Africa is home to some of the world’s most iconic and threatened species. Despite its incredible richness and diversity in wildlife, a combination of sport and market hunting by thousands of hunters had decimated much of its vast herds by the end of the 19th century. It was only thanks to the efforts of a few far-sighted individuals and organisations that this disastrous decline was slowed and then gradually reversed.
In South Africa, the province of Natal early on recognised the importance of wildlife conservation. It was the first part of South Africa to establish formal areas with the specific purpose of protecting individual large mammal species. It was also the first area in Africa to declare a national park.
In 1947, the Natal Parks Board was established and over the next fifty years, it would go on to earn a well-deserved, international, reputation for the important work it did in safeguarding nature and creating a healthier, sustainable future for both wildlife and people.
George Hughes has spent over forty years in conservation, rising through the ranks and eventually becoming the CEO of the NPB in 1988. His close association and long history with the organisation has placed him in an ideal situation to provide a broad brush picture of its establishment and subsequent evolution – and in this chunky, thought-provoking, nourishing soup of a book he has done just that..
A highly professional outfit with a dedicated staff, one of the NPB’s greatest success stories was, undoubtedly, Operation Rhino which saw hundreds of White rhino being reintroduced into their former habitats in southern Africa, including Kruger National Park. They NPB also pioneered various game capture and darting techniques that were later applied elsewhere. Despite some initial resistance from a few of the old hands, the NPB also came to realise the importance of employing an increasing compliment of trained scientists who – in the author’s words – “could provide thorough and clear research to support the confident management of Natal’s protected areas as well as provide trusted information to staff operating in the extension field.”
This meant that they could, in turn, share their knowledge and expertise with the increasing number of farmers and private game reserves who were now stocking game (many of these animals were purchased from the NPB game auctions, a win-win situation for both sides). Over time, the NPB also came to engage increasingly with local communities so that they, too, derive financial benefits from protected areas, while, at the same time, advancing environmental awareness.
Despite the many plaudits and accolades that have come its way, the story has not been without crisis, controversy or contested approaches to nature conservation.
One of the more notorious episodes, which attracted a fair amount of negative publicity at the time, was “The Petition”, a revolt by a faction of Zululand rangers, led by Ian Player and Nick Steele (two figures who had been closely associated with Operation Rhino), who took issue with the way Head Office was handling its mandate. Although he was closely involved in the conflict, Hughes endeavours to be as fair and as even-handed as possible in describing how the saga unfolded and was eventually resolved. (albeit with some lingering hostility), It is clear, though, that the issue still rankles and that he feels many of the charges were based on an incomplete understanding of the facts.
Hughes also unwittingly found himself engulfed in another storm when he invited then-president Nelson Mandela to an international gathering in Zululand to celebrate the centenary of three of the first protected areas in Africa (the Hluhluwe, Umfolozi and St Lucia game reserves) – without clearing it first with the IFP, who, at that stage, was in charge of the province. It took some skilful diplomacy and smoothing of bruised political egos – plus a bit of Madiba magic – to calm matters down.
Spiced with many other similar anecdotes and reminiscences, which add a great deal of colour to the text, Hughes also devotes much space to describing the structures, functioning and operational aspects of the NPB. As such, The Natal Parks Board: A Conservation Adventure provides an authoritative overview of the subject and should prove invaluable to future historians, archivists and interested members of the public alike.
It also fulfils another important function. With many species still hovering on the edge of extinction and faced with an ever-expanding human population that is placing huge pressure on the environment, the success of wildlife conservation depends, to an extent, on our understanding of the failures, as well as the achievements, of the past. By highlighting the goals and objectives of an organisation with the impressive track record of the NPB, as well as showing how it dealt with the various problems and challenges it faced along the way (it was disbanded in 1998), this extensively researched and wide-ranging book makes a meaningful contribution to that understanding as well.
published by Bantam
Fans of Lee Child will no doubt welcome the latest outing for his cynical, maverick hero, Jack Reacher. Written with the usual flair and elan, the story opens, arrestingly, with Reacher waking up with a broken wrist and a sore head. To add insult to injury, he is in a dark room and handcuffed to a bed. He has no idea how he got there. With his short-term memory gone, he has to find a way to free himself and then disentangle what happened to him.
