It's February in the Serengeti – what a fabulous time to be here...

We drive out onto the plain early one morning.

It rained a few days ago after a bit of dry spell, but the news is that the migration is nowhere to be seen, just some scattered groups. Right away, though, we get lucky: we find a small nursery herd with one calf clearly only minutes old. It is still wet and struggling to stay upright. A little miracle – this tiny creature will be able to run around in half an hour or so, and by day’s end will be able to keep up with the herd if they start heading out.

In the same group we spot a cow with a foetus already partially emerged, but pleasure quickly turns to anxiety: she is clearly having difficulty. A breach birth? After half an hour with not much progress, we decide that it’s just too traumatic, so we wish them well and move on, our rose-tinted specs slightly askew.

As we make our way across the plain, we spy a heavy dark line on the horizon. Bushes? Not out there… Cloud shadows? We can soon make out a tsunami of wildebeest, a densely packed mob moving steadily across the grassland, eating intently as they come.

This isn’t the peaceful event of last month, with half a million fat’n’happy animals dotted evenly across the plain. They have been forced by the dry spell back into the western woodland, where the grass is less nutritious. With the grasslands greening up, the pregnant mums are in a controlled feeding frenzy, an army of lawn mowers on the march, shoulder to shoulder, across the open land.

Soon we are in the midst of the herd, probably hundreds of thousands of snorting, honking, restlessly moving animals. This is one of nature’s grand spectacles, something that never fails to take my breath away.

And it’s not just the wildebeest that are giving birth. Periodically as you drive, a tiny gazelle bounces out of a tuft of grass, its tail held ludicrously upright, like a fluffy black exclamation mark. Not so ludicrous really – it helps mum keep an eye so she can find him again when he settles.

And then there are the ever-attendant predators, looking for these new tasty mortals. The circle of life keeps on turning...

Maasai lion hunters

Soit Ayai kopjes, Piyaya. ‘The Magic Hour’, when golden morning light slants across the plain, painting everything it touches in rich hues; long shadows at crazy angles.

There was good rain some days ago, and the plain is greengreengreen, and covered with peacefully grazing animals as far as the eye can see. It has been like this for the last few days: every time you think you have seen every single wildebeest on the planet, you come over a rise and there is another huge plain, with another 100,000 animals…

A party of Maasai moran (warriors) is striding across the grassland. They look fabulous, as usual: red tunic; a rough leather belt on which is a red scabbard and simi; and a spear. They are visibly agitated by our presence. ‘No photos’, I tell my guests.

I greet them: ‘Entasopa!’ ‘Hepa!’ comes the reply.

We talk a while, about the usual things, and then I ask what they’re doing today. It turns out that they are searching for lion. They will then chase it until, terrified and enraged, it whirls and turns on its tormentors. Then they will spear it.

It is 2010, and yet there are still young Maasai men whose cultural roots run so deep that they are prepared to risk life and limb in this way in order to demonstrate their courage. They sure as hell get my vote.

Well, yes and no. Because the other reality about 2010 is that, throughout Maasailand and beyond, lions are in trouble. Outside the national parks, lions only cling on in small numbers, and as human population rises, so these small pockets will be wiped out too. As lion numbers go down, moran are forced to seek them out in areas where they still exist - like Piyaya. One of the reasons that they are still here is that the camp pays tens of thousands of dollars each year for the right to operate here, money which the community uses for education, health and other projects.

Which is why I radio back to camp to get a vehicle to come and watch them from a distance. We know, and they know, that lion hunting is illegal, so they will be unable to make a kill while we are there.

Not long after, we find a lion, so we sit with him, as an added degree of protection. After a while, he wanders off and disappears in a thicket.