It’s an hour after sunrise on day three of the photographic safari and a
solitary vulture is crossing a flat sky. Venus has faded and a chilly breeze
sends ripples over the vast acacia-studded plains of Kenya’s Masai Mara
reserve. Ruminants relieved to have survived another night watch as the
hyenas head home, loping along like murderous hunchbacks. These charmless
beasts do their killing in the dark, as do the leopards and the lions of the
local Kicheche pride.
Daylight, however, brings different dangers for the Mara’s vegetarian
majority. Fifty yards in front of me, a male Thomson’s gazelle lies uneasily
in the oat grass. To my left, three does and a fawn are grazing, trusting
the stag to keep watch, and between them crouches a cheetah called Kike,
aged star of the BBC’s Big Cat Diary. The Masai guide Boniface Ole Mpario
hasn’t seen the old girl for a while and he’s concerned she might be
struggling to survive. Her belly is concave, her once-gorgeous face gaunt
and her long legs stiff from last night’s cold. She probably hasn’t eaten in
days and every failed attack leaves her weaker.
“She’s in the wrong place,” he whispers, merely squinting to see what the
photographers are struggling to spot through precision optics. “Those zebra
on the ridge behind know she’s there, and as soon as they see her, they’ll
give the game away.”
Kike drops into the grass, hoping that her endurance is greater than the
zebras’ attention span, while aboard the Land Cruisers, bleary- eyed
photographers, awake since before 5am, check and recheck their equipment,
encouraged, scolded and cajoled by tutor Paul Goldstein. He pops up
alongside me like some red-faced colour sergeant as I fiddle with the focus
of my brand-new digital camera. “What’s your shutter speed?” he demands.
“Two-fifty.”
“Wrong,” he snaps. “ISO?”
None of this meant anything to me yesterday, but you learn quickly on this
trip. “One hundred,” I reply.
Goldstein shakes his head. “Increase it to 400 and make sure the shutter speed
is at least 1,000.” He moves on to his next victim, huffing and puffing,
utterly determined that every member of this mixed group of competent
snappers and absolute beginners goes home with the best shots possible.
As the sun climbs higher, the chill is scorched away, as we wait and wait and
wait for the hungry cheetah to make her move. Every now and then a vehicle
from another camp rolls up, waits five minutes while its occupants tick off
another species, then moves on to the next short-term thrill.
Goldstein had already warned us that this adventure would be different. “If
the Masai guides find a hungry cheetah at sunrise, that’s our day sorted,”
he said. “We’ll stay with the cat for as long as it takes. If you want
two-hour game drives ticking off the big five, you’ve booked the wrong
safari.”
Not that you’d know from the accommodation: there might not be bougainvillea
petals scattered on the pillows, but the Kicheche tented camp is as good as
others around here that are twice the price. Dinners are superb, candlelit
alfresco affairs and breakfasts are taken in a variety of stunning locations
across the Mara. Never eaten a sausage sandwich while watching a crocodile
chew on a rotten carcass? It’s better than muesli and John Humphrys.
RIGHT NOW I’m in dire need of caffeine, but I know we won’t eat breakfast
until Kike has had hers. I check my camera again: I’m at f5.6 with a shutter
speed of 1,250 at ISO 400. I’ve switched my 100-400mm zoom to following
focus, and the shutter, like my bladder, is set to burst. I’m secretly
rather impressed how much I’ve learnt: this camera came out of the box just
two days ago, back when I thought an f-stop was a roadside bordello.
I’ve also discovered that wildlife photography becomes more interesting as the
quarry becomes smaller. Giraffes? Get some sky under their bellies and
they’re in the bag. Elephants? Lovely to look at but boring to shoot.
Lilac-breasted roller — the thrush-sized psycho killer of the plains? Now
there’s a challenge. Spend 90 minutes waiting for this gorgeously plumed
predator to raise its wings and you begin to appreciate the long-lost skills
of the big-game hunter: patience, trust in your guides and the willingness
to sweat in pursuit of that trophy.
And the effort expended under the Mara’s merciless sun pays fabulous
dividends. Yesterday, a 4.30am rise and a cold and bumpy 30-mile drive
across the Mara River was rewarded with a sight that had hardened
photographers weeping with joy. A young cheetah mother emerged from the long
grass as the sun’s first rays swept the plain. Then five fluffy cubs
followed, and as we watched, scarcely breathing, they climbed a termite
mound.
“Wait for it,” warned Goldstein as the cubs arranged themselves in a row at
their mother’s feet, then, illuminated in the Mara’s perfect light, turned
as one and looked straight into our lenses. Shutters clattered like a round
of applause and even Mpario reluctantly admitted surprise. “I’ve never seen
that before,” he sniffed, wiping something from his eye.
Patience brings other prizes: 5ft of electric-green mamba lurking lethally in
a tree, a pair of dimwitted wildebeests engaged in a head-butting contest
and a hyena vomiting, sniffing and re-ingesting its rotten dinner.
