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Africa is undoubtedly one of the world’s best classrooms – it’s exciting, enthralling and full of educational potential, with both cultures and the natural environment at the fore. For families planning a Kenyan safari, Christopher Vourlias learns that the biggest thrills and life lessons come from looking beyond the Big Five. We’re cruising high above the Masai Mara, our twin-engine Cessna pitching and tossing through patchy clouds, while the flat, tree-freckled plains of Kenya’s most famous wildlife reserve spread toward the ridges of the Oloololo Escarpment. Narrow roads ribbon the landscape below, dirt tracks stitched between the shadows cast by a few plump clouds. As we make our descent, zebra and wildebeest gallop away from the airstrip, and a handful of morans – Maasai warriors – shield their eyes, waiting for the dust to settle. The Maasai are tall, lean, and upright, walkie-talkies clipped to their colourfully beaded belts. After we taxi to a stop they swarm, pulling our luggage from the plane’s belly. A few departing passengers sit in the shade of a gazebo nearby, dabbing on sunscreen. Curious gazelles, thin and skittish, inch forward as we pack into a convoy of 4WDs, their ears twitching and their high haunches poised for a fast getaway. Twenty minutes later a porter is hauling my bags down a narrow path at Kichwa Tembo Tented Camp, straining beneath a dense canopy of trees. Monkeys chatter on the branches above us, and along a winding bend in the Mara River, a family of warthogs muscle through the brush. Kichwa Tembo is a camp in little more than name: the tents are elegantly appointed with hardwood floors and king-sized beds; during the evening turn-down, a heated water bottle is discreetly tucked under the covers – extra warmth for those cool nights on the plains. It is part of Conservation Corporation Africa’s award-winning chain of camps, and it is a favourite stop for families making their first visit to Kenya. Set on sprawling grounds in a lush stretch of riverine forest, the camp commands a stunning location in one of the Mara’s most exclusive corners. But it’s hard to find the time to enjoy the views. Days at Kichwa Tembo are strenuously crammed with wildlife drives and cultural excursions, and there’s always some fresh entertainment or diversion to occupy the time. Couples plan candlelit dinners in the bush; a young girl, thrilled at the morning’s hot-air balloon ride over the reserve, implores her mother, “Mum, can I puh-lease go hang-gliding in Chamonix?” After lunch, with the sun blazing, kids toss Frisbees across lawns as immaculately trimmed as a putting green, and parents doze by an infinity pool set flush against the Mara’s golden plains. It is a bit like Club Med meets the African bush: energetic, sociable, carefree – with a few lions and leopards thrown into the mix. In the evening, Maasai dancers perform for eager, camera-clicking crowds in the lodge, white high-tops laced up to their smooth, muscular calves. If there’s a lesson to be learned for families on safari, it’s that the experience has come a long way from the days of Hemingway. Savvy safari-goers want more for their money than a few bumpy wildlife drives in the bush, and the offerings at top camps like Kichwa Tembo,  or the legendary Governors’ Camp nearby, are staggering. Interpretive walks, village visits, bush barbeques, full-service spas – not to mention expert staff accustomed to coddling kids – have transformed the safari experience from no-frills roughing it to daycare and pampering on the plains. The options also highlight a growing desire to get more from a safari than a group of smart snapshots to show off back home. The thrill of spotting your first feasting lion is unforgettable, but it’s the more subtle pleasures – a morning spent tracking paw prints through the bush; an afternoon playing football with a Maasai family – that resonate most once the novelty of spotting wildlife has worn off. For Dennis Pinto, who was born and raised in Nairobi, family safaris were just another part of growing up. Inspired by their own experiences in the bush, Pinto’s parents established Micato Safaris when Dennis was just a child. Today he works as the company’s managing director in New York. As a full-time father he’s brought his children to Kenya more than a dozen times through the years. Despite the migrations in the Mara and the lumbering elephants of Amboseli National Park captivating his kids, he believes that it’s