A lion’s share of wilderness luxury
Josh Martin camps out in the Serengeti to soak in the sights and sounds in an unbelievable level of comfort.
Iwallowed in my watering hole, far too full from lunch, and moving only to swat away a stray fly that could probably smell my gluttony. Even cocking my head to observe the squabbling squad of vervet monkeys in the adjacent tree overhead seemed too much effort. Bliss.
The infinity pool at Singita Faru Faru Lodge looked out on to a rival watering hole, where visitors included similarly podgy warthogs, rowdy baboons and impala. It was the end of the rainy season on the edges of the Serengeti and the abundance was not limited to our abode.
Of course, for the price you pay, Singita had set the bar high: tucked into a rocky outcrop and looking out to the famed plains of northern Tanzania, Faru Faru Lodge managed to embrace a mix of California-cool poolside and Scandi-minimalism in the suites that not only gelled, but didn’t seem out of place in the wilds of Africa.
From the bed, I pushed a button beside the mosquito nets, which hang from the high tented ceiling and, with a small rumble, the huge window pane came down to bring the soundtrack of our surrounds to the cloud of a California King bed adorned with far too many pillows. Never mind the afternoon game drive, let the savannah come to me, I thought for half a second. That is luxury.
I am not usually a picture of calm lethargy, but familiarity breeds contempt (or, at least, a shrug), even in the Serengeti, and, after nearly a week of being completely spoiled by nature and nurture in the Singita’s private Grumeti concession, it now took a lot more to raise an eyebrow or a gasp from me. From the very start, Tanzania had delivered the goods.
We juddered down the red clay runway on day one, to be greeted by Anicet, our safari guide, photographer, historian, barista, and host. Within minutes, always-alert Anicet stopped mid-sentence and handed my wife the binoculars to see a herd of Cape buffalo grazing beside the airstrip.
We made rather poor time in our transfer to Singita Sabora Tented Camp, after spotting a herd of African elephants bulldozing their way through scrubby bush beyond the dirt road. Anicet swerved off-road (the benefit of being outside a National Park, we learnt, was the ability to leave the clearly defined drives that tourists must stick to within the parks).
I was fine with keeping our distance from the inquisitive and rowdy ‘‘teenage’’ bull males, but Anicet insisted on making a memorable first impression and had us metres from this beautiful creature. I swear the bull was sizing us up, that’s what the butterflies in my stomach were telling me anyway, as he blew his trumpet, stomped for a bit and then – macho peacocking display over – moved along.
‘‘He’s a show-off,’’ teased Anicet. Our jaws were still on the floor of the Land Rover. Two of Africa’s Big Five in the first 15 minutes – that is luxury.
Entering the camp was to have one foot back in the era of kings, colonies and discovery. Two old Chevrolets complete a theme that’s officially 1920s explorer camp: think antique leather trunks, crystal port decanters, Persian rugs, copper telescopes, and the feeling that the safari-helmeted villain from Jumanji could appear at any moment.
As a safari novice, when I saw the words ‘‘tented camp’’ on my itinerary, thoughts of music festival yurts came to mind. But Singita’s version is palatial, hardwood-floored if still canvas-covered, and spread across two rooms. It’s now my bare minimum of camping, although I doubt I’ll be gazing out at Thomson’s gazelles grazing from my outdoor shower at my next campsite.
Pre-safari, we also wondered about food options: I pictured hearty plates of meat and starches from the buffet counter, but our waiter, Manambo, was having none of that.
‘‘Sir, madam, today for lunch I would recommend the chilled asparagus soup and maybe follow that with lobster tails, or tuna steak cooked as you like.’’ Well, OK then.
Sabora was a perfect dichotomy of emptiness
and abundance. With no fences, no blots of concrete on the far horizons, neighbours numbering a few buffalo, we were blissfully cut off.
We played tennis on the camp’s clay court one morning, our only audience was a lone impala momentarily distracted from his grazing beside an acacia tree, yet another example of how, in our cocoon, we wanted for nothing. Tea and scones after tennis? Perhaps something stronger from the craft gin bar? Either was far too English for this close to the equator, but having those options on the edge of the Serengeti – that is luxury.
But, as alluring as all of that is, we didn’t come to the 140,000-hectare Grumeti concession for the infinity pool and sky-high sheet thread-counts. No, like the crew of the BBC’s Serengeti documentary, which we saw out on the plains filming cheetah, we came for exclusive access to Africa’s big game showstoppers, far from the madding crowds.
As we come across the shaggy grey migrating wildebeest, the chorus of ‘‘ga-nooing’’ provides a backing track to Anicet’s explanation of the impact of humans on the ecosystem elsewhere. North of here, in the Mara River area – famous for its river crossings of these gnus – they become impeded by dozens of safari vehicles crowding them out.
‘‘They cross the river and avoid the hungry crocodiles, make it up the slippery bank, only to see all these crowds, get scared and fall back down on each other,’’ he says. No such overtourism here.
The Grumeti concession does allow outsider jeeps to enter for a (high) fee, but is mostly reserved for guests of the four Singita accommodations. However, its proximity to Serengeti National Park means it has the animal density of its neighbour. We come to think of it like our own corporate box at the match. And life is pretty good.
‘‘Look, look, look,’’ excitable Anicet stagewhispered as he spotted a lone lioness. Frozen, her taut muscles like a coiled spring, waiting for the exact moment that one of the thousands of bearded beasts would wander too close to her hiding spot.
As if by prompt, as Anicet says ‘‘c’mon baby, when will you strike’’, the lioness we are stalking lunges at a wildebeest. Direct hit.
Dust rises as the migrating cohort marches past, only a little bothered. We are enthralled, pulses racing. The circle of life, we tell ourselves, as we digest the bloody scenes.
Dusk has set in and a pair of spotted hyena had picked up the scent of the lioness’ prize. They bounded from the horizon, would stop and sniff and cock their heads – alert and confused – then bound forward again.
‘‘Hurry, beautiful girl, they are coming for it,’’ Anicet warned our lioness, afraid she had cubs that would miss out on a meal.
‘‘In all my years of guiding, I have only seen two kills, and nothing like today,’’ he said.
We looked around, the misguided hyena skulked off in the wrong direction, and we were alone, our own, live, private screening of David Attenborough’s best. Now, that really is once-ina-lifetime levels of luxury.
The writer was a guest of Singita.