Big game animals in the wild are not the same as in the zoo. Even from the protection of a land cruiser, rumbling along well-worn tracts of savannah, there is a raw edge to the encounters. These are not forlorn captives resigned to a life behind bars, these are majestic, untamed beasts, whittled into perfect harmony with their environment by millions of years of evolution. Hippos wallow contentedly in the mud, giraffes saunter between acacia trees, lions prowl across the plains, and monkeys… Well, monkeys never give a damn no matter who’s in charge.
We were fresh on the wings of our successful ascent of Kilimanjaro, unwinding in a luxurious lodge on the outskirts of Moshi. It was the dry season, but, within our gated compound walls, the decadence of a sprinkler system kept the grass permanently lush. Once outside though, we were confronted with the harsh reality of a parched land crying out for water.
Sunburnt country
Stunted trees twisted up from the cracked soil, and the endless horizon shimmered with the maddening promise of mirage. The landscape commanded the gaze, so vast it could swallow you whole. Occasionally, we passed through small towns, collections of iron roofed buildings arranged along a single street. There was hardship here, but still the people wore bright clothes; fruit sellers hawked their wares with animated cries; and children dressed in western t-shirts played boisterously on the roadside.
I do not mean to contrive a vision of happiness in the face of poverty – there were worn and downtrodden faces too. I suppose what I am saying is that, despite the circumstances, the irrepressible spirit of life went on.
That night we slept under canvas. To call it camping would be a stretch – we each had our own bed with crisp linen sheets; power sockets sprouted from the walls; and a zipper flap led to an en suite bathroom compartment. For all that tourists contribute to the Tanzanian economy, there is still something uneasy about tented luxury in a country where the average person gets by on $3 a day.
Darkness came suddenly over the plains. The baking heat of the day dissolved beneath a fresco of cold stars, and we huddled around the campfire drinking bottles of Serengeti lager until our eyelids drooped. I settled in under my mosquito net and drifted off amid crackling logs and humming cicadas. I woke once to the sound of a huge creature tramping in the brush to the north of our camp. At that moment, the dim outline of the tent seemed rather flimsy. Then the footsteps receded into the distance, and the lullaby of cicadas claimed me once more.
Into the crater
In the morning, we rode our jeep up to the rim of the Ngorongoro crater. Formed by a cataclysmic eruption 2 million years ago, the bowl of the caldera drops more than 600m to a sprawling plain of rippling grasses and alkaline lakes. Standing on the edge, I looked out over the panorama and imagined I could discern the dusty wakes of blue wildebeest marauding across the scrub. It seemed to me like nothing more than an inverted version of Conan Doyle’s Lost World.
Though the sides appeared at first too steep to negotiate, we drove round to a point where we could pick our way down through boulders to the floor of the crater. Surprisingly, our first encounter was with a carnivore. Camouflaged against tawny shades of dried-up grass, a wild dog stood munching on the carcass of some unfortunate rodent. There was no artifice here, only the remorseless logic of nature, red in tooth and claw.
From then on, wildlife burst from the savannah in a succession of storybook images. Zebras trotted in harmonious convoy with their wildebeest cousins; a pair of ostriches courted in the grass; and, down by the watering hole, pelicans swam among yawning hippos. In captivity, we see animal species artificially separated, each with its own enclosure and Latin name italicised on a plaque. In the wild, they are unveiled as a bustling community: rubbing shoulders, getting on each other’s nerves and, yes, occasionally having one of the neighbours for lunch.
Assuming the position
We were just pulling away from a bunch of gazelles when Lynda, the self-proclaimed expert in our group, let out a squeal. “Quick, quick, go back, it’s giving birth,” she insisted in a high-pitched whisper. Our driver, Jamie, reversed a few metres and stopped near a sleek female, hind-legs spread wide and a look of intense concentration on her orange-and-white patterned face. A faint bulge began to appear between tail and underbelly. “I can see the head,” exulted Lynda, exploring ever higher registers of the human vocal range.
At last, the dam burst, and a lumpy torrent issued from the back of the gazelle. With our binoculars trained on the scene, we could all see that the steaming brown pile was rather more faecal than foetal. “Oh,” exhaled Lynda in shocked disappointment, deflating like a sail in the doldrums. Jamie set off again with a poorly concealed smile, as our gales of laughter rocked the back of the jeep.
Predator and prey
A zebra flicked its head, looking to the middle distance, suddenly alert. In a matter of moments, the convivial atmosphere had turned tense. The neighbouring wildebeest started moving off into the scrub, bodies taut with the apprehension that precedes panic. Then one of them broke ranks, and the whole herd charged after it in a cloud of dust. An eerie silence descended. Where birds had perched all day, now there were just empty branches. Something was coming.
The lion padded out onto the dirt track with the slow satisfaction of a serial killer who has cornered his victim. He wasn’t hunting, but I felt his power. There was a barely suppressed lethality behind the measured pace, a sense that at any moment he could surge forward on those muscled legs in a murderous sprint. Then the deceptive soft fur around his mouth would open to reveal wicked yellow fangs, and the last sound in your ears would be his all-consuming roar.
In truth, I was perfectly safe. Although I was out beyond the canopy at the back of our land cruiser, the lion would have had to make a heroic jump to get at me over the railing. And yet, in the moment our eyes locked, I felt a primal fear, a stirring of survival instincts from all those thousands of years when man wasn’t top of the food chain.
Then the sensation passed, and I came back to the comforting rumble of the jeep’s engine. Further down the road, half a dozen other vehicles were rapidly approaching, drawn in by radio reports of Africa’s most iconic predator. The alpha male tossed his mane with derision and started off after two of the pride’s females. He walked away from the iPhones, along a path that stretched back through railroads, gunpowder and pyramids, before fading at last into the haze of primeval time.
Want to find out more about my trip to Tanzania? Read this article on the 10 things you need to know before climbing Kilimanjaro.