While it’s true that the Kenya’s and Tanzania’s local governments are trying to encourage the nomadic communities to abandon their lifestyles, the Masaai, a semi-nomadic people native to Kenya and northern Tanzania, are stronger than ever. Continuing to push forward and evolve, the Masaai culture remains steadfast in the face of change as they hold true to their ancient traditions, living off the land and managing to farm, most impressively, among the deserts and scrublands. It’s why no trip to Kenya would be complete without spending some time with the Maasai people.
Best known for their red shukas (cloths), colourful jewellery and distinctive customs, the Masaai are as formidable as they are friendly. On Intrepid Travel’s Kenya Wildlife Safari tour, you’ll head to a local village in the Lolita Hills to camp alongside a Maasai community and experience firsthand what their modern-day lives are like. Visit the village, step inside a typical mud hut, learn how to throw a spear, and perhaps even help tend to their livestock.
After dinner, you’ll gather around a crackling fire to hear stories about the Masaai’s age-old culture and traditions from a the village elder, before drifting off to sleep to the crackling of the fire and the sounds of the bush under a sky of stars. The Maasai are forbidding warriors and while you slumber they will patrol the campsite, even accompanying you to the loo should you need to get up during the night.
The next morning you’ll collect your belongings and wave farewell your new friends as you hit the dusty roads in your 4×4 and make your way into the vast arid plains, dotted with wildlife and blanketed by open sky as far as the eye can see, of the Masai Mara National Reserve, an experience all-the-more richer for the one you had the night before.
Botswana’s inland delta – described as ‘Africa’s last Eden’ – is a huge draw card for travellers keen to experience its unmatched wildlife. While most opt for fly-in tented camps or wild camping, sleeping on a houseboat is one of the most unique (and peaceful) ways to experience the Okavango Delta.
Leave the crowds behind and board a small speedboat for a 90-minute journey up winding waterways to your houseboat in the middle of nowhere. Keep your eyes peeled for resident wildlife such as hippo, crocodiles, and plenty of birds. This is one hotel transfer you’ll be talking about for years to come!
Once on board, sit back and relax while your captain masterfully prepares three course meals. As you idle up the delta for sunset, help yourself to the honesty bar and enjoy the spectacular views with a sundowner in hand.
Although the cabins are small and basic with shared facilities you’re unlikely to spend much time there; this floating home comes action packed with adventures. Take a mokoro (traditional dugout canoe) and venture into the myriad waterways with expert local polers. Go on a nature walk around one of the many islands in the Delta before enjoying a picnic lunch. Back on the boat head to the deck to laze away the afternoon listening to the sound of the hippos and crickets, read a book, nap, or perhaps try your hand at some fishing.
The immersion into Botswana doesn’t end there, though; in fact, this is just one portion of Intrepid Travel’s Botswana Adventure tour. Not only will you journey into Central Kalahari, home to the San Bushman community; Maun, the gateway to the Delta; the arid Makgadikgadi Pans; and Chobe National Park, renowned for its vast communities of elephants and buffalo, but on either side of this you’ll alaso experience exciting snippets of Namibia and Zimbabwe (Windhoek and Victoria Falls are just a handful of the highlights). Gear up, because this is set to be an unforgettable immersion into nature.
With white beaches aplenty and perfect weather all year round for hammock swaying, Zuri Zanzibar is no stranger to luxury. The hotel and resort offers something different; it combines award-winning design with ecological architecture, encompassing an abundance of locally sourced materials and artworks, making it a tranquil and environmentally friendly escape.
Bed down in one of the beautiful bungalows, suites or ocean-front villas, each decorated with striking African antiquities – think hanging door beads, vases, paintings and wicker baskets – that will make you want to take a piece of Zanzibar home for yourself. Each bungalow features a tropical garden paradise and an outside shower to soak it all up from, while the open-plan suites offer views of the Indian Ocean and a private open-air Jacuzzi to luxuriate in. For the ultimate slumber, settle into an ocean-front villa. With up to three rooms, each featuring an ensuite bathrooms, the villas are equipped with a kitchen, dining area and entertainment room with a pool table, cardio machine and multimedia system. Oh, and an infinity pool looking out towards the horizon – the perfect spot for quaffing sundowners as day turns to night.
