The dust cloud caught in the rays of the setting sun is, for a safari guide, a clear indication that something is afoot. We drive to investigate. Zebra appear, galloping, followed by a herd of impala. A jackal is staring intently back at the root of the stampede. All the animals, transfixed, barely notice us as we make our way into the thicket. And there, a cheetah stands over a freshly killed impala as her cub tears hungrily into its stomach.
It's enough to make you forget your sunset G&T. This was my first stay in Africa, and every time we went outdoors the excitement seemed to heighten. Hundreds of kilometres from the nearest town, the Selinda reserve in northern Botswana plays host to abundant wildlife, untroubled by people.
Big game is the popular draw, but the little things are pretty amazing. For example, the birds (and I speak as one who long derided my brother for his membership of the Young Ornithologists Club). We see a great eagle owl, spinning his head; kori bustards, the heaviest flying bird, creeping around in the long grass; skimmer birds flying low over a lagoon at sunset, leaving flaming traces where they break the surface of the water. And swooping alongside the jeep are colourful carmine bee-eaters, gobbling up insects that flick off the long grass in our wake.
The landscape isn't, in an immediate way, beautiful: the general panorama is a dusty green plain hitting a dark line of trees at the horizon. But perhaps this stark background makes each feature more impressive. When you're face to face with an elephant, it's all elephant.
And the sudden sight of large beasts really makes you sit up. Many are familiar from photographs, yet still strange and beautiful in the flesh - and here they are, just wandering around, unperturbed. Giraffes, elephants, zebras, ostriches, hippos, all doing their peculiar things. As the only one in the jeep, I'm able to constantly grill Paul Moleseng, my safari guide, with a host of basic questions.
We see an elephant, a big bull, with a gland secreting a dark stain of musk on his cheek. I'm wondering why it has five legs, but before I have a chance to ask, Paul says: "Sometimes, children ask me why it has five legs." It is, in fairness, astonishingly endowed. I'm pleased I didn't ask, but later spoil it by asking about the baboon "wound" which turns out to be an inviting (for male baboons) rump.
On safari, I generally feel pretty dumb. Paul spots animals, I spot termite mounds and logs. But with his patient explanations, creatures become fascinating in a way I hadn't previously experienced. Apologies for coming over all David Attenborough, but did you know that the male hornbill builds a nest in a tree hollow for his mate and seals her in with the eggs? He uses a mud mix that only he can peck open, and so, if he should perish while hunting for food, the whole brood dies, trapped. Or that the warthog has two sets of tusks, one sharp enough to see off all predators, and that it defends itself by backing into anteaters' holes? Or that termite mounds in Africa, because they dry unevenly in the morning sun, point west?
It is also reassuringly easy to get a good look at things once Paul has located them - it's not a blink-and-you-miss-it experience. Even the rarely spotted creatures don't necessarily flee. After dusk, Paul catches the glint of a pair of eyes in his spotlight, attached to a fox-like creature with a bushy tail. "An aardwolf," he says. "He is defecating." I stare through binoculars at the accumulating evidence until the animal trots casually away.
This sighting, the first at Selinda for a year, causes some conversation back at the camp, where in March, at the beginning of the season, I'm virtually the only guest. Apparently, this is the hardest time of year to view game, although I already feel I've almost seen more than I can take in. Even at its busiest, strict quotas for visitors mean there is no more than one paying guest for every 10,000 hectares of uninhabited bushveld; no one who isn't in the safari world lives within a hundred miles.
This remoteness makes the camps themselves even more astonishing. The Selinda is one of the Classic Safari Camps of Africa, an organisation that insists on a certain level of luxury not normally associated with a tent. It isn't luxury in the wanton way of some expensive hotels, but everything is solid and elegant, from the linen to the heavy wooden furniture.
In an island of trees and foliage, each large tent is erected on platforms under thatched wooden canopies, with its own adjoining open-air bathroom. These are particularly impressive: somehow there is hot and cold running water, flush toilets and showers under the stars - all very romantic (honeymoons are big here). It makes the Swiss Family Robinson look like a bunch of lazy no-hopers.
Life unfolds in this oasis with an impeccable discipline, style and attention to detail I can't dream of attaining in my normal existence. The safari day - here and at the sister camp, Zibalianja - starts at 5.30am with a light breakfast around the camp fire, before heading out for a game drive - four hours of animal spotting from a jeep. From 10 till 4 we're pretty much sheltering from the African sun, with a magnificent brunch, afternoon tea, and probably a siesta in between. Then another drive, punctuated with a drink on the road at sunset, which turns into a nocturnal trail with the aid of a powerful torch. On return to the camp, you enjoy aperitifs and fine dining. It all feels faintly surreal.
And there really is nothing like a bit of game viewing to work up an appetite: whether it's the sight of a kill, empathy with the vultures, or the adrenaline rush from evading a charging elephant ("only a mock charge," consoles Paul, "though you can never be sure"). Most of all though, there's the hunger brought on by simple, primal fear. Nowhere is this more applicable than with the most terrifying beasts of all, the lions.
The Selinda reserve is currently blessed when it comes to these big cats - the jewel in many safaris. But this is wild, open country, and no one can interfere if they decide to roam wherever else they please. On my first few drives, we see none - but two photographers at my camp have encountered the pride. The next day Paul takes me down to a watering hole where he knows the pride sometimes gather for water and prey.
The first sight of a lion is electrifying. We pull up yards away; some turn and stare, some ignore us altogether. And there are a lot of lions: 19 in this pride, females and cubs. The theory is that they cannot distinguish people in the jeep, even with its open sides - but it is still unnerving when they look straight at you and lick their lips. We sit and watch as they loll, paw each other, occasionally stretch, or get up to move to a new patch of shade.
After a while I develop a new fear, akin to vertigo. If the root of fear of heights is the temptation to throw oneself off a cliff, mine now is the knowledge that it would be impossibly easy to step outside the jeep and be torn to bits in moments.
Will an errant impala or zebra come for a drink of water? We see herds in the distance, catching scent on the wind, uncertain whether they can risk approaching the pan. The lions move into the trees, ready for an ambush. Vultures circle. It's mesmerising; each moment feels tense and alive... just an everyday Botswanan drama.
· Next week: Gwyn Topham tries a canoe safari in the Okavango Delta.
Way to go
Gwyn Topham travelled to Botswana with Sunvil Africa and Classic Safari Camps of Africa. For reservations, telephone: 020 8232 9777. For information on other Classic Safari Camps, please contact: classics@classicsafaricamps.com
He stayed at the Selinda Camp, one of the Classic Safari Camps of Africa, and at the neighbouring Zibalianja Camp. Both camps are run by Linyanti Explorations, PO Box 22, Kasane, tel: +267 625 0505.
The camp is reached by light aircraft from Maun in Botswana. International flights to Maun from Johannesburg are operated by Air Botswana, tel: +267 305 500
