Born With a Suitcase y travel these days is hit and miss due to my domestic responsibilities and my travel ethos has also changed over the years involving an increased level of creature comforts (i.e. taking the single supplement rather than the multiple one with resident rat

Zimabawe is a beautiful nation which has the capacity to be self sufficient. However, under the rule of its current dictator, Robert Mugabe, who lines his owns pockets with extorted wealth, the supermarkets shelves are empty and his countrymen and women are forced to eat scaps from rubbish dumps just to survive. Meanwhile rich government officials act as the mafia to local businesses. This is why I don't condone travel to Zimbabwe with the current situation. Inflation at this time was around 2000%, but now (2009) it is about 100 times that and typhoid fever is rife with no medicines the treat the masses. Despite this, my tour started in Victoria Falls, rather than in Livingstone, a couple of kilometres away across the Zambezi in Zambia, which would have been preferable.

One can be forgiven for assuming the main attraction in Victoria Falls is the waterfall. While the thunderous might of the falls are impressive, it doesn’t compare with experiencing a lifelong dream whilst in town. With some time to kill before my main camping tour to Cape Town commences, I visit the tourist centre. There is a plethora of tours to choose from, ranging from joy flights and elephant rides to bunging jumping off the striking Victoria Falls Bridge. Far from being an adrenalin junkie, I want something more sedentary and after noticing the cute lion posters on the walls it doesn’t take long to decide. After fantasising about my favourite childhood movie Born Free, I excitedly rush back to camp clutching my Walk With Lions pamphlet. At dawn the next day I travel by minibus with a small group of tourists to a conservation park about an hour away. Over a fabulously strong coffee, we are given a tedious lecture on lion behaviour and safety. I start to day dream and wonder if my tourist dollars are going directly to the conservation of wildlife or into the pockets of corrupt government officials. Suddenly some one thrusts a big stick into my hand as everyone dutifully moves to follow the guide through the scrub over meandering dirt tracks. Perhaps we need the stick to steady ourselves in case the terrain gets rough.
The guide points out various footprints the different wild life make along the way. After twenty minutes and no sign of any lions, my impatience is exacerbated by the ever present flies becoming more intense with the heat of the day. The stroll is frustratingly punctuated as the ranger finds elephant faeces. With incredible fascination the guide dissects it with his bare hands and imparts facts on pachyderm cuisine. Increasingly agitated, this offending elephant is eating into my quality lion time. Tiring of the David Attenborough style documentary, we continues the search and negotiate our way through the unforgiving thorny acacias swishing away flies attracted by the moisture forming on my brow. My mind wanders to the infamous colonial explorer, Livingstone. The hardships he must’ve endured as he slashed his way through the ‘dark continent’. What was with those ridiculous pith helmets anyway? My corduroy hat gets hopelessly stuck on a sharp acacia and I take great care to extract it but nonetheless manage to stab my finger. My persistence pays off as the ranger points and elatedly whispers ‘there’s Tamagunge and his twin brother.’

The delightful five month old cubs trot side by side towards us. They take refuge from the encroaching heat and rest in the shade. The whole group swarms around them and act like panthera paparazzi as everyone’s shutter clicks in unison. The cubs patiently wait as everyone has their turn in having a picture taken with them. It is my turn next and I am instructed to stand behind the cubs. Eagerly I crouch down behind Tamagunge to pat him. Unlike my furry feline friend back home, I’m surprised to feel his rough and very coarse fur. In contrast to the other tourists, the young predator loses patience and upon my vigorous caresses he takes it as a cue to be playful. He becomes particularly mischievous and starts play biting my wrist putting his paw on my forearm to gain leverage. Suddenly, the wise words of the authoritative park ranger emerge from my subconscious, ‘One playful swipe from a five month old cub can cause some serious damage’.

I am frozen with panic. D o I whack him across the nose like a mother cat or just play dead. Desperately I try to imagine what the famous naturalist, Joy Adamson would do to gain control and confidence. It's useless, I flash back to the induction and remember all too well ‘they can smell fear and prey on the vulnerable’ warning as I ponder imminent mauling. Luckily the capable guide springs into action and calmly motions me to put my stick across his scary incisors to prevent serious injury to my limb. Back at the lodge the adrenalin induces a wild hunger, making me fully appreciative of the hearty cooked breakfast awaiting us in the open air viewing deck. After refreshing the palate with a platter of cold tropical fruit, I digested the events of the previous hours and felt sure Joy Adamson never bothered with any stick for protection. Sipping on freshly brewed coffee and overlooking the fresh African dawn I reflect further. I gained a healthy new respect for the continent’s ferocious big cats but maybe tomorrow I should book the fishing tour instead. I’m sure there are no flesh eating Piranhas here.