When you’re not kicking back in your luxe pad, enjoy your time at this stunning new resort by taking advantage of the decadent selection of restaurants and bars overlooking the swimming pool or private beach. Do yoga classes, have a massage, give a Swahili cooking class a go and be sure to take a dip in the expansive sparkling waters of the Indian Ocean. What more could you ask for?
You’ve probably seen the photographs of surprised guests eating breakfast while a tall intruder pokes its head through the window. The venue is Giraffe Manor, a stately home converted into a boutique hotel in the lush suburb of Lang’ata in Kenya’s capital, Nairobi. There are, however, only a dozen rooms, so it’s not always easy to get a booking, particularly if you’re on a last-minute jaunt.
Never fear, you can still commune with these amazing animals as the sun sets behind the Ngong Hills and afternoon tea is served on the terrace. Cups of tea in fine china, tiny finger sandwiches, scones with jam and fresh cream and trays of sweet delicacies are laid out for the two-legged guests.
As tasty as the morsels might be, they definitely play second fiddle to the main attraction. The residents of the neighbouring Giraffe Center – a group of 10 endangered Rothschild giraffes – lope across to nibble at the pellets their trusty keepers have on hand. Everyone gets a go to hand them over to Daisy, Betty and friends, as well as have a photograph or 10 taken with the very friendly giraffes.
It’s tempting to want to spend your entire time getting to know your new tall acquaintances, but put a few cakes on your plate, take a seat beneath an umbrella and take in the whole scene. Cheeky warthogs, who quite clearly know they’re not allowed near the terrace, wait until the keepers aren’t watching and try to make a sneaky entrance.
It’s possibly the most flagrant display of animal cruelty I’ve ever witnessed. Moments after being tenderised mercilessly with a blunt-edged instrument, the victim is thrown onto a searing metal grate above a bed of hot coals. There, it’s pricked, prodded and tossed about until it’s barely recognisable. Grid patterns score its flesh and sea salt is flung into its wounds. Who knew such abuse could be so mouth-watering?
In South Africa, the braai – an Afrikaans word meaning to grill – is the perfect excuse to gather with friends and family. With South Africa’s chequered history, you could say it brings the country together. Even Heritage Day, a public holiday celebrated on 24 September each year, is affectionately known as Braai Day.
The love of meat cooked over an open fire, traditionally fuelled by wood and often charcoal (but never gas) is something all South Africans share. It cuts through ethnicity, race and class. In the 11 official languages spoken in the Rainbow Nation braai is the only word recognised by all. Where Australians have MasterChef, South Africa has Ultimate Braai Master.
The bloodied carcass being thrown around our braai is a sirloin fillet, though cuts of ostrich, bok (antelope) and wildebeest aren’t unheard of, particularly in rural areas up north. Sharing the grill is an unsightly curl of boerewors (farmer’s sausage), similarly flung around with reckless abandon. Each skin has been stuffed with minced beef, pork or lamb and seasoned by a fiery blend of herbs and spices introduced by seventeenth-century Asian slave labourers. It smells great, tastes better and looks truly awful.
I’ve anticipated this meal since I flew into Johannesburg two weeks ago. For seven years I lived in the Middle East, often socialising with South African expats and gorging on barbecued slabs of marinated beef, lamb and chicken. Here in their homeland, though, the opportunity for me to indulge in a braai has, thus far, proved elusive.
The problem is that I’ve been holed up in various five-star establishments. Diddums, you say. But while I’ve certainly enjoyed their indulgent offerings, the buffet dinners served up night after night lack the intimacy of a backyard cookout.
On this particular evening I’m standing on the patio of a friend’s cottage in the Cape Town seaside suburb of Fish Hoek. The sound of ocean breakers can be heard dispersing against the sand two blocks away and the last burning vestiges of sunlight reflect in the clouds, much like the charcoal embers glowing beneath the boerewors. Another Capetonian friend from those years in the Arabian Gulf brandishes a pair of tongs, clasping our meal as a heron might a fish.