Naturally, he is not too happy about this unfortunate turn of events and is determined to exact revenge on whoever put him in this position. And when Reacher, a towering, avenging angel, sets himself a task, he doesn’t stop until he succeeds, outwitting or out-muscling anyone in his way.
In the ensuing pacy, violent caper, he links up with a female cop who is also intent on revenge because she suspects one of the gang, who locked up Reacher, murdered her father. Together, they uncover a complicated sequence of events involving blackmail, double-dealing, cyber-hacking, top-level secrets, turned agents and a threat to US security.
The book shows little sign that, with many incredibly popular Reacher stories behind him, Child (who has now been joined by his brother Andrew, an established author himself) is now coasting. Written with veteran assurance, the plotting carries the narrative superbly along, making In Too Deep an entertaining addition to the long-running series.
In his New Year address, President Cyril Ramaphosa said South Africa had made great progress in 2024. However, there still remains an urgent need to create more jobs, ensure all people receive quality service and fix water supply problems.
ANC President Cyril Ramaphosa broke his silence on the SACP’s decision to contest the 2026 local elections on their own, warning that dismantling the tripartite alliance would “weaken the national democratic movement.” Despite leading the rival MK party, former president Jacob Zuma, meanwhile, demanded that he be reinstated in the ANC by the end of January. The ruling party dismissed his demand as “mischievous.”
The world braced itself for the return of the polarising figure of Donald Trump as the 47th president of the United States. On the campaign trail, Trump had announced wide-reaching plans, including the mass deportations of immigrants and sweeping tariffs that economists warned could have a drastic effect on the economy. He also threatened to rename the Gulf of Mexico, take over the Panama Canal, make Canada part of the United States and buy Greenland.
In launching his “Masterplan” to tackle the city’s dire state, Msunduzi Municipality Mayor Mzimkhulu Thebolla finally admitted to what residents have been complaining about for years.
President Cyril Ramaphosa signed into law a bill allowing for the seizure of land without compensation – a move that put him at odds with some of the other parties in the Government of National Unity.
President Cyril Ramaphosa’s SONA address came at a time when South Africa’s relations with Rwanda were souring as security deteriorated in the eastern DR Congo. US President Donald Trump also threatened to cut funding over South Africa’s land policy, which allowed for the confiscation of land without compensation.
As the United States announced new tariffs on steel and aluminium, EU chief Maros Sefcovic said it was a “lose-lose” scenario. “By imposing tariffs, the US will be taxing its own citizens, raising costs for its own business, and fuelling inflation,” he cautioned.
The last-minute cancellation of the 2025 budget speech exposed deep divisions within the fragile Government of National Unity, with the ANC appearing to believe it still held the upper hand after informing coalition partners of the 2% VAT hike at the last moment.
The surprise and audacity of the 7 October 2023 Hamas attack on Israel, in which roughly 1200 Israelis were killed and 240 taken hostage, once again refocused the world’s eyes on the Israeli-Palestine conflict. The Israeli response, Operation Sword of Iron, was, predictably, swift and ferocious with over 30,000 Palestinians, mostly civilians, losing their lives.
In this crisp, informative and critical overview, Ilan Pappe, who is Professor of History at the Institute of Arab and Islamic Studies and Director of the European Centre of Palestine Studies at the University of Exeter, provides a concise history of the events leading up to the current conflagration, and a reasoned reassessment of it. Given the savage venom often directed at those who question the official line – with charges of anti-Semitism being thrown around with reckless abandon – his commitment to historical accuracy is to be commended.
Although the author disputes this (he places the date much earlier), many people see the origins of the current Israeli-Palestine conflict as dating back to 1948 when the Soviet Union amazed everyone by joining America in voting for the establishment of a Jewish state. Not surprisingly, both the Palestinians and the Arab world rejected the partition of a land that had long been occupied by the Palestinians (the author makes short thrift of the myth that it was largely empty when the Jews first settled there).
