahili.
And when, after realising it, they came close, running their tiny fingers over my face—tracing my nose, my cheeks, my moles—I felt like I was breaking apart.

We made a garland of angels and hung it in the dormitory.
The children and boys stared at it, mesmerised, as if it were something extraordinary.
A clapper from the cradle.
Wendy whispers something sweet—I can tell by the softness in her voice—but I don’t understand Swahili.

Change your ticket.
Why you go away?
Come again!

If I close my eyes, a reel of beautiful images unfolds.
In one last rush, I hold Kanana close and breathe her in—she, one of the first smiles that captured me from the start.

Asante sana

28th July

The journey from Italy to Kenya—and back—is interminable, stretching over 24 hours. On the way there, our luggage was heavy, filled with everything we thought could be useful to the Aina village. On the way back, our backpacks and suitcases feel almost empty.
I think back to the Sara who departed and the Sara who is returning.
More than once during this trip, we asked ourselves why we chose this path. Knowing we were coming to Kenya, we could have opted for a luxurious holiday—strolling along the white sands of Watamu, hopping between idyllic islands. Instead, we spent two weeks immersed in real Africa and only two days in tourist Africa.
In Malindi, many people speak Italian. There’s a casino, a massive Briatore-owned club, and bars and restaurants with Italian names. Sometimes, it feels like the place bends and reshapes itself just to accommodate our habits. Elius, our guide, realised from the start that we were not tourists. He knew it when we told him he didn’t need to open our car doors or insist on carrying our bags.
On the long road to Tsavo National Park, I saw poverty—families living in huts under the scorching sun, mothers holding their little ones, their shirts revealing the absence of bras. Barefoot children, their black feet dusted white with the dirt of the road. The mzungu—the white man—carries sweets. It’s a gesture that doesn’t sit well with me. The white man is the one who brings candy. And that is why, thinking back on my two weeks at Aina, my heart feels lighter.

On the coast, the large Muslim community in Malindi wakes with the first call to prayer at 5 a.m., echoing from the mosque across the street. I wonder how they see us—Italians arriving in swimsuits and sunhats, searching first for coffee and pizza. Too often, we don’t seek to truly know the places that host us.
I tried. I spoke with a man who worked late into the night in a pitch-dark wood workshop. I showed him photos of my father’s craftsmanship. At the end of our conversation, delighted, he gifted me a wooden ladle.
And yet, in between these moments, Aina’s children and teenagers are always on my mind. Wendy, Peter, Kanana… The way they would rest against my soft belly, the way they filled every space with warmth. I think of all the love they gave me and what I tried, in my own way, to give them.
I wonder when I will see them again—because I will see them again. I dream of finding them grown, speaking the English that, for now, stops at What’s your name? Or, in Peter’s case, at a randomly thrown Yes!—a response to nothing in particular, but one that always made me laugh.
I believe that travel, when truly embraced, is nourishment for the soul, as vital as fruit and vegetables are for the body.
I believe that refusing to learn about other people is like refusing to know ourselves—because within each of us, there is something foreign.
I think of the comfort zone—how it guarantees an easy life, but never the thrill of something new, of seeing the world through a child’s eyes, filled with wonder.
And I believe that nothing happens by chance.
That one day, I will go to Africa happened at the exact moment it was meant to happen.
Not a moment sooner.
Not a moment later.