Gareth flips the meat and tosses it around the grill, ensuring it’s evenly cooked. Watching his constant jostling drives me nuts – I adhere to a less is best philosophy when it comes to steak – but I dare not challenge him. The man with the tongs wields the power and etiquette dictates that advice can be sought but not forced.
Potatoes baking inside a blanket of foil rest on the coals while appetisers are spread on an adjacent table. Sides of coleslaw, garlic bread and warm butternut pumpkin salad baked with cream and chakalaka, a much-loved local vegetable relish, are brought out to complete the meal. In northern provinces, they might also prepare pap – a maize porridge that can be eaten dry and crumbling or dampened with rich gravy.
Each of us cradles a cold dop, the Afrikaans word for drink. In this instance, the dop is a stubby, but it might just as easily be wine, especially around Cape Town, where bountiful ‘wine farms’ produce decent pinotages and sauvignon blancs for as little as AU$5 a bottle. Brandy is another local drop we forgo this night.
Whenever the Springboks rugby team is playing, or the Proteas cricketers, fans organise braais around them. You’re expected to be able to cheer on a national team with a full stomach here. But tonight the television stays off, and conversation hums around the hearth – what some here call the ‘African TV’.
For now, I’ll just cheer on the process. Their barbecue technique is unfamiliar, but that’s not to say they do it wrong. Far from it. When you can savour the beautiful South African climate with a cold dop in hand and the warm glow of the fire nearby – especially with old friends to keep you company – it’s impossible not to feel that this is how life is meant to be lived.
Curried Butternut Pumpkin Salad
Serves 8 as a side
INGREDIENTS
1 medium butternut pumpkin
250ml cream
1 tin Hot and Spicy Chakalaka
Chakalaka is a curried tomato, carrot, capsicum and cabbage sauce available online from South African Products. saproducts.com.au
METHOD
Peel and dice the butternut pumpkin, discarding the seeds. Place the flesh in a casserole dish and pour the chakalaka and cream over the top. Mix to make sure the pumpkin’s evenly covered. Put the dish in a pre-heated oven set to 180°C for 60 to 90 minutes, or until the pumpkin is tender. Serve warm.
The North African heat hits like a wall as I step out of the airport. A grey-bearded man wearing a knitted kufi (Islamic prayer cap) ushers me towards a washed-out yellow taxi, a vintage Mercedes-Benz. The driver asks where I am headed in French, thick with an unfamiliar accent. “Riad Jardin Secret, s’il vous plait,” I respond, melting into the seat. Arabic music blares from the crackling radio and the scent of diesel permeates the air. I lean out the window and the hot air blows my hair back as motorcyclists speed past in their billowing djellabas (traditional robes).
“There are certain places on the surface of the earth that possess more magic than others, and one of those places is Marrakech,” said Paul Bowles, an American writer who resided in Morocco for more than half a century. I’m only here for a couple of days but I intend to discover the allure that has long enchanted foreign writers and artists.
Once a caravan town along sub-Saharan trading routes snaking north from Timbuktu, the Ochre City has a history stretching back nearly a thousand years. The Almoravid dynasty founded the city in 1062, when the region served as a Berber gateway to the Sahara Desert. Salmon-pink rammed earth was crafted into a mosque, fortified citadel, ramparts and the monumental gates that laid the foundation for modern Marrakech, one of the great cities of the Maghreb.
Wide, tangerine tree-lined boulevards, cafes and Art Deco buildings create a backdrop for Marrakech’s Ville Nouvelle (New Town). We cruise through the Gueliz neighbourhood, built during the French protectorate of the mid-twentieth century, rolling toward the medieval-plan medina for which the city is famed.
Bustling, ramshackle streets replace orderly avenues and soon the taxi can go no further. I’m left to delve into the maze-like lanes on foot. Before I have time to get my bearings, my luggage has been hauled onto a rickety wheelbarrow by a group of young boys. Seeing my alarm they assure me, “It’s okay, we’ll take you to Riad Jardin Secret”. I pursue, weaving and winding into the disorientating tangle of alleyways.
