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Yet within minutes, we spot a dozen or more giraffes, their silhouettes unmistakable, even to the untrained eye, on the horizon. There’s a range of sizes from the enormous male down to the cutest baby. We head towards them and then follow them at a respectful distance until they reach a copse of acacia trees where they stop to graze, oblivious to the pop-eyed, open-mouthed people in their thrall. We sit and watch them for half an hour as they go about the business of existing in this harsh climate, snapping photographs, but mostly just gazing . Then Dominic swings the bus around.
‘Now we will play our game again,’ and he drives us further into the plains.
We pass a warthog and four babies as they race across the ground, the mother stopping to give us a hard stare before she goes off running after her babies again. Then there’s an ostrich trotting, wings flapping, beside us. Dominic points out half a dozen different species of gazelle – Thomson, Grant, Impala – all with their distinct markings. A group of banded mongoose scamper across the great plain, playing together, nibbling on some tasty morsel they’ve uncovered, wisely scurrying home before the predators come out to play.
And then we come to another shady copse and there, beneath the trees, three lionesses are dozing happily, resting before their evening’s exertions. As the van approaches, one of them raises her head and checks us out and then has a good stretch and returns to her cat nap. It reminds me of Archie stretching out in front of the fire – only on steroids.
‘They’re magnificent,’ I whisper to Dominic.
‘Yes,’ he agrees. ‘Soon they will be hungry again.’
Now I’m worried that the windows of the bus are all open. Could a lioness get inside? Depends quite how hungry they are, I suppose.
But this is certainly a sight to behold and I never expected to be at such close quarters to a lioness, let alone three at once. So we sit and watch as the sun sinks lower and lower until, finally, we’re rewarded by the sight of the lionesses stirring. They all sit up, groom themselves, yawn, stretch and eventually, as one, all stand up and slowly head out for the night’s hunting.
Dominic reverses the van and their curiosity is piqued. They wander alongside of us, matching our leisurely pace, so close that my camera is useless. I can hardly believe my eyes. Three lionesses are within a metre of us. Then they turn away and wander off into the night, no doubt to put some fear into the heart of the wildebeest population.
‘Are you happy, Mrs Janie Johnson?’ Dominic asks.
‘I’m very, very happy.’
‘Good.’ He gives me his trademark grin. ‘Because when you are happy, I am happy.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
It’s past seven when we return to the camp. The last of the sun has gone and the temperature has dropped considerably. Someone has closed up my tent and a hot-water bottle has been slipped between the sheets of the bed. I enjoy the hot shower that’s provided by a bucket above a rainshower head, and I’m glad to wash the dirt and dust from my skin and hair.
My clothes are filthy and crumpled from all the travel. It feels nice to finally be able to change into my clean jeans and a jumper. I brush through my wet hair and then leave it to dry naturally. I’ve brought some moisturiser that I slick on, but I’ve abandoned my make-up for the week – apart from a flick of mascara. A girl has to have one luxury.
Then I stand at the opening of my tent and, feeling self-conscious, make my 24 ringtone noise. Immediately, Dominic appears out of the darkness. His red blanket is tied around his shoulders now, his tall stick still clasped in his hand.
‘It is cold tonight,’ he says. ‘Are you wrapped up in warm things, Mrs Janie Johnson?’
‘Yes, I am,’ I assure him. ‘And please, it’s Janie. Just Janie.’
‘Then, Just Janie,’ he smiles, ‘you must come and sit by the fire with me.’
He offers me his arm and then escorts me to the campfire that is now blazing away, sending sparks into the all-encompassing blackness. The canopy of stars is simply stunning. A circle of chairs has been put around the fire for us all. My travelling companions are already there, drinks in hand, admiring each other’s digital photographs. There’s a bottle of red wine on the table and Dominic offers me a glass which I gladly accept.
I lift my glass when he gives it to me and say, ‘To Kenya, to the Maasai Mara and to all its inhabitants.’
Dominic laughs. ‘That is very kind.’
‘Aren’t you joining me?’
‘I do not drink alcohol, Just Janie. A Maasai warrior must always be alert to danger.’
‘Do you live far from here?’
