Book Reviews

December 21, 2024 / stidyatkusane / 4 Comments

Published by Bedford Square

When the First World War broke out, there were few, amongst the thousands who enlisted who could have foreseen the new type of modern warfare they would face. Chlorine gas, explosive artillery shells, rapid-fire machine guns and other heavy weapons were to inflict carnage on a scale never witnessed before. By the end of the first year, the war had become more or less static with the opposing armies facing each other in trenches which stretched from the Belgium Coast, across France, to the Swiss border. Numerous massive offences were launched, by both sides, but the toll of human life and suffering was out of all proportion to any gains made

As the war dragged on, many soldiers, living in appalling conditions and forced to the limits of their endurance, developed “shell shock”(known today as PTSD). Crippled in mind and body, some were sent back to Britain for treatment. Amongst them, were two men who would become renowned for their war poems, Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen. The story of the friendship that sprang up between them while receiving treatment at Craiglockhart War Hospital, in Scotland, has been told before (not least in Pat Barker’s superb re-imagining Regeneration, which won the Booker Prize), but Glass both broadens the scope and provides new insights into it.

Outwardly, the two were very different. Tall, aristocratic, athletic and a keen huntsman, Sassoon had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. His reckless bravery in the face of the enemy had earned him a Military Cross, as well as his nickname “Mad Jack”. For his part, Owen was a good foot shorter, shy, hesitant and with a stammer. He also came from a much more humble, lower middle-class, background than the patrician Sassoon.

Despite his heroics, Sassoon, would, as the war progressed, develop an increasing ambivalence to both the nature of the conflict and the direction it was taking. Invalided back to England, with a sniper’s bullet through his chest, he decided to make an act of ‘wilful defiance’ by refusing to return to military duties. Worried by what he saw as his friend’s naivete, the poet Robert Graves intervened and used his influence to get Sassoon declared ‘mentally unbalanced’, thus avoiding the possibility of seeing him imprisoned for his actions. Eager to avoid a scandal, the military authorities were only too happy to go along.

At the time of their meeting, Sassoon was already an established poet and it took Owen – who was a big admirer – some time to pluck up the courage to show his poems to him. A warm friendship would grow out of this initial encounter. Under Sassoon’s creative and constructive criticism, Owen’s genius flourished. Both refused to glorify the war, as so many civilian poets, were doing but insisted on showing it in all its harsh reality. As Owen wrote: “My subject is War and the pity of War. The poetry is in the pity.”

The two poets were fortunate to be sent to Craiglockhart, an enlightened institution not dominated by the antiquated and hidebound thinking that characterised much of the military hierarchy (it is shocking to think of the number of men who were shot by firing squad for supposed cowardice}. Both Doctor William Rivers (who treated Sassoon) and Doctor Arthur Brock (Owen) disapproved of painful practices like electric shock therapy, cold-water ducking and convulsion-producing drugs. Instead, they relied on Freudian forms of analysis. Rather than indicating a lack of moral character or being a sign of weakness, they realised that the men’s mental breakdowns were often a normal reaction to an abnormal situation. In many cases, their treatments were successful but they then found themselves in the morally ambiguous situation of being forced to send the men back to the very conditions that had caused their breakdown in the first place.

In this compelling and captivating account, author Glass shows, with a novelistic vividness, how the initial patriotism and idealism the war engendered soon lost its edge, as the soldiers, who fought in it, came to terms with a new style of war fought on an unprecedented scale. More than a straight biography, he uses the lives of the main characters (and those of others who were treated at the hospital, such as the author and journalist,s Max Plowman) as a plank in a fascinating study of the war that was supposed to end all wars.. His telling characterisations evoke not only the agony and seeming pointlessness of much of it, but the profound effect it had on both the men who fought in it and those who tried to help them deal with the trauma and the emotional scars it left.

Published by Yale University Press

At the time of the collapse of the old Soviet Union, there was a general mood of optimism in the West, coupled with a belief that democracy and market capitalism had triumphed over one-party states and socialism and would, in future, prevail against any autocratic challenges. And with more democratic elections being held than ever before that certainly did appear to be the case. Alluring as this assumption is, the evidence actually points in the opposite direction – over the last decade or so our hard-won liberties have become steadily eroded and the world has become less, not more free. Everywhere, democracy is on the back foot.

One of the reasons for this – as the authors demonstrate in this carefully researched, sharp and utterly convincing book – is because the despots have adapted their strategies and learnt how to use democracy against itself, finding ways to manipulate and “win” elections even though they may not enjoy majority support. In so doing, they are able to give themselves a veil of legitimacy while reinforcing their grip on the countries they rule. As such, elections have become a useful tool for them – “…so long as autocrats can tightly control the political process, their regimes have a better chance of survival if they hold elections and rig them than if they avoid holding elections altogether.”

