At the onset of each dry season, the herbivores of the savanna begin to migrate north of the Serengeti plains, across the Tanzanian border and into the cooler and greener Maasai Mara hills of Kenya. When the rains return, they take the same route back. The wildebeest migration, which involves millions of animals traveling hundreds of miles in a matter of weeks, is one of the most spectacular phenomena in the natural world. It was for the privilege of that grand sight that I had come all the way to East Africa.
But the migration was not something that could be accurately predicted. At the end of July, when I was supposed to arrive, it was hard to tell whether the animals would still be in the Serengeti or already in the Maasai Mara. Occasionally, they would set off earlier than usual—which is precisely what happened that year.
When I reached the entry point to the Serengeti, the plains were already empty. To catch up to the moving herds, I would have had to travel a much longer distance than originally planned. I shared my concerns with Patrick, but he told me not to worry because he was prepared to take me wherever I wanted. At the same time, he assured me that the Serengeti had a lot to offer irrespective of the season. Its central part, in particular, which had permanent water sources, attracted a wide variety of species. It was said to be the best place to spot “big cats”: lions, leopards, and cheetahs. To give weight to his promise, he added:
“Look, I bet we’ll find plenty of lions by tomorrow night. At least ten!”
I found it hard to believe him. All around me, as far as the eye could see, the plains were scorched and deserted. After the animals had left, the rangers had set fire to the dry grass to clear the ground. The Thompson’s gazelle—a small, long-horned gazelle with a pair of thick black stripes above its belly—was the only species visible on that barren land, surviving exclusively on morning dew and remnants of vegetation. This way, the delicate herbivores could enjoy their scarce food undisturbed by lions or other predators.
Nevertheless, after several hours of driving on the dirt road, the landscape changed radically. At last, the splendor of the African savanna I had dreamed of began to unfold before my eyes. First, the umbrella-shaped crowns of the acacia trees came into view, then a few streams meandering through bushy outcrops brought more life into the picture. Silhouettes of elephants and giraffes loomed in the background, and the big cats didn’t take long to show up either.
At one point, we came across two majestic, amber-maned lions lazing in the grass not far from the road. They were brothers, Patrick revealed.
“How do you know they are brothers?” I asked, incredulous.
“Only the young males roam together for a while after they leave their pride,” he replied. “If they weren’t related, they would tear each other apart in a second!” Although we were just yards away from them, the two lions ignored us completely. The only ones that seemed to bother them were a few elephants nearby. As the pachyderms approached steadily, the two felines got up, visibly displeased, and headed in the opposite direction, careful to keep a safe distance.
“That’s right,” Patrick said. “They wouldn’t mess with the big guys.”
Behind the elephants, a few giraffes were coming. Patrick clarified, like a true connoisseur:
“These are bachelors.”
And he continued:
“Giraffes live in families too. When they grow up, the young males form ‘gangs’ of bachelors. They fight by hitting each other’s necks, but that’s only for training, because the loser is not excluded from the group. During the day, even if they are scattered, they always keep an eye on each other. A lion wouldn’t dare attack one unless he can sneak up from behind when the giraffe is drinking water. Otherwise, a kick from a giraffe may well kill him.”
“To be fair,” I provoked my interlocutor, “the lion is neither the strongest nor the most intelligent of animals. Then why is it called their king?”
“Well, I guess lions are the most efficient when it comes to killing other creatures. That is, of course, if we don’t take humans into account,” he replied with unexpected irony.
Patrick confessed to me that among all the animals of the savanna, lions were the ones that safari guests wanted to see the most. That was because the chances of seeing a bloody scene were much higher when lions were around, he explained.
With a barely concealed smile, he added:
“In fact, there’s another reason why lions are so admired …”
“What’s that?” I wanted to know right away.
“When they mate, they do it for four days in a row … and they only take very short breaks,” he answered, not without a trace of envy in his voice.
Soon after, we stopped to watch two sleeping lionesses. According to Patrick, it was typical for lions to eat up to sixty pounds of meat at a time, then do nothing but lie down for several days until they got hungry again. The lionesses in question appeared to be enjoying a deep siesta, resting their round, overfed bellies in the grass. Inadvertently, we got quite close to one of them, because she was right next to the road. The sound of the engine woke her up suddenly. She opened one eye and jumped aside in confusion. It was obvious that she felt too heavy to move: she only took a few steps and then lay back on the ground.
