The Hunting of the Palm Thrush: More Travels in Kruger

August 17, 2024 / stidyatkusane / 10 Comments

A lone Bateleur, with its short stubby tail and stiffly-held wings, was spiralling lazily in the thermals, as we drove through the Phalaborwa Gate into Kruger National Park. My first bird. I took it as a good omen, a sign that the God, gods, deity, ancestral spirits, shade, cosmic guardian angel or whatever other natural or universal force it is that governs my destiny and gives my life a semblance of direction had given blessing to my latest expedition. Not that I required much convincing. I have yet to go into Kruger – and I have now been many times – and not have a good experience.

The day was overcast and wintry but I soon had several other raptor sightings to scribble down in my battered notebook. Within the space of two hours – the time it took for us to drive from the Gate to our night stop at Mopani – I had ticked off a Brown Snake Eagle, a Martial Eagle, a White-backed Vulture, a Tawny Eagle and an African Hawk Eagle.

The rains had petered out much earlier than usual that summer. It had been a long, dry winter, with higher-than-normal temperatures There was not much surface water and the landscape was bleached and parched, crying out for rain. The dryness didn’t put me off. I can think of nothing more satisfying than driving miles for no other reason than to take in an accumulation of trees, grasses, endless plains, rivers, rocks, animals, birds, ant-heaps, insects, reptiles, sunrises and sunsets. It is a powerful and fundamental experience.

More to the point, I was back in my beloved bushveld. I grew up in a country like this. It wormed into my consciousness when I was still a little boy, became part of my cultural identity, and imprinted on my personality. It is my myth country.

And now here I was once more in familiar territory. I had a pair of binoculars in one hand, and a camera in the other. It wasn’t just good to be back. It felt spectacular.

Once you have crossed the low-level bridge across the Letaba the road begins to veer south. The mixed woodland gives way to Mopani scrubland. It is by far the most dominant tree in the hot lowveld. Where there are mopani trees, you find elephants. Loads of them.

I guess the dominance of the tree provided the rather predictable name for the camp we had booked into for the night – Mopani. We checked in at the reception and then headed to our chalet. The camp was crowded with tourists. Since I consider myself a genuine Bushveld person, I assumed an air of lofty superiority. I wanted them to know I was not of their lowly rank. Keen to put some distance between myself and them, I jumped at my brother-in-law’s suggestion that we drive down to the causeway to watch the sun setting over the dam.

The sky was still grey and overcast when we set off the next morning but as we drove the clouds began to disentangle themselves from one other and slowly drift apart, By afternoon, it had cleared up completely,

Beyond Shingwedzi the mopane veld continued flat, brown and dusty. Many visitors find this section of the road boring because there is seldom much to see and the scenery is so repetitive. My main purpose for going to Kruger is not to record the “Big Five” (although I am happy if I do), I just go to immerse myself in nature. So, I don’t mind driving through this stuff. It is part of Kruger’s charm…

As it turned out, we did see a few interesting things, including a small group of Roan Antelope, at a watering hole. Because of their low numbers (there are only around 100 in the park), they are not often spotted.

We passed the turn-off to Punda Maria camp, built on the slopes of a low, dry hill with Pod Mahogany trees growing on it. Beyond it lie more hills, marking the eastern extreme of the Soutspanberg Mountains. The next landmark is the Klopperfontein Dam built by Stephanus Cecil Rutgart ‘Bvekenya” Barnard, a legendary elephant hunter and poacher who later turned conservationist, as an overnight stopping point and to provide water for the thirsty labourers trudging wearily towards the City of Gold (of which, more later).

The geography started transforming itself before our eyes, breaking up into a wild rocky country. The hills grew closer and larger, and beyond them rose other, steeper, hills. Then we dropped down into the hot Limpopo Valley. Here, the temperatures can hover, in summer, above forty degrees for days on end. Dominating the skyline on either side of the road are huge, ancient, baobabs. The most well-known of these is the one on Baobab Hill, a prominent landmark, just next to the road, rising above its surroundings like an outstretched hand, grasping at the sky. For centuries the hill has served as a prominent beacon and was the first outspan for the Witwatersrand Native Labour Association’s (WNLA but colloquially known as Wenela) route to the Soutspanberg, 1919 – 1937.

Turning off just before the bridge over the Luvuvhu Rives, the dirt road led along the edge of the same river. Its steep banks are multi-coloured and criss-crossed by game paths. Huge trees grow along its sides. Unlike many of Kruger’s other large rivers, the Luvuvhu flows all year around, making it a magnet for all the thirsty animals (and birds) at this time of the year.

In places it opened into glades where the grass, cropped short, was littered with elephant dung. A Ground Hornbill was making his way, methodically, through the piles, picking up balls of it and then tossing them as it went.

At our first pullover, a small herd of eland took mute note of us and carried on drinking. Around the next bend, a family of elephants was funnelling up gallons of water from the sluggish river below. As I stood watching, a bull elephant, perhaps angered by the sound of a rival, emitted an air-splitting scream of agitation and then went thundering through the water, trumpeting loudly as it stormed up the opposite bank.

We stopped at the beautifully shady Pafuri Picnic Site with its magnificent Nyala Berry and Jackalberry trees,

My sister suggested a cup of tea. She got no argument from me. Then, I went looking for birds. Birding is my passion. It is like gaining access to a world that exists parallel to ours, full of amazements and surprises and delights. In next to no time I had seen a Bearded Scrub-Robin, a Red-capped Robin-Chat, a Grey-backed Camaroptera, a Black-throated Wattle-Eye and several other furtive forest dwellers.

Beyond the Picnic Site lie more massive trees that have benefited from the heat, fertile soil and abundant water available to their roots. Some trees are hundreds of years old (the baobabs run to thousands). Every now and again, we pulled over under the leafy branches of these, to see what might be lurking below. When I first visited Pafuri, many years ago, the forest extended even further away from the river than it does now but severe flooding and elephants, with their tree-splitting propensities, have destroyed many of the tall acacia and fever trees that grew along its outer rim.

We reached another intersection and then, turning left, made the short drive to Crook’s Corner, the most northeastern section of the park. Although the Luvuvhu was still flowing, the much larger Limpopo was, at this point anyway, completely dry. Where the two met, a large hippo pod lay asleep on the sand. From their leathery backs, Oxpeckers gazed quizzically about. A pair of White-crowned Plovers – confined to large river systems like this one – kicked up a huge fuss as they swooped angrily over our heads. Maybe they had a nest nearby.

In this harsh country, you really do feel you are on the edge of the frontier, worlds away from anywhere, although, before becoming a park, the area had been traversed and occupied for thousands of years. In venturing deep into the interior, the early traders had followed the river systems, like the Limpopo, exchanging their goods for items such as ivory and gold which they would then take back to the Arab trading stations established along the African shoreline. In response to this burgeoning trade, several important mercantile centres sprung up in the region, of which the most prominent and famous was Mapungubwe, located several hundred kilometres to the west of the park, near the junction of the Shashe and Limpopo (which also happens to form the modern meeting point between South Africa, Botswana and Zimbabwe). Its capital city was centred around a distinctive, flat-topped hill, on the southern side of the Limpopo, on which lived the king and his more important followers.

