Half the charm of Olepolos Country Club lies in the getting there. Once you’ve wriggled past the bedlam of Ngong town, you’re released into God’s private acreage. The road narrows, then winds and climbs, as if testing your appetite for adventure.
Valleys dive all around you, and the hills, scraggy with character, swell and bubble. The sky looks suspiciously blue—like a design intern might have fiddled with the saturation.
It’s curious how people speed down those roads. You’d think they’d slow down to inhale the beauty. Olepolos isn’t what it used to be. That humble shack with smoke-stained grills has since rebranded itself as a country club. There’s a pool now. Gazebos. Signage. Paths. The view remains glorious, but something has shifted.
The old wild spirit has been clipped, trimmed with ambition. I first came here 15 years ago; back then, it felt natural. Now, it’s a series of manicured plots leading to cliffs, trees, and viewpoints. You’re never quite sure where you are, just that you’re somewhere newer.
We found a banda near the fence, opposite a stone mansion-in-progress. A Muslim girl unrolled her mat beneath a bush and prayed quietly. We’d called ahead. Our waiter, a stoic Maasai, carried a sword on his hip.
I ordered wet-fried liver (I still have the teeth of a child); the rest settled for nyama choma. The meat was excellent. Apart from a gentleman playing music loudly from his car in the next banda, it was a perfect afternoon to have listened to the ridge breathe.
Do call ahead if you’re planning to visit. And temper your nostalgia: this is not the Olepolos you remember. It’s grown up. Things change. But not the meat. Never the meat.
