WHERE LIONS ROARED
We were on safari in Zambia’s Luangwa Valley, our priority a lion with a good mane. The game laws stipulated that hunting was allowed half an hour before sunrise to half an hour after sunset. Our safari overseer was a government game scout named Paul, smartly dressed in a jungle-green uniform.
We set out in the early morning gloom. Caught in the head lights, a herd of buffalo moved across our front. Some just stood and stared, eyes shining like silver pearls. Others jostled one another, then retreated. The air filled with dust. I cut the lights and engine and we sat in silence. Snorting, the buffalo moved off and faded into the semi-darkness. We checked the wind, waited, talked in low tones and drank coffee out of mugs.
My client was an elderly, silver-haired American, Peter Fox. He had hunted lion on two safaris, luck not on his side. We had passed up two young scruffy males on