It’s a relief to finally stop before the heavy door of the riad (traditional house). One of the boys stands on his toes and raps the brass doorknock. The housekeeper, Youssef, creaks it open. He’s tall with startling green eyes and there’s something solemn and almost mystical about him; he seems to float in his robes. Handing over my suitcase, the boys’ expressions harden. “500 dirham,” they demand. Youssef points in the direction of a familiar looking gate at the end of the derb (alleyway) where the taxi had originally pulled up, silently revealing the scenic-route scam.
An emerald green-tiled fountain laced with fairy lights bubbles in the middle of a courtyard overrun with towering palms. Riad Jardin Secret is a haven complete with palatial interiors – bright yellow tadelakt (plastered) walls, stucco arches, stained glass windows and filigreed balustrades. Unlike the medina just beyond the walls, there’s silence, except for the burbling fountain and teeny, chirping birds.
Youssef presents me with a silver pot of mint tea and a near-toothless smile. For the uninitiated, Berber whiskey, as the brew is sometimes called, is the cornerstone of Moroccan hospitality. I sink into the lounge and sip on the infusion of green tea and fragrant spearmint leaves, sweetened with lumps of sugar while a curious kitten paws the tasselled pillows beside me.
The property is one of hundreds of riads – centuries-old Moroccan mansions, typically with an interior courtyard and a sun-soaked rooftop terrace. These splendid guesthouses are inherently romantic, concealed behind ornate doors and set in the earthy walls of the medina.
Revived by the liquid sugar, I venture back into the thrum of Marrakech. The souks, scarcely changed in centuries, are deeply rooted in the city’s rich heritage. A treasure trove of shopfronts lines the jumble of passages, and golden light pierces through the thatched-roof of the marketplace. The main artery is Souk Semmarine – a market piled floor-to-ceiling with pottery, fabrics, carpets, antiques and pastry shops laden with honey-slathered Arabic treats so syrupy they buzz with bumblebees.
Craftsmen ply their trade across town. I’m drawn by the clanging chorus of iron hammers towards the blacksmith’s quarter. I meander through lanes lined with butter-soft leather and handcrafted rugs. I stoop between the skeins of richly dyed wool hanging in the dyers’ souk in shades of burnt orange, saffron yellow and poppy red. I trail the heady path towards the spice square, where the scents of amber, musk and orange blossom linger in the air.
It’s here that I step inside a herboriste (apothecary), drawn in by the display of jars filled with all things weird and wonderful. “Come in!” calls a man in a white lab coat, swooping out from behind a counter. He pushes a googly-eyed reptile in my direction, seemingly plucked out of the air by sorcery. “Would you like to see the chameleon change colour?” he asks. I shake my head.
He shifts tack. “I see that you have a cold,” he notes, reaching up to pull a jar containing shards of white crystals off the shelf. He removes the lid, gesturing for me to inhale. A cool sharpness invades my nose clearing my airways. Before I know it, I’ve parted with a few dirhams for a small pouch of eucalyptus crystals. When he offers to concoct a potion to improve my love life, it’s time to go.
Leaving the souks behind I make for the nineteenth-century Bahia Palace – a kaleidoscope of cobalt, saffron yellow and peacock blue – which, at the height of its excess, housed a harem. For a glimpse into the world of Saadian sultans, who ruled the country in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, I seek out the El Badi Palace where storks have constructed colossal nests in the remnants of the rammed-earth walls. An impressive marble mausoleum, the Saadian Tombs, is a stone’s throw away.
I flop down in a booth at Café Clock – a laid-back cultural hub a little off the beaten track in the Kasbah district. It’s decked out with eclectic furnishings and walls that flaunt bright pops of artwork. I’ve missed one of their regular hikayat (traditional storytelling) sessions but feel appeased after sampling the legendary camel burger and a creamy date milkshake.
To escape the intense heat I jump in a taxi uptown to find sanctuary under the shady palms of Jardin Majorelle. Beyond the electric blue facade and Art Deco residence are grounds bursting with bright bougainvillea and sky-scraping cacti. French painter Jacques Majorelle spent 40 years creating this dreamy setting, which was later acquired by Yves Saint Laurent. The fashion designer found the botanical oasis and the wider city a source of inspiration. He is often quoted as saying, “Marrakech was a great shock to me. This city taught me colour”.
