We never know what we’ll see on a given day, as animals are not posing for our pleasure. It might be a pride of snoozing lions, pillowy bellies confirming their successful night’s hunt. When they’re full like this they couldn’t care less about the horses, and barely raise a head or half-open an eye to acknowledge our presence. We, on the other hand, have our hands full, holding the reins in one while trying to snap a meaningful photo of non-menacing lions with the other. We might see a family of elephants ambling through the tall gold grass toward a faraway river, stopping now and then to thrash an acacia tree into submission. Their droppings are the exact size and shape of a three-layer cake. It’s a camp tradition to cover one with chocolate icing and present it to whoever is unlucky enough to claim it’s their birthday or anniversary during the ride.

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Traversing the bush on horseback is exhilarating 24 hours a day. There’s the pungent, perfumed smoke of wood fires in the early morning, the filigreed light sifting through flat-topped thorn acacias as the sun rises. Chill post-dawn air rapidly warms as the sun rises and the myriad birds, monkeys, baboons and jackals check in with each other, asking “Are you still alive?” High-lined horses munch their grain and hay, well-oiled tack is set on each carefully groomed back, legs are lifted to check that shoes are still securely nailed in place and no bruising stones are stuck in the hoof. A night guard from the local tribe strides through camp barefoot, a rifle over his shoulder, a long spear in his hand. He wears a scarlet plaid blanket draped around his waist, with one end slung over his sleekly muscled torso. “Look,” he says, squatting next to me and pointing to where the pug mark of a lion is clearly visible in the soft dirt between the tents. “Do not worry. He is interested in the horses, not you.”

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