Mo Laethanta Saoire: Billy O'Callaghan recalls getting too close to a pride of lions in Africa
Billy O'Callaghan.
Of a July some 20-odd years ago, my brother and I landed in Nairobi, a trip intended as one of those once-in-a-lifetime adventures, hopping between farflung reserves in treacherous, rust-bucket ten seater planes, staying in on-site hotel cabins, waking to the sounds of elephants trumpeting the night away and the songs of a thousand bird species so loud and strange that you could almost hear their colours in the music.
My brother, whose appetite for road was voracious, had planned it all in intricate detail, seeking out reserves that would offer the fullest variation on our first foray into Africa: Amboseli, to the south, close to the Tanzanian border, boasting (if you were fortunate enough to catch a break in the cloud) the most breathtaking views of Kilmanjaro; Samburu, the spectacular dry region north of Nairobi, as far removed from civilization as it felt possible to be; and finally, to Nairobi’s west, again pressing the border, this time onto Tanzania’s Serengeti plains, the Maasai Mara.
