Snug in my tent in the northern Serengeti, I listened to the strange pulsing cries of a swamp nightjar in the surrounding trees. Later, when the bird had fallen silent and dawn light seeped through the canvas, a lion began to roar not far off, and I jumped out of bed to look for him.
I found him soon after, sprawled at full length on a granite kopje, golden mane on fire in the morning sun. But what I remember most about that encounter was the Serengeti Sanctus that preceded it.
So often, back home again after a long sojourn in the bush, it was not just the scenic beauty and spectacular wildlife dramas that I played and re-played in my mind. It was the African soundtrack I missed most with an unbearable longing. Hemingway knew it, too. “All I
