"Noel, you be careful. Remember, it's a jungle out there," Stephanie called as I emerged from my tent, camera draped around my neck.

I gave her an appropriate retort as I walked away from the safari campsite, headed for the river. If I was lucky, I'd be in time for the herd of zebra to come down for their evening drink. If I was unlucky, I'd be in time to get mixed up with the night hunters, and I don't mind admitting that I'd rather photograph a lion or a cheetah from the safety of a 4 wheel drive, with the tour guides armed to the teeth. I know it was leaving it a bit late, but we'd just got back from chasing a small herd of elephants away from the local village of the Umi Guli people, where they trampled the crops underfoot to get to the fruit from the trees. This favour wasn't listed on our scheduled safari tour, but it made us tourists feel appreciated. The grateful Umi Guli loaded us up with all the fruit we could carry, so everybody won, except for the elephants, of course!

As a relative newcomer to Africa, I was still unsure about the local wildlife, but I was aware that much of it bit, stung, gored, pummelled and stomped, so I made sure my gun was loose in its holster, with plenty of anaesthetic darts loaded. Too loose, as it turned out.

Less than five minutes away from the camp I shot photos of a herd of beautiful springbok in mid-jump, and just one of a ratel, or honey badger, just seconds before it disappeared into a hole in the ground. We'd been warned about those. They might look cute, but they were cantankerous little buggers, with a big broad white stripe running the length of their backs. Disturb them, and they wouldn't rest until they'd sunk their sharp teeth into whatever part of your leg they could reach. As they only stood a few inches high, they were Africa's version of ankle-biters.

I gave a paper wasp nest a wide berth, as I didn't have enough darts for a whole swarm, but then was very unlucky to disturb a lioness in the long grass as it crouched, intently watching the springbok.

With a roar she demonstrated her displeasure at my intrusion, and realising that an apology would be as much use as a chocolate teapot, I beat a hasty retreat. Don't ask me how I managed it, but I was up the nearest tree almost before she took her first step in my direction. It's a pity my dart gun didn't, as it fell out of the holster when I was only two feet up the tree, and no way was I going to stop and retrieve it. In the distance I could hear the springbok making their escape, and wished that I too had springs in my heels.

Settling into the first available position where a large branch left the trunk, I watched as the lioness tried to figure out if she could, or should, climb up after me. Lions are notoriously lazy, so I hoped she'd do the sensible thing and wander off to find easier game. By easier I mean game that isn't likely to go shooting off at a tangent from the horizontal, forcing her to climb a tree, something that lions only do in emergencies. However, she was a fully paid up member of the cat family, so the odds were that she'd soon be sharing my branch and working out how to drag my broken, bloodied body over to her pride for supper. As a fully paid up member of the coward family, my sudden burst of adrenalin quickly drove me to the realisation that attack was probably the best form of defence, so I threw my water bottle at her.

I used to bowl for Yorkshire, so I hit her square on the nose, and she backed off a little. Encouraged, I took off my boot and scored a hit with that too. Her yelp convinced me that I was on the right track, so I completed my hat trick with my remaining boot. This last hit elicited a furious roar from her, and I became worried that I had enraged her so much that when she climbed up, she'd tear me into so many pieces that she'd have to make several trips to get me back to the pride.

With this in mind, I decided to break out the heavy artillery for a last ditch effort, Custer's last stand if you like. Risking a hasty shot of a thoroughly pissed-off lioness in extreme close-up, I removed my film, stowed it safely in my pocket, then hurled my heavy camera at her. With a strange sound, half yelp, half roar, she turned tail and fled. Not before time, as I'd run out of ammunition, but her brain was wired for cunning rather than for intelligence, so she'd never noticed that she now had unrestricted access to genuine English fast food for her supper.

After about half an hour, I decided that she'd gone for good, and climbed down to retrieve my dart gun and missiles, collecting lots of splinters from the rough bark of the tree in my bare feet.

Pulling out as many splinters as I could reach, I set off for safety, keeping a firm grip on my gun in case that overgrown moggie came back.

I really suffered, limping all the way back to camp, and even the delectable Stephanie's ministrations couldn't make up for my heroic ordeal. You must have seen that incredible photo of the business end of a hungry lion. I sold it to African Geographic magazine for a goodly sum, enough to keep me in cigars for six months, while the photo became the spearhead of their Watch Where You Walk campaign.

So the moral of this story is: even when dressing casually for a pre dinner stroll, always wear socks!

© Sandy Parkinson February, 2008. Word count: 1008