THE ensuing days blur into a momentous series of experiences; intertwined and overlaid in a long, hot mirage of wonder.
THE smiling face of James is the first thing I see now that I’ve finally arrived. His beam echoes the warmth of the sun all around, and after a handshake and an introduction, followed by a farewell to my intrepid taxi driver, we’re climbing aboard one of the camp’s beloved Land Rovers, and we’re inside the gates.
THE road out of Nairobi – and there really is one arterial one that the world and his wife must use – is like something out of a movie. Vehicles of every conceivable age, hue, size, shape and antiquity queue, parp, roar, splutter and career through a fog of dust and fumes so thick you have to keep your windows firmly closed.
I’D FORGOTTEN what it’s like to truly revel in the moment, if I’m honest. Over the last couple of years, my travelling muscles had atrophied to such an extent that I’d sort of forgotten how to do it. I made such a fuss about arranging my PCR test, packing a suitcase; I used to fly home one night sometimes and jump aboard another plane the next morning without thinking much of it.