For reasons which are still not completely clear the Mapungubwe civilisation collapsed around 1290. Many of its people moved north and east where they joined another iron-age centre that came to be known as Great Zimbabwe.

Between 1450 and 1550 another wealthy trading centre grew up at Thulamela Hill, which is on the right as you leave the main road and turn down towards Crooks Corner. Its inhabitants also established trading links with the Muslim traders at Sofala, in modern-day Mozambique, as well as indigenous settlements in southern and central Africa. You can see why they chose the hill. Strategically located right at the eastern edge of a long line of rocky hills (the direction from which the traders would come), from its summit it provides a miles-wide, panoramic view over the surrounding floodplain.

Later, with the arrival of the white settlers, Crooks Corner gained a more notorious reputation. A big signboard, erected under a large Ana tree, tells you all about it. A well-known stop on the infamous “Ivory Trail “, it became a natural refuge for poachers, illegal black labourer recruiters, gun runners and other scoundrels eager to evade the law. Because it was situated right at the point where three countries meet all they had to do was hop behind the conveniently located border beacon and they were safe from arrest.

*Junction of Luvuvhu and Limpopo Rivers at Crook’s Corner*.

On this particular trip the area’s long and, more recently, dubious history was not my main focus of interest. I was in hot pursuit of an unusual vagrant that had caused a bit of a stir in South African birding world circles – the sighting of a lone Collared Palm Thrush at this very location. This bird, with its distinctive black necklace, normally occurs much further to the north, especially along the Zambezi River.

We hunted high and low for it but no luck. Reluctantly concluding that it was not our day for Palm Thrushes, we headed south, out of the belt of riverine forest, to a small group of hills on the one side of which stood the Pafuri Border Post into Mozambique.

Although I had never been here before, I experienced a curious mixture of pleasure, surprise and familiarity when we got there, because the buildings and setting contained so many echoes from my youth.

Even in this Eden-like wilderness, though, one cannot escape South Africa’s fractured past, its old injustices and its history of exploitation.

Regarded, by the new administration, as a symbol of colonial oppression, the one-time Theba Recruitment Station, which was to be our base for the next few nights, had served as a gathering point for Mozambican workers making their way to the gold mines of the Witwatersrand, part of the Wenela labour route. Originally established in 1919 it was finally closed down in 1976, more or less when Frelimo came to power.

I have a connection with its now officially frowned-on history. My father, a professional pilot who, during his forty-odd-year career, had flown all over Africa, had ended up working for the company. He, however, had been based in Francistown in Botswana, flying in labour from the Okavango Delta region, Angola and Malawi – all very far from the spot where I now stood, but the old houses, with their period furniture and room layout, were very similar in design to the one he had lived in, next to the airport. Our residence – formerly “The Doctor’s Residence” – with its wide verandahs built for air, and sun and to help keep the house cool (no air-conditioning in those days) at the height of summer. As an additional protection, it was fully enclosed in gauze, a defence against the malaria-bearing mosquitoes and other undesirable guests who might be out there.

Standing amongst the familiar-looking buildings, I felt the ghosts of my own parents. I remembered our Wenela days, my father, with his lackadaisical stroll, heading home in his uniform, jacket slung over his shoulder, his pilot’s cap slightly cocked on his head, after a long day’s flying. My mother fussing away in the kitchen, preparing a meal for his return.

More fragments from my past. I remembered sitting high up in the air traffic control tower, on the hangar roof, watching the long queues of mine workers, snaking across the runway, heading to or returning from the mines. As exploitive as the system undoubtedly was, there were obvious material benefits for both the workers and the countries they lived in because they invariably returned laden with goods, decked out in fashionable, new clothes and with a lot more cash in their pockets than when they set off to the mines.

That evening I went for a walk. The ground with its covering of crusted leaves crackled underfoot. Outside the perimeter fence, this would, no doubt, make it more difficult for any hunter – man or animal – to stalk its prey. All around me stretched the bush, real bush, vast, unapproachable, moving to its own music, waiting for rain…

The sun, now a bloated orange disc, was sinking through a reddish-gold wash towards the horizon. The trees had still not shed all their summer finery and their water-starved leaves were a kaleidoscope of yellows, oranges and ochres. From our hilly vantage point, they glowed like ambers in the setting sun. All around me, the birds were making their farewell to the day calls.

With the sinking of the sun the bats came swirling out, followed, by a hunting Bat Hawk, burnt black against the western sun. Then, the sky started darkening, disclosing its first stars, and a cool, evening breeze sprang up and helped lift the heavy air.

The next day, we drove back down the same road as we had come in by, scanning the roadside for the Palm-Thrush. It was still playing hard to get.

At Crook’s Corner, the same hippo lay in the same position on the sand (although I was sure they had been active during the night). Not far from where they lay, a solitary Hamerkop stood, motionless, in the shallows, staring intently at its reflection in the water. In local African tradition, the Hamerkop is known as the “Lightning Bird” because it is seen as the herald of a thunderstorm. Maybe the hippo were aware of this association with the supernatural, its slightly sinister reputation in local myth and legend, as a few of them – having resolved to go for a morning dip -, were eyeing it warily, as if worried it might put a spell on them if they proceeded further. The crocodiles were of a less susceptible mind. Several drifted past the feathered narcissist, single-focused, completely unconcerned…

Our disappointment at not finding the Palm Thrush was partly offset, a little later on, by the sighting of a Peregrine Falcon, with its kill, on a stretch of open land on the edge of the forest. Back on the tar, we drove to the Luvuvhu bridge where I hopped out and scanned the river for Spinetail. I have never seen the Mottled Spinetail and this is, reputedly, a good place for them but – like the Palm Thrush and the creature at the heart of Lewis Carrol’s classic nonsense poem, The Hunting of the Snark (“Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice: That alone should encourage the crew.”) – it proved very elusive.

A Raquet-tailed Roller had also been spotted on the road to Pafuri Gate so, with Beaver-like determination, I next went off hunting for it – with an equal lack of success. Such is the nature of birding…

Recrossing the bridge (still no Spinetail) we turned right down the Nyala Loop, at the end of which stands Thulamela Hill. An archaeologist friend, currently working at the site, had offered to take us up (you can’t go unescorted) but unfortunately, his timings didn’t fit in with ours. Instead of exploring the wonders of this ancient kingdom, I had to make do with a troop of baboons, examining each other for fleas on the flat land below the hill.

On the way back home, we made the obligatory detour to Crook’s Corner but the Palm Thrush was still pulling a no-show although a young twitcher, we spoke to, had seen it earlier that day so there was good reason to persevere.