Not all safari operators take the patient approach, though. We look on with
dismay one afternoon as 16 vehicles carrying 80 tourists corner a lioness
and her cubs.
Americans scream at Germans while Japanese sightseers wearing white gloves and
face masks point and click at the bemused pride. The air is thick with
diesel fumes and vitriol as dilapidated Land Rovers and rusting minibuses
jostle for position. Next to me, a fellow photographer lowers his camera and
shakes his head. “This is all wrong,” he says, but the Mara covers a huge
area and the Kenyan government is too weak to restrict access to responsible
operators.
DOWN IN the oat grass, Kike has disappeared. Frantically, we scan the
shimmering plain before she’s spotted, trotting uphill towards the fawn.
There is an intense and breathless rush of excitement, a visceral thrill of
the photographic chase, countered by a cool detachment as settings are
rechecked and readjusted during what could be the last few moments of the
fawn’s life.
“She’s running!” cries Mpario and we look up to see Kike burst from cover,
burning energy reserves like rocket fuel as she accelerates towards her
prey. The does scatter — maternal instinct comes second to self-preservation
in Thomson society — leaving the fawn to fend for itself. Kike is closing
like a missile, and then the fawn reacts. “Focus on the prey,” yells
Goldstein. “Wait for the cheetah to come into the frame.”
Suddenly the young gazelle changes direction, doubling back and gaining ground
on the aged cat, but within half a second Kike is within snatching distance
of its hindquarters. I can hear the scrabbling of feet on the hard earth —
or maybe it’s just my pounding heart — but as the shadow of death falls
across the fawn, it dives to the right and escapes into the long grass.
Kike skids to a halt in a cloud of dust, holding one paw up as though injured.
She won’t eat today, and I suspect the fawn will be off its food, too. I
can’t remember taking any pictures of the chase, but as I scroll through my
memory card, I realise I’ve caught the whole thrilling hunt. How does it
feel? Like catching the perfect wave or scoring a hole in one. As the others
congratulate me, nobody mentions beginner’s luck.
Travel details: Chris Haslam travelled as a guest of Kenya Airways
(01784 888222, www.kenya-airways.com) and Exodus (020 8772 3703, It’s an
hour after sunrise on day three of the photographic safari and a solitary vulture
is crossing a flat sky. Venus has faded and a chilly breeze sends ripples
over the vast acacia-studded plains of Kenya’s Masai Mara reserve. Ruminants
relieved to have survived another night watch as the hyenas head home,
loping along like murderous hunchbacks. These charmless beasts do their
killing in the dark, as do the leopards and the lions of the local Kicheche
pride.
Daylight, however, brings different dangers for the Mara’s vegetarian
majority. Fifty yards in front of me, a male Thomson’s gazelle lies uneasily
in the oat grass. To my left, three does and a fawn are grazing, trusting
the stag to keep watch, and between them crouches a cheetah called Kike,
aged star of the BBC’s Big Cat Diary. The Masai guide Boniface Ole Mpario
hasn’t seen the old girl for a while and he’s concerned she might be
struggling to survive. Her belly is concave, her once-gorgeous face gaunt
and her long legs stiff from last night’s cold. She probably hasn’t eaten in
days and every failed attack leaves her weaker.
“She’s in the wrong place,” he whispers, merely squinting to see what the
photographers are struggling to spot through precision optics. “Those zebra
on the ridge behind know she’s there, and as soon as they see her, they’ll
give the game away.”
Kike drops into the grass, hoping that her endurance is greater than the
zebras’ attention span, while aboard the Land Cruisers, bleary- eyed
photographers, awake since before 5am, check and recheck their equipment,
encouraged, scolded and cajoled by tutor Paul Goldstein. He pops up
alongside me like some red-faced colour sergeant as I fiddle with the focus
of my brand-new digital camera. “What’s your shutter speed?” he demands.
“Two-fifty.”
“Wrong,” he snaps. “ISO?”
None of this meant anything to me yesterday, but you learn quickly on this
trip. “One hundred,” I reply.
Goldstein shakes his head. “Increase it to 400 and make sure the shutter speed
is at least 1,000.” He moves on to his next victim, huffing and puffing,
utterly determined that every member of this mixed group of competent
snappers and absolute beginners goes home with the best shots possible.
As the sun climbs higher, the chill is scorched away, as we wait and wait and
wait for the hungry cheetah to make her move. Every now and then a vehicle
from another camp rolls up, waits five minutes while its occupants tick off
another species, then moves on to the next short-term thrill.
Goldstein had already warned us that this adventure would be different. “If
the Masai guides find a hungry cheetah at sunrise, that’s our day sorted,”
he said. “We’ll stay with the cat for as long as it takes. If you want
two-hour game drives ticking off the big five, you’ve booked the wrong
safari.”
