Some sounds evoke an instinctive reaction. The sound of a baby crying is one of them, and the sound of a child laughing too. Floorboards creaking in the house at midnight. The distant sound of thunder. Even the simple squeal of fingernails down a blackboard can make some people squirm in their seats. Something about these noises taps into our primal instincts, almost like they awaken a part of the long-dormant DNA left over from our ancestors. Of all those, however, the sound of a lion’s roar is definitely one of the most responsive. Different from the famous snarl seen in front of MGM movies, a lion’s roar is a call to all potential challengers and friends. It’s a soaring bass boom that stops everything in its tracks. Once you hear it, you never forget it. For your distant ancestors it meant ‘danger about’, and I think it’s for this reason that you have such an instant physical reaction to it. Your mind may not know what it is but your body certainly does. With just a faint roar in the distance, your heart starts pumping and you are ready for action. It’s the best way to wake up in the morning, far more effective a method than even the strongest coffee.

Whenever I hear the noise, it always calls back one particular memory of mine. The memory in question is of a time I found myself at Bomani Tented Camp, a lovely tented camp adjoining Hwange National Park in Zimbabwe. Sitting around the fire watching the kettle boil I could have been anywhere in time, from the 1850s to today. The place, however, was definite. This was Africa. The birds sang their morning calls as the sun slowly rose, struggling to break through the morning fog. Hwange is set upon the famous sands of the Kalahari meaning at nighttime the temperature drops to chilly, and even sometimes freezing. As the sun rises so does the temperature but at six in the morning, I was grateful for the fire to warm me up. My breakfast had been laid out behind me, today the first course being a choice of cereals, fruits and yoghurts. Tucking into the muesli and looking out over the grasslands of the concession I had only managed a few spoonfuls when we all heard it. Lions. The entire camp froze in place, ears trained to locate the source of the roar. With the noise travelling many kilometres it can be hard to pinpoint the exact location but after a few seconds, the guides had a rough idea of where it was coming from. They also knew who it would be.

It was the brothers.

These two lion brothers had moved recently into the concession near Hwange in a search for a pride of their own and had immediately made their presence known. The camp sprung into action, cameras grabbed and breakfast abandoned. Muesli and a cooked breakfast lose their appeal in comparison to a morning spent in the company of lions. Jumping into the vehicles we took off in search of them, scattering to the safety of the bushes some early rising guinea fowl. This rush of action after periods of quiet reflection is half of the joy of an African safari, a delicate balance of anticipation and surprise. Long periods pass in the bush where it seems empty and you are only joined by the brightly coloured birds or the ever-present impala. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, you round a corner and you find yourself in the middle of a tower of giraffes or a dazzle of zebra. It is this ebb and flow of feast and famine that makes even the longest 5-hour game drive continuously enthralling and engaging.

And so on we drove around the private concession, running into evidence of both the lions and why the lions were here. There was a set of fresh lion footprints moving 100m down a dusty access trail before they turned off into the bush. A second set equally large set followed closely behind. This was the proof that it was the brothers. We also came across a larger set of disturbed ground and fresh manure. This was evidence of a large buffalo herd moving across the concession and it was these animals that the lions were tracking. We were hunting the hunters. Even the silence was revealing. There were no more lion calls, meaning that they had either slipped into stealth mode on a hunt or had slipped into a deep sleep underneath a bush. Either was possible. With the grass in April quite long and dense they could be within a few metres of us and we wouldn’t see them. Were they watching us fruitlessly try to find them? We circled a large area within the concession and knew that the lions were somewhere in there, hidden in the shrubbery. We also knew that the buffalo were in there as well and could hear them snorting and guffawing, no doubt on high alert.

My guide Butch and I sat in silence, listening to the bush, willing it to reveal its secrets. We could hear baboon squabbling far in the distance and some dwarf mongoose nearby squeak loudly about our intrusion. No more roars. The lions were hidden. It was then however that I heard the one thing I wasn’t expecting. It was Butch, speaking to me. “So, “ he said in his thick Zimbabwean accent, “the lions are tracking those buffalo so if we find the buffalo we should find the lions.”

He paused.

“Let’s get out and go for a walk.”

You are probably having the same response to this suggestion as I first did.

So, I should take this opportunity to point something out. I have spent a great deal of time all across Africa and thanks to my experiences am not concerned with wild animal attacks in the same way that a first-time visitor to Africa usually is. I have experienced firsthand extremely close encounters with lions, leopards and many other African animals, often close enough that if I somehow forgot myself I could have reached out and touched them. I know the vast majority of the lodges and camps are unfenced and open to the wilds. I have experienced wild animals of all shapes and sizes walking around, past and over my decks and pathways at night. I have heard the night calls of these animals and the next morning found footprints ranging from the giraffe to the leopard on my front doorstep. I have had elephants drink out of the pool beside me and canoed amongst hippo pods on shallow rivers. Despite all of these close encounters, I feel completely safe in Africa. I know that humans are by far a greater danger to the animals than the opposite and they generally either view us as an inconvenience (in the case of the elephant) to a mortal threat (in the case of the grazers). Lions and the other predators fall somewhere on this spectrum as well. If you respect them and their boundaries then you can have amazing encounters with them in complete safety.

But this was different. This was on foot. My feet. Not only that, my unprepared feet in a pair of flip-flops. The idea of walking through the Hwange grasslands suddenly slaps you across the face with reality in a way that sitting in a LandCruiser cannot. There isn’t any metal barrier or a 60 km/hr getaway speed. All I had were my senses, my speed and most importantly, the skill of the guide leading me. And if we are being honest, the last one is the only thing out of the three worth anything.

