Martin Symington went on a camping

Martin Symington went on a camping safari holiday with his wife and three teenagers.
We stood silent under the stars, just meters from our tent, hardly daring to breath. Adam, one of the camp staff, swept a torch beam across a clearing where four impala stood, panicky on their nimble legs. Could they sense the danger they were in? Did they know, as we did, that a female leopard lay under a thorn bush?
She sprang. Four shadowy shapes bounced into the woods. Had the leopard made a successful kill? We all had our theories, but in truth the whole scene had taken place too quickly, and insufficient light, for any of us to be sure. Now we understood why we had been warned not to go out of our tent after dark, except when accompanied by a staff member. In fact, we had been on our way from the tent to the super-time camp-fire when Adam’s torch had unexpectedly caught the leopard’s glinting green eyes. Half an hour later we had a tale to outdo most told around the fire. ‘This has got to be the best nightlife in the world,’ replied Toby, when some middle-aged fellow safari enthusiast asked him how he was enjoying his holiday.
So much for the assortment of self-appointed experts who doubted that safaris and teenagers would be a workable mix. True, this is a difficult age, with adolescents beginning to sense that they are too old for family holidays. But nor did ours want to return to beach resorts with the kind of ‘teen clubs’ they wouldn’t be seen dead in. So, my wife Hennie and I reckoned, if we were going to have one really good family holiday, why not Africa?
Our holiday began with a flight to Arusha airport, then a long drive to West Kilimanjaro Camp - a semi-permanent gathering of explorer-style tents near the base of the great volcano which was to tease us with rare glimpses of her snowy summit which is 5,895 meters high.
We were introduced to Emmanuel Kinayet, our guide who led us on daily bush walks. Our children wanted to ask Emmanuel a thousand questions about himself and his life, but soon realized that was the wrong approach. Rather, his story seeped out by degrees as he escorted us through his homeland, stopping at places such as a muddy waterhole and a herders’ settlement of huts.
Next we took to the hot African sky in a small plane and headed south. Unlike in West Kilimanjaro, there is no human population in the Ruaha other than a lodge for the park rangers, and four small safari camps. We chose to stay at Mdonya Old River Camp, because this is one that avoids luxuries such as soft beds and fluffy towels; these, to my mind, can become obstacles to connecting with nature in the raw. Instead, the five of us shared a simple, yet adequate, tent at the edge of a dried-up sand river.
If there was one disappointment about the wildlife viewing in Tanzania, it was that game drives are not permitted in any of the country’s national parks after dusk. But if anything, this made our night-time meeting with the leopard and impala outside our tent even more special, bringing home to us the rewards of staying at camp where there are no fences, distractions or even electricity.
By day we mixed game drives with walks through the bush under the protection of our guide Esau for the time we spend in Ruaha. He taught us about bush safety: stay attentive and at a distance from the wildlife, and always stand still if you see an animal approaching you. We spotted only plant-eating animals - elephant, zebra and a pair of giraffes - but we all listened carefully to his repeated message to ‘remember that you will see less than one per cent of what sees you’.
Our final hop was over to Zanzibar where we sailed out to a sandbank, swam through bright yellow and pink-and-blue fish and watched a crimson sun set. And we concluded that if there is one family holiday that will have undying teen appeal, it is a safari.