Tony Fitzjohn with Miles Bredin - Born wild: the extraordinary story of one mans passion for lions and for Africa

Tony Fitzjohn has spent over forty years reintroducing lions, leopards, rhinos and African hunting dogs to the wild. He is one of the worlds leading field experts on the relationship between man and African wildlife.

He was born in England and worked for eighteen years with George Adamson of Born Free fame in Kenyas Kora National Reserve. Alongside his work with wildlife, he has built schools and education centres in Africas most remote areas.

In Tanzania, where he now lives with his wife and four children, he has rescued Mkomazi, a 1,500-square-mile wasteland, and turned it into a highly successful game park. He has recently been invited by the Kenyan government to undertake a similar resurrection of Kora.

A maverick by nature, he has calmed down as he has grown older but is still well known for getting things done when faced with seemingly insurmountable problems. He was awarded the OBE by the Queen and the Order of the Golden Ark by Prince Bernhard of the Netherlands for his services to wildlife.

Born Wild is his first book.

As I reach the end of this book I feel as if I should embark on an Oscar-winners speech of thanks. There are so many people I need to thank and so many debts to be paid but Ill never manage it. All of you, all over the world, who have helped me so much over the years know who you are and I couldnt have done it without you, and whether its been a bed for a night, a tractor, a years running costs or pure moral support, my gratitude is immense. Thank you, all. This book is for you as well.

I also know that without Georges guidance I would never have succeeded in half of what we have done. George devoted his life to the wildlife of East Africa and he showed me how to walk with lions. I miss the Old Man every day as I try to live up to his beliefs working to give animals a chance to live with dignity in their own land. I know therell be problems ahead but I also know that Lucy and I will be able to find a way around them. If we continue to care enough and keep going forward one step at a time, well walk with lions again.

And this book would never have taken off, let alone been completed, without the friendship, professionalism and sheer lunatic energy of Miles Bredin, my co-author. An accomplished journalist and author, he got it and was often way ahead of me on this journey of reflection and adventure. I was amazed at both his perceptions and feelings, and the historical context that he provided as background was invaluable.

Eleo Gordon at Penguin worked tirelessly and with formidable and enormous enthusiasm to make sure that the book was a fitting tribute to both George and all the animals. The way she steered the project across continents and still allowed us to be able to continue with our work was a coup of some genius. It was always a great pleasure when we got together in London, but even I almost crumpled at the pace!

Without my wife Lucy no one would have had anything to work from. She produced three hundred pages of chronology from both our diaries and was critical at the end stages when I didnt quite get it right or went a bit overboard. But thats just work. She has been an amazing friend and companion in two of the more remote areas of East Africa under, at times, some very trying and difficult conditions, and managed to raise four lovely children at the same time as doing all the field administration of the project. Its all We now, not Me, and without her love and support there would have been a very different story. Many men have said it before, but love is all you need

The funny thing about being chewed up by a lion is that they dont bite chunks out of you they suffocate you. All that firepower and they use a pillow. I suppose I should be glad of it: two hundred kilos of fully grown lion pouncing on my back had already knocked the breath out of me. And when he put my head in his mouth and started to squeeze it wasnt long before I began to lose consciousness. Only when he clawed at my stomach did I wake up and my will to live reassert itself. It was just like that moment when youve been tumble by a big wave and lost your surfboard: abruptly the light pierces the swirling water and, realizing you want to live, you kick towards the surface. I pushed my fist above my head and into the lions mouth. But I wasnt strong enough: he was going to kill me, the bastard. I can remember wondering, as I faded away, Which one was it? A wild lion or one of ours?

It was one of ours, Shyman, and it was another of ours, Freddie, that saved me. I had raised Freddie from a cub, but unlike that big thug Shyman, whom wed never handled, he liked me. Freddie charged Shyman and distracted him just long enough for me to regain a bit of consciousness and get into the foetal position. Freddie went for Shyman at least four or five times as Shyman came back to grab some other part of me. Even then the bigger lion got me round the neck and started to strangle me. I went through the Readers Digest tunnel, my life ebbing away the festering rubbish dump at the camp gates my last view of the world. I knew what was happening. And as the rest of me gave into the blackness I was furious about that rubbish.

I had been working with George Adamson the Kenyan game warden who reintroduced lions to the wild, as described in his wifes book Born Free for the past four years and it was he who dragged me from the lions maw. Alerted by our foreman, Erigumsa, he came charging out of our camp armed only with a short stick. He found Shyman dragging me off in his mouth, my body trailing between his front legs, blood pouring from holes in my neck, shoulders and body. I was dead, as far as the Old Man was concerned. George charged at the lion and, with Freddie, managed to see off Shyman and pull me away. Without Freddie, I wouldnt have stood a chance. Id been attacked by one lion and saved by another. Id lost a tooth and one of my ears was hanging off. A hole had been bitten in my right shoulder and neck, which was large enough to put my fist through. It would be a couple of painfulweeks before I was back on my feet but I consider it my closest shave yet and not much to have paid for the privilege of living with animals since the day in 1971 that George Adamson had taken me on.

Mine was a long journey to Georges camp in northern Kenya but I feel as if it wasnt until I arrived there in 1971 that my life really started. That said, I was actually born in 1945, rather freer than I would have liked on the wrong side of the tracks, at the end of the line. I was raised in Cockfosters, the very furthest north you can go on the Piccadilly Line. My mother was a bank clerk; my father abandoned her before I was born. One of tens of thousands who met a similar fate during the Second World War, she tried to bring me up on her own but it was very hard to do when there was no work, little food and a hatful of stigma attached to dragging around a small boy without a father. When I was about seven months old she gave me up for adoption at the Church of England Childrens Society. I dont know what happened to her and have never seen her again. I dont know either who my father was.Ive been told he was highly decorated, married and in the RAF, but Im really not sure; I cant remember whether thats true or wishful thinking, and I cant find out now because most of the Societys records have disappeared. My adoptive parents, though, I know all about. Leslie and Hilda Fitzjohn came and got me when my age was still measured in months. They took me to Cockfosters where they lived the kind of life Ive been trying to escape from ever since.

My dad worked in a bank. He got on a train every day and went off to places like Greenwich, Covent Garden and Tooting. He had been in the Supply Corps of the Desert Rats during the war and had seen some pretty unpleasant sights during his five years in Egypt. When he got back, Im told he just sat and drank for six months, staring at the fire and refusing to talk. Today youd call it post-traumatic stress disorder but back then there were no words for it. Soon after he had recovered my parents had a tragedy. They had adopted a baby who settled down well and upon whom they doted. Six months later his mother appeared on the doorstep and asked for him back; she had just married a man who had lost his wife and four children in a car crash. My parents thought it was the only fair thing to do and handed the baby over, but they were shattered.