With partition endorsed by the UN, the Jews quickly set about establishing their dominance in the region. Thus began what the author calls a ‘repertoire of repression” – the Palestinians were systematically stripped of their rights, their property was forcibly taken or destroyed and they were regularly forced to flee from the land of their birth. In the face of this ghettoisation and ethnic cleansing, resistance was inevitable, The Palestinians were less well-armed and organised and the Israelis used their attacks as justification for further repression. Both sides have, at times, behaved ruthlessly although – as the current Israeli offensive has only too clearly shown – there is little doubt who has inflicted the greater casualties and done the most damage.
Throughout all of this, America’s policy towards Israel has continued to be driven by the powerful pro-Israeli lobby which has resulted in successive administrations virtually granting the country a blank cheque. As such, there has been little incentive for the Israeli government to moderate its behaviour (this has proved especially so under their current leader, Benjamin “Bibi” Netanyahu). The fact that the US embrace of Zionism has often harmed their other interests in the Middle East, as well as encouraging terrorism in their backyard has, for the most part, been brushed aside.
Since its outset, the conflict has been beset with rival lies and it is often difficult, for the ordinary observer, to sift through all the propaganda and falsehoods and establish where the real truth lies. While it is clear who his sympathies are with, Pappe does as much as anyone can do to reconstruct the reality behind the myths and controversies that continue to surround the whole Palestinian tragedy. What becomes clear from his analysis is that military prowess alone cannot provide a solution to this seemingly endless conflict. Sadly, that is something that neither side shows much willingness to acknowledge at the present moment.
published by Zaprock
By any standards, 2024 has been a tumultuous year, here and abroad. In South Africa, the ruling ANC lost its parliamentary majority and was forced into a shaky Government of National Unity (the GNU of the book’s title) with the DA, IFP and several smaller parties. The year also marked the return of two controversial, divisive ex-presidents – Donald Trump in the USA and – closer to home – Jacob Zuma. While insisting he remained an ANC member, Zuma launched his own political party, the MK Party which shocked the pundits by doing surprisingly well at the polls, pushing firebrand Julius Malema’s EFF into fourth place. Clearly put out by this loss of support, Juju’s mood did not improve when many of his members promptly deserted him for the new party.
With little going right and so much going wrong, South Africa’s motley collection of political cartoonists had a field day, not least the veteran political commentator, Zapiro. As this, his 28th Annual, shows he has lost none of his satirical flourish and his cartoons are as sharp and as acerbic as ever. Producing cartoons on a day-to-day basis can be gruelling work but he is more than up to the task.
Zapiro has never been afraid to express his views even when they touch on highly contentious subjects such as the Gaza conflict where his dislike of the Netanyahu regime comes through strongly. He is also not one to be easily pigeonholed, sharing much of the modern cynicism about politicians. Nor is he selective in his targets, his dislike of them is spread across the board. .
Cartoons have always had the astonishing power to encapsulate a historical moment, and once again, Zapiro’s annual collection provides a fascinating, revealing—and often very funny—snapshot of the past year. It is an ideal Christmas present.
In his Medium-Term Budget Policy Statement, Finance Minister Enoch Godongwana doubled down on budget costs and put in measures to stimulate growth.
The United States of America elected Donald John Trump as its 47th president, choosing a candidate who has promised to put America on a different path. This decision has significant implications for South Africa.
Former EFF chairperson Dali Mpofu became the latest high-profile member to defect to Jacob Zuma’s uMkhonto we Sizwe Party (MK Party). The exodus of members was predicted to continue.
Public hearings began on Eskom’s proposed 36,1% tariff hike, amidst widespread concern that the increase will worsen the struggle of already vulnerable South Africans.
Former president Jacob Zuma rejected the ANC’s decision to expel him from the party. Zuma’s problems with the ANC started in December 2023, when he announced he was campaigning for the MK Party.