Russia’s Vladimir Putin is the past master at this. The various methods he and other power-hungry world leaders have used to hold onto their positions form the core subject matter of this book. Many of the tactics (gerrymandering, voter-buying, political violence, ballot-box stuffing etc) have been around for a long time (although they have become far more fine-tuned) but the new digital tools of hacking, spreading misinformation online and social media manipulation have all presented fresh opportunities to play dirty, especially as it is often hard to track down the sources. The Cambridge Analytica scandal and the allegations of Russian involvement in Donald Trump’s first election campaign are but two recent high-profile examples of rigging through the control of information. There is an irony in this – the digital revolution was initially widely hailed as a great democratising force.

Probably the most worrying aspect of all this is that these “counterfeit democracies” are not a minority – rather, they now constitute the majority of states. The implications are obvious. Once elections become corrupted, political rights collapse, civil liberties decline, and responsive government disappears. Instead of advancing the equal rights and freedoms of the people, those in high office come to regard government as a means to preserve their own status and privileges.

We should be under no illusions as to the scale of the problem. With America (especially under Trump) less willing to promote democracy abroad, and Europe focusing on its own problems, China is increasingly setting the world agenda, and they are certainly not committed to pushing pro-democracy reform.

There is still some hope though. Having clearly laid out the dangers facing democracy, the authors marshal practical evidence from across the globe to show ways we can push back against the rising tide of authoritarianism and restore, protect and strengthen the electoral system. It is advice we can ill afford to ignore.

Escaping the Madness (Part Two – Mkhuze)

December 7, 2024 / stidyatkusane / 6 Comments

*Mkhuze with the Lebombo Mountains in the distance. Picture courtesy of Ant Williamson*

The N2 to Pongola, in Zululand, is packed solid with coal trucks, heading to and from the port of Richard’s Bay. As I carefully weave my way in and out of them, I find myself cynically wondering what fat-cat politicians are benefiting from all these exports? Then, I wrench my mind back to the more important mission at hand. I am on my way from Bonamanzi to Mkhuze Game Reserve. I am not here to do my day job, lampooning politicians in my cartoons. I am here to find birds.

The human brain is hard-wired to seek answers. That is why I have spent so much of my life exploring nature and looking for birds in all their multitudes and colours. Like a detective searching for clues, I want to gather information that will lead to the unveiling of my quarry’s true identity. I want to find rare species too.

I am well aware not everyone shares my passion. You can walk through the bush with a companion and they just do not register the sights and sounds that are so evident to you; nor do they make the same judgements and connections. They do not know what they are missing out on.

One of the most obvious advantages a birdwatcher enjoys over an ordinary tourist who only visits a Game Reserve to see the wild animals is that the countryside becomes alive in many new ways. There is so much more to see and enjoy. Each bird has its own quality, habits, characteristics and behavioural patterns. Also, there is much more and a far greater variety of them.

For a birder, there can be a special satisfaction from testing one’s expectations in a less-than-familiar location which is why I am glad to be back in Mkhuze after a gap of many years. Lying on the eastern side of the Lebombo mountains, it is is mostly flat country, with the Nsumo Pan and several major river sources dominating the southeast. There is a wide variety of woodland, thornveld, open savannah, sand thicket and other vegetation types. It is home to the Big Five and – thanks to its varied habitats – enjoys an abundant bird life (over 450 species have been recorded), making it a popular destination for twitchers.

I get off to a good start. Driving on my own, behind the other two cars, I spot what they have clearly missed – a Dark Chanting Goshawk sitting, in plain sight, on a dead tree. A scarce resident, it is not a raptor I have often seen.

As I drive, I look and listen, feel the air, and let myself become part of the place again. It is always a risk to go back to a place you haven’t been to for some time but which you retain fond memories of, but, from what I can see, not much has changed. I am aware, however, that, like many other reserves in South Africa, it is under siege. Poaching is an increasingly serious problem. We get grim evidence of this when, rounding a corner on a loop road, on our first day out, we come across a Giraffe lying prostrate across the road. It has lost part of one leg to a snare and someone or something has gouged out its one eye.

The problem with poaching is that it is not just done by the local rural people, looking for a bit of “free meat”, as was probably the case here. It is also being conducted by highly organised, professional gangs with sophisticated weapons, sponsored by wealthy syndicates, who want Rhino horns and elephant ivory. Often underfunded, the game rangers and conservationists have their work cut out countering this scourge. And game reserves, such as this one, are now the last refuge of these big animals, which in most of Africa is almost gone.