The next day we drove the exact same route, again with a detour to Crook’s Corner, again hoping the find the Palm Thrush. It was becoming a bit of an obsession on my part. I don’t know a great deal about the bird’s habits but they do seem to have a flair for the dramatic because finally, on our last attempt, we found it. It was feeding on the ground, in the company of a pair of Tambourine Doves. At first, all we could see was its back. Then it turned around and with a great flourish presented its chest, putting any doubts we might have had as to its correct identity beyond question! I had found the Snark of Crook’s Corner!

*Collared Palm Thrush, Pafuri. Pic courtesy of Ric Bernard*.

Mission complete, we headed homewards, the next day, through the same landscape, thinned by dryness and dimmed by smoke. Nearing Babalala Picnic Site, we found the responsible culprit – a huge bush fire, pushing up great columns of acrid, grey smoke, was billowing towards us. We had planned a slight detour via the Mphangolo Loop, usually a very rewarding drive with some attractive river scenery. Suspecting it might now be closed to traffic we stopped and asked a ranger. He gave us a thumbs up and flagged us on..

I am not sure who it was who gave them the all-clear sign, but we passed a small herd of elephants, seemingly unconcerned by all the action taking place around the picnic site, trudging towards the waterhole beyond which raged the fire. I love elephants. I love the way they inhabit their space, the relaxed rhythm of their walk, and the pattern and purpose with which they move through the bush. These were no different. They had used this track countless times before and saw no good reason to deviate from it now.

Or maybe they had greater confidence in the firefighter’s ability to contain the blaze than we had shown..

Because the area was so dry. with little water in the rivers. we saw fewer animals than I had on previous trips. In certain places, where it still lay close to the surface, the elephants had dug wells into the sand and were drinking from them. Once they had gone, other creatures would tentatively come down and drink from them too. Most animals are territorial and there appeared to be some sort of dispute going on, at the one well, between a crazy-tailed old Wildebeest and a family of warthogs about who had priority when it came to drinking from it.

When they are not seeing off indignant warthogs, the lone Wildebeest bulls like to station themselves under a shady tree, defending their territory against intruders in the hope of a chance to mate. I’m a Wildebeest fan too.

A stand-off between a Wildebeest and Warthog.

Driving through Kruger can be a bit like running an obstacle course. True to form, we hit a sudden roadblock – a herd of elephants had found a spot for a good browse and midday snooze and showed no signs of wanting to budge. Our exit route had been barred. It became a game of patience, an old-fashioned stare-down, a test to see who would blink first. We did. After about half an hour of waiting for them to move off the road, we turned the car around and headed back the way we had come until we found a side road leading us back to the tar. Unlike the elephant, we were on a tight schedule.

Back at Mopani. we had booked a chalet with a view over the dam. Instead of going for an evening drive, we chose to sit on its verandah (in my case, beer in hand) and watch the sunset from there. As it sank in the west, it turned the water’s surface a burnished gold. Right on schedule, several waves of Red-billed Quelea swept past, darkening the sky as they went, heading for their nightly roosting sites. On a previous visit, I had actually seen a Bat Hawk swoop into one such flock, seizing the one unlucky bird among the many thousands available to be seized.

As sometimes happens in Kruger, we got our best predator sightings when we thought it was probably too late. ‘On the way out, the next day, we saw, first, a hyena, lying alongside the road. It appeared completely unafraid of us, briefly opening one eye to give us a look over and then going back to sleep. Some people think hyenas are foul creatures, ugly beyond redemption. I am not one of them. I find them quite likeable, almost handsome with their odd, bear-like lope even though, in local belief, these fearsome beasts of the night are often associated with evil. Nature is not a democracy. It operates according to its own rules and as objectionable as some of the hyena’s manners and feeding habits may be to our more refined sensibilities they are just fulfilling their allotted role in the natural order of things.

Then, a bit further on, by the side of a river, we came across a pride of lions who had just finished feasting on a buffalo kill and were now lying sprawled out, belly to the sun. As we sat, the one male rose to his feet and sniffed his female partner’s hindquarters. Then, he raised his shaggy head, flared his teeth and let out an aroused triumphant roar.

One of Africa’s most primordial sounds, it was a fitting finale to our trip…

GALLERY:

Birds:

Animals:

Going with the Flow: Olifants

August 5, 2023August 7, 2023 / stidyatkusane / 16 Comments

I stood on the deck of the lodge watching the broken white water as it fought and funnelled its way through a series of rapids and cataracts that had been cut into the cracked and fissured seams of rock below. At a point, to my left, its numerous strands converged into a single gushing torrent before plunging over a small waterfall into a narrow ravine and then meandering off towards the distant red cliffs.

The trellised patchwork of islands, sandbanks, spits, reed beds and rocky promontories immediately above it was alert with life. On one of the larger islands, a bloat of hippos lay stretched out, comatose, in the sand, lapping up the last warming rays of the sun. Just across the way, another, smaller group had marked out their separate slice of prime riverside real estate. Stately water buck, with their white rump and course grey hair, stood in small groups by the water’s edge scanning the bush for any hidden dangers before stepping gingerly down to drink. They had good reason to be cautious. Not far from where the one lot was, several huge basking crocodiles lay supine on the bank. In a nearby pool, I could just make out the long snout and dinosaur eyes of another as it floated, log-like, just below the surface.

As the sun sank lower, the hippo began to lift their dusty bulks and move, either to where there was grass to eat or by simply lumbering into the fast-flowing river beside them, snorting up clouds of bubbles as they did. Directly beneath me, several large elephants, their calves in tow, ploughed their way through the reed beds, leaving behind a ruined bog of mud and crushed vegetation. A pair of quarrelsome Egyptian Geese shouted rancorously about who knows what before flying off down the river to their nightly roosting spot.

On the far side of the river, the trees stretched away, seemingly forever, under an arch of empty blue sky. There were no buildings, no people, nothing to suggest that this landscape had ever been inhabited by anything but animals. There are tourists in the park, of course, plenty of them. Driving around under the supervision of the tour operators in especially converted game-viewing vehicles and decked out in their idea of appropriate bush wear, many of them look strangely ill at ease and out of place in this primordial landscape. Watching some of them earlier, as they gathered for an afternoon drive, I could not help but think of Joseph Conrad’s baffled ‘pilgrims’ in his dark tale about a boat trip up another mighty African river (the Congo) – Heart Darkness.

Raising my binoculars, I scanned upstream. In the far distance a herd of elephants, their thirst slaked, trekked in single file across the sand towards the surrounding woodlands. Led by the senior matriarch, they flowed along in a steady swaying motion, their large, sensitive, ears flapping gently, their trunks hanging slackly down. Despite their immense size, elephants can move surprisingly quietly, sometimes only the low rumble of their stomachs giving their presence away.

They moved with all the solemn dignity of a line of monks heading to evening vespers. I found it all deeply moving.

