But it is the animals themselves, of course, that are the main attraction of any nature walk, and the most prized sightings are, in the vernacular of the safari business, the Big 5. The so-called Big 5 -- lion, leopard, buffalo, rhino and elephant -- are so named because they are the five most dangerous animals to encounter on foot. On our second night, when we first arrived in the Timbavati, we had our first Big 5 sighting in an open-air jeep -- a herd of about 400 Cape buffalo. We would learn later just how dangerous these can be: A lone male buffalo is also known as a "dagga" bull, dagga also being South African slang for a potent home-grown marijuana. If a dagga bull sees you on foot, we are told, he will chase you and kill you. But on our second night, still rookies and more interested in big cats, elephants and rhinos, we didn't appreciate the rarity of the moment. Besides which, the buffalo is by far the least cool of the Big 5. It's like getting excited to see a member of the Rat Pack in concert and then getting Joey Bishop. The next morning, our first on-foot animal sighting gives us students a short scare: The dagga bull we think we see skirting back and forth across the plain, trumpeting a warning sign to his companions, turns out to be a wildebeest. As the wildebeest scampers away and we breathe a sigh of relief, Les gives us instructions on what to do in case we actually do encounter any of the Big 5 on foot. "If you see a lion," Les instructs us, "lock arms with each other and hold perfectly still -- don't crouch, and certainly don't run." Running, we are told, will only trigger the lion's predatory instincts, and get us killed. "If, however, we see an elephant, rhino or buffalo," Les goes on, "and they should charge us, then run like hell and climb up a tree." In my neurotic New York mind-set, I ask, with Oliver Stone-like skepticism, "What if you start running from the rhino or elephant, and then a lion sees you and starts chasing you?" Dismissing the possibility that the animals could be in any kind of Big 5 conspiracy plot with a snort and a roll of his eyes, Les repeats his emergency contingency plans. Of course, when the contingency plan involves running and climbing, I wish I was back in the friendly confines of, say, the South Bronx. Moving forward after the wildebeest incident, Alastair spots a black object just up ahead of us on the trail. It turns out to be a half-eaten black and white Converse trainer. Les explains that the shoe almost certainly belonged to a Mozambican refugee, eaten by a lion. Mozambique, just now recovering from a ruinous two-decade civil war, borders South Africa to the east. Thus, Les explains, it is not uncommon for refugees from Mozambique to avoid customs and attempt to cross into South Africa through Kruger National Park and the Timbavati. There are no statistics kept on this, but Les estimates that seven Mozambicans are killed by lions every month. As we approach a small watering hole, the overcast skies open up and we take shelter under a jackalberry tree. Large golden orb spiders patiently await their next insect meal on webs that are 17 times as strong as steel. Already thoroughly soaked, we decide not to wait out the rain any longer and we push ahead. The trail turns muddy as our walk takes us remarkably close to seven jackals, some zebras, wildebeests and giraffes. The rain finally lets up as we pause on Jackal Plain for a brief lunch of cheese, crackers and apples. We are careful not to let fall any apple seeds, which could introduce an exotic tree to the area and wreak havoc with the present ecosystem. Even though it's winter in Africa, the sun is still strong enough to quickly dry the wet clothes on our backs. We start our return journey back to camp. Les stops suddenly and pulls his rifle off his shoulders. "We've got a problem," he says. About 150 yards in front of us is a lone Cape buffalo -- a dagga bull. "If he sees us," Les says gravely, "Kevin will lead you out the way we just came. And you'll run. I'll stay here and try to distract him." Fortunately, Mr. Dagga is too engrossed in grazing to bother with a bunch of tourists, but his presence forces us to take a different route back to camp. We proceed without any further incidents. Home in the dining hall, with fruit bats sleeping upside down above us and a family of dwarf mongooses darting about our feet, the property manager, Happy, serves us a leftover lunch of impala roast. Happy is a character too clichéd even for central casting. A lithe, loopy soul with a quick laugh and a Zen spirit, the guy never speaks unless he is asked a question directly, and even then he is likely to answer back in the form of a question. Happy has no TV or radio and doesn't get any newspapers, and he's been managing the camp for nine years. Where "camp" ends and the bush begins is actually a debatable point -- animals certainly act as if they didn't get the memo, as they wander through the camp with impunity. Last night at dinner, Stephen and Alastair reported excitedly that a giraffe came thrillingly close to their cabin's terrace. The bungalows are built on stilts, making them more difficult for predators to access -- still, each terrace is adorned with a giraffe femur, useful to smack a hyena on the noggin if he gets uppity. Our cabins are situated along a riverbed, one that flows full in the wet season and becomes an animal highway in the dry season. There is no plumbing in the camp; the adjacent shower operates on a rope-pulley-bucket system. We are each rationed a bucket of hot water in the morning; we lower the shower bucket and fill it with hot water, then hoist it back up. Farther down the road is the loo, which, like an experimental drama, has broken down the fourth wall, allowing one to sightsee wildlife while one takes care of other business. But going to the bathroom suddenly takes on a Clint Eastwood quality: Do you feel lucky, punk? Each trip to the loo has to be weighed against a potential predator encounter, one in which you could be fatally caught with your pants down. By our fourth evening, we are ready for the biggest challenge of our course -- the overnight camp-out. Our safaris have been relatively fruitful up to this point: We have seen impala, hippos, warthogs, waterbucks, duikers, bush babies, genet cats, chameleons and scores of bird and insect species. But aside from the two separate Cape buffalo sightings, the closest we have come to Big 5 has been the spoor of a lion and the dung of elephants and rhinos. Tonight we are going to see if our dangerous animal hosts are as elusive at night as they are from 9 to 5.

