Over the next few days, I learn to read pugmarks and identify dung, like a detective piecing together clues at a crime scene, wrapped up in my olive green poncho, taking refuge from the icy cold winds lashing my face. Most atmospheric is our night safari under a full moon, and skies free from the pollution of lights, perfect for wannabe astronomers. Our ranger drives with one hand, manipulating a special searchlight with the other, focussing on the enormous eyes of nocturnal bush babies (little primates seen only at night), genets (that look like domestic cats) and beady-eyed owls on a gnarled branch. It's easy to get hung up about spotting the Big 5 (buffalo, elephant, leopard, lion and rhino) but Sebastian teaches us to appreciate the smaller treasures of the bush - the familiar cry of a grey lourie (it's also called the go-away bird for the way it sounds) or the grey shadows that translate into an eland (another graceful antelope), the brilliant colouring of a lilac-breasted roller, and the majestic spiralling horns of a male kudu. I am like a kid all over again, excited by the melancholy call of the fish eagle, the sight of red-billed woodpeckers which feast on ticks from the backs of buffaloes and giraffes, and the gargantuan termite hills that dot the barren landscape.