In the evening I find myself dining at an expat hangout with bohemian babes and artistic types I’d met earlier in the galleries of Gueliz. We mingle on the balcony of Nomad, with sweeping views over the city. Palm trees and minarets punctuate the cloudless sky and the snow-capped Atlas Mountains fringe the horizon. I tuck into my tagine studded with apricots and dates, mounds of pillowy-soft couscous and flaky pigeon pastilla (Moroccan spiced pie). Wicker lanterns strung up along the terrace glow in the dimming light and the medina transforms under the cloak of moonlight. When the shutters close for the evening the souks are unrecognisable. The darkened alleyways are empty, save for a stray cat or the glimpse of a cloaked figure disappearing into the shadows. I’m slightly relieved, yet again, when Youssef swings open the riad door.
The next day begins with a typical breakfast served on the rooftop. Freshly baked bread accompanies baghrir (semolina pancakes), homemade jam, yoghurt and seasonal fruits, which I can’t quite do justice as I’m off to a half-day cooking class at La Maison Arabe. The historic riad was the first to open a restaurant for foreigners, entertaining the likes of Winston Churchill, Charles de Gaulle and Jackie Kennedy. Moroccan cuisine is a melting pot of Berber, Jewish and Iberian influences and I set to task, learning how to whip up a traditional, slow-cooked, chicken tagine. Lifting the lid of the earthenware pot releases a billow of steam, tangy with preserved lemons and olives, revealing a richly spiced stew.
After class I head for La Maison de la Photographie, a gallery in a former fondouk (merchant warehouse) showing an incredible collection of vintage Moroccan photography. I continue onwards to Ben Youssef Medersa, once the largest Qur’anic school in North Africa and still the most splendid.
As I step outside the threshold a young man approaches me to suggest I visit the tannery. “It’s the Festival of Colour today,” he coaxes. Despite the fact there is no such festival, as I soon discover, it’s worth clambering up the terrace to look out over the sea of dye-filled vats and soaking skins. A worker hands me a posy of mint to mask the acrid odour of pigeon excrement used in the age-old tanning process.
The afternoon shadows grow longer and I realise it’s my last chance to watch the sunset over Djemaa el-Fna. I slip back into the warren, hastening my pace. Following the beat of Gnawa drums towards the dizzyingly chaotic pulse of Marrakech, I crash in the carnival-esque main square of the market. At dusk, there are over a hundred makeshift food stalls blanketing the square. Street-side vendors sell delicacies from fragrant grilled meats to camel spleen, broiled sheep’s head and snails in saffron broth. The smoke billowing from the grill stings my eyes as I slip past the touts beckoning me to their booths, the soothsayers, snake charmers, magicians, henna tattoo artists and the blaze of fire-eaters. I sidestep the circus of cobras transfixed by the pipe, mischievous monkeys and wild-eyed horses pulling gypsy carriages. I narrowly avoid colliding with a man performing a rudimentary tooth extraction, as I dive between the drumbeat dancers and airborne acrobats.
I race up the stairs of Le Grand Balcon du Café Glacier. Doubled over and breathless, I manage to order a pot of mint tea and slide into a seat overlooking the open-air theatre. I’m just in time for the performance – streaks of orange, cerise and indigo paint the sky. The shimmering gas lamps from the stalls illuminate the square and a muezzin’s call to prayer echoes across the warm night from a mosque. That’s when I find it – an inescapable magic among all the madness.
It’s deathly toxic to almost any creature unfortunate enough to plunge into its glassy waters, but for one type of critter Lake Natron plays host to the ultimate family reunion. More than a million lesser flamingos – three quarters of the world’s population – stream past the volcanic cones of Gelai and Ol Doinyo Lengai (Mountain of God) each year to dip their toes in this Tanzanian soda mud flat.