Not that you’d know from the accommodation: there might not be bougainvillea
petals scattered on the pillows, but the Kicheche tented camp is as good as
others around here that are twice the price. Dinners are superb, candlelit
alfresco affairs and breakfasts are taken in a variety of stunning locations
across the Mara. Never eaten a sausage sandwich while watching a crocodile
chew on a rotten carcass? It’s better than muesli and John Humphrys.
RIGHT NOW I’m in dire need of caffeine, but I know we won’t eat breakfast
until Kike has had hers. I check my camera again: I’m at f5.6 with a shutter
speed of 1,250 at ISO 400. I’ve switched my 100-400mm zoom to following
focus, and the shutter, like my bladder, is set to burst. I’m secretly
rather impressed how much I’ve learnt: this camera came out of the box just
two days ago, back when I thought an f-stop was a roadside bordello.
I’ve also discovered that wildlife photography becomes more interesting as the
quarry becomes smaller. Giraffes? Get some sky under their bellies and
they’re in the bag. Elephants? Lovely to look at but boring to shoot.
Lilac-breasted roller — the thrush-sized psycho killer of the plains? Now
there’s a challenge. Spend 90 minutes waiting for this gorgeously plumed
predator to raise its wings and you begin to appreciate the long-lost skills
of the big-game hunter: patience, trust in your guides
and the willingness to sweat in pursuit of that trophy.
And the effort expended under the Mara’s merciless sun pays fabulous
dividends. Yesterday, a 4.30am rise and a cold and bumpy 30-mile drive
across the Mara River was rewarded with a sight that had hardened
photographers weeping with joy. A young cheetah mother emerged from the long
grass as the sun’s first rays swept the plain. Then five fluffy cubs
followed, and as we watched, scarcely breathing, they climbed a termite
mound.
“Wait for it,” warned Goldstein as the cubs arranged themselves in a row at
their mother’s feet, then, illuminated in the Mara’s perfect light, turned
as one and looked straight into our lenses. Shutters clattered like a round
of applause and even Mpario reluctantly admitted surprise. “I’ve never seen
that before,” he sniffed, wiping something from his eye.
Patience brings other prizes: 5ft of electric-green mamba lurking lethally in
a tree, a pair of dimwitted wildebeests engaged in a head-butting contest
and a hyena vomiting, sniffing and re-ingesting its rotten dinner.
Not all safari operators take the patient approach, though. We look on with
dismay one afternoon as 16 vehicles carrying 80 tourists corner a lioness
and her cubs.
Americans scream at Germans while Japanese sightseers wearing white gloves and
face masks point and click at the bemused pride. The air is thick with
diesel fumes and vitriol as dilapidated Land Rovers and rusting minibuses
jostle for position. Next to me, a fellow photographer lowers his camera and
shakes his head. “This is all wrong,” he says, but the Mara covers a huge
area and the Kenyan government is too weak to restrict access to responsible
operators.
DOWN IN the oat grass, Kike has disappeared. Frantically, we scan the
shimmering plain before she’s spotted, trotting uphill towards the fawn.
There is an intense and breathless rush of excitement, a visceral thrill of
the photographic chase, countered by a cool detachment as settings are
rechecked and readjusted during what could be the last few moments of the
fawn’s life.
“She’s running!” cries Mpario and we look up to see Kike burst from cover,
burning energy reserves like rocket fuel as she accelerates towards her
prey. The does scatter — maternal instinct comes second to self-preservation
in Thomson society — leaving the fawn to fend for itself. Kike is closing
like a missile, and then the fawn reacts. “Focus on the prey,” yells
Goldstein. “Wait for the cheetah to come into the frame.”
Suddenly the young gazelle changes direction, doubling back and gaining ground
on the aged cat, but within half a second Kike is within snatching distance
of its hindquarters. I can hear the scrabbling of feet on the hard earth —
or maybe it’s just my pounding heart — but as the shadow of death falls
across the fawn, it dives to the right and escapes into the long grass.
Kike skids to a halt in a cloud of dust, holding one paw up as though injured.
She won’t eat today, and I suspect the fawn will be off its food, too. I
can’t remember taking any pictures of the chase, but as I scroll through my
memory card, I realise I’ve caught the whole thrilling hunt. How does it
feel? Like catching the perfect wave or scoring a hole in one. As the others
congratulate me, nobody mentions beginner’s luck.
Travel details: Chris Haslam travelled as a guest of Kenya Airways
(01784 888222, www.kenya-airways.com
) and Exodus (020 8772 3703, www.exodus.co.uk
), which offers eight-day photographic safaris to Samburu and the Mara from
£1,769, including flights from Heathrow, transfers and meals. Or try Wild
Arena (07734 107050, www.wildarena.com
), which also runs specialist photographic safaris to Samburu and the Mara
from £1,769, including flights from Heathrow, transfers and meals. Or try
Wild Arena (07734 107050, www.wildarena.com
), which also runs specialist photographic safaris.