Indeed, if I didn’t know better, I would have sworn the whole scene had been deliberately conjured up by the park authorities just to show me why the river had been so named.

A major tributary of the Limpopo, the Olifants is one of the iconic Kruger rivers. Its camp, built on the steep shoulder of a hill just where the river abruptly bends, has, to my mind, the most breathtaking view in the entire park. I don’t normally get to stay in it because it doesn’t have a campsite where I can pitch my tent – which is as far as my limited travel budget normally allows – but this time I was doing it some style thanks to the kindness of other family members. I was enjoying the upgrade, to say nothing of the view.

I have always felt a strong affinity for rivers, especially African ones. In Conrad’s famous novella, the Congo River comes to symbolise the more evil aspects of man, as well the moral confusion its narrator, Marlow, experiences as he steams up it in search of the elusive Mr Kurz. For me, though, the river in front of me had far less sinister associations. As it twisted and turned and hammered its way through the hard, layered, rock of the Lebombo mountain range, it got me thinking about the passing of time.

The Olifants begins its journey somewhere up on the high plateau of Mpumalanga, drops down through the craggy peaks of northern Drakensberg and then snakes its way, serpent-like, across the great plain below. Along the way it faces challenges, difficulties and threats as it is forced to assess and choose options best suited to making progress. These periods of turbulence are followed by passages of calm and smooth going where it is able, quite literally, to go with the flow. Towards the end, it slows down to a point of torpor before dissipating into the Limpopo and then, finally, the sea. Having had to navigate some perilous waters of my own, I was only too aware of what point of that journey my life had reached. It made me a little uneasy – and all the more determined to make the most of this trip.

On another level, the Olifants River encapsulated everything I love about the Bushveld and this magnificent last refuge of large animals. Staring out over its shimmering pools, piles of driftwood and darkening shadows I, once again, found my imagination fired by its vast mysteries and remote beauties.

*We were lucky enough to have a pride of lions come down to drink from the Olifants, directly opposite our lodge*…

By now the sun had sunk beneath the horizon. With its departure, scores of bats came hurtling out from their roosts and headed out over the water, their bodies silhouetted black against the orange-red sky. On cue, the dark, falcon-like, form of a Bat Hawk came slashing through the sky in hot pursuit. A rare resident, whose distribution in South Africa is confined mostly to Kruger and northern Kwa-Zulu Natal this secretive bird, which roosts by day, is not often seen.

It was obviously not the only creature out on the hunt that night. As I took another sip of beer, I heard a scuffling sound from an area of dry grass just outside the electrified fence. Leaning over the guard rail, I caught a glimpse of a black-backed, short-legged, busy-looking, animal scuttling quickly on the ground. It was a Honey Badger, notorious for its ferocity if cornered, whose coarse hair and thick skin helps protect it from bee stings.

Sitting in the dark blue light, with Venus glittering brightly just above the horizon, I could imagine the countryside below us alive with similar hungry eyes – lion, leopard, hyena, wild dog, jackal – while shadowy herds, sensing their not-so-friendly intentions, stood in the darkness, frozen with fear.

After dinner. which we ate outside under the stars, I lay in bed listening to the comforting sound of the river below. It felt wonderful to be enveloped once more in these familiar surroundings. I looked forward to the next days’ explorations, wondering what they would bring?

Olifants lies within a transition zone between three ecosystems. It is here that the open savannah country, typical of the Satara area, gives way to Mopani, by far the most dominant tree of the northern section of the park. It also marks the beginning of baobab country. To the east stretches the Lebombo mountain chain– which starts in KZN and runs through the entire length of Swaziland before entering the park. Studded with rocks, thorns, bushwillows and candelabra-like euphorbia its forms the spine of the park.

The next day, we got up before the sun and headed along the road that leads past VonWeilligh’s Baobab stopping off at the viewpoint along the way. We arrived just in time to see the sun rise over the same impressive cliffs that I had admired through my binoculars the evening before.

I usually travel to Kruger at the height of summer – to catch the returning migrants – when the temperatures regularly rise into the forties, so the chill came as a surprise. Pale gold in the early morning light, we could sense the countryside around us coming to life. As the sky lightened in the east, a whole chorus of birds began twittering in the trees, as if paying homage to the dawn of a new day. Doves pumped their throats in vigorous coooi-ing (“How’s father, how’s father?!”). Fork-tailed Drongoes performed acrobatics in the cold air. Spurfowl scolded. Waggle-tailed impala scampered about, no doubt relieved to have survived another night. Giraffes arched their necks to nibble on tree tops. In the grass beside the road, I saw a Red-crested Korhaan still bunched up in a round, feathery ball because of the cold.

A lone Spotted Hyena came loping up the road. It stopped for a few moments directly in front of the car and fixed its cadaverous eyes on us like it was some escapee from the underworld with an unusual tale to tell. Then it made a small diversion, trotted around the side of the vehicle, gave one last look back and disappeared back into the shadowy world it had emerged from.

We moved on, searching with hopeful eyes for more exciting sightings. The highlight of our drive up from Malelane had been spotting a leopard (actually, someone else had spotted it, we had just joined the general vehicular mayhem and excitement created by the sighting). On the move, a leopard can radiate menace and deadly intention but sprawled out, fast asleep in the fork of a gnarled old tree, this one looked as harmless as any domestic tabby cat. I could almost imagine it purring with contentment if I had climbed up the tree and stroked it.

Now it was our turn for lions. This time we had them all to ourselves, without all the jostling-for-position vehicles blocking our view. There are few more sights in nature more awe-inspiring than a pride of lions returning from a night hunt and this lot really was impressive. The large, shaggy-maned, male crossed the road ahead of us, its walk low-slung and easy. It appeared completely indifferent to our presence, not even casting a side-long glance in our direction as it disappeared into the trees on the other side. A young lioness was more curious, coming right up to the edge of the car, the gold cat’s sun-flecked eyes shimmering with hidden lights as she stared up at me. Sitting next to my open window, worrying about the possibility she saw me as a potential meal, I suddenly became aware of just how close she was.

We drove on. Two round-haunched zebra stood rock-still on the crest of the road before us, considering their options before moving on towards the distant horizon. I wondered if the bush telegraph had told them about the lion…

Later, we came across a family of hyenas who had taken up residence in a network of old burrows by the side of the road. Accustomed to cameras and faces in cars, they were not the slightest put out by our proximity to their lair. In the background, lay the mother, fast asleep in the shade of a mopani tree. As we pulled to a stop, one of her cubs stuck its head out of its hole, eyed us quizzically and, obviously decided to extend us some hospitality, for it came frolicking towards us. The curious youngster gave our car a quick, 360degree inspection, sniffing here and there – my brother-in-law had a few anxious moments because he thought it was about to bite a chunk out of the back tyre of his brand new car – and then went back to its hole, plonking itself alongside the entrance and going to sleep too, its social obligations for the day completed.

