Africa does not let you go without lasting memories; the first journey stays stored deep inside and calls you back. And so we returned, to wait for the great migration of wildebeest and zebras on the border between Kenya and Tanzania, where one and a half million hoofed animals cross the Mara River in search of better grazing grounds to the north. The migration season is also a feast for enormous crocodiles, a great balance that is joyful and tragic at the same time, from ancient times to the present day, an event anyone can watch with awe. Scenes of slaughter, when the weakest end up on the menu of prehistoric reptiles, leave no observer indifferent. Television programmes are one thing; reality thirty metres away is something entirely different. The sounds of panic and splashing, clouds of dust in the hot wind, dangerous insects, reptiles underfoot, the overheated metal of the vehicles … Every afternoon we went to the riverbank hoping that a large group would decide to risk their lives and yield to the irresistible urge to cross the river, to follow an instinct stored in their genes since prehistoric times, when volcanoes were still erupting in neighbouring Tanzania. Asanta sane, as the Maasai say for such an experience, when they celebrate life with their dances and think Habuna makaka, or seize the day—every day that begins with the smell of fresh wild savannah grass and ends with sunsets behind solitary baobabs and the stretched necks of giraffes. This is our Safari or, in our words, a journey through life, say the locals, who gladly welcome wealthy tourists but know that the great merciless cycle of life and death in a land that does not forgive, and to which they themselves belong, will not be changed by anyone for a long time to come.