Thembi Simelane’s reshuffle from Justice Minister to Human Settlements Minister ignited sharp criticism, with opposition parties accusing President Cyril Ramaphosa of political manoeuvring. Simelane has been linked to the VBS scandal.
Ahead of its elective conference, EFF leader Julius Malema declared the Jacob Zuma-led MK Party its “biggest enemy” as senior members of the leftist party continue to defect to it.
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.
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.
Great White Pelican
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.
White-breasted Cormorant.
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.
Spotted (left) and Water ThickneeCattle Egret
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.
Warning: Not for Sensitive Viewers...
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.
Picture courtesy of Ant WilliamsonPicture courtesy of Carl Williamson
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:
GiraffeGreat White PelicanBreakfast at Nsumo PanLeopard TortoisePied WagtailRed-billed OxpeckerEmerald-spotted Wood DoveRed-billed Oxpecker on ImpalaThree-banded PloverCattle EgretWhite RhinoCattle EgretViolet-backed StarlingDiederik Cuckoo. Picture courtesy of Carl WilliamsonWhite Rhino
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.
Yellow-bellied Greenbul
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.
Yellow-throated LongclawWattled Plover
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.
Brown-throated Weaver
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.
Typical coastal forest at Bonamanzi
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.
Bell’s Hinged Tortoise
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.
Black-crowned Night Heron
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.
White-faced Duck
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.
Agriculture Minister (and leader of the Democratic Alliance) John Steenhuisen’s decision to appoint the controversial right-wing podcaster Roman Cabanac as his Chief of Staff attracted widespread criticism including from its GNU partner, the ANC. The DA also distanced itself from the matter…
Jacob Zuma’s lawyers unsuccessfully protested over his corruption trial date remaining set for April 2024, as the state confirmed it would fight for the former president to finally go to trial – regardless of his latest appeal to force prosecutor Downer’s removal
The former Public Enterprises minister, Pravin Gordhan, died at the age of 75 after a battle with cancer. Speaking on behalf of the Gordhan family, the executive director of the Ahmed Kathrada Foundation, Neeshan Balton, accused the ANC of employing double standards saying the party wished to portray itself as championing everything Gordhan stood for while it had ‘crooks in parliament’ who represent everything he stood against.
The good news about an interest rate cut and drop in the fuel price was offset by the bad news that Eskom had submitted an application to Nersa for a proposed 36.15% hike during its 2026 financial year.
After more than a decade of consultations, Msunduzi Municipality, together with nearby towns such as Richmond, could soon be amalgamated into a metropolitan area, a move that promises a significant boost in national funding. While welcoming this news, various stakeholders said the municipality must first address its ongoing service delivery problems and allegations of maladministration.
The KwaZulu-Natal Government of Provincial Unity (GPU) marked its 100-day anniversary in office by highlighting its achievements and presenting a united political front amid concerns about the stability of the coalition government. Within the ANC, speculation had been rife that some members, especially in Gauteng, were unhappy at the party’s decision to work with the Democratic Alliance (DA).
Just days after Msunduzi Municipality and uMngeni-Thukela Water announced city-wide water restrictions, the region was plunged into a major water crisis, leaving large parts without water or experiencing drastically reduced water pressure. Ethekwini Municipality and various parts of Gauteng also faced water restrictions exacerbated, in part, by failing infrastructure.
Some of Russia’s key allies rallied around President Vladimir Putin on the first day of a major summit that the Kremlin hoped would show Western attempts to isolate it over Ukraine had failed. While urging an end to the conflict, South Africa’s President Cyril Ramaphosa praised Moscow as a “valued ally” during his meeting with Putin.
Shuffling between past, present and an uncertain future, Exit Wounds is a follow-on from Peter Godwin’s previous three books. Where his coming-of-age memoir, Mukiwa. excelled at capturing a child’s eye view of growing up in a war-torn country and When a Crocodile Eats the Sun and The Fear captured the newly independent Zimbabwe’s descent into violence and misgovernment, this richly imagined and absorbing sequel takes a candid look at the life Godwin has created in exile.
