The Running Safari

A veteran travel writer thought he’d seen and run it all – then he stepped onto a remote African savannah to experience the trip of a lifetime.

- Tom Downey

MY ALARM GOES OFF

When it’s still dark outside my tent. Well, that’s what it’s called technically, but this tent comes with a four-poster bed, a cut-crystal decanter filled with port, and a wooden terrace overlooking the rolling grasslands of Singita Grumeti, a private reserve north-west of the Serengeti National Park in Tanzania. Even in the presence of such luxuries, I can’t shake the knowledge that right now, alone in the black of night, I am completely surrounded by creatures. I can’t see the animals, but I can hear and – even more clearly – imagine them: there’s a rustle of frantic scurrying just behind my bed, then some kind of desperate struggle in the dirt, all sounding close enough that I could touch whatever is making that noise. There’s snorting coming from the direction of the terrace that I hope is only warthogs. Further away, other animals squeal, shift location, and squeal again. In the distance is the most magnificent, frightening sound of all: the low, rumbling, unmistakable roar of a lion.

While it’s still dark – and before I’m overwhelmed by fears of how much force the thick canvas tenting material can withstand – a guard escorts me to the dining area, a rifle slung over his shoulder, shining his flashlight back and forth in front of our path to spot and scare away any dangerous animals. I sip an espresso and watch the land go from murky blackness to amber dawn, until finally the orb of the sun peeks over the rolling plains that stretch to the end of the horizon, and their true colour is revealed: a rich green, the result of nourishing seasonal rains that began just weeks ago, after a long, dry season. I look at my armed companion and give a nod. I’m ready to run.