With a two-foot drop from the safety of the vehicle (otherwise known as the weakest leap of faith ever), I was on the ground and we were ready to go. I received a quick safety briefing with some obvious points (“don’t run”, “follow my instructions”) and then we were off, walking through the overgrown African bush, looking for lions.

As strange as it sounds, I imagine that being on a walking safari in Africa is a very similar feeling to being the President of the United States. Much in the same way the Secret Service is prepared to take a bullet to protect the life of the president, the guides are also prepared to put your life ahead of their own. Putting aside for a second that incidents are incredibly rare and that six people a year die from something as benign as a vending machine, an African safari can still seem like a dangerous activity. As I tell my own guests, feeling in danger isn’t the same as actually being in danger. I think this is partially why African safaris have such an impact on people. It provides a heart-pumping feeling of risk but with high levels of safety and this combination gives the experience such a memorable hook.

Back to Hwange.

We proceeded slowly through the long grass, my toes attempting to silence the familiar clop of the flip-flops. Away from the vehicle, the world falls away. Without the sound of the engine, you are suddenly far more aware of the world around you. Bird calls alone can tell you where you and other animals are located in relation to each other. Footprints can tell you the other smaller, lesser-known animals that you are sharing the world with. Whilst tracking the lion we also see the footprints of the elusive serval and several hyenas. There is also an older leopard print as a faint reminder that this Hwange landscape teems with life invisible from the fast-moving vehicle. As we approach closer towards the herd of buffalo we ultimately smell them before we see them. We are downwind to avoid spooking them and as a result, we can sense their earthy, musty aroma a distance away. We slow down and watch our footsteps to avoid giving away our position with the loud crack of a branch. Creeping around behind a large bush we see the large black back of a buffalo approximately 20 metres away. We stop. Partially hidden in the waist-high grass and barely obscured behind a thin leafy branch we slowly stand and stay still.

One by one more buffalo appear from out of the grass, heads and backs and tails dissolving in and out of view. The herd seems large, with at least 100 members. The bigger males make up the fringes, always on alert and ready to defend the herd. Towards the centre are the younger males and the females, both still formidable animals in their own right. In the centre and close by the mothers are the young calves, the most vulnerable of the group. It is probably these animals the lions are hoping to get. Able to pull down even big male buffalos when working as a team, fully grown male lions aren’t restricted to the small and the sick but taking on a large male buffalo comes with great risk. Weighing in at almost a ton, these males have a thick-horned skull appropriately called a “boss” and these are strong like iron. It is so thick that the horns have been known to deflect bullets from unlucky hunters and it is because of these attributes that the buffalo earned its place as one of the Big Five. With a top speed of over 57km/hr, these animals pack an incredible amount of force into a single charge and one hit or swipe could easily kill a lion. It is for this reason that the lion prefer to go after the slightly smaller but far more manageable youngsters. Of course, the buffalo’s defensive abilities don’t merely apply to lions. They apply to anything the herd considers a mortal threat, like two men standing nearby behind a flimsy twig. It is for this reason the guides constantly monitor the body language of any animal they are tracking. They also know the animals to avoid: defensive mothers with calves, males in heat and older grumpy solo men. These three tend to be the most aggressive and are afforded the largest buffer zone. I would also argue that this advice is worth taking even for our own species.

As we stand there, they make their way closer and closer. We are now near enough to hear the sound of chewing as the animals methodically work their way through their breakfast. We can hear and see the snorts of steam as they breathe out in the cold morning. I’m standing behind the guide, upon his instruction, to make our profile smaller and less threatening. I’m happy to oblige. As we stand there, he points out to me the various members of the herd in a low whisper and slowly but surely they make their way closer on both sides of us. By accident, we are becoming part of the herd. We can make out the young calves, the mothers and even the colours of the oxpecker birds feasting on the ticks that reside on the buffalo, scoring a free meal in the process.

Then a single massive head goes up in concern.

One female about 15 metres directly in front has spotted something. It’s us. She stares intently at us as we freeze. Trying to make out exactly what we are, she eyeballs us, her head raising further to get a better look. We can see her sniffing the air, trying to catch our scent. She lets loose a single warning grunt to her herd and heads pop up all around us. We have been made. The bird calls disappear as my heartbeat starts to pump in my ears and my mind searches for facts about the defense mechanisms of the buffalo. The world stops still for a few moments before the entire herd turns tail as one and runs a short distance away, still grunting their displeasure. The only remaining member of the herd is a younger male to our right who stays where he is in an apparent test of his courage. When Butch and I relax and share a laugh he too turns and runs to the relative safety of the herd, his bravery finding its limit.

Ultimately, this is the reality of any African animal. Any physical confrontation comes with a great risk of injury and it is almost always the better option for them to simply put some distance between themselves and the danger, even if they hold the overwhelming advantage. Even the biggest African elephant reaching a mighty 4 metres in height will go out of its way to avoid a potential unknown threat. The most minor injury out here left untreated can be fatal and it is this cautiousness, combined with the skill and experience of the guides, that enables us to walk safely amongst such amazing creatures.

We slowly make our way back to the car, talking about various aspects of the encounter. No lions were spotted but we still have plenty of time before we will head back to attempt the breakfast again. Whilst we were pretending to be a buffalo the sun finally won its battle against the fog and we are now rewarded with an incredible morning Hwange landscape, the wild coming to life with incredible colour. The whole walk itself only took about 20 minutes and yet, in this short time, it created memories that will last a lifetime.

Then again, such is the magic of Africa.