We also come across a dead Fiery-necked Nightjar on the road. We surmise that some speeding tourist, who has stayed out too late and is in a hurry to get back to the camp before gate-closing time, must have not seen in until too late and driven over the bird. It saddens me to think this will mean one less beautiful call (one of the most evocative and iconic in Africa) lighting up the night.

There are plenty of other birds to see and our tally is soon mounting. Overhead sail vultures (White-backed), eagles (Bateleur, Tawny, Wahlbergs, Black-breasted Snake Eagle, Long-crested Eagle), Yellow-billed kites, looking for carrion, and amongst the trees we catch a glimpse of a much smaller raptor, not much bigger than a pigeon, a Little Sparrohawk.

Having already seen two at Bonamanzi, we are lucky to come across more Black-bellied Bustards, including a group of three who we pick up in our headlights coming back one evening. They appear to be involved in some weird courtship display.

After my good start – and success at Bonamanzi – I seem to have gone slightly off my game though. I am not the one finding the interesting birds. Carl, a relative birding novice, is putting me to shame in the front car. His camera barely leaves his hands as he snaps picture after picture of all the birds he is coming across. I can see he has been bitten by the birding bug, which helps compensate for my lack of success.

In the evening, we sit outside around a glowing campfire. A beautiful bright full moon rises through the twisted boughs of the acacia tree in front of us, casting mysterious shapes on the fringes of my vision. In the deep bush, the various night noises blend into a lulling night symphony. More irritating, mosquitoes keep pinging in my ears. No matter how much I swat or slap at them they keep coming back, like tiny Messchersmidts attacking a target. I apply more repellent and do my best to ignore them.

Ant is in charge of the braai and what a cordon-bleu-style meal it will turn out to be. As he cooks, we talk about birds, animals and our past experiences in the bush. We talk about rugby (the Boks are due to play England). We drink more beer and laugh a lot.

Suddenly, we become aware we are being watched and – sure enough – we see, as relaxed as a domestic tabby, a Large-spotted Genet lying in the grass, watching us. No doubt it has been attracted by the delicious aromas emanating from Ant’s braai. It is also hunting geckos, which, in turn, are hunting bugs under the outdoor lights. Displaying incredible speed and agility. it suddenly launches itself high up the wall and grabs one. “Spiderman would be envious!” comments Ken.

Thereafter, the Genet turns up every night, at more or less the same time.

Taking advantage of the early morning crispness and purity of light, we drive off into the flats around 0530. The fragrance of the acacia blooms floats in the air. I can hear a Rain Bird (Burchell’s Coucal) rolling its soft notes from its throat, like water from a bottle.

Ant wants to go to the viewing platform which offers a panoramic, 360-degree, survey of the surrounding countryside. From where we stand, awed by the view, the plains stretch out to the gullied slopes of the Lebombo in the west. To the east, they eventually modulate into the wetlands and sand dunes of the Greater St Lucia Park.

*At the Viewing Platform. Picture courtesy of Ant Williamson*

It feels like we are all alone, in a landscape oblivious to man. I feel overwhelmed by the age and might of this old continent, its primordial magic. Its apparent emptiness gives me an idea of how it must have once been, although in the distance, to the north and south of the reserve boundary fence, you can just make out where the sun is twinkling on hundreds of metal roofs.

During our stay, we make several visits to the Nsumo Pan, normally a prime birding spot. The water level is surprisingly high and because there are no exposed mud banks I do not see any of the waders I was hoping for. But there are other water birds: Goliath Heron, Openbill Stork, Great White Heron, Pied Kingfisher, Little Egret, White-winged Terns, Whiskered Terns, African Darter and several Great White Pelicans.

One of the pelicans is fishing. I think it is the power of flight we most envy and admire in our daydreams and watching this large bird, with its black flight feathers, flapping heavily over the waters, stalling and then plunging down, with a galumphing splosh, to gobble up some unsuspecting fish (tilapia?) in its large yellow bill pouch, only reinforces that envy.

There is not much game around either, but through my binoculars, I can make out the surfaced snout and eyes of a large crocodile. The brute sinks slowly out of sight, only to re-emerge a little later. Signs are warning us of their presence at the water’s edge although, as Ant points out, they should probably have been placed further in. A crocodile can leap out of water at considerable speed and cover a big distance. Suitably cautioned, we decide to heed his warning and keep our distance.