It has obviously not all been plain sailing. Like many Zimbabweans, thrust into the diaspora, Godwin’s early wounds have never completely healed. His desire to fit in with his adopted culture is continually disturbed by his longing for and strong attachment to the country of his birth and the first place he learned to love (Chimanimani in Zimbabwe’s rugged and beautiful Eastern Highlands). At the same time, he accepts the inevitable reality that he will never live there again.
Living a roving war correspondent’s unsettled and unsettling existence, reporting on conflicts worldwide has only added to his sense of dislocation. Over time, Godwin has come to view himself as a bird of passage, perhaps a White Stork or a swallow – “Born in Africa, served time in England, washed up in America”.
Flying over from New York to visit his ageing mother, now living in his sister’s apartment in London, Godwin is astonished to discover she has gone through a late-life metamorphosis and has started speaking in an awfully posh voice that out-Queens the Queen’s. She is also dying. Growing up, his relationship with her had not always been easy. As a hard-working rural doctor, she was often too distracted or busy to devote much time to her children’s well-being or emotional needs. At an early age Godwin – like many children living in the farming districts of Rhodesia – was despatched to boarding school at an early age. Often lonely, homesick and suffering from a sense of abandonment, he has few happy memories of the time he spent there.
As well as having to come to terms with his mother’s impending death, Godwin also has to deal with the unexpected collapse of his long-time marriage. This also means he will have to sell his rural home where he has finally developed some sense of belonging.
Written with a considerable artistry of pace and construction, Exit Wounds is, in a sense, an attempt at catharsis, a coming to terms with exile, grief, bereavement and loss, All of this could make a bleak read (as The Fear is) but the author skilfully avoids that with some deft touches of wry humour. In a clear, measured and often affectionate tone, he negotiates the ups and downs of human relationships. As his story, intertwines with those of his family and the places he has lived, it becomes clear how effortlessly Godwin captures the warp and weft of life.
Published by Profile Books
There was a time when many – but certainly not all – aspiring politicians from more privileged backgrounds (the “good chaps” of the title) entered politics out of a sense of public duty and because they felt they had an obligation to serve the country they were born in. Those innocent days are long gone as author Simon Kuper makes clear in his eye-opening book which details the way corruption has increasingly eaten into public life. Rather than being motivated by a commitment to the common good. he shows a world where politicians lie, dissemble and pretend to be what they are not in order to get into high office. Once there, they quickly forget their earlier promises and become open to the highest bidder.
In the author’s view, one of the most direct causes of this has been the rise in donations to political parties. In the UK, the Tories have been particularly susceptible to this form of political leverage since they and their donors often share a common affinity, being mostly privately educated, right-wing men.
During Boris Johnson’s time in office, this cynical policy of cash-for-access reached unprecedented levels, with few questions being asked as to where the money was coming from and whether the donors always had the county’s best interests at heart? Many of them expected rewards from their investments. Indeed, such was the influence that these “libertarian buccaneers” came to yield, that they would eventually get their way on the UK’s biggest recent policy decision: a malleable Johnson dutifully delivered the hard Brexit they wanted. The nation is still counting the cost of that reckless gamble.
The dispensing of multi-million-pound gifts by the super-rich becomes even more problematic when they have ties to dangerous and corrupt autocracies such as Russia. Relentless digging by British journalists has shown that many did have deep connections inside the ruling Russian elite and other hostile powers.
In his concluding chapter, Kuper tackles the obvious question of where to go from here? The problem, as he acknowledges, is immense and not helped by the politicians themselves. In another era, anybody caught up in a scandal would be expected to do the principled thing and resign, but now they tend to just brazen it out, Trump-style, hoping the public will either forgive them or quickly forget about it. And, given the number of scandals, it is perhaps hardly surprising the public has become cynical, jaded and inured to corruption or that faith in political institutions continues to sink.
Although the author’s analysis and solutions focus mostly on Britain, the situation he describes applies to many other countries across the globe, including South Africa (think Guptas and State Capture). Well-informed, broadly convincing, and certainly alarming, Good Chaps should be read by anyone who values clean governance and wants to regain democracy.