mingling with Maasai and swapping Swahili slang with the locals that keeps them wanting to come back. “East Africa is just so rich in human interactions,” says Pinto, after returning from his latest family trip in July. Having experienced most of the country’s wildlife parks and private concessions, his eight- and ten-year-olds are more eager to “play with other kids, explain to them about their life in New York, and hear how kids live in the bush in Kenya” than go on wildlife drives. On their most recent visit, the boys drifted along in a dugout canoe with local fishermen and ate ndazi – small, sweet loaves of fried dough – in tiny villages. “That, for them, was the highlight of the trip,” he says. For families making their first visit to Africa, Kenya was once one of the continent’s most welcoming destinations – an island of stability in a sea of turbulent neighbours. Earlier this year, when a wave of post-election violence swept across the country, uprooting hundreds of thousands, that reputation was badly damaged. But Kenya, ever resourceful, has been quick to recover. And on the surface at least, life has returned to its normal rhythms, drawing tourists back to discover the country’s many charms. A colourful tapestry of tribal life and countless opportunities for ‘voluntourism’ make it as educational as it is eye-popping. And for the adventurous, Kenya’s physical diversity means that the safari experience isn’t just limited to long wildlife drives through the bush. By foot or by mountain bike, by horse, camel or canoe, exploring Kenya can be an active getaway for families who might normally spend the working week hemmed in by city life. Raised riding horses on his family’s country home, eleven-year-old Ollie Whitman is calm and proficient in the saddle. “He does not scare easily,” says his mother, Claire, as she strokes his arm lovingly. Earlier in the day, while on horseback, he was chased by an elephant. We’re having dinner at Loisaba, an eco-lodge set on a sprawling private conservancy on the edge of northern Kenya’s Laikipia Plateau. It is late in the evening, and a troupe of Maasai waiters circle the table, spooning out roasts and sautéed vegetables, ladling the gravy. The Whitmans are busy swapping tales about their afternoon, which included quad-biking past startled herds of oryx, visits to a Maasai village – and, of course, Ollie’s run-in with a petulant pachyderm. For Claire and her husband, Baz, the build-up to their Kenyan holiday was fraught with anxieties. Even under the best of circumstances, planning a family trip can come with its share of headaches. But bringing the kids – Maya, 8; Ollie, 11; and Ben, 13 – to Kenya came with added worries. Would it be a safe place for the family? Would it offer more than just postcard pics with the wildlife? And would there be enough to keep the kids busy when they weren’t cooped up on safari? But now, as Ollie cracks a broad, sheepish grin at his afternoon adventure, already embellishing the story for countless schoolyard retellings, his parents glow with rosy vindication. Theirs was a job well done. Loisaba is an ideal place for active families to work up a sweat. A typical day might include wildlife walks through the conservancy, camel treks along the Ewaso Ngiro River, visits to local Masai villages, and horseback rides with wildlife in hot pursuit. The guestbook is filled with the rapturous praise of moms from Manchester and Melbourne, of kids from Cornwall, Canberra and Cape Town. There is a constant whirl of activity around Loisaba’s landscaped grounds. At 8am, when grumpy travel writers are still waking up to the day’s first coffee, ruddy families are already strapping on bike helmets and elbow pads and careening down the conservancy’s rough dirt roads. Private ranches like Loisaba and the Borana Lodge are diamonds in the rough, remote regions of northern Kenya; because they are situated on private land, they afford a measure of physical freedom not found in the government-run wildlife parks and reserves. But you’ll pay a premium for that privacy, as well as for the quality guiding and wide-ranging activities. For a family of five, the costs can multiply with frightening speed. To subscribe or buy back issues, click here  Not all of the country’s best family options, though, come with large price tags attached. After a few days in the north I’ve rented a tent at Fisherman’s Camp, a popular campsite on the reed-fringed shores of Lake Naivasha. The area is home to some of the largest ex-pat communities