I’ve got a one of five, ingwe, lalapanzi, lo vis,” said Simon into channel three of his radio. My stomach bounced off my knees and smacked back into my ribcage, but miraculously I remained frozen, barely breathing.

This was what I was in Africa for — that raw, adrenaline-soaked sense of danger and excitement. If you are a safari guide, like Simon and like me, you’ll already know why. If, however, you don’t speak Ranger — which is a mix of Afrikaans, Xhosa and breathless English — I’ll explain.

Simon had just reported that he’d spotted a leopard, lying down, perfectly camouflaged in the middle of an impenetrably barbed bush (“one of five” being the lowest visibility of an animal on a five-point scale, with five being out in the open; ingwe is Xhosa for leopard; lalapanzi for lying or sleeping). And I was next to the bush.

Oh, all right. So I’m not actually a ranger, but after spending some time at Shamwari Game Reserve, on South Africa’s Eastern Cape, I was beginning to get ideas above my station.

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I was there to experience its three-day ranger school, a tourist-friendly version of its six-week professional ranger instruction, and a new initiative for South Africa, giving you a more hands-on safari than you’d get if you just sat in the Jeep ticking off animals while you wait for the sundowners.

Ranger school isn’t much like any school I’ve been to. For a start, there are lions, leopards, elephants, two types of rhino — black (which are actually grey) and white (also grey) — cheetahs and hippos.

All my school had was a hamster. And then there are guns. Big, loud, bangy guns that can stop a charging elephant at 10 paces. We didn’t have those at my school, either. They would have scared the hamster.

In ranger circles, you’re frowned upon if you’ve ever had to fire your weapon, as it means you’ve lost control — but I’d imagine that frown would become a grimace if you’d fired, missed and lost an American to a passing tusk. So the first thing we were taught was how to fire a gun that you mustn’t fire.

Up I stepped, counted to three, aimed and... boom. The target flapped idly in the breeze. “Well, you didn’t hit it, but you scared the hell out of it,” said Andrew, the head of ranger training, confirming my worst suspicions: ranger humour sucks. It must be all that fresh air.

Steadying myself, I squeezed off two more shots from my .375 rifle, the report echoing off into the trees. The target continued to flap, but this time it had holes in it. Phew. So, as long as that charging elephant is prepared to go back and let me have another go, we should be fine.

There’s more, obviously, to being a ranger than carrying a weapon. Alongside your sniping skills, you must find, identify and give running commentary on every animal, great or small, that’s in the vicinity. You must then answer the numerous, and often bizarre, questions your curious clients inevitably ask, such as: 1) Why is the white rhino not called the grey rhino? 2) What’s the most dangerous animal in Africa? 3) Are there man-eating giraffes? 4) What did Denis Thatcher drink when he came here with Maggie?

And you must answer all these while driving a 4WD over the sort of terrain that would have most of us giving up and reversing home. Anyone who’s yelled at the “Are we nearly there yet?” brigade would not last a minute with a Jeep full of tourists, back-seat driving while armed with dangerously loaded guidebooks and zoom lenses.

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