I felt well pleased. It is always an event to see two of the Big Cats in so many days and has a bunch of hyenas thrown in as a bonus, a small triumph scored. Now, I just needed Wild Dog but – alas – on that score, I would once again be disappointed…

Over the next few days, though, we continued to traverse this landscape with the same sense of wonder, immersing ourselves in the daily rhythms of the animals.

We travelled south towards Satara, via Balule and the Nwanetsi river route, where the country opens up into grassland populated by companies of zebra and wildebeest. There were more elephants, trundling along in the yellow light of dawn. As always, the matriarch led the way knowing, from years of experience, where the best grazing lay. At a small drift, we came upon a quaint Little and Large scene – an elephant siphoning up voluminous amounts of liquid from the same spot a mother spurfowl and her chicks were sipping much more delicately. The small birds seemed completely unfazed by the size and proximity of their drinking companion.

Besides the big rivers – Crocodile, Shingwedzi, Olifants, Letaba, Luvuvhu, the Limpopo – many smaller rivulets run through Kruger although most remain dry outside the rainy season. It is always worth stopping at these quieter, more secluded, roadside pools as you never know what you might find skulking around the margins. Often they provide a home for herons, egrets, storks and stilts, waders, Three-banded Plovers, as well as the shy Black Crake with its bright red beak and legs. Amongst the reeds and greenery, you may be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the brilliant orange and sapphire plumage of the Malachite Kingfisher just before it plunges into the water. Brighter than any illustration could be, this beautiful little bird is but one of the many species of kingfisher that occur in the park.

Changing direction, the next day, we travelled north along the Letaba River to the camp bearing that name. Up until that point we had hardly seen another soul but that all changed when we got there and ran slap-bang into the very thing I had been seeking to avoid because it rather undercuts the whole wilderness experience – a seething mass of humanity. Most of them were either on their cellphones, guzzling cool drinks with exuberant lust or wolfing down junk food. Even Kruger, it seems, is not safe from the consumer society and with the ever-increasing volumes of tourist traffic overcrowding could become a problem.

But we had better things to occupy our minds with. The next day we cut westwards following the meandering path of the Timbabvati River, not too far from the area famed for its white lions. We didn’t see them but we did see two standard-model female lions lying in the shade by the river. They too ignored us, just another carload of gaping sight-seers. Several kilometres on we also came across a handsome old boy lying prostrate in the golden grass. He blended in so well, you could barely make him out.

Impalas are plentiful in this part of the park, so the lion’s presence hardly came as a surprise. More easily overlooked and solitary in habits were the steenbok. Graceful, soft-furred little creatures, their diminutive size makes them look especially vulnerable but they somehow survive in this harsh environment. Like other buck, they live a life of constant chase and evasion.

Then there were the birds. With over 500 species recorded, Kruger is a birder heaven. It is also a great place for raptors. I dutifully ticked off Martial Eagle, African Hawk Eagle, Fish Eagle, Tawny Eagle, and Brown Snake Eagle. The open grasslands in the central regions of the park are also good places to see Secretary Birds (actually an eagle with very long legs), Kori Bustard (the heaviest flying bird in the world), and the lugubrious Southern Ground Hornbill (we were lucky enough to have three separate sightings. They are now listed as Threatened in many parts of their range).

Heading homeward at the end of our trip, we came across another solitary leopard striding purposefully through the grass by the side of the road. Unlike the one we had seen coming in, it looked neither relaxed nor friendly. Openly disdainful of our presence, it didn’t bother to look back as I clicked away on my camera.

A bit further on, we chanced upon a wake of vultures sitting hunched up on the canopies of the surrounding trees, still digesting the carrion from a nearby lion kill. Because of their rather unsavoury habit of sticking their long, naked necks deep into the putrescence, vultures don’t enjoy the most favourable of reputations. I must confess, however, to having a peculiar fondness for these greedy, squabbling, big-beaked, gimpy-eyed, angry-looking, scavenger birds. As a cartoonist, I find them wonderful to draw. Amongst this group – made up mostly of the White-backed – I was pleased to see a White-headed Vulture, now very rare outside the major game reserves.

Our encounter with vultures did not end there. My brother-in-law had told me of a place, further south, where flocks of vultures like to regularly gather on the banks of a river for a daily dust bath. Sure enough, when we drew up on the bridge, there they all were, just downstream, dancing around one another in cantering hops, their enormous wings outstretched, their white back marking clearly displayed. They looked like priesthood initiates participating in some archaic, secretive, sacrificial ritual.

Why they chose this particular spot to perform their ceremonial ablutions is unclear. I was still pondering the mystery of this when we crossed over the Crocodile River (also aptly named) and exited the park. Suddenly, we were no longer in the heart of the wilderness but buzzing along a two-lane highway crammed solid with huge trucks, speeding cars and maniacal drivers.

Caught up in the juggernaut, reality began to seep back in. My escape from civilisation was over. Now, I was headed back to a world of responsibilities and commitments; to say nothing of difficult people, dysfunctional municipalities, corrupt and inept politicians, crumbling infrastructure and load shedding, all of which it is my job, as a cartoonist, to dutifully portray and comment on. I had to fight my every instinct which was to turn around and flee back to the far more agreeable company of the vultures…

GALLERY

Birds:

Other scenes:

Reflections in the Mist

March 14, 2020 / stidyatkusane / 13 Comments

I am a bushveld addict.

Having grown up and lived in it for most of my youth it is where I always felt most settled and where my heart belonged. No other environment has affected me the way it did nor created the same feeling of mystical bond. Recalling that early period of my life never fails to excite the deepest nostalgia.

It is the romantic in me, I guess.

The true bushveld has a spirit, ancient and impassive. It is a spirit which lives on; I know it, I feel it. It lives on despite the ripple of human effects. It lives on despite our attempts to tame and domesticate it. It lives on despite our plans to commercialise and exploit it and turn it to profit. It lives on despite the encroachment of farms and cities…

*Typical bushveld country, South Kruger*.

Even when I am not in it, I can still imagine it: the dust, the heat, the dryness. It is a place of extremes. In the bushveld the sun is brighter, the full moon seems bigger than anywhere else.

Its summer storms are a wonder to behold. The high, piled, whipped cream clouds. The gradual darkening to an intense blue. The sudden ragged bolts of lightning.

And then the rain drumming down and getting soaked up by the parched ground. There is no smell on earth quite like the liberated scents of dust, grass and vegetation released after the first bushveld storm of the season.

Immediately you feel a new energy, a new hope. A quickening of the blood. A rising excitement.

Everything suddenly seems to come alive. The buck start leaping and cavorting, the birds become a flutter of activity, twittering and chirping in the trees.

In next to no time the grass starts sending up new green shoots, the trees break out in bud.

And such trees! What can be more African then the Baobabs, Kiaats, Mopani, Leadwood, Tamboti, Marula, Jackalberry, Nyala trees, Sausage trees, Acacias, Bushwillow, Silver Cluster-leaf, Sycamore Figs and all the other, seemingly infinite, variety trees you associate with it.

