Rogue Lion Safaris. Simon Barnes

cloud hung in the air and drifted towards us. Phineas nodded.

      In the far distance, I heard the triple scream of fish eagle. Phineas motioned us to follow with a small movement of his head. We were at it again. Why not?

      Well, as a matter of fact, The Safari Guide Training Manual provided a long list of reasons why not. The book was adamant on the point: with lion, there is no such thing as a safe distance on foot. Its author concluded reluctantly that feeding lion could be approached within two hundred yards, but then only if the wind was blowing from them to you, and the country was open and undergrowth-free, and every lion could be counted and accounted for.

      The Manual had been produced by the Ministry of National Parks and Tourism, and it was a masterpiece of terror. Its persistent but never stated theme was the dread of the bad publicity that would follow the devouring of tourists by lion, or the impaling of tourists by elephant, or the bisection of tourists by hippopotamus, or the flattening of tourists by buffalo, or the vivisection of tourists by hyena.

      None of us followed the Guide’s instructions to the letter, even though infraction of its code could mean the withdrawal of the Safari Guide licence. A certain amount of rule-bending was de rigueur for those who wished to be Cool in the Bush. We all liked to swap tales of our daring when we met up, at the airport or at the Mukango Bar. But no one thought George was Cool in the Bush. Most people thought he was a suicidal maniac. But then George had no aspirations towards coolness. He did not see lion as a virility test. He just liked them. He couldn’t get enough of them, couldn’t know enough. And he could never get close enough. He wasn’t in the least brave: but he was recklessly, perhaps, I sometimes thought, terminally, curious. Some people had tried to tell me that George was addicted to danger, but I knew better than that. I had worked with him long enough to see what the Cool-in-the-Bush brigade missed. George could not possibly be addicted to danger, because he was never aware of whether he was in a dangerous situation or not. It was an alien concept to him. No, it was not danger he was addicted to. It was lion.

      So, for that matter, was I. George had shown me the way, so perhaps I was addicted to George too. Or perhaps just to the bush.

      George once described the correct method of approaching lion as ‘cosmic courtesy’. Accordingly, we did not walk straight towards the umbrella thorn, and we did not walk away from it. We struck a line of about forty-five degrees. The path took us by a large brake of bush: once clear of it, they were revealed. Lion. A sand-coloured knot, 150 yards away, around an equivocal black shape. Ahead of me, I heard Helen give a brief gasp. As for me, I felt a warm clutch at the belly: the Darlin’ Girl Syndrome, I sometimes called this sensation, naming it for a horse that had once filled me with the same mixture of fear and delight.

      And George walked on, neither creeping nor hurrying. Neither fear nor love was discernible: only his eternal curiosity. I watched the lion with the usual rapt anxiety. They were aware of us, but intent on their meal: all save one. She raised her yellow eyes from the carcass before her and with them followed our progress. And we walked on. And on. At length, we halted by a small bush, one that did not conceal us at all. It was another aspect of cosmic courtesy. We were not so bold as to approach openly, nor so timorous as to lurk behind cover. We were neither good nor bad, neither prey nor predator.

      A walk through drought-dried grass fills your ears with the noise of your own passage. In the sudden silence of stopping, the sounds of the lions’ banquet came towards us. They were devouring a buffalo, a colossal and absorbing task. In the clarity of the morning, I could hear the slicing of the carnassial shear.

      ‘Buffalo,’ said George, to Helen and also to a small tape recorder, plucked from the bulging pocket of his khaki shirt. ‘Male.’

      ‘Definite male,’ I said, an ancient joke.

      ‘Clearly old, and presumably one of the group of five old males seen near the Tondo confluence yesterday. Remember to check the area this afternoon, try and find the same group, see if it has been reduced to four.’

      ‘Do you think these are the lion we heard last night during supper?’ Helen asked.

