Luxury’s not always easy to define.
Years ago we were involved in promoting an airline’s Business Class service, and their new Business Class lounge, in a Southeast Asian hub. The airline was European, and the target customers were affluent Asian travellers.
We did some research into what these travellers regarded as ‘luxury’. Our hypothesis was: don’t waste your time promoting French cognac, leather upholstery and gold taps in the washrooms…if they like that stuff, they already have it at home.
For people like them, we said, real luxury isn’t anything money can buy: it’s actually intangibles like
Time
Space
Privacy
(And as it turned out, we were right. But that’s another story…)
Whenever I think about what luxury really means, I remember a tiny safari camp in the middle of the Okavango Delta in Botswana.
There were only about six huts. To say they were simple would be a wild understatement. Because everything had to be trucked in overland, at great expense, they were built almost entirely with local materials — thatched roof, pounded earth floors. They were perfectly comfortable, and immaculately clean.
But luxurious? Really?
I’ll explain. Let’s start late in the afternoon, after a long day of game-watching from dugout canoes or four-wheel drives. We stop off at the thatched open-air bar in the centre of camp. The beer is chilled, the stools are comfortable, the barman is good company, and we watch the monkeys in the trees until it’s time to change for dinner.
Later, I put on some make-up at a small dressing table in front of the window, which looks out on the sun setting over the river. (And, luckily, gives me enough natural light for a lick of mascara and some lipstick.)
Then we make our way back up the little path through the jungle, to the centre of camp and the “dining room” — a large courtyard, or boma, of beaten earth, surrounded by a mud wall that keeps out the wind (and, we trust, any large hungry animals who might also feel like a spot of dinner.) Tables are arranged here and there, and in the centre of the courtyard is a pit with a roaring fire. We sit under the stars and enjoy a delicious meal by torchlight, with more cold drinks and some gentle conversation.
When dinner’s over, we’re given flashlights to light our way back to our hut. Kerosene lanterns are on the bedside tables, ready to be lit. (The camp has no electricity.) The blankets have been turned down, and mosquito netting carefully arranged. The beds are clean and comfortable, the jungle is quiet, and all is darkness…
After a peaceful night’s sleep, we’re awakened by a warm, dark voice saying “knock knock”. That’s because the huts don’t have wooden doors, or anything else suitable for knocking upon: a large gentleman has arrived with our morning tea, and this is his way of politely giving us a decent warning before he comes inside with the tray.
So we shower and dress for the day’s activities, leaving all our clothing neatly put away (we’d been warned on arrival that “the cleaning staff are trained to take away anything you leave on the floor, launder it and and return it that evening — including your shoes!”).
Showering, I’m curious about where the hot water comes from, in the absence of electricity. I take a quick look around the back of our hut: a huge tree trunk lies on the ground, with one end burning briskly underneath our water tank. I later find that several times a day a couple of staff members come round and shove the tree further into the fire. Constant hot water. Simple.
I won’t give you the name of that little camp, because it ceased to exist years ago. But we’ll never forget it.
What didn’t it have? Electricity, phones, TV, or internet access. Nightclub, gift shop, a la carte menu, spa.
What did it have? Peace and quiet. Wonderful experiences, with knowledgeable guides. Clean, comfortable beds. Good food. Hot water. Cold drinks. Beautiful surroundings. Delightful people, all of them doing their best to make sure the guests lacked for nothing…at least, nothing that really matters.
TRAVEL ADVISORY: Don’t just go by someone else’s rating system — give some thought to what luxury really means to you. You’ll make better choices.
* * * * *
Note: Camps in the Okavango Delta have changed enormously. Botswana is a clever, well-run country, and it decided years ago to encourage “value, not volume” tourism. In other words, rather than have the country overrun by hordes of package tourists, they have fewer visitors, paying more, at fewer upmarket camps. Result: the same revenue, with less impact on the country and the environment.
So these days camps tend to be run by well-known international luxury travel companies. And they’re sumptuous. You may stay in something called a “tent” — and by law, to qualify as a tent it has to be capable of being dismantled in 24 hours — but don’t be surprised if it has teak floors, marble bathrooms, a king-size bed and colonial décor that channels “Out of Africa”. You’ll want to buy the furniture — and when you pay the bill, you may suspect that you already have.
The experience will still be fabulous. But don’t expect a burning tree under your hot-water tank.