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Our second camp, Mara Plains, took all this to extremes. It had a tree-top library, a spa, a drawing room, two suspension bridges and a stretch of river. Arranged along a walkway of recycled railway sleepers, this was no ordinary glamp-site but a tented stately home. Every suite had a terrace and a giant copper bath. One of these pavilions, the Jahazi, was so vast and aristocratic it would easily have swallowed an orangery or a couple of ballrooms.
The staff were always splendidly attentive, in their khaki drill. Whenever we arrived or departed, they would line up, Downton Abbey-style. But they could also be chatty and charming. Amos the waiter was horrified by the thought of snow, and by the fact that we didn’t have our own herd of cows.
Robinson, meanwhile, had a spear and looked after us at night. Then there was Timothy the chef. He would conjure the most gorgeous dishes (pomegranate salad, perhaps, or passion fruit sorbet). How does he produce such things, out there in the wilds?
One night, we had a little earthquake. Way off, hippos grunted and lions groaned. In the camp, however, few of us woke – and the only sound…
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