These feelings did not diminish when I moved from Zimbabwe to South Africa. Although I elected to live far from the bushveld, in Pietermaritzburg, in KwaZulu-Natal, my heart still lay to the North. On my birding trips you would invariably find me heading up towards the crocodile-infested, fever tree-lined, pans of Ndumo, the broken, granite country around the Crocodile River in Mpumalanga, the enormous sun-drenched plains of Kruger, the red cliffs of Mapungubwe and the mopani-covered Limpopo Valley.

When I wanted to get even further away there was the Matobo Hills, Kariba, Mana Pools, Mangwe and Gona-re-Zhou in Zimbabwe, on the other side of the border.

*My kind of country: Gona-re-Zhou, Zimbabwe*.

Although I had done the KwaZulu-Natal Midlands Meander many times, I had never really thought about living there. For me it was just a green, pretty, tranquil, place to escape to when I needed a break from the bedlam and noisy confusion of city life. I liked sticking my nose in to its arts studios. I liked sampling the fare at its numerous food outlets, pubs and restaurants. I enjoyed soaking up the slightly bucolic, Surrey-in-Africa, atmosphere.

That all changed when my friends, William and Karen, bought Kusane Farm in the Curry’s Post area, on a hill overlooking the Karkloof Valley, and asked me if I would like to come and live on it.

Having reached an age where I felt my life needed a change of direction I duly motored up to check it out.

Like William and Karen I loved Kusane from first sight. Staring over the valley below I just stopped and whispered “Oh boy!” softly to myself.
It had just rained and everything about the day was lovely. The pleasing tidiness of the fields below. The tree-clad slopes of the Karkloof Hills stretching along the one side of it and, near the centre of valley, the oddly leonine shape of Loskop hill thrusting itself out of the earth. The Kusane river – from which the farm took its name – passing through a belt of trees and then snaking its way in a series of bends across the wide plain towards the edge of an escarpment.

There was a freshness in the air, an exhilarating quality to the light. The grass underfoot was soft and green and moist with life.

It was clear I had found a place set apart; one which also had its own special isolation of spirit. Relocating to it became, in its own paradoxical way, a kind of homecoming.

I was surprised by my reaction because anything less like my beloved bushveld in Southern Africa would be hard to find.

Curry’s Post is mostly mist-belt grassland with pockets of remnant indigenous forest (or at least it was until the timber companies discovered its potential and despoiled the countryside by planting miles and miles of sterile fir trees).

In summer the mist comes drifting in most evenings, reducing visibility and creating as slightly unreal radiance as it gets hit by the dying embers of the sun.

As the winter cold fronts move through they often bring mist too. From my upstairs balcony I watch it with curiosity as it rolls closer, like a grey wave, until it suddenly enfolds me in a blanket of cold damp.

It is strangely disorienting but also oddly comforting, even as it obliterates all the familiar visual landmarks that surround me and provide me with a frame of reference.

In the end, I did not have to consult any crystal-gazers or soothsayers of some kind to find out why I so quickly fell under its spell. It was my sister, Penny (who is, admittedly, a soothsayer of sorts), who pointed out the obvious.

“It is wired in to your DNA,” she explained.

Originally of Viking descent, my Scottish ancestors, the Moodies, had dwelt for centuries among the heather and bleak, rain-swept hills of the Isle of Hoy on the Orkney Islands. Another branch came from Ireland, the original ‘Misty Isles’. Such scenes would have been familiar to both. Accustomed to the mist and rain, they, too, would have felt quite at home here.

I have always been very proud of my Norsemen roots although I fear that something must have gone wrong with me because although I may have inherited the complexion and hair, I completely lack the marauding temperament! On the contrary, I am a very friendly, peaceful, law-abiding sort of chap, quite happy to let my neighbours keep what is rightfully theirs.

In this respect, maybe I take after my mother’s side of the family.

I do like to roam though. One of the pleasures of being in the autumn of my years is that I am now a man of (limited) independent means, beholden to no one.

I get to decide when I want to be active and when I want to be passive. Should I dig a hole and plant a tree, or just sit and look at a tree?

Or should I be both active and passive and go for a walk? It on these daily ambles that I get to delight in my new found sense of freedom.

*Walking in the mist with Minki and Whisky*.

I especially like walking in the mist. Something about the half gloom brings out an ancient instinct, a memory buried deep in the back of my brain. There is a healing magic about such weather, it is very evocative of the mysteries, it induces a feeling of solitude in me. It is like having the whole universe to myself.

The Kusane, after which the farm is named, is a small stream but has a waterfall and pool further up, closer to its source. To get to it you follow the path that runs along the ridge that forms the backbone of the farm. Near its highest point is a bald expanse of rock, Lizard Rock, which on a sunny day offers a clear 360-degree view but that window closes down altogether when the mist drifts in. I often like to pause and sit here, alone with my thoughts.

From the top of the ridge the path zig-zags its way down from the one end of the valley all the way to the other. As it winds along you can hear the river but you cannot see it.

Sometimes, if I am lucky, the vague shape of a reedbuck will emerge out of the dripping greyness. Momentarily startled, we will both stand and stare at each other before it bounds away, out of sight.

Other times I will hear the strange whooshing sound of a gaggle of Spurwing geese winging overhead.

The half light can play tricks with your eyes. Even the rocks can take on the appearance of something living: a crouched lion, a sleeping hippo or some sort of dragon-creature, the fissures on the surface of the stone becoming its hide.

At the path’s lowest point you reach a river crossing near where the old pump-house used to be.

Once I get here, I like to sit on the river bank and listen to the sounds: the conversation between rock and flowing water; the plaintiff call of the Longclaw as it rises high in the air; the thin beleaguered cries of the plovers flying overhead and the wind whispering in the grass.

To the ancient folk such sounds carried meaning. I like to think they still do, it is just that our busy, modern minds have forgotten how to hear.

For some reason our local black crows become more vocal on these grey, overcast days. They, too, speak a language which comes from a remote, mysterious time. Their raucous yet eerie sound-shifts, echoing through the swirling mist, conjures up both the natural and the supernatural, magic and wizardry.

You can understand why they were associated with the dark arts in traditional European folklore.

In Zulu society, too, crows and ravens are seen as an omen of misfortune and death (although in New Mexico, as I discovered, the native Americans believe the exact opposite. They see them as bearers of good tidings).

Crows are also, arguably the world’s smartest bird so perhaps it is a little unfair to cast them in such terms. Maybe our irrational fears and prejudices say more about our own morbid thought patterns and preoccupations than it does those of these maligned and often misunderstood birds?

The Black Cuckoo, a summer visitor to our parts, is another wisp of a figure, barely glimpsed but often heard. His mournful call ‘hoo hooee’ is sometimes rendered as “I am so siiiiick!” With climate change casting its grim spectre over our lives, it is a sound which, for me at least, seems to capture some mystical truth about the state of the natural world.