After a cooked breakfast, in which Ant once again excels himself, we move on to another spot of the pan. Even the most experienced birders can make spectacular mistakes of identification based on misperceptions, wishful thinking or ludicrous misreadings of size and distance. Here, the normally dependable, Ken misreads his visual cues and confuses his cormorants – insisting the much larger White-breasted Cormorant is a Reed cormorant, not in its breeding plumage – until the latter bird lands on the same branch and the size difference becomes only too apparent. Later, I make my own comical mistake when looking at a photograph, I misidentify a Schimitarbill Hoopooe as a Purple-banded Sunbird. In my defence, I maintain it is a blurry picture.

We also visit the various hides, dotted around the reserve. The main Mantuma Camp, where we are staying, has a fairly run-down feel. Many of the chalets need repairs and renovation, but the hides at Mkhuze are amongst the best I’ve seen anywhere – excellently located and extremely well-built with all sorts of thoughtful little additional touches. Apart from the first one we visit ( the water has dried up) where we only see a large Water Monitor, they all prove highly productive with abundant game and birds visiting them.

We arrive at the Kamasinga Hide at the crack of dawn, in time to witness a seemingly endless procession of Nyala coming down to the water to drink. It seems to be something of a social gathering point. While the rams, young and old, joust with each other the females tiptoe down in little groups. They are joined by a giraffe, an impala, a lone Wildebeest and even a very gnarled old Leopard Tortoise. And plenty of birds.

On our first few drives, most of the animals had remained largely invisible, so it is good to see so much.

That afternoon, the rest come out of hiding. They are everywhere. Giraffes sway in the feathery limbs of tall acacias; Wildebeest, with their long, doleful faces, troop across the veld. Sleek Zebra cavort, Kudu stop and stare. With the arrival of the rains, many of the impala have given birth and, in places tottery calves, only a few hours old, sway and collapse and get to their feet again. In a few days, they will be running strongly.

Nor is the activity confined to the ungulates. Tiny Dung Beetle come churning along the road, rolling their balls, containing the recent droppings of hundreds of animals. in front of them. We are careful not to run over any. Once they find a suitable location they will bury their treasure, enriching the soil in the process.

With all this activity, I search with hopeful eyes for a lion or even a leopard, but they are obviously lying low or keeping just out of sight.

We pull in at the Kwamalibala Hide situated on the main road back to Emshopi Entrance Gate. It proves another good decision. There are two rare White rhinos at it.

The White Rhino is a grazing animal that lacks the long upper lip of the Black Rhino, which is more of a browser and is usually confined to the thick bush. They are also more gentle and less inclined to charge than their notoriously bad-tempered cousin. These two could hardly have looked less threatening as they lie, eyes closed, half-submerged in the mud. It makes a heart-warming sight but it also leaves me feeling sad. There was a time when these magnificent animals roamed over large chunks of Africa. Now they are confined to a few isolated pockets, such as this one, and their numbers are rapidly dwindling because of poaching.

It has been a hot day and there are lots of birds coming down to the water’s edge to drink – a variety of doves (including Namaqua), weavers, sparrows, waxbills and Cattle Egrets, It is not often you see both types of Thicknee together (old name: Dikkop. It will always be the monitor I use because I love the sound of the word and the images it conjures up) – the Spotted and the Water. I note the marked difference in height between the two species, something I hadn’t really appreciated before.

As I scan the waterhole, I see a terrapin’s shadow moving across the pool, just its bug-eyed head above water. Then it sinks and vanishes. They are everywhere, lying on mud piles and protruding logs. Some of them are doing things which make me think they should post a sign, warning sensitive viewers to divert their eyes.

We have barely covered a couple of kilometres from the hide when Ken wheels to a stop and points excitedly to where a solitary Black Rhino stands, out in the open, just in front of a tangled, thorn thicket. The sun glints on the moisture on its nostril, and the animal faces us like it means business. It is taking mute note of us. Unlike buffalo, the Black Rhino suffers from poor vision and its short-sightedness makes it very nervous and twitchy. A sudden movement or a slight disturbance can be enough to trigger a charge. This one had that belligerent, challenging, don’t cross me look about it. To reassure it we have no such intention we snap a few photos and move on.

As we drive away, we marvel at our good luck. What are the chances of seeing the two species so close to one another, especially in this day and age when their numbers have dramatically dropped?

