Tonight, from my balcony, I watched the carnival of the animals: deer of all sizes from the tiny dik dik to the walking meal that is the waterbuk, trotting elegantly to the water only to be frightened off by a bunch of savage, brawling baboons, running along the ground at breakneck speed, their angry growls sounding like cats fighting.

The zebras moved in afterwards, swishing their tails and waiting patiently till the bad-mannered baboons had finished their aggressive antics.

The striped animals lined up in rows, fighting for pole position, one contrary beast nipping and kicking those who stepped out of line. Two herds came through, then there was quiet while the sun set, and now the elephants have arrived.

They are sloshing and snorting in the smaller waterhole, drinking deeply and flapping their ears happily all the while illuminated by a few lights that render them a ghostly pale orange. One, the large bull, makes his herd wait while he scratches his backside happily on a large rock. He is joined by a friend and the sound of their skin rasping against the rock echoes through the still night. They take a minute for some mild deforestation, then move off silently in the night.

A giraffe is waiting in the wings, and dark shapes that I can’t identify have scuttled up nearby trees for a look-see. Who will be next at the waterhole? The sun is gone and the plains are alive.

The crunching of rabbit bones is loud, even from 15 meters away, over the din of my chatty guide. The lion licks the bones, tears the meat and crunches merrily, all the while looked on by a dissatisfied lionesse.

“There’s something not right,” says Julius. “Males don’t stop to eat during copulation.”

It’s the lion equivalent of turning on the footy half-way through the act.

Finally, the lioness gives up and wanders off in disgust. The lion finishes his feast and heads over the river, where he meets another lion. We wait for a clash of the titans but the two merely sniff each other, recognise their brother, then team up to hunt the buffalo we’d passed earlier.

They cruise slowly through the scrub, the wind in their favour. The buffalo don’t even know they’re there. But then they stop their monotonous chewing and look up. The three birds riding on their backs, little oxpeckers, tighten their grip as the largest male lifts his tail and lets loose a stream of poo.

“Look! He’s getting ready! That’s stress defecation!” shrieks Julius, dancing in his seat. The male buffalo then leads his girlfriends into the scrub, directly in the lions’ path.

It’s a rout.

The two lions see the angry buffalos and turn as one to saunter back the way they came. But the buffalo comes at them again, head lowered, and charges the big cats, who give up all pretense of looking cool and, with tails between their legs, break into a run. The primo buffalo shakes his head and snorts, the oxpeckers resume their grooming of their mount.

They know the lion is not king of the plains, and have put their money on the right horse.

Today was mega-Nairobi tourism, though interestingly enough, nothing I saw was actually in Nairobi. It was all on the fringes of the city of nearly four million, which includes the famed Kibera slum, home to up to a quarter of the city’s population.

We drove straight from the airport to the district of Karen, named for Karen Blixen, the author of ‘Out of Africa’, a tale of 1930s life in Kenya, later made into a movie starring Meryl Streep and the delicious Robert Redford. Think Karen Country Club, Karen Shopping Mall, Karen Holiday Homes, and you’re on the right track to how valuable this Danish woman has been to Nairobi.

Of course, I visited the Karen Blixen House, who, my driver deliciously informed me was a member of a wife-swapping club, lit a candle when she requested her disdained husband’s presence in her bed (instead, she opted for Robert Redford in the movie, smart girland died of syphilis. She was also a pioneer farmer of the Kenyan coffee industry, defender of African women and a crack shot, but these stirling traits are becoming overshadowed by her sexual proclivities.

Also on the list today was the David Sheldrick Wildlife Trust where orphaned baby elephants are sent in from across the country to be healed from spear, gun and even arrow wounds, and the Kazuri ceramic bead factory, which gives single mothers a job and medical care while they hand make beads that are imported across the world.

The crème of the day was the Giraffe Manor for breakfast. A 1930s manor reminiscent of the Glasgow designer Rennie McIntosh, the breakfast parlour opens up so the 10 or so giraffes can stick their heads in and say hi for breakfast. It’s an awesome sight, these topsy-turvy Daliesque animals cantering across the lawns. There have been a couple of leopard attacks (“We all check our little dogs every morning,” confided manager Helle) with one of the young giraffes being severely bitten, a travesty in not only humanitarian but also financial terms. These are valuable animals, she adds, and with only 400 giraffes in Kenya, they are on the critical endangered list until their population reaches 1000. At this sanctuary, four babies were born this year, but two have already died and leopards bit the third.

The big question about Nairobi is: is it safe? The UN worker and the Egyptian businessman in the queue with me at Cairo airport both said no. Use only a hard bag for luggage or the luggage handlers will slit your bag and steal everything. Don’t walk alone at day or night. Give up your bag or car if asked – they shoot first and ask questions later. Trust no-one in Africa.

Of course they have me worried. But my guide Benson said this morning that say it used to be much worse, 10 years go. Now it’s much more relaxed, though like in any big city, there are certain no-go areas. “You can’t compare Nairobi with Jo’berg,” he said. “You just have to be careful.”

Nairobi has Schweppes tonic! OMG, I’m a tonic snob. But then I’m being a snob by where i’m eating tonight – on the verandah of the Norfolk Hotel, the oldest hotel in Nairobi and older even than the London doyennes the Ritz and the Savoy.

It’s the stuff hotel snob dreams are made of. Unfortunately, i’m not staying here. I’m staying up the road at another, perfectly serviceable hotel. But this is cool.

The ostrich burger is off tonight, but the Pimms and pink G&Ts are on, the wine list is predominantly South African and beside the Mombasa seafood grill and the Mt Kenya beef are such colonial staples as shepherd’s pie.

The flight from Cairo was late, but hey, it wasn’t overbooked, which is always a bonus. I knew it’d be an interesting flight when I discovered an old man sitting in my prized window seat. He peered up at me beatifically.

“Good evening, madam! How are you tonight,” he chortled.

“I am well sir, though it appears you’re in my seat.” It was at this point his English appeared to fail him, but I booted him out gently anyway.

I knew he was in a bad mood when the dinner came around.

“Chicken or beef, sir?”

“Fish.”

“No, chicken or beef.”
A shrug of ‘what-can-I-do’ and a bad-natured, “Chicken”.

“Juice? Orange, apple, pineapple, tomato.”

“Mango.” And so it went.

I then proceeded to lay all over him while I slept on the leg to Khartoum and then again down to Nairobi, though he kindly slapped me awake for dinner and breakfast. In return, I gave him my used fork when he violently assaulted the offending chicken, snapping his plastic fork, tines going everywhere through the cabin.
The flight left Cairo late at 1am and it was after 8am that I staggered out of Nairobi airport, lagging behind a Korean choir that hogged all counters and shamelessly queue-jumped. Jambo (hello!), Kenya!