Sitting in the grey gloom I find myself imagining something else – what if one day there were no birdsong at all? What if, in our hard-nosed materialism and clumsy efforts to dominate the planet, we drove all the other species to the edge of extinction?

I do not think I could live in a world where their beautiful cacophony of sounds exist only in memory.

For me there is an important truth to be acknowledged here. While the misty landscape invariably infuses me with a sense of well-being, this feeling is, at times, tinged with a touch of melancholy. I am only too aware that what I am enjoying offers only a temporary escape from the troubles of the rest of the world, lying just over the hill. Yet, in a strange way, this awareness only sharpens one sense of momentary pleasure. It makes you enjoy it all the more because you realise how transitory it is.

And so, as I continue to totter along the straight, stony, path to old age and beyond I intend to keep glorying in the mist.

KARKLOOF GALLERY:

A Tale of Two Rivers. Part Two – The Limpopo

May 18, 2019 / stidyatkusane / 2 Comments

My love affair with the Limpopo began relatively late in life.

Although it forms the southern boundary of the country I grew up in, until I moved to South Africa in 1984, my sole acquaintance with the river had been crossing over it at the Beit Bridge border post.

In the back of my mind, though, I always had this strange feeling that it was waiting for me, beckoning me, and that I was duty bound to answer its call.

And so I did.

All rivers have their own personalities and the Limpopo is no exception. In his “Just So” stories, Rudyard Kipling famously characterised it as the “great, grey-green, greasy Limpopo, all set about with fever trees”.

It is an apt description. There is something rather wild and romantic about the Limpopo; it is both a purveyor of adventure and a river which seems to have its origins in the realms of legend and folk lore.

Even the name sounds made up.

Approximately 1600 kilometres long, it flows in a huge arc after leaving its headwaters in the Krokodil (Crocodile) River in the Witwatersrand. Skirting the edges of the Kalahari it passes through some of the driest, least populated areas in South Africa before making a dog leg in to Mozambique and then disgorging itself in to the ocean near the port town of Xai Xai.

In its own way, it is the embodiment of both the sheer size and the mystery of Africa. The sky above it is huge, the horizon stretches out forever. Travelling towards that horizon you are always conscious of the distance between it and you.

Despite being the second largest river in Africa – next to the Zambezi – that flows in to the Indian Ocean, for a substantial part of the year it contains very little actual water. In dry years its upper reaches flow for 40 days or less.

This can change very rapidly. The one time I visited, a heavy rain storm somewhere up near its source had seduced the river in to breaking loose. Standing on the bank the raging torrent whooshed past us, the colour of caramel, swirling around rocks and eddying over tree roots.

It was a brute demonstration that the Limpopo was not to be messed with when aroused. The next day it had dwindled back to almost nothing…

For my first foray up to the drier western section of the river, I arranged to stay at Ratho, a large agricultural estate, just upstream from the Pontdrift Border Post with Botswana, which has camping facilities on its banks.

To get there you travel north from Jo’burg on the N1, branching off at Polokwane and heading towards Vivo. Beyond this tiny settlement, the road runs through open, rather lonely country. About 100 kilometres further on you reach the oddly named Alldays, a straggling, dusty town only a few streets deep from front to back.

Here you veer left.

As the horribly pot-holed road drops down to the border post at Pontdrift, a change suddenly takes place: at this point of its long journey to the sea, the Limpopo opens in to an immense valley hemmed in by sandstone cliffs, mesas and buttes that glow as if they were red hot. In places they have been honeycombed by erosion and blackened by fires. Out of the sides of the cliffs and the rocky outcrops grow fig trees with long, trailing, ghost-white roots. These are Large-leaved Rock Figs or Ficus abutilifolia.

There is something both wonderful and tantalising about this strange, eroded scenery.

There was no water flowing in the river when we arrived at Ratho although, on our walk the next day, we did find a long, rather greasy-looking pool further upstream, concealed in a grove of tall, thorn trees. There was something a little scarifying about this shadowy section of the river.

I found myself wondering what dangers lurked beneath its placid surface. It looked like the sort of place where an elephant could have easily got his trunk, courtesy of an enormous crocodile.

There was plenty of evidence of elephant being about as well, which also made me a bit nervous…

Back in camp, dangerously untroubled by doubts, my birding colleague decided to take advantage of this absence of a liquid barrier in front of us and sallied forth across the dry river bed, disappearing in to foreign territory. More circumspect by nature, I declined to join him.

In the end I was rather glad he didn’t get trampled on by an elephant or eaten by a lion or carted off in irons because if he hadn’t made it back safely he would not have been able to find me the elusive Pel’s Fishing Owl, that evening. We heard it before we saw it, a strange, pig-like grunt which was then followed by a deep, booming ‘hoo-huuuum‘. Grabbing his binoculars and powerful spotlight my birding colleague eventually located it sitting in a tall thorn tree.

It was a bird I had long wanted to tick off my “Lifer” list. What made it all the more exciting was that we hadn’t needed a guide to find it for us which is usually the case with this bird, which Roberts describes as: “Vulnerable… largely confined to to protected areas, threatened by disturbance…” We were also lucky to find it because we were on the western-most extreme of its range.

From Ratho, we returned to the main tar road and then struck eastwards towards one of South Africa’s most important Stone Age archaeological sites – Mapungubwe.

I have a tenuous family link with this area. Somewhere between Pontdrift and Mapugubwe a bunch of my ancestors forded the Limpopo on the 1892 Moodie Trek to Gazaland. In the diary she kept of the journey, my great-grandmother, Sarah Susannah Nesbitt, describes the river as being “very rough and stormy” and says they crossed at a point called “Selika’s Wegdraii” (this could possibly be the old crossing which is today known as “Rhodes’ Drift”).

Every night they heard lion, sometimes close by, sometimes further off across the river. The sound sent chills through my great-grandmother because she had her two infant daughters (who included my grandmother, Josephine) with her and was worried for their safety as they lay there in their wagon.

This was not their only concern. Having crossed the river the trek-party found themselves faced with another problem when they got delayed at Macloutsie, in Bechuanand (now Botswana), by an outbreak of foot and mouth disease with many of their animals becoming so weak they fell easy prey to hyena.

Travel was a lot more difficult in those days.

Mapungubwe is one of those places I find myself drawn to like a pin to a magnet. Once a thriving city and important trade centre with links as far afield as China, India and Egypt, it was abandoned in the 14^th Century for reasons largely unknown.

There is still a rather eerie feel to it. This is a place of secrets and questions…

Mapungubwe. A strangely puckered landscape…

Driving through its strangely puckered landscape, I found myself wondering why its original inhabitants had chosen to settle here. It seemed to me this wasn’t a country to live in at all with the heat and the desolation but – who know? – maybe the climate was different back then?

