The male lion lay in the long grass, gnawing on a bone, from all semblances a femur belonging formerly to a zebra. A second male was surveying the scene lazily, occasionally glancing at the Land Rover with apparent disinterest. In addition, I counted seven lionesses, which had been sleeping when we pulled into their midst, now standing up one by one, stretching and yawning. As the light grew dim, they began meandering off, the last lioness only waking after the others had left, to trail behind. We tracked them in the Land Rover until the last light, and then drove back to camp in the dark. The breeze was a welcome relief from the oppressive heat of the African summer. A scout met us and herded us into a tight group like tropical fish huddling together. "Wait here a bit," he said, "a pride of lions is walking through camp." He began distributing beers. It seems if were going to be eaten, we might as well be soused. It was then I realized it was not we who had been tracking the lions, but rather the lions who had been tracking us.


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