We head for a spot that we had scouted yesterday, where plenty of zebras, giraffes and vervet monkeys had congregated. Les likes to establish a civilized ambience in his wilderness outposts: He brings lawn chairs, silverware and dishes, little buffet tables for our dinner and even a washbasin on a small night stand. And, of course, tons of booze. We set up our sleeping bags on a filthy blue tarp as Les and Kevin -- whom we have dubbed "the Khaki Brothers" -- prepare a gargantuan feast: scores of impala kebabs, lamb chops and boerewors (sausage), accompanied by pap (a lumpy but tasty potato mass), baked potatoes and a huge salad. A South African cookout is called a braai, and clearly this is a braai of epic proportions. We take turns scooping burning embers from the bottom of the fire pit and putting them on a bed of sand, on top of which the meat sizzles on grills. Everyone in our party, with the exception of Pietro, has bonded extremely well up to this point. Pietro is a complete nuisance, like a little Napoleon school prefect. Though he is by far the oldest of our group, he is constantly kissing up to Les. The question he asks before we go on every field trip is, "Les, should we bring our notebooks, Les?" Another favorite pastime of his is "Wanker One-upmanship." When Michael Jackson's name comes up in casual conversation, for example, Pietro notes how Jacko had expressed interest in purchasing Pietro's Cape Town manse. Same with Princess Di. And when Margaret Thatcher is mentioned, Pietro notes how the Iron Lady had been subject to the same weapons search as all his other guests at a party in, what else, his Cape Town home. The Brits, on the other hand, in spite of the cliché, are politeness personified. Steven is a proper English gentleman -- so proper, in fact, that earlier he had prefaced a mild rebuke of Ronald Reagan by first obtaining my permission to make a possibly offensive remark about a former American president. Alastair is a thoughtful young lad who enjoys wildlife and photography. Jane is perceptive and insightful, and brave enough to spend 10 days in the wilderness with six men. When done eating their lamb chops, Les, Kevin and Pietro -- the native South Africans -- chuck the bones cavalierly over their shoulders. If I am concerned that the refuse will attract predators, I am flat-out petrified by what transpires next. Les, clearly sloshed out of his mind at this point and having some good fun at the city folks' expense, stands up, grabs his own throat and delivers his impression of the wildebeest distress call, which to humans sounds like rapper Biz Markie on helium getting a wedgie -- but which predators hear as a Pavlovian dinner bell. We all sit frozen in terror, mouths agape, as Les bleats his wild, inebriated message to our free-ranging animal audience. Seconds after he finishes, hyenas howl their approving response. I stand up slowly from my lawn chair and try to position myself between the chairs and the fire, wheeling around in full circles with my flashlight. I momentarily regain my calm center by staring up at the gorgeous full moon and the constellations -- Orion, Scorpio, Southern Cross -- that are not easily visible in, say, Manhattan. But when it comes time for bed, my apprehensions sit in my stomach like a lump of pap. Les divides the night into shifts of half an hour each, from midnight until 6. Needless to say, there are only seven of us, so when Les is awakened at 4 in the morning, he falls victim to his own mathematical miscalculation. My shift is from 2 until 2:30, but when I go to bed at 11:30, all I can think of is that either a hyena is going to bite my face off or a crocodile is going to bite my entire head off. I place my shoes between my head and any approaching intruder -- yeah, that ought to stop him. The next thing I see is Alastair's face, waking me for my shift. He stokes the fire while I get my shoes on. And then it is just me and the wild. I'm so scared that I can't even move from my chair for the first three minutes, but somehow, after those three minutes are up, soothed by the crackling of the fire and the enormity of the southern sky, I relax and roam the camp a little. I munch on some leftover food sitting on the buffet table. I stoke the fire. I shine my flashlight. There are absolutely no animals to be seen. It is a tremendous relief, and yet also a bitter disappointment. And before I know it, my shift is over. I am enjoying it so much, and my adrenaline is pumping so thoroughly, that I momentarily consider not waking Stephen, but at 2:35, drowsiness kicks in. I wake the architect and drift off to my hyena dreams. The next morning we awake to find we are still alive. We pack up as Les tells us to leave nothing behind but our footprints -- those and the 17,000 cigarette butts that he has tossed into the fire pit. So we leave the Timbavati having seen only one of the Big 5. It is disappointing, but Les tells us that is the nature of this kind of tour. There are private parks, he explains, that tag leopards with radio collars, so that when guests arrive, the rangers can pinpoint the leopard's location, and then