
Nothing prepares you for the African nights. At dusk the wind dies, and whining cicadas and hidden night birds trill their first tentative notes. A jackal wails. Other voices join in: yelps, hoots, a strangled cry. A hyena's eerie cackle explodes into deranged shrieks in the darkness beyond camp. Shuddering, you edge closer to the campfire.
Then suddenly, rumbling, primal, a deep-throated roar so close your skin tingles. You hold your breath, praying it's not as near as it sounds. There is no mistaking this one. Lion. This is why I came to Africa: to get close to the wildlife and to live for a time under African skies. Lured by the tales of Hemingway and Conrad, I am on safari in Kenya.
Unlike most Americans, who pre-book their safari before arrival in East Africa, I elect to shop for a company on the spot. It isn't difficult. Strolling the streets on my first morning in Nairobi, I am approached by representatives from several safari services.
Armed with recommendations from travelers at my hotel, I walk to three outfitters located in the tourist district, inquiring about accommodations, guides and vehicles. Prices range from $35-$85 per day, all inclusive, for seven-day camping safaris that match the itinerary I want.
While there are many luxury lodge safaris with similar itineraries running from $150-$350 per day, a camping safari fits my budget. There'll be no swimming pools, iced drinks or flush toilets, but we'll see the same animals. After interviewing each company, I select one, sit through a brief orientation and agree to return in the morning for an early departure.
The next day I meet my travel companions: two Germans, a newlywed Dutch couple and three other Americans. We range in age from eight to 45. George, quiet and friendly, is our driver/guide. Piling into a van equipped with a pop-up roof for game viewing, we head west.

Driving into the Mara is like entering a pastoral Eden. Herds of wildebeest and zebra roam the rolling hills. Gazelles leap ahead of our van, racing full speed across the savannah. Giraffes drift ghostlike among stands of acacia. Warthog families trot single file through knee-high grass, their whip-like tails held high.
At first the clicking of camera shutters threatens to drown out the birdsong and the braying of zebras, as one by one, the animals we've seen only on television materialize before us. This is National Geographic Africa. We soon learn to pace our picture-taking, realizing we'll have a week to shoot.

We stop to watch a cheetah scramble up a tree. Ten feet up, the cat loses his grip and tumbles to the ground. With an aloofness typical of felines everywhere, he nonchalantly shakes off the dust, climbs up the trunk to a high limb, and poses haughtily as cameras fire away below.
At twilight we return to camp and a hot dinner. Melodic Swahili conversation among camp staff drifts through the clearing. While we eat, a herd of 25 elephants crosses the ravine below us.
As the fire burns low, the bush comes alive. Grunts and screeches erupt from beyond our ring of light. The thought of spending the night in a tent with only a thin canvas wall separating us from the creatures behind those voices is unnerving, but George assures us we are safe. Still, we huddle close to the glowing coals.
Each morning we find lion mothers sharing fresh zebra kill with their cubs. The youngsters play like kittens, stalking and attacking each other between feeding sessions. The adult males, bellies swollen with meat, have eaten first and are usually found resting in the shade.
But even in this landscape of hunter and hunted there is humor. If the lion is king, then monkeys are the jokers, liberating food from our camp with the stealth of commandos, chasing their mates through treetops, tumbling and teasing and staying half a step ahead of trouble.

Arriving as afternoon thunderheads build, we drive through the woods north of the lake. Baboons peer from the brush along the road. A shy bushbuck fades into the forest gloom. Hornbills flap overhead. We leave the trees and park at the dry edge of the lake bed. The distant waters shimmer pink — a closer look reveals tens of thousands of flamingoes. Robert Redford and Meryl Streep flew over this same lake in the movie Out of Africa, as thousands of birds rose in pink clouds.
With an eye to the darkening sky, we grab cameras and hurry across the bleached lakeshore toward the water. The ground turns muddy, so we shuck our shoes. As the mud changes into a quagmire of knee-deep muck and flamingo feathers, the first fat raindrops smack down. Within minutes a fast moving squall rips across the lake, soaking us.
Driving to solid ground, we sit out the brief downpour, then walk toward the water as golden light pours across the valley. Black skies part, and the curtain lifts on an exquisite pink ballet in the shallows. The only sound is the mutter and honk of thousands of flamingoes.

We camp on the banks of the Ewaso Ngiro River. Small hills rise like islands from the valley floor. The place is thick with birdlife.
Nighttime, and I write by the glow of lantern light as the forest swells with a chorus of croaks, peeps and chirps. A bird coos a dreamy note, over and over. Ground-dwelling cicadas emerge from holes, crackling the steamy air with their shrill buzz. Green moths as big as my hand slap against the glass lantern. Fireflies dance over the river.
Just before dawn I visit the camp outhouse, but halt at the sight of bats swirling around the open door and slipping silently into the toilet hole. I find an alternate site.
Over breakfast we compare notes from the previous night. Several in the group heard branches snapping as elephants moved through the bush next to camp. The Germans saw green glowworms by their tent. The Dutch newlyweds were humbled by the guttural bellow of nearby lions late into the night. Snug in my tent, I hadn't heard a thing. I was dreaming, deep in the heart of darkness.
Eric Lindberg is a Lakewood-based writer and photographer.
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