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There is nothing in the world like soaring over the plains of Africa in a 4-seater Cessna 172. The aeroplane is so tiny that it seems to have been made from a packet with instructions labelled 1-2-3 Airfix. There is a large proportion of window to fibreglass, so that each small seat has a view.

The country below is Tanzania, and the Cessna is an elaborate form of taxi. For thousands of miles the land is wild and strange, ranging dramatically from the icy peaks of Mount Kilimanjaro, over lush hilltop fields of the Rift Valley and vast savannah plains of the Serengeti. To the east, mile upon mile of white beaches and coral islands are washed by the waves of the Indian Ocean, and here, in the south, swathing paths of sand rivers cut through tropical woodland. From the precarious vantage point of the Cessna it is possible to make out the lumbering bulk of elephants breaking their way through dense bush and palm tree forests, and sandy coloured shapes in the clearing, probably antelope or gazelle.

Some pilots inspire more faith than others. Flying with the helplessly sexy Pascal at the controls, we were thrown into a downward swoop towards a lone rogue elephant taking an enthusiastic morning river bath, while our pilot grinned round at his cargo to boast, “I could have taken zee ‘airs off izz back!”.

We landed in Ruaha National Park, 12,950 square km of high plains and forests, where deep terracotta and flame colours of the earth reflect the heat of the African sun. Massive rock kopjes sweep majestically upwards to form a fine line against the sky, poised above wide expanses of rolling land where distances dissolve in a wash of turning colours, marked with gigantic silhouettes of thousand year old baobab trees.

In all this wilderness there are just two choices for tourist accommodation, one lodge on the Great Ruaha River and one camp on the Mwagusi Sand River, both run by brothers who camped here as boys, when there was nowhere to stay at all.

Such was the seed for perhaps the most passionately loved safari camp in East Africa, the distant, tiny, sand-pathed and makuti-thatched dream of Chris Fox, the bleached bronzed, skinny-limbed proprietor of Mwagusi Luxury Tented Camp. His barefoot passion for the place is contagious. His cheeky boyish charm may be lost on the huge herds of elephants that roam at large, (although at least one many-ton male that he calls Constantine will eat palm seeds from his hands), but those who conquer the distances to come here cannot help but fall in love.

It is six a.m. and the camp is alive with excited cries. The cook has spotted a pack of African Hunting Dog in the bush. They are on the move, and he has trailed them through the gathering light of dawn. Guests are roused, forsaking their trays of morning tea and biscuits to scramble into vehicles, and in moments we are lurching through the bush with Steve at the wheel, testing the speed of this vast machine against his knowledge of the bumps after his first barefoot year here. Apollo shows true ability in managing to stand, spot and shout names of passing birds and animals while travelling at speed, and soon we are in the vicinity of dogs.

Now the atmosphere changes. The vehicle is slowed to a grumbling crawl, and its passengers are silent, and alert. We wend through the trees following hushed radio instructions from Chris, and, finally, we are faced by the pack. They glance up, but when the engine stops the dogs lose interest and resume their sociable lolling. Twelve barrel-bellied panting bodies are arrayed in a circle on the sandy earth, each marked with fine khaki camouflage. It is breakfast time. The dogs begin to stand, each moving a few yards forward, then settling back in the dust. Chris is ahead of them, predicting their direction into an open clearing, and sure enough they began to assemble in that sunlit arena, watching for possible prey. We fussed with our cameras and shifted in our seats, resettling for what will surely be a long wait.

But before long the dogs’ attention is diverted by a scuffling in the trees and two blissfully fat, short-legged, helplessly unaware warthog saunter into view. Never has a plump pig run so fast as the one that got away, disappearing in the distance followed by a cloud of dust and half a pack of hunting dog, one chasing, one flanking, one following up the rear. But the dogs were running lazily, teasingly, seemingly just stretching their legs, before wheeling back to torment the fatter warthog mate who stayed. Surrounded by dogs, the betusked piggy in the middle puffed up his shoulders, feigning formidable bravado. He tottered to and fro, the dogs edged forward, until one made the run and the warthog floundered, he darted a yard, and, in a puff of dust, vanished down a hole. Occasionally his snout would poke skywards, only to be sharply withdrawn. But we didn’t wait to witness the denouement. It was breakfast time in the cool shade of camp. We left the hunting dogs, so rarely outwitted, to sink back into their torpor.

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