Kuki Gallmann's haunting memoir of bringing up a family in Kenya in the 1970s first with her husband Paulo, and then alone, is part elegaic celebration, part tragedy, and part love letter to the magical spirit of Africa.
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Kuki Gallmann's haunting memoir of bringing up a family in Kenya in the 1970s first with her husband Paulo, and then alone, is part elegaic celebration, part tragedy, and part love letter to the magical spirit of Africa.
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I laughed and cried and didn't want this book to end. It was so motivating and not at all pretentious. It made me feel as though I could accomplish anything by merely wanting it enough. Mrs Gallman articulated the surroundings so well that it made you feel as though you were sitting next to her. I mourned each time something horrid occurred and laughed at the little things in her every day experiences.
Ms Gallman doesn't claim this is the ultimate African story - it is the personal story of her life, her deep love of Africa and of her friends and family, and in my opinion of her remarkably brave journey. Many reviewers seem to criticise this book for failing to be what it was never intended to be in the first place.
Oh, and all the spiteful comments about the "rich white Europeans" owning airplanes!!!
For God's sake, we are not talking about private luxury jets here! Clearly reviewers have completely disregarded that this is AFRICA, where people have immense properties, where it takes hours and hours to drive on dusty and dangerous roads to your nearest neighbours. How some people have gained the impression they were simply flitting about in style for their own pleasure is quite beyond me. About the only way of practical transport to most places was by plane, and it would seem these were small and often rundown planes, where people took their life in their hands each time they flew them. So please, get over the fact that most people had planes!!
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