GONE BUSH

Author Kathy Lette swaps book clubs for the bush and goes in search of the big five.

or women, life is in two acts – the trick is surviving the interval. But once you get through menopause (when you sweat more than Liz Truss doing sudoku) and your progeny fly the nest (out the door by 24, kiddos!) we hard-working girls can put ourselves first for the first time in our lives. All we need to do now is to go forth and be fabulous. Our aim is simple – to build a life we don’t need a vacation from – as long as it includes some great vacations. I mean, if not now, when? A Zimmer frame would somewhat cramp a gal’s style on a scuba in Cuba.

And older women are adventurous. A recent survey by the JourneyWoman travel website discovered that last year 77 per cent of all bookings for companies specialising in female travel came from solo travellers aged 55-plus – proving that exploration is not just for the likes of Bear Grylls and Benedict Allen. Or just the young. The luxury solo travel market has also had the biggest shift in the 65-plus category, particularly with female travellers craving adventure before dementia kicks in.

Of course, psychologists maintain that the most effective way to stave off cognitive decline is to get out of your comfort zone and tackle new challenges . . . which is why I found myself hiking through Tanzania’s Ngorongoro Conservation Area into an extinct volcano with a rifle-toting ranger.

Clambering up through the acacia forest that blankets the rim of the Olmoti Crater, my guide explained that the aim of almost every safari is to see the “big five” – elephants, lions, buffalo, leopards and rhinos. If I’d been in my natural habitat – at book club – I’d be encountering the literary big five: Salman

On watch

“I FOUND MYSELF HIKING THROUGH TANZANIA’S NGORONGORO CONSERVATION AREA INTO AN EXTINCT VOLCANO WITH A RIFLE-TOTING RANGER. ”

Rushdie, Margaret Atwood, Kazuo Ishiguro, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Arundhati Roy . . . But no. I was traipsing through a carnivore-encrusted jungle; my only weapon a sharp tongue.

On tour in Tanzania

Clockwise, from above right: Masai warriors dancing; Tarangire National Park’s wildlife includes giraffes, cheetahs and monkeys.

I was so busy making cutting remarks to a dive-bombing insect that I didn’t spot the spots. The ranger put a “shhh” finger to his lips, then pointed at a polka-dot pelt shimmering in the sun-dappled shadows just feet from the path. Unsurprisingly, my life as a bookworm has left me curiously illequipped to deal with a leopard in the wild. Frozen to the spot, all I could do was gawp while my heart started a frantic drum solo. The face I turned to the park ranger had the look of a woman whose life-support system has just been turned off. But he nonchalantly tapped the barrel of his gun and the leopard, casting a glance our way, slunk insouciantly into the shadows. “You see? Quite friendly,” my guide smiled.

“Really? I suspect leopards have too many claws for a supposedly friendly nature,” I retorted, cattily. My instinct was to climb the nearest tree, but the forest suddenly opened onto the breathtaking vista of the crater. Emerald green pastures, gurgling streams, the musical chiming of cowbells – for a disorientating moment I thought I was in Austria. But the tall, thin men wandering across the crater floor below were not lonely goatherds, but spear-wielding Masai, grazing their cattle as they have done for centuries.

“A Jeep safari is like watching a film,” my ranger enthused, clocking my rapturous expression, “but a walking safari is like reading the book.”

My next “bookish” experience was in Tarangire National Park, 200 kilometres south of Ngorongoro. When my guide suggested a walk by the lake – a lake where lions lie in wait to pounce upon thirsty prey – to say I felt a tad nervous was the biggest understatement since Nadhim Zahawi said “I may have made a careless tax error”. But remembering my mantra to push myself out of my comfort zone, I strapped on my hiking boots.

“Anything I should know before setting out?” I asked, trying not to squeal like a lost kitten. “Yes,” the ranger said, grinning and loading bullets into his rifle. “If an elephant charges you – pray.”

As I crabbed along, sandwiched between two armed guides, my head swivelled from side to side, scouring the bushes for irascible pachyderms. Circling vultures swooped ominously overhead. I was so far out of my comfort zone it wouldn’t even register on my psychological sat-nav. I should have been sorting my spice rack alphabetically or splashing energetically to a thundering disco rendition of Girls Just Want To Have Fun in my water aerobics