Stalking the caustic shallows, viscous with salt, they’re safe from the likes of hyenas and baboons as they build mud nests, lay eggs and feast upon spirulina – the blue-green algae that turns the birds pink and the lake cerise in dry season. Visit in November when the hatchlings are beginning to emerge and when the wet season is in its infancy, meaning more wildlife and fewer travellers. The moonscape surrounds and reflections of flamingos littering the 57-kilometre-long lake will overwhelm your SD card, while the bodies of calcified bats and birds that have lost their lives to the stew make for eerie imagery.
It’s 3am. From my 12th floor room at the Four Seasons I can see the Nile snaking past and lights shimmering over the expanse of Cairo. It might be known as a city that’s on the go 24 hours a day, but it appears rather subdued from up here. In fact, I seem to be the only one not sleeping. I wish it was just jet lag so I could bounce about the luxurious suite, coming up with intriguing tales à la Agatha Christie; dive onto the plush bed and into a classic Egyptian film; or kick back with the view. But I’m feeling off.
An hour earlier I’d decided to try a bath to relax. I tipped a jar of Red Sea salts into the warm water and sank in, inhaling deeply from a bag of lavender I’d found in the room. Cairo is terribly polluted and my flight here was long. This fresh air was luxury in itself. Steam whirled therapeutically around the marble and I felt my body begin to unwind. Half an hour later I climbed out, pulled on a dressing gown and rolled into bed.
But before I can slip into comfort and enjoy a restful slumber, the nausea returns.
I get up and pace the suite. I call reception about a doctor and I’m told he’ll take an hour to arrive. In an hour I may be fine, I can’t tell. I’m probably just exhausted. I’d arrived from the other side of the planet only a couple of days ago and immediately started teaching tap dance workshops on both sides of town while battling a punishing case of jet lag. Inside me, an overload of sensory stimulation tussles with the need to relax.
It doesn’t compute that I possibly need antibiotics, but my body does realise that something’s up and kicks itself into revival mode. I need to move, to circulate my blood.
I throw on some clothes. I have to run. Somewhere. Anywhere. I grab my door key and head into the hall. I take the fire exit. I run down the 12 flights of stairs, stopping at intervals to tap. There are frenetic rhythms coming out of my feet onto the concrete landings. It’s frenzied, fierce and staccato. It builds and I begin to breath more deeply. For a moment I am swept into the scene and almost feel better. But no. There’s this unbearable feeling of internal pollution.
I dash downstairs and come out into the tearoom. No one is to be seen. I can’t stay still. I run into the bathroom and start jumping like a kangaroo. I have to get this energy out and keep my circulation going.
I run on, now down the waiter’s corridor. I get to a food station. Strawberries! I need fruit. I grab one and suck on it immediately. A young chef looks at me with surprise, I say shukran (thank you) and move on.
Then I arrive in the main kitchen. There are several chefs at work, preparing tomorrow’s breakfasts. And it dawns on me. It’s not sea salts and lavender my body wants. I need garlic. Now. I greet the head chef like a long-lost cousin. He listens to me and starts chopping a bulb. I also need parsley, olive oil…
A night manager appears and tells me it’s strictly staff quarters. But I’m locked in with the chef. I’m certain I need the garlic to boost my immune system, to get the blood flowing and counteract the levels of lead I’m not dealing with.
The heat of a flame draws me in further and the next thing I know I’m behind the stove cooking my sauce, the chef obligingly sprinkling in ingredients. The night manager keeps going but it’s as though he’s tuned into another channel. I’m cooking with gas and all that matters now is my garlic sauce. The blaze is soothingly warm, I look up and catch the eye of the pastry chef who’s glancing over from his task of transforming butter into croissants. He’s smiling. It feels good to be backstage, behind the scenes.
I’m not sure how to tell the night manager to get lost, so I yell in French it’s an emergency and I won’t be long. The chef coolly finishes my sauce with me.
I sit alone in the restaurant and eat my garlic creation with bread, then play myself a lullaby on the grand piano under the chandelier. The elixir kicks in and I feel slumber approaching. I return to my room as the sun begins to rise, draw the curtains over awakening Cairo and finally fall asleep. Thanks to the chef, and to the garlic.
