Our first evening in the Masai Mara, after a hot, bumpy drive from Nairobi, our guide George wants to give us a taste of the days to come. 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 us (and the camera).

The walkie-talkies crackle and pop; George accelerates and yells at us to hang on.

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

George pulls closer and we get our first glimpse of the lioness. Our second dose of reality is arguably much funnier: while this encounter will be one I remember forever, it won't be for its majesty. 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.