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BY RAJIV RAO | It is 11:30 at night. I'm lying in a two-man tent in the middle of Serengeti National Park in Tanzania, desperately trying to expunge from my memory banks a certain story that my driver Masai narrated to me during dinner. It all starts off with a seemingly innocent question, "Masai, what types of snakes are common in this part of Tanzania?" A list is summarily rattled off: the black mamba, arguably the world's deadliest snake, famous for its aggressive and territorial instincts, as well as its lethal neurotoxin capable of felling 100 humans with one bite; the green mamba, a somewhat shyer relative; the forest cobra, which, like the mamba, is capable of delivering a fatal neurotoxin that shuts down your respiratory system in no time; the black-necked spitting cobra, expert at projecting a stream of highly toxic venom into your eyes at a distance of 15 feet, which can result in permanent blindness; and the African python, which seems warm and cuddly in comparison. A perceptible unease descends upon our group, which consists of an Australian couple, an Austrian entrepreneur and a Canadian woman who spends her summers counting migratory salmon in Canadian rivers as they head upstream to spawn. With a tragic lack of foresight I ask Masai if, during his seven years of driving on safari, his group has ever had a close encounter with a snake. Yes, replies Masai, with unsettling flippancy. As a matter of fact, a member of his safari not so long ago woke up one morning, rolled up his sleeping bag, and found a green mamba curled up under it. How it got there and why it hadn't lashed out in indignation after being crushed by a 200-pound body both remained unsolvable mysteries. Whether it's an onset of acute nervousness brought about by the story or just fatigue from wandering about the Serengeti all day, our group disperses rapidly into their respective tents. Mumbling something about getting some sleep before our 6 a.m. game drive, I scurry off toward my tent, zip it open and do a thorough inspection for all possible snakes from the outside. I then dive in, roll like a Marine in combat and zip the tent up, all in a blurlike motion reminiscent of Christopher Reeve changing into his spandex Superman outfit in a phone booth. As I slip into my sleeping bag, I briefly recap the day's events. After visiting Lake Manyara National Park, famous for its tree-climbing lions, we skirt the spectacular rim of Ngorongoro crater and descend into the Serengeti. The name Serengeti is derived from the Masai word "siringet," meaning endless plain. And endless plain it is, often flat as far as the eye can see with an occasional acacia tree or a kopje (an ancient granite rock outcrop) dotting the surface. Serengeti National Park alone is 14,763 square kilometers, roughly the size of Connecticut, and supports the greatest concentration of animals left in the world today. The plains were formed 3 million to 4 million years ago when ash blown from the volcanoes in the Ngorongoro highlands covered the landscape and formed a mineral-rich soil surface. But the park is not all grassland; in fact, as much as two-thirds of the park in the north and west constitute bush or woodlands. After just a few days in this part of East Africa, I am convinced that Tanzania is Eden. The herbivores -- wildebeest, zebra, gazelle -- following the short rains that start in November, have descended from the northern areas of the park to the flat southern plains, where they graze on the lush, green grass that blankets the ground. Almost immediately we get a flavor for what the Serengeti migration -- the most awe-inspiring spectacle in the animal kingdom -- must look like. As we drive toward Naabi Hill, the entrance to the park, every square millimeter in our field of vision is dotted with animals. Burchelli's zebras (the ones with the thicker stripes) run pell-mell alongside our Land Rover, and then overtake us in explosive bursts not unlike crazed New York cabbies during rush hour. We curse and brake sharply. About five feet off the side of the road, the two species of gazelle (Thomson's and Grant's) gambol about, playfully butting heads with each other. Occasionally a herd of giraffe gracefully glides across the road, as if in slow motion, their heads quizzically turned toward us. The most spectacular sight, however, is reserved for the thousands of wildebeests who blanket the plains. At one spot we come upon a herd that contains some 5,000 skittish animals racing furiously back and forth, kicking up great clouds of dust. Like schools of fish, they change direction in perfect unison every 10 seconds or so, and at one point thunder directly toward the car. We hold our breaths with nervous anticipation. By now the herd is a mere 30 feet away from us and approaching rapidly. Almost in weary resignation, my mind conjures up images of vultures nibbling on my shredded remains after 10,000 hooves have dispensed with me. Before I begin to actually wet my shorts, the herd veers to the left and calm prevails. It appears to be birthing season for the wildebeests and we see hundreds of calves among the herds, some being forcefully nudged by their mothers to stand up minutes after being born, others staggering about on rubbery legs. We decide to shut off the Land Rover's engine so that we can just sit and absorb the cacophony of sounds that surrounds us: a mixture of grunts, bleats, snorts, chirps, brays and yelps. Despite these noises, the effect is wonderfully soothing. Fred, the Austrian in our entourage, holds up his camcorder in an effort to capture it all. He cups a hand to his ear and sighing contentedly, says: "This is Africa." A subsequent game drive is especially fortuitous as we stumble upon a female cheetah resting by the side of the road with her two cubs. The cubs' coats, having shed their baby fluff, are almost as glossy as their mother's. The entire family takes turns sunning themselves in the open and then seeking refuge in a large bush spotted with lavender. Then off to a small pond where about 20 hippos lie submerged, snorting and grunting to each other as they keep a wary eye on a crocodile basking on a rock nearby. Suddenly two adult males explode into action, heaving their massive bodies at each other like a pair of sumo wrestlers, their jaws agape as they try to slash their opponent with fearsome, tusklike incisors. On the way back we pass ubiquitous herds of impala racing alongside the road, intermittently leaping some 15 feet into the air. At this point, all thoughts of snakes have been shed, and mentally recapping the day's events lulls me into a comfortable sleep. I jerk awake, sweating profusely, desperate to go to the bathroom. I have been suffering from a bout of the inescapable African malady -- diarrhea -- for the past two days and have convinced myself sometime around dinner that my iron constitution has heroically sallied forth and vanquished it. Evidently not. My watch tells me it's 1:30. The pressure builds and the thought of going to the bathroom -- an ostentatious word for two rickety sheds built around holes in the ground about 50 feet away -- terrifies me. But I have no option. It's either that or do it in my pants. And then I become conscious of curious, loud sounds that seem to be originating from not more than half a mile away. Lions roaring. Actually, the sound is more of a grunt and a bellow mixed together with a deep-throated moan. The sounds become even louder, which means that they are either moving closer to camp or that the wind has shifted in our direction, making their roars more audible. The pressure on my bowels is now agonizing and I realize that I have to act fast. My choices are clear: Relieve myself outside amid roaring lions, or remain a coward and spend the rest of the night in what is sure to become extremely noxious quarters. I am convinced that either option will spell disaster for me. N E X T+P A G E | "You have heard the lions, haven't you?"