It is good country for birds, however, including yet more varieties of owl. At night you can regularly hear Wood Owl, Pearl-spotted Owl and African Scops Owl. Pel’s occurs here too although I haven’t seen it.

On the one occasion, driving out from camp, just before dark, we hadn’t got very far when we spotted a Giant Eagle Owl squatting on the ground, next to an old termite mound. It was so close I felt I could lean out and touch it. Perhaps suspecting I might actually attempt something so impertinent the huge bird suddenly rose in the air and flapped off to a nearby tree.

In the half light of the forest it sat and regarded us from this perch. Relaxed, enormous, extraordinary with formidable talons, curved black beak, deep, luminous, saucer- like eyes and finely barred grey overalls it seemed quite unconcerned by our presence.

Every now and again it would blink at us, like a camera shutter going off, and tilt its head sideways as if trying to get a better angle to observe us from. Or maybe it was just sizing up my birding colleague as a potential meal.

It was difficult to tell.

Watching it, I could not help but reflect on what a marvellously well adapted creature it was. Shaped by millions of years of evolution everything about it is tuned to hunt and kill at night. In the dark it can see with precision things which for you and I are just a generalised blur.

Perhaps because it is such harsh and difficult country, the park is always a scene of restless, unremitting activity devoted to the purpose of staying alive. There is always something to see.

The Maroutswa Pan in the Western section of the Park is usually well worth a visit as there are invariably herds of animals and flocks of birds coming down to drink, especially in the dry season.

One of my special memories of the pan, is returning at dusk as the sun was touching the leaves of the tall Lala palms in the rectangular-shaped clearing nearby and golden sheets of silken light came pouring down. It was an extraordinarily beautiful scene.

Lala Palms. Western section, Mapungubwe.

The Eastern section is more broken country but is also full of scurrying, browsing and fluttering life. From a raised walkway that leads through the canopy you can view the river in both directions. There are usually elephant here. It is also a good place to get Meyer’s Parrot and Broad-billed Roller too.

A kilometre or so downstream from here there is hill top view point which once served as an old SANDF army base during Apartheid day because of the immense view it gave over the surrounding bush.

It has become a place of pilgrimage for me. It is here, at the confluence of the Shashe and Limpopo rivers, that the borders of the three countries – Zimbabwe, Botswana and South Africa – that have played such a pivotal role in shaping my life converge.

Confluence of Shashe and Limpopo rivers.

It is difficult to exaggerate the wild, romantic beauty of this spot with its great baobabs and fig trees growing out of a chaos of rocks. Standing on the edge of the cliff face I sometimes feel like I have been magicked into some parallel world. This is the ancient Africa of myth which the old writers and cartographers had heard about but weren’t too certain how to depict in their books and their maps.

From Mapungubwe the Limpopo continues its long, leisurely loop along the border with Zimbabwe before crossing in to Mozambique at Pafuri. When I do this route I normally stop off at the town Musina to stock up with provisions.

The quickest way to get from Musina to Pafuri is probably to take the tar road that goes via the hot springs at Tschipise – but by using this route you miss out on seeing the Limpopo so we usually go on the old SANDF dirt road that runs alongside where the old minefield once was. In the past we have seen taxis parked here, picking up the Zimbabwean refugees fleeing across the river.

The Limpopo, east of Musina. View from old SANDF dirt road.

The road is in fairly good condition although, on the one trip, my birding colleague did manage to crack his car’s sump. Somehow we managed to get back to the tar and then limp all the to Tschipise without the engine seizing. At the local garage we gummed up the leak with soap and topped up the oil. That got us back to Musina where we were obliged to stay over while it got repaired.

Musina is an armpit of a place and not somewhere I would normally choose to stop for a night’s sleep on account of its perspiring proximity to the Limpopo river. It is definitely not the sort of town you want to get stuck in for any length of time especially in summer.

Apparently not everyone agrees with me. The copper mine which provided it with its reason for being might have closed but it is still a bustling, clamorous hub full of all the usual transients who ebb and flow around border towns – in this case mostly Zimbabweans come down to shop or escape that country’s collapsing economy and hoping to find employment in South Africa (the bush mechanic who fixed our car was one such refugee).

We checked in to a hotel on the main road. Towering cumulonimbus clouds were massing all around us and it looked like we were about to be inundated as fractious gusts of rain kept splattering against the windows of my room. The storm surge held back, however, as if it had had a sudden rethink, and then veered off to the West.

It had been a long day. Neither the sweltering heat, the music from the nearby bar nor the constant rumbling of trucks along the Great North Road, could disturb me. I fell instantly asleep.

Next morning, the car repaired, we resumed our journey along the Limpopo to Kruger.

Covering a huge swathe of the country Kruger is undoubtedly South Africa’s best known and most visited game park. Although most people are attracted by its animals – which includes the Big Five – it is also a Mecca for birders with over 500 recoded species.

One of the most popular of its birding spots, Pafuri, benefits from its proximity to the Mocambique coast and the Limpopo river that acts as a migration corridor to birds normally found further east and north. It was here, that I obtained my first sighting of the elusive Bohm’s Spinetail, a localised and uncommon species that favours riparian forest and is usually linked to baobab trees which this area has in abundance.

It is also where I saw my first Ayres Hawk Eagle, perched in a massive Jackalberry tree alongside the Luvuvhu River.

To get to Crooks Corner, another place I get a little sentimental about because it demarcates the meeting point of South Africa, Zimbabwe and Mozambique, you drive along the muddy Luvuvhu River, a tributary of the Limpopo. In the foreground the riverbank rises two to three metres and is capped by a flat plain whose edges are packed dense with tall Nyala, Jackalberry, Ana and Fever trees. Behind them, stretching away forever lies a sea of Mopani trees.

Luvuvhu river from bridge. Elephant below

I like to stop for lunch at the picnic site on the Luvuvhu where the sunlight is subdued and dappled by the trees, and the place is alive with birds.

Crook’s Corner – which is where the Luvuvhu (strangely enough I have never seen this river without water) and Limpopo meet – is another spot where it would be quite easy to slip across the border by just strolling over the often dry, river. In fact, this is how it actually got its odd moniker – because in the early days fugitives from the law used to do just that.

Crooks’ Corner, looking upstream. Dry season.
Crooks’ Corner, looking upstream. After rain.
Crooks’ Corner. Looking downstream. Normal flow.
Crooks’ Corner, looking downstream. After rain.

Here is another odd fact about it: in July 1950 a Zambezi Shark (Carcharinus lucas) was caught at the confluence of the Luvuvhu and Limpopo, hundreds of miles from the sea. Why it had decided to swim so far inland is a mystery.

Maybe, like me, it just responded to the river’s call…

Stidy's Eye

The artwork and writings of award-winning cartoonist, Anthony Stidolph

Kruger

The Hunting of the Palm Thrush: More Travels in Kruger

Going with the Flow: Olifants

Reflections in the Mist

A Tale of Two Rivers. Part Two – The Limpopo