Lessons from My Fieldwork in Laikipia, Kenya

Over the past six months, I spent time in Laikipia County, Kenya, conducting fieldwork for my PhD research on power dynamics in community-governed tourism conservancies. While I went there to collect data, the experience taught me valuable lessons that reshaped both my research and myself.

In this blog, I share some of the key insights that emerged from my time in the field.

Trust must be earned not assumed

Although I’m Kenyan, I wasn’t from the local community I was researching. As a non-Maasai, some people were hesitant, even openly questioning why I was there. I quickly realised I had to earn their trust.

So, I took part in everyday life: fetching water, herding livestock, attending church service and weddings. I even picked up a few words in Maa, like Supa (hello) and Sidai (good). Those small acts of participation built familiarity.

Over time, the community no longer saw me as a stranger. Some community members even gave me a nickname, Lamayian, meaning “the blessed one.” That name was a small but powerful sign that I was no longer just a researcher; I was someone they had chosen to welcome.

Beyond trust, these interactions helped me understand Maasai values, customs and traditions. One moment that stood out was when an elder spat into someone’s hands, which I later learnt was a traditional form of blessing.

Experiences like this reminded me that research is not just about collecting data; it’s about building genuine human connections.

Silence is data too

There were moments when people told me, “I don’t know much about tourism.” At first, I wondered if I had chosen the wrong people.

But over time, I realised that silence – especially in a study about power – is data too. It taught me to listen not only to what was said, but also to what wasn’t. These moments revealed who felt excluded and offered clues about participation and power dynamics.

Be flexible and embrace change

My research plan changed several times. Interviews were delayed or postponed because of weddings, funerals, or weather. At one point, roads were so muddy due to heavy rains that I had to cancel village visits.

Sometimes, I couldn’t access key documents and had to rely on oral accounts to understand what was in them. I also refined my research questions as new themes emerged in the field. Rather than seeing these changes as setbacks, I embraced them.

These experiences taught me how essential it is to stay flexible and let go of rigid plans.

Fieldwork is never a solo act

Behind every successful research journey is a team. My research assistant, Stephen, was invaluable. He helped with translation, made introductions, explained customs I didn’t know and helped me navigate the study area.

The Northern Rangelands Trust (NRT) introduced me to the conservancy, and on my first day, the conservancy board invited me to a baraza (public meeting), where I introduced myself and explained my research. Their endorsement made a difference. From that point on, people knew who I was and became open to future conversations.

Back in the UK, my supervisors provided steady feedback and encouragement. Their questions pushed me to rethink and dig deeper. All these people reminded me that successful fieldwork depends on communication and collaboration.

Ethics go beyond paperwork

Yes, I had my permits and ethics approval and followed all the formal steps: explaining the study, ensuring informed consent, and reminding participants of their right to withdraw.

But ethics went further. It was about respecting community protocols, holding entry meetings with elders, hiring a local assistant, and promising to share findings. It meant knowing when to speak, when to listen and when to pause.

I learned that ethics runs through every part of research, not just at the beginning.

Listening is the most powerful tool

Above all, I learnt the value of listening. Patient, attentive listening allowed me to understand people’s stories and perspectives. Through it, I gathered rich data I would have missed if I had only focused on collecting answers.

More than that, it reminded me of my responsibility as a researcher. When people share their stories with you, they trust you with something valuable. You owe it to them to carry it with care and honesty.

These lessons reshaped my research and myself. I hope they offer useful insights to fellow researchers, especially those planning fieldwork in community-based or culturally distinct contexts.