Whilst two men blow on smouldering moss cupped in their hands, a lanky youngster scales the upper branches of a tree and lowers a beehive to the ground using a rope. The figures are shrouded in smoke. The beekeepers wait for as many bees as possible to crawl out of the hollow trunk before diving in. They wear no protective clothing or gloves. That’s how the Ogiek do things. They are one of the few remaining hunter-gatherer peoples of East Africa and collecting honey is one of their most important activities. 

So here we are, standing in the middle of the Eburu Forest, a newly established reserve in the centre of Kenya, licking our fingers. The honey, which smells wonderfully aromatic, is stashed away in a bag made of goatskin. The Ogiek have installed over 3,000 beehives across the mountain forest. In the midst of monkeys, buffalo and leopards. 

Kenya has seen huge population growth in recent decades. Suddenly, the land of the safari is suffering from a shortage of space. For the animals, the people, the natural resources. Many people still use wood for heating and cooking, and ever bigger holes are opening up in the forests. In Eburu, there are plans to harvest energy from geothermal sources. Visitors can see the hot springs bubbling and steaming at the park entrance. A growing number of locals now cook with steam. The forest, it is hoped, will belong to the animals, and the animals only. Admission fees paid by those who come to trek in Eburu go to support this renaturation project.     

The well-marked trails in Longonot National Park, 70 kilometres away, are much better known than the newer paths across the Eburu National Reserve. Here, we wend our way amongst zebras and antelope at the foot of a volcano before attacking the ascent to the crater and the summit at 2,776 metres. At the top, it feels like walking round the edge of a planting bowl: There are steep precipices on both sides and the floor of the crater below is over-grown with dense forest. The eye travels far, far, far ... across the Rift Valley. We gaze on mountain ranges and grass-covered plains, flower farms and Lake Naivasha. And there’s no one! A couple are the only people we cross on our way down. There are many benefits to travelling in the rainy season. Juma, our guide, thinks so too. “You have the trails practically all to yourself,” he says. 

The 45-year-old is one of Kenya’s best guides. He speaks seven languages and knows the flora and fauna like the back of his hand. As a child, he would often encounter wild animals on the long march to school every day. That’s the way it is in Kenya. Wild animals come with the territory.  You can get right up close to them on the Crescent peninsula at Lake Naivasha. Just beside us, giraffes stretch up into the tops of the acacias. “Never approach them from behind,” explains Juma. Without him, even a simple stroll would be a risky enterprise!  

We climb aboard a piston aircraft to fly to the famous Masai Mara Reserve in the south-west. We will be staying at the Little Governors’ safari camp. The installation is entirely solar powered and has won several awards for its commitment to sustainability. The luxurious eco-camp is located at a swampy waterhole just beyond a bend in the river, far from any sign of civilisation. Buffalo and elephants wade through the mud right before our eyes, water birds stalk around. There is a constant rustling, plucking, growling and cooing. 

A slope is all that separates us from the animals, and “separate” is not really the right word! Warthogs root around between the tents. But there’s nothing to worry about, the camp guardians are familiar with the local fauna. Two-thirds of the employees are Masai from the nearby villages. They know how to react if an elephant decides to walk through the camp!  

It’s the low season, so there aren’t too many jeeps about. There are no crowds jostling to see the lions, cheetahs and rhinos. And the rain only drums on our tents at night. And so we bump and jolt our way over savannah that grows greener by the day. Oliver, our driver and guide, seems to know exactly where to look to point out yawning lions, battling hippos and herds of elephants.  

We drive on to the next village, Mara Rianda. The mud huts are surrounded by a spiky fence made from acacia branches. The Masai community devised the modest visitor programme itself, and the fees go to fund the school. We are welcomed with a traditional dance, and we are soon transported by the cascade of colours and patterns. Then the young warriors break into a fit of jumping. Arms by their sides, straight as candles, higher and higher. “Your turn now!” says our guide. So we jump. As high as we can.  

The next morning, before the sun rises, we float away, quite literally. A burner hisses hot air into the giant balloon above our heads. Then everything goes quiet and we hover: sometimes just above the ground, sometimes high above the treetops. The winding river stretches away below us, buffalos and hippos wallowing in the mud. Aboard our basket we slip noiselessly across the wide expanses of this land of the Masai Mara. Un-noticed. The elephants simply carry on eating. Which is all just how it should be.