A human being – what I found at Singita Explore

My journey started with a thrice-delayed flight from Cape Town to Nairobi, with just enough time for breakfast and a nap. Followed by another flight from Nairobi to Kilimanjaro, and a pitch-black drive along roads whose eroded edges reminded me of a riverbank. That night, I slept under mosquito nets for the first time in months. Each glimpse of wilder living fuelled my excitement, propelling me out of bed early for the final flight to Singita Grumeti.

In those 45 minutes, we left civilisation far behind. Buildings thinned until the only semblance of humanity was the odd boma circling a hilltop. Wildlife trails snaked across the plains, which stretched beyond the horizon. Charred patches of grass the size of suburbs smouldered, controlled burns marking the December dryness.

We flew over the yawning Ngorongoro Crater and Ol Doinyo, iconic landmarks of the Rift Valley, stopping only briefly on the shores of Lake Manyara. The cab was half empty, and those I shared it with stared silently out their windows, slowly realising just how far we were from the world we knew.

I was greeted on landing by my Guide, Gracious, who grabbed my bags and motioned to the passenger seat of his Land Rover. We set off westward along winding dirt and gravel roads, past all Singita’s other properties in the Grumeti Reserve, sharing of ourselves and soaking up our surroundings. The fewer people there are, the quicker conversations tend to become meaningful.

Further and deeper into the wilderness we went, until we came upon Explore. I stepped off the vehicle a short distance from camp and began the walk towards a simpler stretch of time — earth crunching beneath every step.

Drowsy from the heat and struck by how surreal it was to be here, I spun circles along the way, marvelling at the herds of wildebeest and zebras just metres away, the kopjes rising mysteriously in the distance, the profound silence, interrupted only by sporadic chirps and clicks.

Explore offers an intimate, insular, yet irrevocably communal experience. Its six tents form a loose line, broken at the centre by a firepit and main dining tent, where you naturally gather. Canvas is the only thing between you and the wild, and the camp is yours alone for the time you’re there — whether you’re a group of two or twelve.

The team is small, so you know each other by name, and your Guide stays with you, sharing stories of the region. There’s no distinction between host and guest, local and traveller. Yet always, Singita’s signature standard of care carries through in simple acts of care, born of noticing.

I soon settled under the shade of an awning, the breeze offering a relief sweeter than air conditioning, and just sat, looking out over the plains. Birds flitted through the canopies above, and I followed them with my eyes. Shapes blew through the tall grass, the sun warmed my skin, and nothing could break the Serengeti’s spell over me. Not even a thunderstorm.

It had me squatting to trace the shape of termite mounds and wondering how and why the plains are so flat, and trying to identify birds by their calls, and thinking about how so much urgency we feel is artificial and unnecessary; how we could live much more simply, how good that would be for us. Always, Gracious was there to satiate my curiosity.

Drives showed me what hundreds of thousands of animals look like. Because the rains hadn’t come and the concession held the region’s last remaining water sources, wildlife remained here. Sightings were incredible: prides of lions, 20 strong, enormous herds of antelope, a different bird species in every tree, even a cheetah and her cub, whom we spent more than an hour with one morning.

“But you see the leaves of the trees are all green,” said Gracious. “They know the rain is coming before we do, and when the land is dry but the leaves are green, it will be here soon.” When they arrived, the Great Migration would continue its age-old circuit, and the land would thunder with life again.

Every evening, we returned to a roaring fire. Chefs were grilling meat and preparing hearty, traditional dishes over its open flames. Well-fed, eyelids heavy, our conversation faded into the night. All that was left to do was ponder embers and star-filled skies.

Amber lanterns lighted my tent. My bed was soft and comfortable. Wildlife called from the dark beyond camp, but a guard’s steady footfall reassured me, and I drifted every night into a deep and restful sleep. Each morning, I was gently awoken by a human voice telling me my bucket shower was ready. From there, the day was an open road.

We set out on a bush walk, casting wide circles around the herds resting in the shade of every tree. Along the way, my Guides told me about different types of weaver’s nests and recounted stories of snakes they found in tree stumps, like we were old friends. They showed me paths elephants often walked and taught me how to greet and order food in Swahili.

The rest of each day was spent in camp, poring over books and maps from the region, scribbling notes, watching, thinking, resting. Birdsong filled the in-between moments, and I was free to walk around, admiring the termite mounds that grew upwards in interesting silhouettes. Always, the only barrier between me and the wild was canvas.

I spent another day and night here, and I’ve been craving the same freedom ever since.