The late afternoon light is fading fast, and with the dust kicked up by the Land Rover catching the low rays of the sun, the terrain of trees, rocks and acacia-flecked hills of the Singita Grumeti Game Reserve seemed cloaked in gold. Maybe that’s why I missed seeing a pride of lions, more than a dozen strong, lethargically lounging in the grass in the pitiful shade of an umbrella tree, their tawny coats blending in perfectly with the ocherous landscape.
Although felines are masters of disguise, their camouflage couldn’t escape the absurdly sharp eyes of my guide Arnold. Driving past the stand of umbrella trees, all I saw was a pile of golden rocks when Arnold punched hard on the brakes of the Land Rover and said softly, his voice hardly more than a whisper, a single yet profound word, “Lions.”
The “rocks” yawned and groaned and stretched, rolling over and over one another like a litter of lazy puppies might do.
