This Week at Angama #406

The highlight of my week was spotting and managing to capture a few quick photos of a striped hyena during a drive toward Amboseli National Park. Though often overshadowed by their more familiar cousins, both striped and spotted hyenas coexist within the greater Amboseli ecosystem. Seeing the elusive striped hyena in daylight.

The striped hyena, true to its reputation, is far more nocturnal and solitary. More petite and slender than the spotted hyena, it boasts a distinctive appearance, characterised by a grey to yellowish coat patterned with bold black stripes, large pointed ears, and a dramatic mane that runs along its back, which can stand erect when threatened. Unlike the spotted hyena, it often operates alone or in pairs, relying on stealth and scavenging rather than coordinated hunting. 

Further along our drive, we encountered four spotted hyenas, offering a striking contrast. Spotted hyenas are noticeably larger and more powerfully built, with a spotted golden-brown coat and a more robust skull and jaws.

Their behaviour is equally distinctive as they are highly social, living in complex matriarchal clans where cooperation is key to survival. Their social structure supports coordinated hunting, communal denning, and strong territorial defence. 

In the heart of the park, the waters come alive with the presence of flamingos, their deep pink plumage painted by the pigments in their diet. They gather in clusters, filling the air with honks, grunts and soft murmurs. Many poise elegantly on a single leg while others take the time to preen, drawing their curved beaks through delicate feathers to keep them in perfect condition, utterly unbothered by a reedbuck wandering among them. 

Back in the Sanctuary, we came across Motonyi very close to camp, her eyes locked on a small group of impala grazing quietly, unaware that a speed machine was studying their every move. For a successful hunt, the timing has to be perfect, and judging by her empty stomach, food was high on her agenda, and urgently so. 

For baboons, dusk is their cue to scramble up acacia trees for safety. Their eyesight is sharp, so it didn’t take long before they spotted her, erupting in alarm calls as they barked from their vantage points, triggering tension among the impalas.

Motonyi, realising that her element of surprise was gone, strolled away. For now, the hunt would have to wait. 

An interesting dynamic is playing out between Kimana’s male lions. More frequently, we have noticed Osunash moving along across the Sanctuary, while M263 is often in the company of the cubs and their mothers. This pattern suggests Osunash to be the more independent hunter, while M263 is leaning toward a strategy built around the pride’s social structure. Sometimes at dusk, you can hear Osunash calling out to M263 before.

True to this observation, we came across Osunash one morning, looking thoroughly satisfied with his belly full, heaving with each panting breath in the scorching heat. Beside him lay the half-eaten carcass of a zebra, evidence of a successful solitary hunt. His behaviour reflects the classic traits of certain male lions who prefer self-reliance when securing meals. 

Later, as we continued tracking the Pride, we came across M263 on what could best be described as day-care duty, watching over the little ones while the lionesses were off hunting. His strategy appears to be: stick with the pride, let the females hunt, then join in when they return, assuming the hunt is successful.

It is fascinating to watch yellow baboons in the savannah as they go about their daily activities. The troop flows across the landscape, a mix of purpose and play, as adults forage methodically, while the youngsters add a touch of chaos.

Tiny infants cling to their mothers’ bellies or ride confidently on their backs, occasionally peeking over a shoulder to take in the world passing by. 

Amid the calm rhythm of grooming, feeding, and social chattering, the dynamics can shift in an instant. A sudden chase, a loud bark, or even a brief mounting between males may break the stillness, an assertive display meant not for reproduction, but to reinforce hierarchy and dominance within the group. 

And to celebrate the beautiful diversity of avian life in this area, here are a few of the species we were able to capture this week. —Robert Sayialel

There’s something about an early Mara morning that always feels like a promise; the cool air, the soft light, and that quiet tension that tells you the day is holding something special. Today began just like that. We rolled out onto the plains when we spotted movement near the border, and there they were: two of the Border Pride male and female, basking in an open plain. 

When lions are mating, they slip away from the pride and disappear into their own world. A mating pair can isolate themselves for 24 to 48 hours or more, repeating the act every 15–30 minutes, driven entirely by instinct. It looks calm from a distance, but it’s actually one of the most intense and energy-draining rituals in the animal kingdom.

A small herd of buffalo grazed not far from the couple, completely unbothered. They knew they were safe.

A mating pair focuses on one thing only; hunting isn’t even on their minds. Even the buffalo seemed to understand that this temporary truce belonged to biology, not bravery. 

At one point, the male lifted his head, curled back his upper lip, and formed that strange expression that always catches people off guard — the flehmen response.

By drawing in the lioness’s scent to the vomeronasal organ, he was reading her chemistry; confirming her oestrus, her readiness, her timing. It’s a split-second gesture, easy to miss unless you’ve spent time out here, but it says everything about how lions communicate without a sound. 

A little later on the drive, we came across yellow-billed oxpeckers perched comfortably on a zebra’s back. One of them was clearly an immature bird; the beak was still entirely black, not yet showing the bright yellow and red adults are known for. Oxpeckers and zebras share a fascinating relationship. As the birds hop and pick through the zebra’s coat, they feed on ticks, dead skin, and parasites, giving the zebra relief from constant irritation. In return, the oxpeckers get an easy food source. 
 
 But their role doesn’t end there; these birds act as early warning alarms. Their sharp calls and sudden movements alert zebras to approaching predators long before the human eye can detect the danger. It’s a mutualistic symbiosis, one built on survival and instinct. 

Down by the Mara River, the day gifted us a sighting of a newborn hippo calf resting beside its mother. We could tell just how new it was from the traces of blood still clinging to the mother’s back, a clear sign of a fresh birth.

Hippos usually give birth underwater in shallow areas, often choosing quiet spots away from the main pod. It’s one of the ways they protect their newborns from aggressive males or curious adults. After the birth, the mother keeps to herself, staying isolated with the calf for 10 to 14 days until it’s strong enough to rejoin the group.

Along the riverbank, a pied kingfisher held itself perfectly in place above the water, beating its wings so rapidly it seemed suspended in the morning light. The pied kingfisher is the largest bird capable of a true hover a skill it uses to lock onto fish with incredible precision. After a few seconds of hovering, it folded its wings, dove straight down, and vanished into the river with that signature splash that always feels too quick for the human eye. 

Unlike its brightly coloured relatives, this species is the only kingfisher dressed entirely in black and white plumage.

The morning sun had just begun to warm the escarpment as we rolled quietly into the valley below. Then, in the stillness, a soft movement caught our eyes. One morning as we made our way down the escarpment, a single spotted shape emerged from the tall grass; graceful yet alert. A mother serval with a litter of cubs trailing behind her, in a scattered line.

Their ears, oversized and curious, swivelled like satellite dishes, catching every rustle and whisper in the morning breeze. The mother paused to scan, listen and choose their path carefully.

As we continued Guide Ekai’s sharp eyes caught the gentle sway of a female giraffe standing deep in the thickets. Beside her, barely steady on its long, thin legs, was a newborn calf, no more than two or three days old. You could feel the tenderness in the air.

The mother kept lowering her towering neck to nudge the little one forward, reassuring it with soft touches. The calf, still curious and unsure of this new world, stayed close to her shadow, using her legs as its safe fortress. Newborn giraffes face their most dangerous days right after birth. In the wild, everything is instinct: stand fast, hide well, stay close. —Rio Marvin