View to a Kill
by Chis Haslam - Sunday Times UK 04 Feb 07
It’s an hour after sunrise on day one of the Exodus photographic safari. Venus has faded and a chilly breeze sends ripples across the vast acacia-studded plains of Kenya’s Masai Mara reserve. Ruminants relieved to have survived another night watch as hyenas head home, loping like murderous hunchbacks. These charmless beasts do their killing in the dark, as do the leopards and the lions of the local Kicheche pride, and as daylight reveals their deeds they slope away to lurk in the shadows. Sunshine, 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 oatgrass. 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. 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 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 zebra’s attention span while aboard the specially fitted Land Cruisers, bleary eyed photographers awake since five check and recheck their equipment, encouraged, scolded and cajoled by award-winning tutor Paul Goldstein. This Jumping Jack Flash of the Mara crackles with an incandescent passion for these plains, their wildlife and their people, raising funds for conservation, supporting a local school and employing over eighty Masai in a luxury camp that redefines the often hackneyed notions of ecotourism and sustainability. Right now, though, that’s all irrelevant. 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. "Muppet. Increase it to 400 and make sure the shutter speed is at least 1000." He moves on to his next victim, huffing and puffing and 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, 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 Boniface finds 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 bloody 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 this luxury tented camp is as good as others around here offering half the action at twice the price. Dinners are superb, candle-lit al-fresco affairs, ended with Goldstein’s brutally funny nightly nominations for his Hall of Shame and breakfasts are taken in a variety of stunning locations across the Mara. Never eaten a sausage sandwich while watching a crocodile chew up a rotten carcass? It’s better than toast and a John Humphry’s political interview. And right now I’m in dire need of caffeination, but I know we won’t eat breakfast until Kike has had hers. I check my camera again: I’m at f5.6 with shutter speed of 1250 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 with how much I’ve learned: 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 ninety minutes waiting for this gorgeously plumed hunter to raise its wings, or a couple of hours trying to capture a malachite kingfisher plunging into a pool and you begin to appreciate the long-lost skills of the big game hunter: patience, trust in your Masai guides and the willingness to sweat in pursuit of that trophy. And the effort expended under the Mara’s merciless sun pays fabulous dividends: a four-thirty rise and a cold and bumpy thirty mile drive across the Mara river is rewarded by sight that has hardened photographers weeping with joy. A young cheetah mother emerges from the long grass as the sun’s first rays sweep the plain. Then five fluffy cubs follow, and as we watch, scarcely breathing, they climb a termite mound.
"Oh my God," whispers Goldstein as the cubs arrange themselves in a row at their mother’s feet, then, illuminated in the Mara’s perfect light, turn as one and look into our lenses like celebrity lovecats. Shutters clatter like a round of applause and even Boniface reluctantly admits surprise. "I’ve never seen that before," he sniffs, wiping something from his eye.
Patience brings other prizes: five feet of electric green mamba lurking lethally in a tree, a pair of dim-witted wildebeests engaged in a head-butting contest or a hyena vomiting, sniffing and reingesting her rotten dinner. Safari veteran Brenda Dakers from London says Kicheche makes other trips seem like theme park visits. "I won’t be going to the Kruger again," she adds. John Simmons from Loughborough is on his first visit to Africa and he looks 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 facemasks 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. John 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. Goldstein says it’s up to the client to choose the right safari. "Check that the operator uses four wheel drive vehicles with open sides and roofs and ask how long the game drives are," he advises. "Make sure they fly you in and enquire how many beds are in the camp. Under thirty is fine – more than that and you’re in a hotel. Ask if the guides have bronze or silver qualifications and finally," he growls, returning to a now familiar theme, "if they promise to show you the big five, ask if they’re aware of any other species in the Mara."
Down in the oatgrass Kike has disappeared. Frantically we scan the shimmering plain before she’s spotted, trotting uphill towards the fawn. The vehicles roar into life, racing in a wide arc as Boniface tries to predict the direction in which the Thomson’s gazelles will flee when they see her. There is an intense and breathless rush of excitement as we swing into position, a visceral thrill of the 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 Boniface 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 cheetah, but within half a second she’s within snatching distance of his hindquarters. Curiously 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 his food too. I can’t remember taking any pictures of the chase but as I scroll through my memory card – instant review is one of the many delights of digital photography – I realise I’ve caught the whole thrilling hunt in pin-sharp clarity. How does it feel? Like catching the perfect wave or scoring a hole in one. As the others congratulate me, nobody mentions beginners luck. "That’s one to hang on the wall," says proper photographer Tony Costa, on his third visit to Kicheche this year, reminding me once more how similar we are to the big game hunters of old. All we’ve done is swap rifles for Canons.