Ahead of us, Ant, Carl and Gavin are having their close encounters of a venomous kind. There are several species of very dangerous snakes that occur in Mkhuze and driving through the sand forest, they meet two of them within a kilometre of each other – a massive Black Mamba that stretches almost across the road and a large Green Mamba hanging, sinisterly, from a branch on the verge. The Black Mamba has a reputation for being an aggressive snake, although some of the stories about it have probably been exaggerated. Still, I have no intention of putting it to the test having seen how fast they can strike…

They also see a Side-striped Jackal. They are far less common than the more widespread Black-backed Jackal (which we hear calling virtually every night where I live in the Midlands).

*Side-striped Jackal. Picture courtesy of Ant Williamson.*

As the sun begins to sink in the West, a great company of elephants looms out of the trees, flowing together in seamless motion like grey lava, ears blowing as they move. They look full of purpose and intent, determined to reach their destination. We pull up further down the road to not block their path. After Ant’s story, the night before, about one goring his vehicle when he was a rookie ranger, we have no intention of getting into an argument with them.

We see more giraffes, peering down at us through quizzical, long, eye-lashes. Where a small stream crosses the road, one of them moves in elegant, slow motion and then pauses, stretching out its long legs and lowering its head to drink.

A flock of Crested Guineafowl comes scuttling nervously down the road, keeping a cautious eye on us. In the late afternoon sun, their feathery crests are a medley of changing velvety blacks, dancing purples and blues. Further on, a large herd of milling buffalo, agitated about an unseen something, snort loudly and go cracking and crashing through the trees, leaving a trail of dust and startled birds behind them.

By now, the sun is sending up long shafts of golden light as it drops behind the Lebombo, so we pull over and crack open some beers. Our final sundowner, in a perfect setting.

The trip ends on a high note. Returning to the dead giraffe, early on the final morning, Ant and Carl find two magnificent male lions at the carcase. Upset by what I had seen earlier, the news makes me feel a little less so. At least, the two predators got a free meal out of the poor animal.

On our way out of the Reserve, we – that is all of us except Ken, a man who rushes for no one and is still trying to get his act together, back at camp – pull into `Kwamalibala Hide for one last look. I am glad we do. The two White Rhino have returned although now they are quietly snoozing under the shade of an acacia tree on the far side of the waterhole. Several giraffes peruse the waterhole from a distance. Satisfied it is safe to do so, they come down to drink.

There are not as many birds as yesterday but, like an animated emerald, a Diederik Cuckoo flashes past and lands on top of a nearby tree. Puffing out its creamy chest, it begins to call, a loud persistent “dee-dee-deedereek”. A relatively common summer visitor (like most cuckoos, more often heard, than seen) seen), it parasites on weavers’ nests.

Next on the programme, a large male Warthog, with its ferocious tusks and wiry mane, its tail as erect as a car aerial, trots down. Several Red-billed Oxpeckers are hitching a ride on its back, The hog stops, scratches its raspy hide with a sharpened hoof, and then drinks. Its thirst slated, it selects a muddy patch and has a good wallow. Wanting no part of this activity, the annoyed oxpeckers fly off. Its hide caked with mud (a protection against pests and parasites) the Warthog ambles off, the way it came, and is soon swallowed up in the surrounding bush.

Sadly, time is marching on. I need to leave the reserve and take the dusty road back to the N2. As I head out, I let my eyes make one final sweep of this timeless landscape. For a brief while, I have become totally immersed in it. I have always felt the need for wilderness, for remote places beyond the urban/industrial sprawl that have been spared the relentless march of “progress.” For me, journeys like this one are redemptive. They offer spiritual fulfilment, help unclutter my mind and get my heart, body and soul back into alignment.

We have a farewell breakfast at the Wimpy in Mkhuze town. Ken has finally caught up with us, bringing various items I left behind. Then I get in my car and head home, dodging the coal trucks as I go…

GALLERY:

Escaping the Madness (Part One: Bonamanzi)

December 1, 2024December 11, 2024 / stidyatkusane / 10 Comments

As I grow older, I sense I am becoming increasingly out of touch with the times. Perhaps this is an inevitable part of the ageing process, a reaction to a fast-changing world in which many of the comforting old familiarities have gone. Perhaps I have become just another stick in the mud, rooted in another era, destined for the scrap heap.

But I think it is more than just a symptom of querulous old age..

There is a spiritual aridity to modern life. Increasingly we live a virtual existence, our lives driven and controlled by computer technology. Information is disseminated at extraordinary speed and in enormous quantities. Smartphones, the internet and AI have transformed our everyday routines in ways that are not always good. It is hard to escape the feeling we are being pushed into an uncritical passivity, our lives manipulated by massive Big Tech companies who claim to have our best interests at heart but are pushing their own agendas.

