Our first evening in the Masai Mara, our guide George wants to give us a taste of the days to come. We'd just settled into the lodge after a hot, bumpy, 6-hour drive from Nairobi, but we climb into the van and set off.

Against rolling hills and golden hour light, we spot our first zebras, gazelles, giraffes. All breathtaking, but I want lions. When you book a safari, months or years in advance, it's all you can think about: the pride silhouetted against a dramatic African sunset, cubs frolicking, mom and dad taking slow, regal steps toward you and your camera.

The walkie-talkie crackles and pops; George accelerates, and yells at us to hang on.

We approach and learn our first unfortunate truth about safari life: you rarely get animal encounters to yourself. Whatever we're approaching is surrounded by at least ten other vehicles.

George pulls closer and we get a glimpse of the lioness. Our second dose of reality sets in, and it's arguably much funnier: she's rolling around in mild pain under a bush — groaning, burping, farting. Too much for dinner, having gorged on some unfortunate creature in a lesser position on the food chain. While I'll remember this first impression forever, it won't be for its majesty. Nature always keeps it real.