Country of my Heart: Going back to Mapungubwe

July 30, 2022July 30, 2022 / stidyatkusane / 14 Comments

It is a dramatic view in every sense. Directly below the hilltop viewpoint (once an old army base), on which I now stand, the wide-banked, sand-filled Shashe river has its confluence with the legendary Limpopo River, immortalised by Rudyard Kipling in one of his Just So Stories, The Elephant’s Child. In making this union, the two rivers provide a meeting point for the three countries that have provided me with a home, ingrained themselves in my soul and helped shape my life – Zimbabwe, South Africa and Botswana. From there, the now enlarged river runs eastwards through a series of hills and plains, broadening out in places, and narrowing in others. Behind and to the south of me, the land stretches back into the blue haze of the distant ramparts of the Soutspanberg mountain range.

*Confluence of Shasdhe and Limpopo Rivers*.

Having paid my nostalgic dues, I make my way back to the car. Overhead a Martial Eagle soars – a huge, unmistakable bird even to the naked eye. The leisure of its circles seems to express a total assurance in its power and domination of the amazing landscape below.

For we are in the heart of Africa.

I fell in love with Mapungubwe the first time I went there. I have always had an interest in archaeology and knew something about the region’s history. I knew that it was home to an important early Southern African kingdom whose trade links stretched to the shores of the Indian Ocean and beyond. I knew that one of South Africa’s most iconic archaeological artefacts – a gold rhino – had been found there. I knew that, for reasons that are still not entirely clear (climate change, exhaustion of resources?), it eventually fell into decline and was supplanted in importance by Great Zimbabwe.

Nothing, however, prepared me for reality.

Situated in the extreme north-west of the country Mapungubwe is a strange but fascinating place where everything seems for me infused with a mysterious significance. Each rock and feature and tree exudes its own peculiar energy. In this magnificent theatre of nature, you can still feel something of the ancient spirit of the continent.

Each time I return – and I have now done so many times – I feel the same stirring of the soul and quickening of the senses. On this trip, I had an added reason for being glad to be back. My sister, who lives in Mpumalanga, had organised a reunion of the four siblings who live in South Africa. Given our mutual love of landscape (three of us are artists, the other a social anthropologist) – and in particular the bushveld – it was the perfect place for such a gathering of the clan.

Much of Mapungubwe’s magic stems from its convergence of habitats, geology and especially its dramatic red sandstone scenery – the rocks which glow like hot embers in the early morning and when the sun sets, only adding to its mythical, otherworldly feel. Stunted mopane dominates much of the landscape. From the Main Entrance Gate, the road passes through a tumbled landscape of heavily eroded and deeply gouged hills. Ghostly Large-Leafed Rock Figs (Ficus abutilfolia) curl around the rocks and send their enormous white roots shooting down through the fissures (hence their other name – rock-splitter figs). Further down, the scuffed and sparse terrain of the hillier parts gives way to rich and luxurious trees that grow along the Limpopo flood plain.

It was here, between 900 and 1300AD, that the kingdom of Mapungubwe was established by Bantu-speaking people who had moved down from the north. It is now widely accepted as being southern Africa’s first state. At its heart was a large sandstone hill, flat-topped and kidney-shaped, with steep cliffs on all sides. Its summit was the exclusive abode of royalty with the commoners living in the surrounding low-lying land. According to Mike Main and Tom Huffman, in their book Palaces of Stone, this separation marked a “dramatic change from traditional ways…now the elite was no longer part of the commoners but physically separated from them”

I had hoped to climb the hill but because I was still recovering from a bout of flu which had badly affected my breathing, I decided not to risk I because of the steep climb involved – although the others did.

Mapungubwe Hill. Pic courtesy of Nicky Rosselli.

Fortunately, my sister had also arranged for us to visit an archaeological dig at an old settlement, that was being supervised by one of her university colleagues, to the south of the Mapungubwe complex. We set off for it the next morning.