While our technology progresses at a staggering rate, we have regressed in other ways. With the collapse of the old Soviet Union, we were supposed to have moved into a brand new era with liberal democracy emerging triumphant. Instead, we face a rising tide of authoritarianism, our freedoms are under threat, society has become more polarised, the rich-poor divide has widened, and autocracy is on the rise. Fed on a diet of algorithms and poor TV, the dumbness of the many has played into the hands of a scheming few, as never before.

All of this is my way of explaining why I am on the N2 heading northwards, through squalls of coastal rain, towards Zululand. I am in full-flight mode. The US election results are out and, having been booted out four years previously, the truculent Man-Child, Donald Trump, has somehow convinced a majority of Americans, dissatisfied with their standard of living, that he is the one to lead them to the Promised Land, to make America Great Again. The fact that he is a serial liar, a grifter, a sexual offender and a convicted felon and fraudster doesn’t seem to have made one iota of difference.

For me, his election to the most powerful position in the world defies rational belief. I need a break from the freak show, from a man whose craziness seemed to have rubbed off on millions. What I am searching for is peace and restoration. I’m hoping I’ll find it up there, in nature.

I am not an especially religious person (more agnostic) but there are certain places— be it the soaring cragginess of the Drakensberg, the stark beauty, barrenness and silence of the Karoo, the untamed wilderness of Kruger – where I still get a glimpse of the divine, a sense of the ineffable and mystical.

Zululand fits that bill. This is where I hope to find salvation. It is a part of the country I react instinctively towards, another landscape that exerts a magnetic pull on me and feeds my soul. Not that this trip is solely about my quest for meaning and transcendence. It is also an excuse to hang out with a bunch of friends and have a… well… jolly good time.

And find birds.

Birds are beautiful. They inspire a sense of wonder in me. I enjoy the hunt and the pleasure of learning their ways. They are like us in some ways and different in others. The more I watch them, the more I realise how little I understand them and yet somehow being with them makes me feel more connected to myself.

I will link up with my regular birding sidekick, Ken, in Bonamanzi. We will spend a few days there and then travel on to Mkhuze Game Reserve where we will be joined by three others.

They have booked us into a lodge, which is a step up from our usual way of doing business. Some of my friends can’t understand why I camp. To them, it is a dirty, uncomfortable, unnecessary, and pointless business, especially when, if you shell out a bit more, you can stay somewhere that comes with all the modern comforts.

Admittedly, my motivation is partly driven by frugality—usually, all my limited budget will stretch to—but I like camping. It gets me close to the earth. It is somehow more real and authentic if you are after a proper bush experience.

I feel a homely affection for the warm comfort of my dome tent, as small and cramped as it is. Closing the fly sheet behind me at night, I place my water bottle, various pills (I’ve got to that age), and torch beside my pillow, and then crawl into my sleeping bag. Snuggled up inside, I always feel wonderfully secure. Relishing the sense of aloneness and solitude I lie in the darkness, listening to the wind, the comforting creature sounds and all the other peculiar noises of the night.

The rain has stopped by the time I reach Mkhuze Village and my turn off. It is not far from my destination, Bonamanzi, a privately owned game reserve, about 4000 hectares in extent, with the Hluhluwe River forming its eastern boundary. It supports a diverse range of habitats, including sand forest, savannah and wetlands, making it an excellent place for birders.

Having checked in at reception, I head to our campsite where I pitch my tent, get out my cooler box and organise the rest of my camping gear, such as it is. Then I sit down in my chair, place my binoculars on my lap, and wait for Ken to arrive.

Much to my surprise, he arrives earlier than I had anticipated.

Later, with darkness fallen, Ken unpacks his cooking equipment and fires up the skottle. Chicken, potatoes, rice and cabbage are on the menu.

After dinner, we sit talking into the night. A light drizzle has started falling when it suddenly dawns on me that Ken is no longer listening to my conversation. Peering through the night gloom, I see he is fast asleep (the next morning he has no recollection of rain). Leaving him gently snoring in his camp chair, I climb inside my tent and settle down for the night.

I awake to the dawn chorus. By 0500 I have pretty much the full orchestra playing. Amidst the great press of unseen birds, I hear Red-capped Robin-Chat, Yellow-bellied Bulbul, Sombre Greenbul, Eastern Nicator, Diederik Cuckoo, Red-chested cuckoo, Black Cuckoo, Gorgeous Bush-Shrike, Purple-crested Turaco and Kurrichane Thrush. By 0600, the peak of the noise is past and the excitement of seeing the dawn of another day has begun to subside. The various birds drift off on their feeding expeditions, to resume their mating rituals or build nests.

