Africa: Camp life at Nakuru

“There’s a Masai,” called Tembo, the three-year-old.

And there stood a young man wearing a red skirt with sparkly baubles on it and the trademark red cloak of the Masai people. He’s the night watchman at our niece and nephew’s camp near Lake Nakuru in Kenya.

We only heard Tembo’s excited announcement because Ollie the dog had finally shut up after alerting us - a herder and his cattle were outside the 15-wire electric fence that keeps us safe - or does it?

Ollie is the sole survivor of a litter from the next village. His siblings were snapped up by a leopard that’s still at large. This prompted me to point out to the farmer at 2am that it could jump the 3m-plus fence - we learned this when we met a leopard in captivity in Botswana.

We arrived here after 'transitting' (travelling super fast) thru Zambia, Malawi and Tanzania.  Lake Malawi is a miracle in a country that writhes with critters that’ll eat you. It is calm, wonderful for swimming, and yields yummy fish. The farmer got paddled out in a leaky dugout and returned two hours later bailing like mad - with no fish.

At Nakuru, the Kimani’s camping ground, like everywhere we’ve stayed and unlike its kiwi counterparts, involves a flash bar and café.  

The construction process is also different. Three donkeys arrived pulling a cart loaded with cement. A trainee donkey linked to the trio relieved itself by our tent.

Loads of rocks arrived on a truck which drove through a gap the workers had made in the electric fence at the back of the camp. They were dumped near our tent and a guy, working barefoot, is using an axe to chip them into perfect rectangles for a house.

Another worker is chipping rocks for the base for a concrete terrace; it’s cheaper to buy them whole and have them broken with a pick.

The workers - there are several who all arrive by bike each day - are served morning tea and lunch by the two young women who do the laundry and cleaning.

I taught one how to make beef stew. She told me they don't use garlic or flavouring, just fry meat, add water and vegetables and cook till its dry then wrap it in chapatis.

Lorna said the stew we made together tasted sweet to her. She’d taken some home, walking along the sandy road which is frequented by buffalos at night as they search for maize fields. Buffalos are one of the “big five”, named thus by game hunters because they can fight back when they’ve been shot.

Just as well we’re safely tucked up in our flimsy canvas tents behind that electric fence. But - and here’s another 2am thought - did someone turn it on after the truck had gone?