Not for the first time I begin to question the wisdom of setting up camp in the middle of nowhere – on the outskirts of the Tankwa Karoo National Park on the southern border of the Northern Cape.
It could be worse though. My group of 10 could be among the trail of cars still trying to get into Tankwa Town, a tented campsite that’s set up for five days each year. Driving to get here along what is said to be the longest dirt road in South Africa – famous for chomping up tyres and spitting them out like masticated raisins – had been challenging enough. And that was before the thunder gods had been angered. Already word has spread from camp to camp of new arrivals stuck in flooded valleys, trailers flying off the back of cars and those in little city runners simply giving up, finding higher ground and setting up camp along the side of the road for the night.
Everything we own is wet and caked in mud. Our tent resembles a hippo wallow after the so-called waterproof canvas submitted to the last onslaught of thundering rain and fist-sized hail pellets.
Welcome to AfrikaBurn, South Africa’s answer to Burning Man – an art festival that ain’t for sissies. But I already knew this after surviving my first Burn last year. Barely.
So why, when it sounds like a mild form of torture, a type of Survivor for hippies, sans the million-dollar prize, am I back for more? Simple. This is the best festival in South Africa, possibly all of Africa, and worth the inconvenience, discomfort and schlep to be there. I’ll do it again in a heartbeat and I’ll bet you’ll get the same answer from the 13,000-odd ‘Burners’ of all ages, from toddlers to old-timers, who have trekked to Tankwa Town from all corners of the country and elsewhere across the globe.
By day three of the Burn, the sun dries up all the rain. Out come all the Burners to re-erect campsites, scoop out mud and unleash the outfits, toys, gizmos, gadgets, art sculptures, music, performances and more that they’ve been plotting, planning and fundraising for over the past year.
AfrikaBurn is a non-profit event, so the cash made from ticket sales goes towards partially funding the creative talent for the festival. Anyone can put in a proposal for an art sculpture (most of which are burnt to the ground during the jamboree), a theme camp, performance or ‘mutant vehicle’ – the decorated cars, trucks, vans, carriages and motorbikes that spin around the festival, taking Burners on joy rides.
Looking around, my ticket money’s been well spent. Three giant Fear Gods made of wood and thatch dominate the binnekring (Afrikaans for inside circle) where all the art sculptures sit. A purple and pink dragon is being erected; later it will breathe fire. Two 10-metre high wood and straw bunnies worked by a mechanical wheel are boxing alongside a dinosaur of similar proportions. Further inside the circle, 1,000 people are gathering to go out into the desert and make history: the first giant face of Nelson Mandela made out of human bodies.
The outer ring of the binnekring holds more treasures – the theme camps. There’s Burning Mail, where you can send postcards to friends and loved ones (or yourself), while Theatre in the Desert puts on live shows and, at 6pm daily, love-struck Burners can tie the knot, complete with a ceremony, flower girls and a white wedding dress. At Sunset Oasis sundowners are served daily and from Bedazzled you can choose a costume to ‘rent’ for a night. But don’t expect to pay for it – or for anything else – nothing here is for sale.
AfrikaBurn was conceived by a group of five South Africans who, after going to the Burning Man festival in the Black Rock Desert of Nevada, reckoned they could do with a similar event down south.
They based it on the 10 principles of Burning Man, some of which are that the festival is a ‘leave no trace’ event: everyone has to be radically self-reliant; it’s all volunteer run; there are no spectators, only participants; and no money changes hands at the event, everything on offer is a gift. This is not to be confused with bartering: when you gift, you do it with no expectation of anything in return.
Likewise, all DJs and musicians playing do so as a gift. There’s no main stage, no scheduled line-up, no pecking order – just lots of parties pumping whenever the mood takes the gifters of the beats.
It’s twilight on Saturday, the fourth and biggest party night, and I’ve been so fixated on the unfurling of the sun on the horizon that I haven’t noticed Tankwa Town is building up to its peak behind me. Hundreds of bicycles bedecked in LED lights, chariots with shimmering disco balls, a giant snail on four wheels, a truck converted into a ship, a herd of zebra bicycles and a school of whale, fish and shark motorbikes are all zooming around the binnekring at a frenetic pace. The stilt walkers are out, giant puppets are silhouetted against the skyline and groups of kids roll a guy strapped into a spinning, glittering ball. Tankwa Town is alive and alight in every nook and cranny. The Big Burn is going to happen soon, I can feel it.
