Epicure
returned to camp and sent to Esther.
She does the Mara’s best massages,
with all-natural Africology products,
in-tent, amidst roses and candles. I’m
then led onto my private terrace for
the Mara’s most romantic bespoke
supper. Chef Meshak unveils four
epicurean courses. Crystal wine
glasses twinkle and silver glitters in
starlight, around me blaze lamps and
candles. Butler John asks Manager
Stanley if he could add more. Stanley
r
on
n h n r
ty am
are quite enough, John!”
Elewana Sand River
Superbly stationed on the Sand River,
with the best seats in the wilderness
theatre to watch the inception of
the Great Migration makes for
“dinner theatre” with a delicious
iff r n
Th r
a r tty oo
where lunches are served under
a sway of trees. Otherwise dine in
the privacy of your tents,
handsomely colonial, all-leatherand-wood, a swirl in signature
almond fragrances. They have crystal
decanters and the crumbliest cookies
enclosed in cut-glass bottles, and
the plushest sofa in the Mara to sink
into a th t nt
nt y a in
canvas in balmy breezes, hypnotize.
Breakfast on private tree-drenched
terraces on the river delights, unless
mon y
hi off yo r ho rain
toast. Sup al fresco on Little Sand
River’s just-been-jacuzzied jazzy
pavilion. Chef customizes four
courses including wheat cigars that
enclose gloriously green sautéed
spinach as General Manager Tim
says, the glowing full moon and
brilliantly starred skies were
brought out especially for me.
Richard’s Camp
would-be mate!
Richard’s Camp
Tents with the prettiest painted
roof linings and quirky artefacts
(think canoe-turned-shelf in a
bathroom) lace a stream where
lions roar and where hyenas have
a den, once occupied by lions that
the hyenas evicted. I’m told I’m
being taken to visit the den.
Then, unawares, I’m walked to
a stunning sunset and ambushed
by a bush dinner, set enchantingly
on a waterbody aglitter with myriad
lamps. This must be the most magical
setting in the Masai Mara for bush
dinners. Dinner time music isn’t
Mozart, but a lion roaring on a hill
yonder. After supper, I’m taken on
a night drive to see bush babies,
mini kangaroo-like hares and the
largest owls in Africa. I also
spot an aardvark, a very rare
occurrence this.
Ric hard’s Camp does gorgeous bush
dinners, but beware, breakfasts are
an ro
ff t
i omati
disaster when I almost abandoned
a neighbouring camp to return for
Richard’s marvellous mango-passioncardammon-turmeric smoothies.
Cottar’s 1920s
It was transmitted me that the
famous Calvin Cottar, whose family
began this historic colonial-style
camp almost a hundred years ago,
charged $1000 to dine with guests.
I’m privileged that he fetches me
personally and lunches with me at
their smart poolside tent. He even
dines me at his new villa that
showcases artwork from around
Africa. We bask in the moonlight on
a balcony thrust into the wild, and
a in i nti
ario anima a
even gauging how far away are the
animals, when not feeding me on wild
tales. Gold Guide Douglas, who with
Calvin makes up two of Kenya’s
three gold guides, matches Calvin’s
stories. Especially amusing are those
about a Masai chief who died a
centurion, leaving behind sixteen
wives (the youngest fourteen) and
eighty-eight children. But Calvin
provides the cherry on the cake,
with an incredible story of a
cuckolded Masai who resorted
to oo oo to
hi
i
to
her lovers during the act, and
detached them only upon receiving
a handsome payment.
Meals in the mess tent, with its
colonial air and African rugs and
waiters in fez hats, are served with
rather less titillating conversation.
But they compensate with various
and wondrous salads at lunch,
amongst the best in the Mara, and
robust suppers, after which you can
r tir
ith a rin to th r a
in the library, with the family’s
&Beyond Bataleur
Camp
During my morning game-drive,
a bush breakfast is laid out on an
embankment cleaved by a chocolate
river humped with hippos. On the
banks, fat slithers of crocodiles
snooze and yawn unattractively.
I relish homemade muesli that this
camp does unusually with smoked
nuts. My guide Lengume concurs
with other Masai guides that muesli
is about the only western breakfast
food Masai guides, compelled to
ff r
h r a a t
ith
t
n a ata
Th
a ai ar
abstemious and usually have milk
for breakfast). We’re breakfasting
under trees hung with little baskets
of weaver-bird nests, around which
ma
a r t itt r an
tt r
busily. I’m told the males build nests
and then dance and prance to entice
females. Sometimes, whilst a male is
engaged in hectic courtship, a
cheeky rival hijacks our suitor’s
hard-built nest and with it the
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