As a low golden sun burns its way through the trees, I unzip myself from my nylon womb and stick my head out, tortoise-like. Satisfied that all is well, I emerge into the light. My first order of business is to get out my gas cylinder and perform the all-important early morning ritual of making a brew. Without it I can’t function. As I wait for the kettle to slowly heat, I familiarise myself with the surroundings, scanning my binoculars around the campsite for signs of activity.

Life always seems much simpler and somehow more real

I can hear Ken fumbling around in his tent, trying to find his bearings while doing something that sounds improbably industrious (he is not the early morning person, I am). Finally, he stumbles out, clutching a huge towel, and, with a bleary glance in my direction, heads off to the shower room. I know, from long experience, that it may be a considerable time before he re-emerges, so I make another cup of tea and continue birdwatching.

For breakfast, we make do with a rusk and a small tub of yoghurt. We can’t afford to waste crucial early morning birding time cooking. While we are sitting there, though, I catch a glimpse of the Robin, who was singing earlier, hopping through the undergrowth.

Feeling that delicious sense of anticipation that always comes on the opening day of a new bird trip, we head East down towards the Hluhluwe River and, just beyond it, the vast Isimangaliso Wetland Park, with its band of vegetated dunes running along the far side (this system of lakes and interlocking waterways is actually part of the Hluhluwe River estuary). Past that, lies the warm waters of the Indian Ocean..

Although it is still cloudy and overcast there is a strong impression of activity and movement everywhere. We are soon rewarded with our first sighting and what a sighting it is – the aptly named Gorgeous Bush Shrike (possibly the same one I heard this morning, lying in my tent). Few birds are so dramatically beautiful. Although its distinctive, penetrating “kong…kon…kooit” can be heard virtually everywhere in these low-lying coastal forests they are usually difficult to locate because of their habit of hiding deep inside dense, tangled thickets.

We plug on through the forest, ticking off more birds as we go. Driving down the southern boundary fence, we make our next good find. A Southern-banded Snake Eagle swoops out of a tree in front of us, flies a short distance and then perches on the top of a gum tree on the neighbouring farm, where it stares down at us through luminous yellow, accusatory eyes. Some birds only belong in certain distinctive habitats and this uncommon resident is one of them – in South Africa, it only occurs in these eastern lowlands adjoining Mozambique.

As the land begins to level out, we come across a bird which has a wider distribution but is also not often seen, a male Black-bellied Bustard with its long thin neck and boldly mottled back. Impressive-looking birds, it is always a privilege to encounter any sort of Bustard or Korhaan in the wild.

The forest is now opening into glades, where the grass has been mowed short by the buffalo. We come across a lazing herd, stretched out, chewing the cud and idly contemplating us as we stop to look at them. The buffalo is said to be the most dangerous animal in Africa, much more dangerous than a rhino, a beast that will often thunder past its target and keep going (an experience I have had but which I have no desire to repeat) whereas the buffalo will stick doggedly to your tail until it has inflicted some form of retribution. These ones looked peaceful enough although the fact they had calves meant they probably wouldn’t stand for any nonsense.

We are now in open country. The reed beds, alongside the river, are alive, with Barn Swallows. They are wonderful to watch in flight, swooping and diving through the air with astonishing agility. I sit and watch as they bank and fall, barely decelerating, to skim the surface of the river, making all sorts of micro-second calculations and adjustments, so that their beaks just touch the water. The Bee-eaters – especially the European are equally acrobatic in flight. More than any other bird, they seem to enjoy the freedom of the air, the buoyancy of flight, and the unalloyed pleasure that comes from being able to mediate between the earthly realm and the heavenly world.

As we drive further, we scan the grassy plain that runs along the side of the river. Something flies up calling a loud, whistling “phooooeeet”. It is a Yellow-throated Longclaw. Soon we are seeing a lot more, plus several pairs of Wattled Plovers. They stand up erect and stare at us as we drive by, uninvited interlopers in their territory. What we are actively looking for is the very rare, habitat-specific Rosy-throated Longclaw, that is restricted to such moist grasslands and in South Africa occurs only here, in Zululand.

Although we have been told where to look, we do not find any.

We do, however, see a few Brown-throated Weavers, another Zululand “special”, a bit further down the road. They are part of a huge, swirling vortex of Swallows, Bee-eaters, Southern Mask weavers, Yellow Weavers, Thick-billed Weavers and Common Waxbills feasting on the flying ants that are poring out a hole on the side of the road.