Fifty-odd years on, the Rhodesia Bush War has become a mere footnote in history. Outside of a few grizzled old veterans, whose numbers continue to dwindle each year, it is no longer a subject on which most people bother to dwell. For a substantial part of my early adulthood, however, it cast a deep shadow over my life. It still, periodically, comes back to haunt me.
National Service (Intake 129), Makuti, 1973About to head off on yet another call-up, mid-seventies.
As fate would have it, I got called up to do my National Service on the 3rd of January 1973, barely a month after the opening shots of the war (in its new phase) were fired. For every able-bodied white boy in Rhodesia over the age of 18 years going to Llewellyn Barracks, just outside Bulawayo, for basic training, was considered an important rite of passage, part of the painful process of growing up and developing discipline, a test by fire, an initiation into adulthood. You went in there a boy and – so the reasoning went – came out a man.
It was a piece of mythologising I never completely bought into.
On one level, I suppose I was lucky in that my schooling had partly prepared me for the rigours and discipline of military life. In a sense, its conventions were all familiar to me.
At the tender age of seven, I had been despatched by train to boarding school on the other side of the country, first at Rhodes Estate Preparatory School (REPS) in the Matopos Hills, and then, later, to Plumtree and Umtali Boys High School, three institutions of learning modelled, to varying degree, on the UK public school system and reproducing many of the features of its English prototype – an emphasis on sporting prowess (especially cricket and rugby), healthy outdoor activities, house masters, prefects and fags and a curriculum which affirmed the values and virtues of European culture.
Having spent eleven years of life at boarding school I had some inkling of what awaited me in the army but that knowledge did not bring me any comfort. Contrary to popular belief my school days were not the happiest of my life and I had been mightily relieved to finally escape the narrow confines of hostel life. Having tasted a measure of freedom at university I now had no desire to return to the bottom of the pecking order or become part of a culture in which once again I would find myself in a subordinate position, unable to answer back and where I could expect to be shouted at and belittled.
The day before I was due to enlist I shaved off my moustache and sideburns, which I had cultivated at university as a declaration of independence, and went to my local barber for the obligatory short, back and sides, army-style haircut. As I stood staring into the mirror, afterwards I realised it was not just my hair that had got flushed down the plughole – with it had gone my freedom. I was about to become official government property with an army number that would, henceforth, always appear before my rank (rifleman) and name. These I would be required to yell out, in a thunderous voice, on parade (my “thunderous” voice failed to impress).
And so, feeling once again like a new boy on his first day at school – anxious, apprehensive and slightly queasy (but doing my best not to show it) – I stood on the platform of Salisbury station waiting for the night train (the same train that used to take me to boarding school) that would deliver me to my fate. As I sat staring out the window as we clattered off into the surrounding gloom, I had a frightened sense of being in the wrong place and that this was not supposed to be happening to me. At some point on our journey down the tracks, I fell asleep, lulled by the methodical, rocking motion of the train. I awoke around 5 o’clock the next morning just as the train pulled into Heany Junction, a nondescript railway siding stuck in the middle of the veldt, just north of Bulawayo. Here, a convoy of Bedford RL trucks stood lined up on the side of the road. There were cries, lurchings and trampings in the corridor as all the young conscripts came stumbling out of their compartments.
Before we properly knew what had hit us, we were standing on a dark platform, clutching our suitcases. At the same time, the regular sergeants who had been sent to greet us, disdainfully barked out a string of orders: As I stood there with all the others, clutching my suitcase, I realised that my life as I knew it was about to change and not in a way I wanted.
The drive from the siding to Llewellyn Barracks did little to dispel the feeling of emptiness of this place, nor my growing sense of apprehension. Everywhere around us, dry, dusty thornveld rolled out across the sun-baked plain.
Our barracks were not exactly five-star accommodation. Originally built to serve as a World War 2 air training base, they had been converted to their present use with the establishment of 2 Rhodesia Regiment. Climbing off the truck I stood for a moment, trying to get a feel for the place. Metal is not the medium of passion and the ugly array of prefabricated corrugated iron buildings that greeted us did little to revive my rapidly flagging spirits. The place was as Spartan as I had expected and grim beyond belief.
