The bleached grassland of the Maasai Mara provided perfect camouflage. At first we saw only two. But as they moved off we counted three. The old pater familias (we were close enough to remark that his mane could have done with a good brush) had been left behind, together with another indolent, if better groomed, male. Five hundred yards to their right, a small herd of wildebeest had stopped its chomping and champing and stood stock-still facing the enemy. The engine of the Land Rover drummed into life as we turned to follow, but neither predator nor prey acknowledged our presence. Vehicles, it seems, are just another of life's natural mysteries, like thunder.
After half an hour of stop/start following, one of the lionesses struck out on her own. Jackson, our extraordinary Maasai guide who could name every bird, animal, insect and plant in Swahili, Maa, English and Latin explained how she was moving upwind in order to circle back and drive a wedge between the shaggy antelope they had targeted and the rest of the herd. The sun balanced on the horizon, a blood-red ball; against it an umbrella acacia was etched in iconic precision. James, our "spotter", shifted his shuka - the red plaid shawl Maasai men wear above their shorts - so that it covered his chest, and handed the four Westerners blankets. At 6,000-odd feet above sea level, the Kenyan night is cold. Glasses and a wine box were passed around - the sundowner, legacy of colonial life. Silently we raised our glasses to this moment of shared privilege as the age-old story of Africa unfolded before us.
Strangely for a holiday that would prove so memorable, a safari was never high on my travel wish list. The best way to see Africa, I had always believed, was in the company of David Attenborough on TV. The man in my life had other ideas. But I'm too old for tents, I protested. No tents, he agreed. And I hate travelling with groups. No groups. It was this set of constraints which led us to Bush Homes of East Africa, 12 (at the last count) completely independent people - exranchers, ex-hunters, ex-coffee planters - all, dare I say, complete eccentrics, whose shared determination to find a way to continue living in the country of their birth led them to set up the umbrella company which co-ordinates tailor-made itineraries from one homestead to the other.
Safari is Swahili for journey and the whole point is to move around. Different terrains are home to different animals, and, loath though I am to admit it, the element of collecting is central to the experience. Most people come with serious cameras for the purpose; others, like me, stick to memory and the odd snap. Yet the excitement (and it is excitement) lies not only in seeing the star turns that in the old days would have ended up as rugs or hat-stands, but also in the sheer number and variety of animals and birds, together with an understanding of their ecological interdependence that becomes more and more fascinating the more you discover.
Each Bush Home set-up is completely different, both in the wildlife aspect and level of accommodation. At the basic end of the comfort spectrum comes the tented camp of naturalists Mike and Judy Rainy, whose enthusiasm and knowledge are boundless. Based at Sirata Suruwa, on the edge of the Rift Valley, their ranch is a working ecology project which doubles as a good jumping-off point for the elephants of Amboseli or an on-foot follow of baboons. Home comforts include a loo with a view unparalleled anywhere in the world, and a hot shower from a bucket, morning and night.
At the Ritz end of the scale is Ol Malu, which offers honeymoon luxury in three fabulously designed cottages (plus swimming pool) built into the side of a gorge, where uniformed staff deliver afternoon tea on a silver salver, and where baboons and hyrax (a curious mammal the size of a kitten whose closest relative is the elephant) spend as much time watching you through the picture windows as you do them.
Depending on budget, time and availability, it's possible to put together any kind of combination you want. How much you actually do once you've arrived is up to you. There's no dragooning. Our 10 days were split between four locations, with a night each end in Nairobi - one in the city itself, all good humour and bustle, and one at Ngong House, a country house hotel with gourmet food to match, where we slept in a tree house (four-poster naturally) and woke to dawn over the Ngong Hills of Ines Dinesen/Meryl Streep fame.
Springboard to our African adventure proper, however, was Wilson Airport, a glorified hanger where overweight passengers were weighed along with their luggage. Distances in Kenya - and terrible roads - mean that flying really is the only sane way to get anywhere. Our flights in and out of Nairobi were scheduled, but from then on we simply hopped from one private airstrip to the next in tiny Amelia Erhardt-style planes. Sitting next to the pilot as he dipped down to "just take a look" at the vast herds of elephant and rhino was an extraordinary experience. For the first time in my life flying became something to look forward to rather than dread - and an intrinsic part of the adventure.
It is a curious paradox that the tribe most feared by 19th-century explorers for its supremacy in warfare should now be the keystone of the eco-tourism upon which the economy of East Africa increasingly depends. Thanks to the Maasai, East Africa has not suffered the appalling depopulation of wildlife that has scarred the rest of the continent, although it's still a long haul back to the plenty of the 1950s. Happily, wildlife in Kenya is not limited to game parks and reserves, and the vast eco-system that starts in the Serengeti in Tanzania and stretches north into Kenya is defined less by its geography than by its guardians who live in a symbiotic, spiritual relationship with the animals they share the land with. In short, wildlife exists in such abundance because the Maasai do not hunt. They are nomadic herders who live solely on what their cattle provide: milk and very occasionally blood let from a vein in the neck (although according to Jackson, a pint of blood has fewer calories than a pot of yoghurt) a diet that turns out incredibly healthy and beautiful people.