all the park's jeeps will converge on the surprised cat. Les' tours are much more authentic, a genuine "what you see is what you get" experience. Plus, the element of surprise is always with us -- we never know what we are going to see. To make ourselves feel better, we congratulate ourselves on having seen the Little 5, our own designation consisting of four wildebeests and a dung beetle. We have learned in our course work that the dung beetle plays a critical role in the ecosystem, not only in removing dung, but also in returning it to the earth, thus giving the soil invaluable nutrients. About 30 seconds after we enter the property of our next camp, Moholoholo, I see a dung beetle on the side of the road rolling a ball of dung -- the stage just before it plants its eggs in the dung and buries the ball in the ground. It is a quintessential Little 5 sighting and, believe it or not, for an urban boy from the wilds of New York City more familiar with cockroaches and large rats, it is genuinely exciting. In addition to being a private game park, Moholoholo is also home to an animal rehabilitation center, one that nurses injured or abandoned animals back to health. Here we actually do bag some Big 5 sightings -- lions and a leopard -- as well as a variety of raptors, such as the dangerous martial eagle. But seeing a lion or a leopard in a zoo-like rehab center as opposed to in the wild is kind of like seeing Iggy Pop in concert in 1996 as opposed to 1976 -- equal parts exciting and pathetic. There is also a bizarre interactive element to the rehab center. Our party is encouraged to enter the vulture cage with 12 birds, and we take turns lifting them up with a falconer's glove. For some reason, four of the vultures take a keen interest in relentlessly pecking at Pietro's socks, much to everyone else's amusement. We are then invited to stand inside one end of the martial eagle cage while the bird is perched on the opposite end. The property manager, Brian Jones, stands between us as the bird flies onto his glove, allowing us to take photographs of her in flight. Our next stop takes us into the lion cage, where a young female cub called Sara can be stroked by careful visitors. Later that night, I have a few beers with some of the staffers, and I ask what the likelihood is that, one day, Sara will get confused over who is a guest and who is a meal. One of the staffers takes a deep breath and says, quietly, that that day is now. Sara can easily kill a man. Same with the martial eagle and the vultures. The martial eagle is familiar with only one human -- Brian Jones. When one of Jones' assistants performed the mid-flight photo trick, the eagle became confused and, after landing on this poor kid's arm, put her talons in his face -- one each in his lip, ear, skull, and eye. And this unfortunate mishap occurred only two weeks before we arrived! I meet this fellow, Greg, that night at dinner, and his scars are still fresh. He notes candidly that his mother implored him not to work in the martial eagle cage anymore -- and he doesn't have the heart to tell her that he's working half the day in the lion cage now. Also at dinner, we get a taste of just how far South Africa has to go in racial relations. A 21-year-old white girl joyfully tells a tale in which a "little pickaninny" is almost poisoned to death by a deadly snake, much to the delight of the dinner table's other white diners. In fact, I have been in Africa for about a week by this point, and have yet to have one significant interaction with a black person. And not only have I been shocked by Pietro's boorish behavior, but I've also been blown away by the manner in which our white bush guides, normally very good blokes, change behaviorally when interacting with South African blacks. In one incident, I was unsure whether it was proper to take a photograph of a black parking lot attendant. I asked Kevin if he thought it was within the realm of politesse, and he assured me it was OK. "Besides," he said, "if he gives you any shit, we'll just shoot 'im." Clearly, political correctness is not yet even a twinkle in some white South Africans' eyes. After a few more days in the bush, firing guns, identifying bird calls and drinking many more beers, we are ready for our final exams. Alastair wins the student Rumble in the Jungle, scoring an impressive 90 on his test. I earn the second-worst tally -- a 78 -- but at least I have an excuse. It's difficult to keep notes while walking, especially when your eyes are looking up every few seconds to see if a leopard is about to maul you into next week. Trying to decipher his notes one evening, all Steven could make of one passage was "bent parrot pie." Still, I receive my game-ranger certificate from a generous Les. He may have created a monster. Now, patrolling the concrete jungles of Manhattan, I tell any and all Gothamites who will listen about how lichen always grows on the east; how plants can warn each other about approaching herbivores by releasing tannin, a bitter hormone picked up by the wind; and the wonderful world of dung. And believe me, there is no shortage of that in New York.