Standing before my allocated bed, I realised I was going to need a strategy to survive and decided the best way was to try and blend unobtrusively into the background.
For the next two-and-a-half months I would make it my business to try to keep out of the way as much as I possibly could but despite my best intentions, I somehow always managed to end up being noticed (maybe it was the blond hair), especially on the parade ground where my inability to keep in step (a lifelong problem for me, in more ways than one)) proved a distinct handicap. Nor did it help that I have always been deplorably untidy. Try as I might I could never get my boots and buckles shiny enough, my beret was always at the wrong angle and, most damning of all, I could never get the correct spacing between the layers of my puttees.
Indeed, any hopes I might have entertained of being cut out for the military life were quickly dispelled by the Company Sergeant-Major who informed me, in front of the whole barrack room that I was the most unsoldier-like soldier he had ever had the displeasure to encounter in all his years in the army. That was fine by me. I had no designs on turning myself into a goose-stepping automaton. If he had meant it as a criticism, I took it as a compliment.
It was this disinclination to give every part of myself to the cause that, in a sense, disqualified me from ever becoming a good soldier, for in the army you were expected to think and act as one. To this end, I soon realised, that the basic point of training is to strip you down and then build you in its mould, to get you to a point where you trust those around you with your life. In such an environment there is no place for difference or diversity.
All this I understood. My problem was that I had already spent more than five years out of school, during which I had worked and also been to university. There, I was encouraged to think for myself and began to question some of my most basic assumptions about the society in which I had grown up. In short, I had got used to being treated like an adult.
Some people actually love military life because of the sense of order and structure it brings to their lives. They like the feeling of brotherhood, of being part of a large family. For them there is something galvanising about the lifestyle, it gives them a sense of identity and purpose and makes them feel alive.
I was not one of those. The endless drills, inspections, being forced to do everything at the double, the menial tasks, the constant ridicule, bawling outs and being punished for the most modest of dress imperfections, the expectation of blind obedience, all combined to wear me out.
Short of going AWOL and spending the rest of my life in exile there was not much I could do about it. I had not reached a position where I was prepared to risk alienating family and friends by taking such drastic action. And so I just gritted my teeth and settled in for the long haul.
After our basic training was completed, our company was despatched first to the Kariba Dam area and then, later, to the sharp end in the North-East section of the country.
Although I was only too aware that there could well be someone out there carrying a bullet with my name on it, I felt happier in the bush. As someone who had grown up on a farm, I found it far more my natural medium than the parade square. I still wasn’t sure I was ready for combat but at least the discipline wasn’t as strict and the distinction between officer and men began to gradually erode. Not that our conditions were cause for much cheer. Sapped by the physical demands of life on patrol, we were hot, cold, filthy, hungry, thirsty and very weary for large chunks of the time. Trapped in this semi-animal existence, my world shrank. Mostly, I was stuck with just the six men in my “stick”. I would depend on them if I found myself coming under unfriendly fire. Facing an invisible enemy most of the time, it was inevitable that our lives would become deeply intertwined and that a strong bond developed between us.
My year’s national service finally came to an end but my life as a reluctant conscript did not. At the beginning of hostilities, the politicians were serenely confident we could easily defeat the enemy. I was not so sure. As the conflict dragged on and the nationwide security situation continued to deteriorate, it seemed increasingly unlikely that there would be a good end. The unpalatable reality was that our battlefield successes were not winning us the war
And so, for the next seven years, I was obliged to put my future on hold, as I found myself subject to an increasing number of call-ups.. Like many others, I came to view these as an unwelcome but necessary duty. A grind. We did not get much recognition. As an ordinary territorial foot soldier, our lives lacked the exotic flourishes that characterised the more glamorous regular units like the Selous Scouts (with their shaggy beards and matted hair), the secretive SAS and the Rhodesia Light Infantry (RLI).