      George shifted his specs to the extreme end of his nose, giving himself an air of prim stupidity. There was a new cigarette burn in his shirt, I noticed, just above the left pocket. There were moments when, even to me, George looked like a dangerous lunatic, one quite incapable of comprehending his own interests. It was hard to remember that he was a businessman: hard for him too, I suspected. ‘Well, yes, certainly, or at any rate probably, because it was rather a good chorus last night, wasn’t it? Not a full pride chorus of course, but I counted half a dozen individuals, I think, and we are now in the core area of their territory, around the Tondo confluence, this being the Tondo Pride, of course, territory insofar as lion have a territory, which they do, of course, but rule one of lion is that you must never make rules about lion, because lion certainly won’t stick to them.’

      George paused for a moment, perhaps contemplating the inevitability of leonine lawlessness. ‘Where was I? Oh yes, well, they probably didn’t kill last night, there’s rather a lot of buff left, and they are all tucking in, no one lying around digesting and waiting for second helpings. I suspect they killed at first light, and it is a little unusual that the vultures should be here so early. Check the thermometer when I get back to camp, maybe it’s warmer than it’s been so far this season, thermals available for the vultures earlier than previously.’ This last to the tape recorder. ‘But I could get a better idea if I moved around a little, and saw how much of the buffalo is left –’ George took a step forward, and Phineas stretched out a long arm and placed a hand mildly and briefly on George’s shoulder. It looked like nothing more than a gesture of affection. ‘Oh, Phineas, really, I was only going to – oh! Auntie Joyce!’

      I heard Phineas’s voice, soft and delighted. ‘Ohhh. She is crazy, that one.’ For one of the lionesses, no doubt sensing a momentary lack of cosmic courtesy in George’s attempted advance, had, in a sudden instant of action, rolled to her feet. To receive the stare of an irritated lion is rather like being struck in the chest by a death ray. Enormous, unreadable yellow eyes, tiny dots of pupils in the ferocious morning light. One lion after another followed her lead, not standing, but raising a head from the carcass to stare at us: four cosmically discourteous intruders.

      It was a near-certain fact that if we turned and ran at this moment of tension, the lion would pursue us. In the bush, nothing inspires pursuit so much as flight. But Phineas remained still, leaning on his gun, smiling very faintly to himself. He liked his animals fierce. George too was still, muttering quietly to his machine, recording details of position around the kill. I was also still, from long habit. Relish of the scene fed on its distant but distinct peril. I felt a slow smile crawl up my face: I wanted no other life than this. What if it should end? But I thrust the thought aside. And then, abruptly, Auntie Joyce sat down on her haunches, front paws together, like a domestic cat. She continued to watch: she was no longer considering immediate action. Stand-off.

      Auntie Joyce, George said, was the oldest lioness in the pride ‘and probably the pride’s leader, insofar as lion have a leader, which they don’t of course’. She was easily the most crotchety. Lion on a kill are disposed to be peaceful and preoccupied, but Auntie Joyce didn’t go by the rules any more than did George. At the moment of stand-off, I moved half a pace sideways: I wanted to see how Helen was taking all this. No sign of panic. Quite the reverse. I wondered then how many people – how many men – had seen that expression on her face. Eyes wide, mouth slack, quite motionless. She was enraptured: ravished by the eyes of Auntie Joyce. Terror and beauty, or terrible beauty, had undone her. And all the while the lion but forty yards away.

      We stood for a further fifteen minutes in flesh-ripping silence, while Auntie Joyce stared unwinking. At last, and slowly, she lowered her body to the ground and lay on her chest, her eyes never leaving us. We remained still. And then, almost reluctantly, she lowered her head and began once again to feed. Silently I released a long sigh. George did not. He had not for an instant ceased to alternate long stares at the lion and muttered comments to his tape recorder. I sometimes wondered what people would conclude if our party were ever devoured by lion, leaving nothing behind but bones, Phineas’s unready, inedible weapon and