by Chris Haslam, The Times, UK (Feb 2007)
On a photographic safari, you get closer
to the wild heart of Africa, finds Chris Haslam in Kenya
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.
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