in Kenya, and because of the two national parks nearby – Hell’s Gate and Mount Longonot – it is a busy stopping point for tourists. For families, it might offer Kenya’s most affordable base for a few days of camping and exploring. With the dormant cone of Longonot looming over the lake, the area is arrestingly scenic. As I pitch my tent the birds are chattering in the trees; black-and-white colobus monkeys nibble at scraps of fruit, their scrunched-up faces taking me in with hostile regard. The Fisherman’s staff are careful to warn campers to secure their tents before venturing out: the monkeys are known to make mischief, and you can never be too sure whether an old pack of peanuts or a half-eaten chocolate bar might prove to be too much temptation. The scenery at Hell’s Gate National Park is dramatic: steaming springs, plunging rock faces, great-winged vultures circling above the cliffs. It is one of the few parks in Kenya that can be explored by mountain bike or on foot, and because it is located on the outskirts of Naivasha town – not buried deep in the country’s hinterlands – it can be reached easily in a private car or by public transport (and even on a day-trip from Nairobi). Hitching along one morning with a group of gap year students from Oxford, I rent a mountain bike and set off in search of wildlife. We spend the day pedalling over a bumpy dirt road, gazelles loping beside us and zebras rolling and frolicking in the dirt. A troop of baboons crosses the road, flashing us a glimpse of their rosy, half-mooned backsides. It is a beautiful day. A light rain begins to fall, and the wind rips through my hair, and a joy as vast as the African plains grabs a hold of me, making me wonder if I’ll ever want to pack into a stuffy safari truck again. Back at the campsite, in the busy open-air restaurant, travellers are warming their hands by the fireplace. Campfires crackle in the darkness, families gathered around to trade tales of the day’s adventures. An overland truck arrives, groaning into the campsite in a fog of diesel fumes, SPF 40 and insect repellent. The passengers surge out in great waves of khaki: their cheeks ruddy, their hair wind-tossed, their faces lit with mirthful bonhomie. They wear zip-up fleeces, broad-brimmed hats, walking sandals with elaborate straps. When they get to the bar they massage the knots in their necks and flex their toned calf muscles and order glasses of chardonnay. Tippling with tourists is a Kenyan tradition as old as the sundowner, but it’s a yearning for a different human element that has changed how many families travel. The growth in ‘voluntourism’ trips – both in Kenya and around the world – highlights the concern that many travellers have for deeper, more meaningful interactions with the locals. Pinto, of Micato Safaris, cites how the company’s business from families has risen from just 10 per cent to nearly 40 per cent in the past five years, and how families getting involved now has less to do with pointing a camera than lending a helping hand. One of Micato’s most popular family packages includes a day volunteering in Nairobi’s Mukuru slum – an experience that is often the highlight of a two-week tour. It’s an experience that doesn’t have to end once the bags are packed and the flights are boarded. Pinto says that many of the families inspired by a Kenyan visit continue to contribute after they’ve left. “We have kids who come back sponsoring other kids in Africa, raising huge amounts of money through bake sales and school fundraisers,” he says. A Californian teen has used his rock band to raise money for struggling Kenyans; so far, he’s sent Micato close to $20,000 to help local families. “We question people beforehand as to why they’re going to Africa,” says Pinto, “and it’s always for the wildlife. And then when we speak to them afterward and ask, ‘What were the highlights of your trip?’ wildlife doesn’t rank as high as the cultural aspects.” Sometimes, in the bush, the wildlife and culture collide. Hiking along the ridges of the Oloololo Escarpment in the Masai Mara, my Kichwa Tembo guide Albert stops at the edge of the road and scans the plains below us. The savannah sprawls from the foot of the escarpment, a golden carpet broken by dots of trees and the winding green ribbons of riverine forests. Beside us, Timothy – a tall, serious soldier in dark fatigues – fingers the trigger of his assault rifle. They’ve spotted a pair of buffalo grazing on short tufts of grass in the distance: little black smudges that