People from all corners of the desert begin streaming towards the San Clan, a 15.5-metre-high sculpture made out of six tonnes of wood. By the time we get there it’s already full. Every mutant vehicle is pulled up, the front row taken and the resident group of nudies are already disrobing, waiting to jig their dangly bits around the biggest bonfire of the Burn.
I think back to a week ago when my mate Ollie returned from a three-week stint in Tankwa Town where he and a group of seven other guys worked from sunrise to sunset building the San Clan. He was suffering from a bad case of tennis elbow after hammering long rods of wood into a flawless hourglass shape day after day. “I don’t know about this burning thing anymore,” he said, looking bleak. “So much work. So much wood. Just to burn it all? I don’t know, hey, I just don’t know if it’s worth it.”
Now Ollie’s in the fire circle, grabbing a lit torch. All the guys who built the San Clan have the honour of setting it alight. The first flames catch and, in a flash of orange, I get a glimpse of the maniacal grin on Ollie’s face. He’s stumbling about, moving to the beats coming from three conflicting sound systems. I can’t hear him but as the flames grow bigger I can read his lips. He’s shouting, “Burn baby, burn”, in-between throwing his head back and cackling with such force I’m sure he’s about to spontaneously combust.
But the San Clan’s not burning right; the wind’s picked up and is forcing it to smoulder askew. A foghorn tears through the air and the crowd quickly parts to let in a van converted into an armour-plated battle tanker, with a bonnet carved into a red-glowing, sharp-toothed grin, not unlike the one Ollie is still sporting. Two middle-aged men are manning the tanker’s gun turret. They take aim at the side of the sculpture that’s not burning and unleash a string of giant fireballs. It’s like some unspoken signal the crowd’s been waiting for. Big boys in their toys giving us the nod to live out our every childhood fantasy and play till we drop from exhaustion.
I am a furnace. My temperature’s hit 40-degrees and my tonsils have swollen into giant orbs. It’s day five and seeing out three sunrises and sunsets back-to-back has clearly taken its toll.
We pull up some pink deckchairs, sit in the middle of the binnekring and watch the sunset emblazon the sky with unreal hues. A kid comes past handing out ice lollies. An ambulance named ‘Ambivalence’ rolls up and a guy who is the spitting image of Borat in a sailor suit announces on the mic, “The Love Bus is here to heal your hearts.” A bloke wearing nothing but a cowboy hat and chaps cycles past, pink fluffy handcuffs dangling from the back-end of his chaps.
In Tankwa Town you see things beyond your wildest imaginings. You become nonchalant about it all after a couple of days, and anything begins to seem possible.
“You know the one thing this festival is missing?” I whimsically question my group of bedraggled Burners, while sipping on a daiquiri some kind stranger has just gifted me with. “Waves.” We stare at the sunset and, slowly, turn to look at each other wearing that contagious, maniacal grin.
Experience the thrill of creeping up on a lion with no enclosed Jeep to separate you from the King of the Jungle – or in this case, King of the vast Laikipia Plateau.
Go beyond the reaches of a 4WD on a walking safari with Bench Africa, guided by members of the Samburu tribe, who live mainly in north-central Kenya (they’re related to, but distinct from, the Maasai people). Dressed in traditional attire they’ll lead camels carting all the essentials – food, water, cameras, camping gear – and, whenever needed, weary walkers.
The camp roams with you each day, and although it’s dismantled again and again, you never sacrifice comfort. Especially if you select the luxury option, as you’ll slumber in a tent with a proper bed, mattress and linen.
In the afternoons, as you explore the area around your new camp, it’s just you and the wild terrain. Oh, and the staff members bringing you snacks and icy G&Ts to garnish your sunset. As you sit around the evening campfire your guides will share tales and teach you about their culture, while your dinner sizzles above the flames.
When you’re worn out, sink between linen and listen to the lullaby sung by the bush.
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