It was just a shadow in the coral glow of the false dawn, a bump on the twisted branch of a fig tree in the pre-dawn chill.

“Look closer, Kijana”, whispered Boniface.

Despite being twelve years my junior, my head guide still calls me ‘youngster’, and he knows I hate to use
my binoculars. Conceding defeat, I raised the 8x42s, my good-natured chagrin evaporating as I recognised the lithe outline of the world’s most beautiful creatures. Boniface grinned with the familiar joy of a man meeting an old friend.

It was still way too dark to start photographing leopards, so I wrapped myself in my Maasai blanket and reached for my flask, exchanging triumphant smiles with my fellow wildlife enthusiasts. We were alone on the Mara, sipping strong Kenyan tea just forty metres from an elusive predator. It was 5.45am. I’ve had worse Monday mornings.

However you look at it, the Masai Mara offers an outstanding wildlife spectacle. This sacred land of cotton soil and granite is home to hundreds of species. There are eleven times as many individual animals here as in South Africa’s tarmac-riven Kruger National Park. The Mara’s two rainy seasons draw millions of ruminants and attendant predators north from Tanzania every summer. Together with the neighbouring Serengeti, this savage Eden is arguably the greatest area of protected wilderness on the planet.

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The Mara’s size and diversity defies predictability. While other parks offer many attractions but don’t venture far off a well-documented wildlife agenda, the Mara reserves the right to surprise.

Later that day, after a long morning lurking with lions, we stopped for lunch on the grassy banks of the oxbow lakes close to Musiara Swamp. Bellies full, we were dozing in the shade of an acacia, serenaded by the song of the flycatcher, when the radio crackled urgently. I plucked just one word from the torrent of Swahili – mhanga, or aardvark. But surely this was a mistake. Look in any field guide and you’ll see that this shy, burrowing ungulate is strictly nocturnal. It’s a simple, indisputable fact: aardvarks only come out at night.

I called Joseph, the guide who had reported the sighting, and asked him if he was sure. “Absolutely sure!” came the reply. I was sceptical, and Joseph was several miles away from the lake, but I couldn’t discount the possibility that he might be right. We hurried across the plains, and upon arriving I spotted the familiar elongated ears of Lepus saxatilis – a scrub hare, exactly as I had expected. Joseph declined to comment, his eyes locked on a point in the distance, and as we followed his gaze the elongated nose and hunched shoulders of an indisputably diurnal aardvark appeared. We watched, stunned, for twenty minutes as this remarkable, rarely-seen beast shuffled through the bush.

Extraordinarily, astonishingly, the day got better.

A mother cheetah and her three cubs sashayed past to flop down and drape their long limbs over a termite mound. Two giraffes watched from the background and, as we gaped at the scene, the patter of fat African raindrops echoed our racing hearts. Just as we had stalked the wildlife, the weather had crept up on us, drenching us in a violent and spectacular downpour and rewarding our forbearance with not one but two brilliant rainbows against an angry canvas.

Was this the best day the Mara could offer? Close, I’d say, but not quite.

Early starts, patience, quiet and access to an understanding of the behavioural habits of wildlife are what work in the bush. Safari suits, war photographer’s waistcoats and $500 nights in boutique lodges don’t do it for me. Nor do truckloads of tourists ticking species off like trainspotters, nor braying style-mag slaves, measuring their experience against the fashion thermometer. If a chocolate-covered mint on your bougainvillea-garnished pillow, leisurely mornings and guaranteed sightings of Africa’s A-list are what you seek, head to the Kruger or book a night at Whipsnade. The Mara is a precious, precarious environment offering those passionate about wildlife unparalleled opportunities. There are no guarantees, no timetables and no schedules – just the timeless rhythm of nature. Photographing those who dance to that rhythm is the ultimate challenge.

As a photographer, I have so far resisted the allure of digital technology. Although I recognise its attractions, I shudder when some converts enthuse about Photoshop masking and cloning. All I hear are euphemisms for misrepresentation. Wildlife photography is about capturing the moment rather than manufacturing it. But the quest for the perfect shot should never take over completely. Wildlife photographers are honour-bound to consider the ethics of their approach before releasing the shutter. The animal’s welfare is paramount, and this goes for all species: snapping the flash of a malachite kingfisher in flight is just as challenging, and potentially intrusive, as capturing a sprinting cheetah.

Sometimes it all comes together, but this luck has to be learned.

Once I was fortunate enough to enjoy a half hour with a leopard on an open branch just below the Siria Escarpment. It was late and we were an hour from camp. Finally she picked her way down the trunk and ‘sawed’ (their rasping communication). This could only mean cubs. She would never normally advertise her presence or indeed her hoard: the dead gazelle hidden high in the crown.

Leaving her for the night we returned before first light and just before sunrise she appeared with her two nine-week-old cubs. This was amazing, but the moment was fleeting; the cubs were shy and the family disappeared. An hour later the mother returned alone and retrieved her kill before launching out from the tree a full twelve feet off the ground.

We stayed in position throughout the kind of day only the Mara can produce: bruised skies and towering thunderheads over vertiginous escarpments and plains darkened with unending lines of migrating game and their relentless predators.

The Mara is, I reflected, a place that can never be visited enough. Lost in my reverie I lay back for an afternoon doze. The leopard, I told Boniface, would not be back for hours and even then we’d be more than lucky to see her shy cubs. Boniface replied with a polite nod that suggested I was talking, but not from my mouth, and then, just moments later, he shook me awake. A tiny ball of feline fluff was clinging to the trunk of the tree. I managed to snap just three or four shots before it disappeared.

“That,” smiled Bonny, “is why you will always be Kijana.”