A letter (dated 3rd March 1979), I wrote to my sister in South Africa, just before the elections that ushered in the short-lived Zimbabwe-Rhodesia government captured my mood at the time:
“I just hope it [the six-week call-up II was on] is worth it and that something concrete comes out of the election although I am sceptical. Unless there is a massive change of heart on the part of Britain, the US and the OAU I can see no withdrawal of sanctions, no end of the war and no recognition…the only difference will be that we will no longer have an exclusively white government.”
My fears proved correct.
Running out of options and boxed into a corner, the once obdurate Rhodesian Prime Minister, Ian Smith, was eventually forced to the negotiation table. The subsequent peace agreement led to an election which – despite a lot of wishful thinking on the part of many whites – resulted in Robert Mugabe’s ZANU-PF inevitable victory. Tired, unsettled and emotionally exhausted, I handed in my weapon at the Drill Hall and walked out of its gates for the last time – a free man. I won’t pretend I wasn’t glad it was over. Having finally received my discharge, I had one main thought in mind – to put the war behind me and move on.
And so I got up, brushed myself off, and set about rebuilding my life. I headed south to the port city of Durban, hoping to recover some degree of normality even though I was only too aware that White South Africa still had to face its own day of reckoning. I deliberately chose a job – cartooning – where I knew there would be little regimentation and I could be as rebellious against authority as I liked (and not have to fear the consequences). With a few exceptions, I didn’t bother to keep in contact with any of my former comrades. I didn’t attend any military reunions, nor did I join any of the groups that sprung up all over the place, lamenting the passing of the old White Rhodesia. I tried to blank it all out. I had no wish to become a prisoner of the past, locked in perpetual bitterness and regret, still harping on about how the politicians had betrayed us…
Possibly that was a mistake. Perhaps it would have been cathartic to share memories with those who had been through similar experiences. Maybe it could have helped with the healing and provided a comfort blanket of familiarity and support.
Certainly, the passing of two of my close friends, Kevin Ekblad and Graham “Big Bert” Lancaster, from my National Service days, brought the war back into abrupt focus for me. Although I hadn’t seen either of them for several years, their deaths hit me unexpectedly hard. Deeply saddened, I found myself sifting through old memories, searching for salient images that reminded me of our time together in the deep bush.
Kevin Ekblad (left) and Graham Lancaster (on radio).
We all had different perspectives on the war. Mine are probably more cynical than most. What was it all about? Had the sacrifices of those who had died, believing they were doing the right thing by fighting, been worth it? Was ours a lost cause, doomed to end in tears? Could there have been a different outcome had we settled earlier? By refusing to make meaningful concessions to more moderate leaders, right at the beginning, did we not cede the moral high ground to Robert Mugabe? Would the birth of independence not have been smoother and more amicable had we not gone on fighting as long as we did?
It is narrowly possible that there could have been a more positive ending although we shall never really know.
Compounding the tragedy, for me at least, was what happened after the guns stopped firing. With ‘liberation’ duly achieved, the incoming revolutionary government soon forgot the lofty ideals and talk of reconciliation. As so often happened in post-independent Africa, power became concentrated in the hands of a corrupt and incompetent elite, backed up by a brutal security apparatus. Despite the economy going into free fall and basic services collapsing, many of them became spectacularly wealthy
For good or ill, though, the war happened and I was part of it. As pointless and futile as it now often seems, it wasn’t a completely wasted experience. Having to survive in that sweat-soaked, dust-clinging, hostile environment taught me things about myself I probably would not have otherwise known. It made me appreciate the small things we take for granted – a comfortable bed, a hot bath, a good meal, and female company.
In life, there are times when we are faced with nothing but hard choices. In the army, I learnt how to cope and just keep soldiering on. It gave me a deeper understanding of who I am. I had seen only too clearly how war can coarsen one’s sensibilities. I emerged from it with a clearer idea of what sort of man I wanted to be and what I did not. In the aftermath, I became much more wary, too, about what causes I supported. It left me with an abiding distrust of politicians and institutions which I have been able to fashion into an emotionally satisfying career – political cartooning…
Stidy's Eye 