If you’ve been sustaining your general knowledge self on a diet of David Attenborough, then you would expect that the moment you stepped off the plane, death becomes her – Africa. Heavy drums thud and elbow you in the stomach as lions unzip a zebra’s pretty upholstery and tug at the stuffing inside. Elephants thunder by like an army of construction trucks, deconstructing everything in their path. Hyenas nip at everyone’s ankles and rhinos work themselves up in a blind fury. A mad Greek chorus of monkeys shatters the air with demented laughter and vultures circle over your head, waiting to clear up the leftovers. And somewhere in the dark, Colonel Kurtz flashes an evil smile.

Then he opens the cooler, takes out some glasses and before you can say, ‘Hey, barman,’ has lined up a perfect row of gin and tonics

But unedited Africa isn’t like that.

Africa is gentler, especially here. Covering an area of almost 20,000 square kilometres, South Africa’s Kruger National Park is a kindly mother nature, welcoming you back to her ample bosom.

We chug out of the camp late afternoon. The heat is blinding and the animals move in slow motion. Everywhere, impalas walk carefully on their stilettoed hooves. They’re called the burgers of the savannah – they’re fast and they’re food. At the sound of the ranger car’s heavy diesel engine, they bounce away as if they were made of thin air.

In the shade of a statuesque tree which seems to be wearing its roots as a hat, a lion roars lazily as he watches his pride. Then he yawns and shows off a perfect set of white, life-affirming teeth – life-affirming for him, not for you, especially if you happen to miss a step and tumble down from the ranger’s car.

Nearby, two elephants pull at a giant branch with the same nonchalance of a man picking up a toothpick. Warthogs chase their ugly babies, tail in the air. Monkeys chatter and share wildlife gossip. We watch and wait for something to happen. But nothing does. If Samuel Beckett were here, he would say that nobody comes, nobody goes, but it’s beautiful.

Hours later, the sun is preparing to perform a fiery disappearing act. The temperature will soon drop and the animals will un-camouflage themselves and gather around the watering hole like many friends at a party. Except that they aren’t friends because in their eyes, every other animal is a walking bar snack.

But the animals won’t drink alone. The ranger gets out of the car, takes out a small picnic cooler from the back and lays a small wooden table with a crisp, white cloth.

Then he opens the cooler, takes out some glasses and before you can say, “Hey, barman,” has lined up a perfect row of gin and tonics.

Now a gin and tonic is the simplest cocktail – gin, tonic, ice and lime. And yet, it is spiked with so much history. When Britain was busy building an empire, the British Army discovered that quinine could be used to treat malaria. Unpleasantly bitter, the quinine was mixed with water, sugar, lime and gin – this soon became the drink of choice in India and Africa.

Here in Africa, a gin and tonic finds its perfect backdrop. Straight out of Paul Scott’s The Raj Quartet, it does carry a hint of white man’s guilt. And admittedly, I do feel like an actor in a colonial story. But there’s no unhappy ending. Rather, the zing of the lime, the bubbles playing hide and seek in my mouth, and the muffled sharpness of the gin illuminate this heart of darkness and I realise that I’m home. Africa can now colonise me.