“We’re stretching the boundaries of what a ‘tent’ and a ‘camp’ can be,” says Tarn Breedveld, the charismatic general manager of what I’m going to call Richard Branson’s new place on the edge of the Maasai Mara National Reserve. “We wanted to do something different and make a place you could plop near London and still have people come—a destination in its own right.”
I can’t quite bring myself to call it a “camp,” or its 12 rooms “tents,” but whatever it is, Mahali Mzuri knocked my socks off.
My first impression was that I’d somehow bumped across the savannah and into a Spielberg set. The terra-cotta-color rooms are ringed by arcing steel girders, and their pointed charcoal-gray roofs poke up like little spacecraft. The sci-fi look ends with the exteriors, though, and inside, they're a glammed-up take on safari style, as seen through the gimlet eye of a sophisticated and slightly cheeky British designer. The rubber ducky by the claw-foot bathtub, for instance, appears to be wearing Maasai cloth and beaded necklaces. And the “do not disturb” sign is a Maasai spear topped with wildebeest hair.
The rooms are fantastically stylish—with rich wood floors and vividly patterned African fabrics above and behind the bed—and practical, with mini refrigerators, reusable glass bottles of filtered water, adequate light, outlets galore, and better plumbing and Wi-Fi than I have at home in New York. Virtually everything is made in Kenya, down to the very comfy mattresses. (And bless them for simply placing pillows of different thicknesses on each bed, instead of presenting a silly pillow menu.)
Wood-frame doors lead into each room and onto its big shaded deck, and that bathtub is smack by two large screened “windows” that offer terrific views over the Motorogi Conservancy (but privacy too). The sleeping area also has more and better “windows” than many conventional tents, and it’s a joy to sleep with the shade flaps open, feeling the night breezes and waking up with the sun.
Breedveld, who is originally from Australia, has a deep background in conservation in East Africa, and that—along with the philanthropic impulses and deep pockets of Richard Branson, who was made an honorary Maasai Elder for his efforts—helps explain why Mahali Mzuri has been a powerful force in creating and supporting the conservancy (a model for other Maasai communities to protect their land and profit from tourism, which Breedveld says may eventually double the size of the Mara). They’re developing a program for guests to visit a nearby village without it becoming a hokey, borderline exploitative “tourist boma” like some others in the region. In the meantime, the gift shop sells beautiful jewelry and home items made by local women’s collectives.
Not only did all this foster excellent community relations, but it also allowed them to hire the best Maasai driver-guides. Game drives are often off-road, and the drivers navigate the rough terrain quite nimbly, while answering questions and telling stories about growing up here. The Land Cruisers are top of the line, uncommonly smooth, quiet, and open (no front windshields) for better views and photo ops. Between drives, there are bush walks into the river valley below, and a good-size swimming pool and a sweet one-room spa for massages and facials using products from the cult South African line Africology.
The pool and spa are nice, but when it comes down to it, “safari” might as well be Swahili for “eating and drinking.” Those pursuits are sublime here. My group was welcomed with 2004 Veuve Cliquot, which flowed freely throughout my preview visit, even turning up once in a granita. (I was hosted by Mahali Mzuri and Micato Safaris; the place will officially open August 1.) On-site gardens supply much of the produce, and the kitchen is run by Tarn’s talented brother Liam, who was previously Branson’s chef at Necker Island in the BVI.
The dining “tent” here is pure glamour, with contemporary lights hanging above, and votive candles flickering on, a long stretch of glass that rests atop a magnificent length of untreated cedar trunk. It’s a fitting setting for big-city-caliber mushroom risotto, homemade tagliatelle with chorizo sauce, chocolate fondant, and New York cheesecake.
But even a bush dinner—which they knew better than to call a “picnic”—was an elaborate affair, with plated French onion soup, a feast of fresh salads and all sorts of grilled meats, and fig sticky pudding for dessert. Dozens of lanterns dotted the ground and dangled from the trees. A group of Maasai sang, danced, and jumped around the fire. It was, like Mahali Mzuri in general, a night of pure joy conjured seemingly out of nothing.
