As incredible as Lokichogio had been, the next phase of the journey took things to a whole new level. We boarded a small UN plane, bound for Southern Sudan. But this wasn’t the kind of flight I was used to—no smooth runways, no TSA checkpoints, no air-conditioned terminals. Instead, we flew low over a vast, untouched landscape, a land raw with history and conflict. The hum of the plane’s engine was the only sound as we crossed the border, and with every mile, I felt like we were leaving the familiar world even further behind.

I remember gripping the seat as we began our descent, watching the ground get closer. But instead of the smooth tarmac I was expecting, we landed on dirt. And I mean just dirt. No tarmac, no terminals—just raw earth. The plane bounced and rattled as it touched down, and for a split second, I wasn’t sure we were going to stop. The sensation was surreal, a mixture of fear and awe as the dust swirled up around us, engulfing the plane. I glanced at the other passengers, but their faces were calm, used to this kind of landing. This was just another day for them, but for me, it felt like stepping into another world—a place where time had stood still.

There were children on the plane with us, and as soon as we landed, they bolted toward their families, who were waiting on the dirt runway before the engines had even cooled. It was a sight I’ll never forget—the pure, raw emotion of reunion. Tears, laughter, embraces. These children had been away, and now they were home. It reminded me that this journey wasn’t just about playing music; it was about connection. Humanity. Witnessing that reunion made me realize that no matter where we come from, we’re all tied together by the same fundamental emotions—love, loss, hope.

Later, as we settled in, one of the elders approached and offered us a gift: a live calf. I wasn’t sure why at first, but I soon realized it was meant to be our meal. A few hours later, we dined on that calf with rice, cooked over a fire right there in the village. There was no electricity, no modern comforts—just us, the village, and the stars above. The simplicity of it all struck me. There was something so real, so unfiltered about that moment. After a long day, eating a meal prepared by the hands of the people who lived there, it felt like I was tasting a piece of their world, their history.

But that night… that night, I’ll never forget. I was trying to sleep in a small hut, no more than a few feet wide. There was no bed, just a cot and a net. The ground was dirt, and the heat was unbearable. I remember tossing and turning, covered in sweat, trying to catch some sleep, but a single mosquito had other plans. I couldn’t catch it, and it kept buzzing around, making the night feel endless. It was a simple thing—a mosquito—but it made me realize just how far from home I was. I wasn’t just in a different country; I was in a different world, both physically and mentally.

During the day, two eagles perched on nearby posts, watching us as we ate. They were massive, their presence commanding. One of them, in particular, would look me straight in the eye, like it was sizing me up. There was no fear in its gaze, only a deep intelligence, a kind of knowing that I couldn’t fully understand. One eagle left after a while, but the other stayed, keeping its watchful eye on us. I couldn’t shake the feeling that their presence meant something—that they were guardians of this place, sentinels watching over us in silence. After some time, the first eagle returned, and the other left, like they were taking turns, passing the guard. It felt like a silent message from nature itself—a reminder that we were visitors in a world far older and wiser than we could comprehend.