The Royal Treatment
Four camps keep safari-goers comfortable while in the thick of wildlife and experiencing the animal kingdom
MANA POOLS NATIONAL PARK, ZIMBABWE— There is something both petrifying and amazing about watching a lioness hold down a wildebeest for her cubs.
The sun is still well below the horizon when I crawl out of bed for the day’s first game drive. By 9 a.m., I see a kudu (a small species of antelope), elephants and a wildebeest. Two brightly coloured birds perch above each sagging eyelid, but the wildebeest seems unfazed, or perhaps too tired, to shake them off.
We pass a skittish herd of kudu as we head back to camp. The radio crackles to life. Our guide, Honest Siyawareva, informs us it’s time for a “Ferrari safari.” A kill is taking place nearby.
We fly along the dirt track, eventually pulling up alongside another jeep. Metres away, two lions are on the back of the wildebeest we saw earlier.
It’s still standing, but eventually the lions decide to give their cubs an in and they move to the creature’s side, pushing it down into the dust so their offspring can feed. Soon their furry faces are red. It’s gruesome but awe-inspiring.
I’ve come to Zimbabwe and Zambia to check out four of Wilderness Safaris’ camps. Let’s start by clarifying the definition of camp here: At all of them I have a separate bathroom area, four-poster bed, living area and spacious patio.
At Toka Leya Camp near Victoria Falls, my patio has an open-air bath tub. At Linkwasha in Zimbabwe’s Hwange National Park, my pre-dinner routine involves a glass of wine from my tent’s fully stocked, complimentary mini-bar and a flick through one of the coffee-table books laid out for my perusal.
Which brings me to another point. Safaris might be expensive, but once you arrive the only extra is the optional tip — a recommended $20 (U.S.) a day for guides and $20 a day for other staff. Almost all drinks are included, as is all food. And there is a lot.
At Little Ruckomechi’s four-tent camp in Zimbabwe’s Mana Pools National Park, the highlight of the afternoon tea is the world’s fluffiest profiteroles, while the Vietnamese chicken skewers at Zambia’s Shumba Camp take me right back to the clammy, fragrant heat of Ho Chi Minh City.
We travel between camps in tiny airplanes and I grow to love the sight of another remote airstrip floating into view.
One day, we pull up at the airstrip seconds before our plane appears on the horizon, only for our guide to spot a zebra meandering across the asphalt. After radioing the pilot and telling him to abort his landing, we hop in the jeep and speed along the runway to chase away the animal. I grow to love safari life. After an early start (usually before 6 a.m.), we’ll head out on our first game drive. We’ll be back at camp before midday, just in time for brunch.
After that, there’s some free time — I usually spend mine relaxing in one of the main tents or by the plunge pool.
After lunch, it’s time for the afternoon activity, whether it’s a canoe excursion, walking safari or another game drive.
Before we return to camp, we enjoy our sundowner, which quickly becomes my favourite part of the day.
Our guide will whip out a cooler filled with our favourite drinks, unfold a table and lay out a selection of snacks, all in some remote corner of the bush.
It’s all shamelessly decadent, but for most people, safaris aren’t annual holidays — they’re once-in-a-lifetime experiences.
I’ve stayed in hotels where rooms cost more than $1,000 a night and have left feeling dejected. This isn’t a hotel room, however.
Almost everything is included, and while the initial cost might make you wince, there’s so much packed in that you’re unlikely to come away feeling shortchanged.
It’s not just the decadence, or the freeflowing wine and amazing food.
Even the staff at the aforementioned extortionately priced hotels didn’t come close to Stanley Kapapa, the Shumba barman who walked me back to my tent (and once even tied my shoelaces) when I became convinced a lion was lurking on my patio; or Bulisani Mathe, the eternally patient guide at Linkwasha who used his amazing tracking skills to locate a guests’ iPhone when it bounced out of the jeep in the middle of the bush.
Or Siyawareva, the Little Ruckomechi guide who patiently helped me snap the perfect elephant selfie (and remained cool as a cucumber when it charged).
My final night is spent at the remote Shumba Camp, which, like all of the sites, has the feeling of a luxurious family home.
Our guide, Isaac Kalio, joins us for beers by the fire pit and regales us with tales of close encounters and frightened guests, like the lady who found an enormous bug in her room, grabbed a can of bug spray, squeezed the trigger and discovered it was actually the bedside air horn guests are given in case of an emergency.
It’s also the night I realize just how much I’m going to miss the staff I’ve shared the past week with.
And if you’re wondering if I ever used my air horn, the answer is no, although I did come close.
One morning, a deafening screeching woke me up. My entire tent was shaking violently.
Then I saw a hairy lump drop down onto the patio and scamper away, and realized it was simply a family of baboons using my tent as a bouncy castle.
Just another day in the bush. Tamara Hinson’s trip was sponsored by Wilderness Safaris and Safari & Co., which didn’t review or approve this story.