The risk of death is greater than safari goers would like to believe

Telegraph

06-06-2025

There's a mistaken assumption that heavy rains halt play for most wildlife. But one thing I've learnt from my 50-plus safaris is that animals – particularly predators – are reliably unpredictable.
My most recent uncomfortably close encounter occurred earlier this year during the height of Kenya's rainy season. Thick grey clouds had gathered over the luxury lodge where I was staying on the edge of the Maasai Mara, accelerating the onset of dusk.
During daylight hours, it's generally considered safe to walk freely between rooms – even in unfenced areas – so with the sun still hovering above the horizon, I assumed a short dash to the communal dining area would be fine.
As I left my fancy villa, furiously scrolling through emails on my phone, I heard a growl far louder than peals of thunder tearing across the plains. Looking up, I saw the back end of a lioness prowling through the undergrowth and I did exactly what I've always been told not to do – I turned around and ran.
In reality, she was probably more terrified of the giant two-legged creature encroaching on her territory – but bumping into a big cat in Africa doesn't always end so well.
On May 30, businessman Bernd Kebbel was mauled to death by a lioness as he stepped out of his tent to use the toilet. He was camping in Namibia's Hoanib Valley, a remote area where desert-adapted lions roam along seasonal riverbeds.
I'd visited the region only two weeks previously and had been thrilled to spot a lion in a region historically ravaged by drought.
According to a survey carried out by Namibia's Ministry of Environment, Forestry and Tourism (MEFT) in 2022/2023, there are less than 100 desert-adapted lions in the country, with numbers fluctuating due to human/wildlife conflict. That population declined further when Charlie, the lioness responsible for the attack, was shot dead by authorities.
What happened to Mr Kebbel was tragic, but it's not the first time that foreigners have had fatal run-ins with animals.
Last year, an American tourist was killed when an elephant charged their vehicle in Zambia's Kafue National Park. A month earlier, a Spanish traveller was trampled to death by a breeding herd when he stepped out of his car to take a photograph in a South African game reserve.
As the safari industry continues to thrive and our appetite for wild encounters grows, our guards have dropped faster than the fences which once enclosed many camps.
I've always been an advocate for opening up corridors, allowing elephant herds to follow traditional migratory routes and predator-prey dynamics to naturally evolve. But living alongside wildlife requires careful and cautious planning and as human populations continue to grow, that relationship hangs in a delicate balance.
The real problem is not 'them' but 'us' and the safari industry is partly to blame.
Cultivated by marketers eager to sell holidays, the romantic, Disneyfied notion of an idyllic wilderness is misguided.
On countless game drives, I've watched vehicles edge uncomfortably close to potentially dangerous animals in the hope of getting a better iPhone photograph. There's also an assumption that booking a room in a five-star lodge gives us carte blanche to wander around freely as we would at home.
Despite repeated warnings from staff, it's all too easy to switch off our senses – ironically detaching ourselves from an environment where we're encouraged to feel immersed.
To their credit, many camps – like Angama Amboseli in Kenya and Dukes in Botswana – are attempting to educate travellers about the true struggles of human and wildlife co-existence.
But due to a combination of complacency and over-confidence, too many have lost a healthy, respectful fear for the wild.
Of course, not every creature in Africa's forests, plains and oceans is actively set on killing humans. Far from it. Most would prefer to be left to continue their lives undisturbed.
But blurring the invisible boundaries which should exist between humans and wild animals can lead to fatal accidents.
Every time I look into a lion's eyes, I shudder. Hearing their guttural roars outside my tent still sends me into shivers. That tingling fear is humbling – a reminder of the awesome wonders existing within our natural world.
Several years ago, I joined a mobile safari through northern Namibia with the late conservationist Garth Owen Smith. One night, we camped on a dry riverbed, close to the Hoanib Valley.
As we fell asleep, listening to lions roar, I asked Owen Smith why nobody had thought to pack a rifle for protection.
'Because we might be tempted to use it,' he replied matter-of-factly.
Years later, his response makes total sense. Far more effective than bullets, fear, respect and caution are the greatest weapons we have to protect ourselves in a world which should always be alluringly but dangerously wild.