The road from the camp was a pock-marked hard dirt ribbon threading into the hills. Game was everywhere. Friends mingled with friends, so all of the herbivores grazed together—horned animals of all kinds, along with giraffes, wildebeests, and zebras—with no carnivore in sight. The latter stayed within their own groups: cheetah families, a pride of—imagine!—17 lions, and a lone leopard in a tree. A small group of hyenas emerged from the bush, muzzles and necks freshly stained red and abdomens bulging from their recent breakfast.

This morning, instead of tracking game in the lowlands, we drove to the higher ridge where a Masai village sat. The chief greeted us, collected $20 apiece and, in surprisingly good English (learned solely from tourist interaction), delivered a brief history of his tribe followed by a tour of the village. The Masai, displaced from living in the park, grazed cows and goats on the outskirts. The tribe was totally self-sufficient, living on the meat and milk of its herds. Periodically they bled the cows, draining off a pint of blood with a hollow stick that punctured a jugular vein, and drank it mixed with milk. They grew no crops and ate very few green foods. Each morning young boys and men dressed in florid red cloths easily spotted in the drab grass herded the flocks to the lower pastures to graze.

The chief led us through an opening in the bramble fence enclosure, and we gingerly tiptoed around and over cow dung that filled the space. Every evening the animals supporting the Masai existence and accounting for their wealth were herded into this ring for protection. Calves and baby goats were sheltered in the front rooms of tiny domed three- room huts in which the Masai family lived. The other two rooms were the father's sleeping cubicle and a smaller one for the mother, who slept with the children. Mud, grass and cow dung formed the walls and roof, with a hard-packed dirt floor. Body heat from the young animals and a central fire whose smoke billowed through a hole in the roof kept families warm. No hot-water bottle or hot tea delivered by an attendant here!

Clouds of flies settled on faces, eyes, and clothes. Electricity and running water did not exist. Streams or shallow wells provided drinking water. At this hour, the only males left in the camp were the chief and two old men, one of whom showed us how they made fire by rubbing two sticks together, exactly as I had done 50 years earlier to earn my Boy Scout's merit badge!

Women—alone or carrying babies—stood watching us. Then they grouped together and chanted a Masai welcome. Several women were building a new hut, a chore deemed unworthy of a Masai man. Children of all ages ran about in various stages of dress…or undress. Two older boys engaged in a shoving match until they were separated by one of the mothers—sibling rivalry universal, no different here than at home.

Kicking and scraping the thick crust of dung from our shoes, we toured the village, bought a few hand-beaded trinkets, and reboarded the Land Rover to return to our camp for a thorough hand-washing and shoe-cleaning before lunch. We ate and, after a swim and a nap, left for the afternoon drive in the cool of early sunset. Animal life, slowed during the heat of the day, emerged from dense foliage, thickets and trees, foraging for food. A large herd of elephants blocking the road were in no hurry to let us drive through. The herd was intent on tearing up great hunks of grass by the roots, shaking the dirt off so as not to wear down their teeth, and swallowing basketball-sized clumps. The biggest elephant, the grand dame matriarch, eyed us warily and trunk-guided her year-old baby son beneath her belly. He suckled for a few minutes and emerged from her protection to confront our vehicle. Barely three feet tall, the little guy mock-charged the Land Rover, ears flaring and trunk raised, hissing at us. He then ran back to Mother, seemingly quite proud of his show of bravado, so much so that he repeated it, making certain the entire herd of ten witnessed his bravery. Then, once again, he scurried beneath his mother's huge flanks while she stood impassively, or perhaps with a slight smile on her face. Do elephants smile, I wondered?

The wildebeests were migrating south in search of fresh tender grass and water from the Masai Mara in Kenya to its continuation, a plain called the Serengeti, once it crossed the Tanzania border. Great herds of wildebeests stood grazing, while others formed an endless serpentine line resembling a dark smudge stretching across the horizon. As we approached, the smudge became defined, first as dots and then as individual animals walking in single file, tail to head, almost in each other's footsteps. A narrow path worn into the plain testified to their orderly methodical march. The strongest led while the elders struggled to keep up the rear. Half-grown calfs, all born within a day of each other, hugged close to their mothers' sides. Because of relatively poor eyesight, wildebeests often commingled with zebras to take advantage of the zebras' visual acuity. Predators were all about, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

Suddenly the line halted and the animals milled around nervously. Were lions close by? No, our guide said, it was the Mara River. As the vehicle drew closer, we could see the lead animals dancing agitatedly on the shore, edging closer to the water, then back, trying to galvanize sufficient courage to cross the wet chasm blocking their journey.

And, indeed, courage was needed, because in the river lay a dozen half-submerged floating logs with only eyes and snouts showing. These huge river crocodiles sensed dinner was approaching, and they only needed to wait for home delivery on the hoof. A two-ton hippopotamus walked the river bottom nearby, observing an uneasy truce with the crocs. Mean-spirited and unpredictable, these huge herbivores that protected their tender skin by wallowing in water during the day accounted for more human deaths in Africa than any other animal.