“How come the lions don’t even seem aware of our presence?” I asked.
“Don’t be too confident! From a lion’s perspective, any living thing that moves within their sight is food,” Patrick chuckled. “If we were on foot, we would certainly get their attention, but cars are different. Lions do not understand that cars are full of people and that it would be very easy for them to grab someone through the open roof. To them, a car is like a rolling stone, so they don’t care about it, and they only avoid it at the last minute. Even if they sense the humans inside, it’s the same as picking up someone’s scent from a rock: it won’t make them attack the rock, so for the same reason they won’t attack the car either.”
I found it very amusing when Patrick described to me how lions “think.” He was right, nonetheless: I had noticed many open vehicles with nothing but a metal bar on each side, and the animals didn’t react to them in any way. To prove his theory, my companion told me another story.
“A few years ago, when I was with some guests in this area and stopped for them to take pictures, a lion suddenly jumped on top of the car. The roof hatch was raised, but fortunately everyone inside was seated. The lion didn’t realize what he was standing on. You know, they love to climb on rocks and keep an eye on everything.”
“My goodness!” I exclaimed. “I can only imagine what the passengers went through!”
“Indeed,” Patrick confirmed. “But it only lasted a few seconds. The lion didn’t even bother to look inside. As soon as I started the engine and moved the car, he got scared and ran like crazy.”
The guide immediately interpreted the situation:
“For sure, when he saw the ‘rock’ moving under him, he thought it was an earthquake!”
However, such incidents were rare. Central Serengeti was, as Patrick had promised, the ideal place for wildlife encounters. It seemed to concentrate the very essence of Africa, like a drawing from a book of legends: umbrella crowns of acacias against the red sun, lions’ manes blending into the golden grass, merry giraffes and placid elephants roaming across patches of green. . .and, most of all, a soothing peace that descended over the savanna at the end of each day, like a wave of reconciliation meant to erase the pains of the past and make way for the future.
I didn’t get to say goodbye to those plains, though, until I became acquainted with their darker side.
On our way further north, we witnessed a dramatic scene. Apparently, a group of lionesses had just attacked a wild buffalo. From what I had previously noticed about buffalo herds, their defense system was well developed: the strongest males stood at the front, while the oldest ones, along with the females and calves, remained shielded in the middle. They were massive animals, and their long, powerful horns gave them a menacing appearance. The fight with the carnivores could only have been fierce.
There were casualties on both sides. One of the lionesses had been crushed under the body of a buffalo and lay there with a stiff paw in the air. The others were feasting on the prey’s carcass. The head of the family, a lion with a thick, dark-brown mane, was sitting like a sphinx a few feet away, eyes fixed on the horizon.
“The roles are very clearly defined,” Patrick reminded me. “The ones who hunt are the lionesses. But if they catch something, the male is the first to eat.” “My, this division of tasks is not fair,” I said, feigning protest.
“Oh, but it is,” the guide assured me. “The lion’s duty is to defend his territory from other males. That’s the hardest and most dangerous thing to do, because no animal in the savanna is a greater threat to a pride than a nomadic lion, who would try to kill not only the head of the family but also the cubs—and the lionesses would not be able to stop him. So the zebras, antelopes, and even buffalos, or whatever else the females must hunt, are easier tasks. Now, you see, the male is on guard, watching over them while they eat.”
Although we were the only ones there when we arrived, it didn’t take more than twenty minutes for the place to fill with safari cars. The guides had a habit of communicating with each other whenever they spotted something worthy of their clients’ attention. Patrick was right once again: the so-called “action” scenes involving lions were by far the most prized.
Perhaps that’s why Darwin’s “survival of the fittest” is so often understood as the “triumph of the most aggressive,” I thought. After all, the giraffes, elephants, or gazelles are no less adapted to their environment than the large predators. All species thrive and multiply, each in its own way, individually or collectively, and natural selection brings a variety of advantages—including intelligence, cooperation, or empathy. Yet what earns the admiration of most humans has nothing to do with that. It has to do with killing, eating, and having sex like no other—like the lions. I wondered if it was because we had chosen the wrong model or because we were drawn to what resembled us most.