Jackson Loosoya is a good example of where eco-tourism is going. Born within a few miles of Rekero, Ron and Pauline Beaton's farm on the edge of the Mara, the 27-year-old Maasai is now a full partner in the business with the Beatons' son Gerard, who has recently returned to Rekero with a degree in anthropology from Newcastle. The Beatons, like everyone involved in eco-tourism in Kenya, know that the only way it will thrive is if the indigenous people benefit as well as the former colonials. It's not only a question of stamping out poaching (the temptations are great - the tusks of an elephant will keep a family for a year). Simply overgraze the land with domestic cattle and game declines. The equation is simple: no game, no tourists.
Some of it can still sound like colonial paternalism - at Rekero, $30 per visitor per day is given to the local community and the income funds, among other projects, a school. However, the pluses for individual tourists are irrefutable. I know we experienced a much greater sense of the interaction of land, animals and other travellers we came across. For example at Rekero visitors can visit a local Maasai manyatta, where life continues much as it has done for thousands of years. Colin and Rocky Francome at Ol Malu have a similar arrangement with the local Samburu community, a tribe closely related to the Maasai, that still retains its traditional dress and lifestyle.
Familiar though these people are from coffee table books, it's still a huge cultural shock to meet them and talk to them face to face - their thought processes, their concerns clearly the same as ours, yet with lives of a simplicity hard to come to terms with. Warriors - aged roughly between between 14 and 28 with their long, ochred and braided hair (shaved if a friend or relative dies); young girls, their shaved heads and slender necks framed in dozens of neckbands (each given by a warrior admirer).
They were happy and open, answering any questions put to them through a relative who worked for the Francombes and whose English was good. Male circumcision? Done with a razor, no anaesthetic - even the suggestion of a tear brings shame to the family. Female circumcision? Laughter. It's not as if the girls haven't had their fun before marriage, they said. So, pre-marital sex is OK? Of course. Girls are available to warriors from the age of about nine. Contraception? Withdrawal. No pregnancies are allowed outside marriage. Abortion? Mistakes are dealt with using herbs.
Eight hours by road from Nairobi and light years away from western civilisation, the Samburu's openness is matched by their inquisitiveness: they are as fascinated by us as we are by them. How had I managed to divorce my husband if he didn't beat me, they wondered. Beating wives is standard Maasai and Samburu practice, as evidenced by the small nobble-ended club all the men seem to carry. However close the Land Rover can get, for me there's always a sense of detachment, of being an observer rather than part of what's going on. At Ol Malu, while my companion dozed by the pool-with-a-view in the company of the Francomes' three labradors and a tame greater kudu, I donned my walking boots to follow a dried river bed in the company of a young English naturalist and a burly fellow in camouflage fatigues armed with an old Winchester rifle that I was assured would stop a buffalo in his tracks.
Fortunately the buffalo gave us a wide berth, and we spent the morning tracking the still-fresh footprints and still-wet urine of a male leopard. It was all genuinely tense and the fact that I never caught sight of him didn't matter a jot. His sudden crashing down from a tree above us was excitement enough. He certainly saw me.
A less taxing alternative to walking over rough ground is to ride, and at Lewa Downs, a rhino sanctuary to the north of Mount Kenya, we took to the saddle. I had ridden before, admittedly a long time ago, but my companion was a you'll-never-get-me-up-on-there complete novice. So the first morning I went out on my own. The next day I persuaded him to join me, because moving in silence through a herd of giraffe, among the shyest of the plains animals, was the high point of our stay at Lewa. Only the gangling babies seemed a little uncertain as they took refuge under their mothers' legs.
The Craigs breed their own horses and while a dawn-till-breakfast trek on the most docile of creatures was enough for us, experienced riders have their pick of serious horses and the run of the whole reservation, including the possibility of staying overnight in another lodge on the estate. As at Ol Malu, the guest houses are stunningly designed, using reclaimed and locally produced materials. All the furniture and textiles are made in the estates workshops, the Craigs' answer to local involvement. And if anything takes your fancy - from a cushion cover to the awesome four-poster beds - just hand over the credit card and it'll be shipped out within weeks.
All our Kenyan hosts were wonderful story-tellers - after all, what else is there to do after a good supper (homemade, homegrown and miraculously undercooked wherever we went)? Like generations of Kenyans before them, these people have always had to make their own entertainment. In the old, pre-conservation days, Ron Beaton was a renowned big game hunter when he wasn't running a cattle station. He's still one of the country's most respected trackers and even now there's nothing he likes better than leading an on-foot safari across the Mara.
As with all great story-tellers, one story just seemed to lead to another until tiredness overcame us. The last dregs of the brandy being downed, Ron signalled one of the Maasai to escort us - bow and poisoned arrow at the ready, just in case - back to our cottage overlooking the waterhole where hot water bottles were already warming our bed. We'd been up since dawn following elephant. We had disturbed a cheetah dozing beside a pool and I had been so moved by his fierce beauty that tears poured down my face.
Later we breakfasted on sausages, bacon, home-made chutney and soft-boiled eggs conjured by Jackson and James from the back of the Land Rover. Don't you ever get bored by visitors, I asked Jackson? He raised his eyes to the Mara and looked at me as if I was mad.
Agents for Bush Homes of East Africa in UK are Union Castle Travel, 57 Campden Street, London W8. (Tel: 0044-171 229 1411).