An equally extraordinary sight greets us a bit further on. In the far distance, we spot a solitary elephant heading towards us. There is something not quite right about the shape of this particular elephant. We examine it through our binoculars. Is that some weird growth or perhaps mud around the back of its head? As it draws nearer, we realise what it is – the elephant has a tractor back-tyre around its neck. How it got there, we have no idea.

Fortunately, we come across a ranger. He has also just seen it and tells us they are arranging to dart it and remove the necklace.

After a full day of birding, we arrive back at camp after dark. Ken lights the lamps he has hung from some overhanging branches. Then, with the enthusiasm of the true scientist absorbed in the fine details of his work, sits down – a beer next to him – to write up the day’s notes, except he doesn’t have a proper bound notebook, just a collection of random, scruffy, pages that look like he has scrounged out of a dustbin. Far less conscientious, I open a beer too and sit back to enjoy the huge, luminous, moon rising through the trees. With the arrival of the rains, the frogs have found their voices and from the trees, river and the nearby ponds I can hear an amorous compendium of croaks and trills as they settle down to the serious business of mating. In the distance, a pair of Wood Owls are conversing with each other from different trees. The haunting call of Fiery-necked Nightjar quavers through the still night air.

The next two days are spent exploring the rest of the park. We drive through the extensive coastal forest where the trees and bush crowd together, pressing over the road to form an arch, as they strive to gather direct and reflected sunlight. In places, the thick trees have the atmosphere of a jungle.

We can hear the Eastern Nicator calling everywhere. Like the Gorgeous Bushshrike, the Nicator is a shy, unobtrusive bird resident in dense riverine and coastal forests, more often seen than heard. Sasol describes its call as “a short, explosive, liquid jumble of notes that includes snatches of mimicry”. It takes a lot of looking but finally, on our last day, we locate one. It’s another good bird to get.

On a little used road through the forest, we finally get our first ‘lifer’. It is not a bird as I was eagerly anticipating (the Green Makoha is top of my list)– it is a Bell’s Hinged Tortoise (as opposed to the more common Leopard Tortoise which we have already seen several of). I take a few photos, so Ken will have a record of it.

In the northern and westernmost sections of the park, the coastal forest subsides into Acacia woodland/scrub and riverine vegetation, which includes a beautiful patch of Fever Tree forest. There are also numerous Lala Palms scattered about which makes this good country to look for Lemon-breasted Canary, yet another Zululand ‘special’ (there is also an isolated population in the Pafuri area of Kruger). We are excited to see our first one but, in the end, see so many we begin to get a little blasé about the fact.

Heading back to our campsite, on the one day, we pull in at the Reception and Main Camp area. We know, from experience, that you often find lots of interesting birds around such habitations. Ken immediately goes trundling off, as is his wont, down a path that exists only in his imagination. It leads past a colony of Thick-billed, Yellow and Southern Masked weavers nesting in a reed bed. While initially reluctant to follow, I am glad he does because, in crashing through the shrubbery he flushes three Black-crowned Night Herons, one of which, obligingly lands in a nearby tree. I can get a good photo of it – my first ever of this elusive bird.

In the quiet, backwaters of the dam in front of the camp, we come across several other water birds, including two White-faced Whistling Duck, feeding among the water lilies. I feel a strong, sentimental affection for this duck. They are high up on my list of most “charismatic” birds. They are such alert, earnest, amusing little characters. They don’t say quack like ducks are supposed to; instead, their characteristic three-note whistle is one of those much-loved sounds I’ll always associate with Africa.

Twilight is coming. Floating along, in the orange glow of the setting sun, the ducks look like little, painted ornaments. Elsewhere, the Egrets, Herons and Ibis head off to their roosting spots.

Before we pack up camp on our final day, we have a celebratory coffee. As we are sitting there, Ken on his huge camp chair (“The Throne”), me on my cool box (my aged camp chair collapsed on me earlier), I suddenly become aware of movement above me. I look up. Perched on an exposed branch, in clear view and some five metres up is a largish, brilliant emerald-green bird with a crimson lower breast. It is a Narina Trogon, a furtive, forest-dwelling species which has the odd habit of sitting with its back to the observer. I can’t believe it has decided to grace us with its presence. A few seconds later, its mate swoops in and the two birds fly off. What a way to end the Bonamanzi section of our trip! I decide that the sighting of this striking bird partly makes up for my failure to locate the one I had set my heart on finding this trip – the Green Makoha.

Then we drive out of Bonamanzi, heading North. Our next destination – Mkhuze.

GALLERY: