At Far and Wild Travel, we believe the best travel stories come from the people who have experienced the destination first-hand. In this guest blog, our client Charlie Chipchase shares his personal reflections from travelling with us. From the moments that stayed with him and his family, to the places, people and experiences that made the trip so special. We’re always delighted when our travellers return not only with wonderful memories, but with stories that capture the spirit of travel.
A few days at El Karama settle into you in a way that is difficult to describe without sounding sentimental and somewhat contrived.
Mornings began before sunrise, the air sharp enough to make the hot water bottles in the Land Cruiser feel deeply welcome. We would set out in the half light with our guide Andrew whose knowledge of the conservancy seemed encyclopaedic yet instinctive. He read tracks in the dust as easily as a map, paused to interpret a bird’s call, and pointed out the small movements on the horizon that most of us would never have noticed. He answered all our questions patiently. Nothing felt orchestrated. The wildlife revealed itself on its own terms.
Giraffes moving quietly through the acacias. A herd of buffalo advancing from the bush toward a water hole like a dark tide, bringing with them a pristine troupe of white egrets. Elephants, with little ones in tow, emerging through the thicket. Impala, gazelle and all manner of other deer-like creatures everywhere. Greater blue-eared starlings — the blue bird of happiness, I imagined — fluttering from branch to branch while helmeted Guinea fowl cluttered across the ground pecking with feverish intent.
On a night drive we found a magnificent male lion lounging across a scatter of rocks, his mane caught in the beam of our spotlight, entirely unbothered by our presence. Another evening brought the rare privilege of a striped hyena slipping through the darkness, pale and deliberate, on a personal mission. At dusk, a puff adder lay coiled in the grass by an anthill while a small band of indignant birds harassed it from above, swooping and scolding in the fading light.
The birdlife was constant and extraordinary, and deserving almost of collectively being one of the Big Five. We woke each day to the bright call of the red-cheeked Cordonbleau, and one morning a von der Decken’s hornbill joined us at breakfast, hopping near the table with confident curiosity as it feasted on leftover morsels.
Starlings, lapwings, swallows, bustards, wagtails, firefinches, Egyptian geese, Hadada ibis, vultures, herons, eagles and, a personal favourite, the African Paradise Flycatcher. An avian ensemble that would whet the appetite of any hardened twitcher.
Breakfast in the bush one day. A surprise. Of course. How typical and thoughtful of El Karama? There is not much one can write to describe this, but to sit at a table by the side of a slow chocolatey river in the middle of the bush eating fresh fruit and eggs is about as close to heaven on earth as I think one can get. I never want to forget that moment.
Late mornings softened into bush school beneath the trees, learning the language of spoor and soil. Brownies baked and eaten while still warm. Bunnies visited and fed with celery from the shamba. Clay sculpting with varying degrees of success that left our hands stained with Laikipia’s red earth.
A stolen few hours by the pool with nowhere pressing to be, save for a massage in the bush spa. Jamie out with Andrew in the wild taking driving lessons along sandy tracks, jaw set in concentration as the dust rose gently behind him.
And then there was the shamba, a kitchen garden to you and me. Rows of greens and herbs thriving under careful hands, later reappearing on our plates in ways that felt both abundant and grounded.
And the food, always the food. Generous, thoughtful, layered with flavour and care. Taste is occasionally elusive, but El Karama managed to pair perfect days with perfect food that befits the setting and mood. Long lunches that stretched into conversation. Bitings arriving just as hunger stirred. Dinners that gathered us close around the table. It is no surprise that Sophie is part French.
One afternoon we took tea with Sophie in Murray’s studio, cups warming our hands among sculptures and the tools of his art scattered in organised chaos around stunning, bold, muscular recreations of Africa’s famous beasts.
Sophie recounted what Murray’s mother Lavinia once told her. Look at the animals. No really look at them. How do they move? How do their muscles move? Watch them move their heads and pause. Remember and try to reassemble.
It felt intimate and unhurried, the creative pulse of the place quietly present in the room. We were sorry to miss Murray himself but that only gives us reason to return, and we most likely will.
Evenings belonged to the horizon. Sundowners in the bush beneath Mount Kenya as the mountain shifted from grey to violet in the falling light. A gin and tonic. Homemade crisps next to a shepherd tree. An impromptu game of football on open ground with Andrew, laughter and dust rising together, wondering if the next kick of the ball might reveal a large feline off to our left.
Spirited rounds of table tennis before dinner. Gerald at front of house, calm and attentive, and Jane in the kitchen producing dish after dish that somehow tasted of the land itself. These are real people, some of whom have been here for years if not decades, but who treated us with quiet hospitality that deserved so much more than a hug and a tip at the end of our stay.
We found it hard to leave. Their faces will inhabit the corners of our minds for years to come.
It was only a few days yet it felt like something larger. Early mornings wrapped in blankets, wild encounters in daylight and dark, shared tables and open skies.
El Karama has a way of drawing you in quietly and completely. You just cannot explain this place on a website or brochure. There’s no justice in that. You have to live amongst it for a few days to see the magic it will lend you. We left knowing we will return.
It was only a few days yet it felt like something larger. Early mornings wrapped in blankets, wild encounters in daylight and dark, shared tables and open skies.
El Karama has a way of drawing you in quietly and completely. You just cannot explain this place on a website or brochure. There’s no justice in that. You have to live amongst it for a few days to see the magic it will lend you. We left knowing we will return.
And when it was time to leave, the conservancy offered one final gesture. As we drove out, two giraffes stepped into view, tall and composed, pausing by the track as though to bid us farewell. We slowed, watching them for a long moment before continuing on, red dust lifting softly behind us.
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