Chada Camp by Gemma Pitcher

Six tents in a million acres of wild game - it doesn’t get much more exclusive than this. Roland and Zoe Purcell have created their camp to be as inconspicuous as possible - just a few visitors at a time are flown in by Roland in his Cessna 206, skimming low across the vast herds of buffalo and the hippo-filled rivers of the little-known Katavi National Park before bumping down on an airstrip frequently shared with giraffe, antelope or elephant. A short drive through the woodland brings one into camp - an arrival heralded by the smell of woodsmoke and the clink of ice in a gin and tonic as the sun sets over the plain. The style of Chada is rugged and masculine, unconsciously elegant and unadorned. The camp has comforts in abundance - feather pillows, ice cold drinks, steaming hot showers - but, as Roland puts it, "They’re not really the point".

This is a place far from civilisation - in the absence of technology or bottled entertainment, the lost art of conversation is regained at lunch under the trees or dinner by lamplight in the mess tent. Stories fly, the world is set to rights, laughter fills the dark air. Books, too, are important - Chada’s impressive library covers all subjects from natural history to eastern philosophy, all to be enjoyed during the quiet of a still afternoon as the heat haze dances across the plain.

Chada’s tents are beige canvas, simply furnished with handmade wooden cots, spread with colourful kikoi covers to keep out the night chill. Bathrooms are outside, canvas bucket showers suspended from the branches of fig trees. The tent fronts unzip to a vista like the Garden of Eden - the huge Chada floodplain which surrounds the camp on three sides, providing a panorama wild Africa without the need to move an inch. Zebra wade knee-deep in the yellow grasses, ears flicking at flies; a file of elephant move slowly past in the middle distance; and just visible through the haze, the great herds of buffalo congregate, an indistinct row of shapes on the horizon.

Visitors to Chada can choose, spontaneously, between a walk along the river bank, creeping up on a flock of vultures bathing in the muddy water. Or perhaps a drive across the plains, pitted and rutted with the mud of a thousand buffalo footprints, to spy on the prides of lion who follow the great herbivores day and night. An exotic picnic table is brought into a stand of Borassus palms, canvas deckchairs and cushions spread out for an afternoon nap overlooking a waterhole. Or perhaps the decision is made to leave the camp behind altogether, spread out bedrolls under the stars, and settle down for a nights’ sleep soothed by the wind through the branches and the piping of night birds. At Chada, anything goes - rules are in short supply. But surely that’s the point of a stay the wilderness?