Finally the lead animal, a big male zebra, took the plunge. The crocs struck in an instant. One locked jaws on a rear leg while another bit down on its muzzle, dragging the zebra underwater. The river churned as the animal fought to get free. But it could not escape the powerful jaws dragging it into deeper water, where it soon drowned. Other crocs converged and began ripping off chunks of flesh by grabbing hold, twisting and rolling over and over in the ever-reddening water. An eagle flew to the river bank, waiting for a chance to dive into the frenzy for a piece of meat. When it appeared that most of the crocs were focused on the zebra carcass, the migration restarted, the line once again moving after the brief, but deadly, interlude. Sacrificing one zebra was the price for crossing the river…this time.

The rest of the afternoon yielded little game, and our group grew weary of bouncing over rutted roads in search of an elusive large herd of elephants. It was remarkable how these huge beasts quietly blended into the bush. Finally our guide pulled to a stop and turned off the motor to "listen to the bush talking." Faintly, we heard low-pitched rumbling sounds and sharp clicking noises in the distance. Staring hard into the dense foliage, we saw nothing but shadows.

"Elephants," the guide whispered, "talking to each other."

"And the clicking sounds?" I asked.

"Young males sparring, tusk on tusk." The guide started the engine and backed the Land Rover 50 yards further down the road. "They will cross in front of us," he said under his breath. "Just wait."

We sat five minutes, ten, slapping at mosquitoes and flicking flies in the gathering gloom, listening to the bush. Birds sang, katydids chirped, and the rumbling noises intensified. Suddenly, we saw a huge shadow take solid form. Not ten yards in front of our vehicle the matriarch elephant began to cross the road, a 31⁄2-ton giant not yet seeing us. She looked right and then left, almost like any pedestrian crossing a street, and then spied our vehicle. With an ear-piercing shriek, upraised trunk, and flapping ears, the mammoth bundle of fury charged! No three-foot baby this time! My hands instinctively flew to protect my face as I was certain she would overturn the Land Rover and trample us all. But just inches from the vehicle, she halted, backed away, and repeated her ferocious attack, head high. Again the behemoth stopped inches from us. Three times she repeated her angry assault, each attack sending our hearts racing, but each stopping just short of us.

Apparently satisfied that we represented no threat (and that she had scared us into submission), she slowly crossed the road, followed by the other members of her herd. We sat spellbound for the next ten minutes as 35 gray beasts of all sizes walked in front of us, behind us, and alongside, padded feet slapping quietly on the road. We were surrounded by tons of elephants. But since the matriarch dismissed us as a threat, not one charged, yet all appraised us carefully. When the lengthy procession finished, fading again into the shrubs, we turned to each other—some still white-faced, hearts thudding. Our guide was smiling.

"Oh, they never actually complete the attack," he said, only after the last of the phalanx had passed. "In my 24 years in the bush, I have never seen it happen. Just a mock display to see if you'd run. When they really intend to charge, their ears flatten and there is no warning, just a speeding missile coming at you."

"Why didn't you tell us that before?" I asked.

"And spoil the fun?" he replied.

Sunlight was fading rapidly in the drive back to camp. Giraffes swayed gracefully in the golden light, stretched necks bobbing from side to side and casting elongated shadows while grazing on the treetops. They walked with a unique sort of sashaying gait, moving both legs on one side in unison with each step. Only the hyena walked similarly. I thought about the giraffes' blood pressure, 21⁄2 times that of a human, required to transport blood up those long necks, and the 25-pound heart needed to generate it. One at a time they stopped to drink, carefully spreading front legs wide to reach the water while others stood guard. One slip and the lanky giants might not be able to get up again.

A male ostrich dashed in front of the Land Rover, shook its wings and danced across the road, trying to capture a female's attention. In the bush, a serval, looking much like a displaced house cat, chased a rabbit bigger than itself.

At the next turn, animals on both sides of the road froze and stared. Ahead, walking directly in our path with the same insouciant attitude, was the lion pair, owning the road. Our vehicle braked to a stop, and we sat holding our breaths while the brothers passed so close we could have reached out and petted them. We sat mesmerized, but these kings ignored us like so much flora. The lords of the land meandered into the bush when suddenly a 1,500-pound water buffalo came over the rise, almost colliding heads with them. For just a split second, the threesome stood still, taking stock of each other. Then, head lowered and fearsome horns thrust forward, the buffalo charged the pair. Not about to wrestle with a powerful male buffalo in its prime, the royals fled like vanquished rulers, tails between legs.

After dinner we sat in deck chairs at the front of our tent, recalling the day's adventures. The night sky was lit up—exploding fireworks by the millions of stars. Venus outshone all other planets, appearing close enough to pluck like low-hanging fruit. Across the sky sped a satellite. And in the distance, on the other side of the electric fence, Africa continued its cycle of life and death as it had for countless millennia. We could only hope the cheetahs had found dinner.