only come into focus when I peer through my binoculars. Albert and Timothy – two sharp-eyed Maasai – confer and plan an alternate route. “They’re very angry,” explains Albert, as we take a wide berth around a cluster of thorny acacias. “They’ve been chased out of the breeding herd.” In the breeding herd, young buffaloes are usually content to munch on grass and flirt with the local ladies. It’s these grumpy old men, though, that are among the most dangerous of the Masai Mara’s wildlife. “They’re the retired generals,” says Albert. Temperamental wildlife are to the Maasai what noisy neighbours are to a family in east London. They are endured with patience and weary resignation – what else, after all, can you do? We steer toward a pack of frolicking gazelles instead, a scene as safe and bucolic as a Sunday stroll in Hyde Park. Timothy relaxes his trigger finger; Albert points out a few yellow weaver birds warbling in the treetops. We admire their high, trilling notes and catch sight of the gazelles prancing quickly through the bush. Danger averted. For Albert, the bush is many things: it is a chemist and a supermarket, a place of great wisdom and even greater perils. For the clients and their children who take one of the lodge’s interpretive walks, though, the bush is Kenya’s biggest classroom. As we pass through thorny thickets and over knotted brambles, Albert points to dozens of bushes whose myriad uses – for curing illness, for killing game – can mean, quite literally, the difference between life and death. We stoop to examine a fresh pair of tracks or – more often than I’d like to admit – a pile of animal droppings. Everything has a story to tell, and everything has a purpose. Albert gestures broadly to the trees on the plains and the wooded hills: where I see shades of green, barely distinguishable to the naked eye, he sees a world of boundless wealth growing at his fingertips. Late in the day we visit a small boma on the outskirts of the park, a group of thatched, mud-brick huts ringed by a tall fence of thornbush. The village visit is a chance to experience, however briefly, the joys and challenges of life in the Kenyan bush. Shy children poke their heads from the doorways; chattering wives hunch over cooking fires, their muscular arms stirring pots of ugali, a porridge-like staple of the East African diet. It is a hard life for these Maasai, but the bonds here are strong. The family is a tight-knit, fiercely loyal unit, and I can’t help but feel a gentle reproach to our own fractured family lives, to the hectic schedules and endless distractions of the modern world. But even here it’s possible to appreciate how our foreign worlds overlap. In a muddy yard I talk with a group of teenage boys – tall, slim, wary kids with small tufts of hair on their heads and legs like bedposts. We kick around a football made from plastic bags and dirty rags and a couple of old shoelaces. The boys are full of questions: about the Premiership, about my high-tech hiking boots, about life in New York. Nearby, in the shade of an acacia tree, I squat beside a boy tuning into a Sonitec radio. Frayed wires poke from the top; he tilts the antenna back and forth while a few staticky voices crackle in animated Swahili. Dimly, distantly, I can hear the roar of a crowd. We’re listening to a game being played half a world away, but the boy hunches forward, following each kick as closely as the supporters packed into Old Trafford. “Christiano Ronaldo,” he says, pronouncing each syllable with grave clarity. “Van der Sar.” We listen until the final whistle – a 4-1 romp for United – then lean back in the grass, watching the last shafts of daylight pierce through the gathering clouds. Nearby the shrill shouts of children soar above the baobabs. The cows and the goats are returning home after a long day’s grazing; and the men, too, wrapped in red-checked shukas, swinging their walking sticks at the low scrub brush. In the darkened huts, cooking fires glow and shadowy figures move about, families coming together to share the news and the daily bread. The mood is warm, languid and loving – a reminder, far from the swift modern clamour of home, that family life can still move to a slower rhythm. And as the children tend to their siblings – an eight-year-old feeding a six-year-old; a four-year-old cradling a newborn to her chest – there is the greatest family lesson of all, for tourists of any age: the importance of caring for one another.

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