Is This the Most Spectacular Way to See the Serengeti?

There are certain safari experiences for which a 3.30am start isn’t simply essential, but part of the excitement. Hot air ballooning tops the list.

My phone jolts me awake, and beyond the screened windows of my suite at Warangi Ridge, Tanzania’s Central Serengeti is cloaked in inky blackness. It’s a time of night I never normally see, when all manner of nocturnal creatures are active. But there’s no time to scan the bush from my deck with a torch.

Our 4WD hurries through the darkness, its suspension shrugging off the Serengeti’s bumps. The headlights catch a nightjar, frozen in our path until the last moment, then the outlines of gazelles and impalas, standing close together, braced against the perils of the night. At one point, we spot their nemesis: a magnificent pair of lions, sprawled on the verge like they own the place.

By the time we reach the launch site, there’s a glow on the horizon. Only a handful of guests will take flight today. To ward off the slight chill, we sip ginger tea and nibble biscuits shaped like hot air balloons. Beside us, the balloon envelopes flail on the ground like giant, tethered sea creatures, the team fanning cold air into them ahead of the dragon-like flames of the burners.

“We take off at dawn because this is when the winds are calmest,” says our uniformed pilot, Jeff Gilles. “The difference between the hot air inside the balloon and the cool morning air outside gives us plenty of lift. Plus, it’s always beautiful to see the sun rise.”

Jeff ushers us into the wicker basket, tipped on its side so we can slot in like champagne bottles in a rack. Within moments, there’s a roar from the burner. We’re upright and aloft.

Early balloons were designed to impress. The ones the Montgolfier brothers sent up in 1783 were showpieces, their blue-and-gold paper and fabric painted with fleurs-de-lys, signs of the zodiac and portraits of Louis XVI. Ours is a more practical affair of tough fabric and propane burners, but the sensation it delivers remains the same: the ground falls quietly away and the wind takes charge.

Floating over the golden grasslands in near silence feels serene and otherworldly, an egg-yolk sun tinting the other balloon as it drifts alongside us. Jeff, meanwhile, carries the easy assurance of someone thoroughly at home in the air. “It has its ups and downs,” he says, with a practised grin.

He took his first flight as a boy in 1970s Oklahoma with his parents, both balloon pilots themselves. “I’ve flown in Costa Rica, Australia, Japan and all over the US, but I’m hooked on Africa,” he says.

At ease now with peering over the basket’s lip, I survey my surroundings, feeling like an 18th-century adventurer. The Serengeti landscape is undoubtedly the star, its plains lent a crinkled, elephant-hide look by hundreds of intersecting animal paths. Here and there, umbrella thorn acacias throw patches of shade and, in the distance, low hills catch the early sunshine.

“Seeing animals is never guaranteed,” says Jeff. “When we do, it’s a bonus. You can’t beat the sight of a giraffe galloping along or an elephant trumpeting at the balloon.” He pulls on the ropes, rotating the basket so we can all take in the view.

Hippo pools glint in the sun’s dazzle below and, to our amazement, we make out a serval stalking low through the grass. Several lions snooze in the shade of a lone tree, seemingly indifferent to the balloon passing overhead. Finally, as a herd of zebras canters past, we begin our descent. A fresh wave of anticipation runs through the basket. Early balloonists were French aristocrats who carried bubbly to toast each safe landing and appease the alarmed farmers whose fields they came down in. It’s a tradition today’s balloonists uphold with relish.

“Have you ever hit a tree?” asks a fellow passenger. “Well, let’s just say I’ve never landed in one,” says Jeff. And before we know it, we’re bumping down onto terra firma, primed for the sizzle of a bush-cooked breakfast and the celebratory pop of champagne.