We’ve ridden African elephants and done the evening game drive. In between I’ve had the full-body Swedish massage from a Zulu woman who used the point of her elbow and the side of her knee and was panting slightly throughout. Now we are six of us around a dinner table in a replica Zulu meeting hut. The waiters are Pedi.
With each course a different wine is poured. My neighbour vulgarly asks the cost of the first, a silky red, and is told that it isn’t on the wine list. However, a bottle from the same vineyard, of an inferior vintage, can be had for the equivalent of £400. I’m studiously trying to keep up with these various wines and remember which is which. But I’m reserving my greater seriousness for the succession of Tequila Sunrises being placed in front of me in glasses about a foot tall.
There was a Tequila Sunrise among an imaginative selection of drinks on the welcome-back-to-camp tray after the afternoon game drive.
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