O
l Donyo Lodge: We’re
whizzing through the
conservation, past a zigzag of zebra browsing and
ostrich tip-toing hurriedly,
flirtatiously wagging tutu-like
feathered bottoms. A lone elephant
looks very pleased with a tree he
has toppled over and Seki, my Masai
guide, grins, “Elephant display; they
do it to show off to the women. It’s
all about the women, you know...”
This entertaining game-drive ends
with my arrival at the lodge in the
Chyulu Hills that Hemingway
poeticised in his writing. Worthy of
poetry is the lodge itself. Perched
over Savannah grass with astounding
views over the snow-capped
Kilimanjaro that hangs in the sky
like a piece of crystal is this safari
lodge. It’s rustic by day, romantic
by night, when dressed for supper
in candles and lamps and lavish
ta
ar
thi n ry o n t
deter the pet civet cat slinking
between your legs as you dine.
o r i a o
ith a on o in
unimpeded into terraces with
iff
in nity oo off rin
those bewitching views over Mt
Kili, also available from your ample
four-poster bed and bath. But sleep
under a blanket of stars on the
terrace-top star-bed, whose
silken-armed embrace you forsake
only for champagne breakfasts
in the lodge’s fantasy forested
treehouse. But not before you feast
on the daily spectacle at dawn: as
you wake, watch Africa’s loftiest
mountain, Mt. Kilimanjaro
(apparently “gifted” Queen
Victoria), slowly, coyly, extract
herself from a duvet of dawn clouds,
caress away vestigial wisps -what a
tease- that girdle her like white lace
lingerie, until she stands before you
in all her spectacular nakedness.
Return from a morning safari to
breakfast on a pavilion inclined over
a waterhole, where animals conduct
drinking parties. Lunch can be on
varietal outdoors vantage points.
Relish falafel and roasted aubergine
tr n in affron an o
ranat
as elephants pose gracefully for
you- when not throwing their weight
aro n n
in o t iraff
ra
gazelle, warthogs and other humbler
creatures convened for lunchtime
cocktails.
At pre-supper cocktails, a guest
teases our American hostess,
Alyssa, that some American tourists
returned from a game-drive,
exultant, “We saw four tigers!”
30
t th
r t ti
an n ian
immigrant has been welcome
abroad,” I murmur, as some KenyanIndian guests with a delicious sense
of irony laugh gleefully. Over supper
(it’s rather a banquet) on a long
table set outside and encircled in
lamps, Alyssa says she nicknamed
her Masai gun-bearer “Husky,” much
to his chagrin. She later realised he
thought she was calling him a dog,
husky being a dog species. She tried
explaining to her employee that
“husky” could mean sexy, but
wondered how to convey to a Masai
what “sexy” means. “Something you
feel about a woman who’s not your
wife?” I volunteer, as the married
women around the table dagger me
with Masai-spear looks.
If you’ve lunched overly on chefmanager Richard’s creations and his
wife Allyssa’s charm, kill calories
on hi
n y r t a t rnoon
scale a modest peak with a majestic
view. On one side, the setting sun
streaks across the sky, a blaze of
red velvet, silhouetted against
hi h i a iraff
t h
or a
t rnity in y in i thi r t
experience of the fabled Kenyan
sunset. My gaze shifts and before
me rises Mt. Kilimanjaro, whose
piercing white contrasts sharply
with the racy red sunset. I’m
tran
t
n
t
or
n
i off r
me a hand. I must be brave. Seki
scampers down the slope with the
agility and assurance of a mountain
goat. I’m in silver sandals, slipping
an t rri
t too ro to a
for help. Seki, a true Masai, is proud
too. He waits at the bottom of the