To get there, we drove down a rough dirt track crisscrossed with game and elephant tracks and surrounded by a sea of mopane trees out of which rose balancing rocks and oddly-shaped sandstone islands. I saw one that looked like a fossilised terrapin, another that resembled a crocodile and a third which looked like it had swallowed a large fish which now lay there, entombed until the very end of time. Even though it was still mid-winter I could feel a steady thickening of the heat. In front of us, the clouds were piling up like castles in the sky. A great baobab thrust itself up from the earth in front of us, dwarfing all the surrounding trees.

Nestled at the base of a long ridge of stone, entirely hidden from the world, lay the site where a now-vanished people had left their traces in the patches of dry stone walling, clay-lined huts, grain bins and shards of fired pottery. There was evidence of a more recent occupation. For want of decent clay, the swallows that nest under its arch had constructed their nests out of what appeared to be elephant dung.

Watching the team of students laboriously sifting through the sand while keeping an eye out for something which might reveal a tell-tale clue about the past, I got a real whiff of history, a tentative and somewhat blurry outline of how this area must once have been.

The original inhabitants of South Africa were, of course, the San who had travelled and hunted in this valley in small nomadic bands since time immemorial. Their cultural presence is conserved in the many cave paintings that lie scattered throughout southern Africa. Not far from the dig lies a boulder-strewn canyon which contains some wonderful samples of their rock art.

A hot climb bought us to the ledge under the overhang, also well hidden from the rest of the world, where the paintings are. We stood before them in a line, awed by the artistry. Painted mostly in red ochre, the site contains images of 16 species of animal among its roughly 200 images including rare depictions of locusts, mongoose, spring hare and a hippopotamus. Alive to the constant movements of nature, spirits and human moods, others show supernaturally potent animals and various ritual activities. Some of the paintings are believed to be thousands of years old.

It would be interesting to know how the San reacted to having to share their ancestral ground and what sort of dealings they had with the Bantu-speaking people, one of whose old settlements we had just visited. A fundamental continuity would, presumably, have been the hunting of wild animals although the introduction of cattle into this habitat might well have provided a point of friction, as they competed for valuable grazing. There is some evidence to suggest that the new settlers regarded the San as powerful rain-makers and made use of these skills. In a low rainfall area such as this, it must have been a useful talent to possess.

Hopefully, further archaeological investigation will reveal more about this

What is beyond doubt, however, is that when the first Europeans arrived in Africa they regarded the diminutive race in a very negative light The concept of private property lay outside the world of the San and this, alone, would be enough to condemn them in the eyes of the Europeans, with their clear notions of orderly land use and rational planning. Nor did their mobile lifestyle fit in with European ideas. There were inevitable clashes and confrontations while the “primitive” San’s apparently haphazard and wasteful ways provided justification to stereotype them as ‘savages’ and drive them out and, in other instances, exterminate them.
The treatment of the San provides one of the most shameful footnotes to South African history.

After visiting the cave, I clambered breathlessly up a large nearby boulder-topped kopje that provided a stunning view over the surrounding hills which included several other important archaeological sites – Leokwe Hill, K2, Little Muck – and tried to imagine the landscape as it must once have been when this was still a relatively well-inhabited area.

Then, I did what any sensible twitcher would do in such a situation. I went in search of birds – for Mapungubwe – situated at an environmental crossroad where any bird could turn up -is just as good a place for birding as it is for its cultural history. Although we arrived in winter when all the migrants were away there is still plenty to see. For a start, there are the dry-land specials you don’t get in my neck of the woods – Pied Babbler, Cut-throat Finch, Great Sparrow, White-browed Sparrow-Weaver, Red-billed Buffalo-Weaver, and Chestnut-backed and Grey-backed Sparrow-Lark. In the riverine forest and along the water line you get unusual species such as White-crowned Plover, Maeve’s Starling and – most eagerly sought after of all – the Pel’s Fishing Owl, as well as several predominantly Zimbabwean birds whose territory extends just across the river into South Africa (Tropical Boubou, Meyer’s Parrot, Senegal Coucal and Three-banded Courser – I have seen this relatively uncommon bird twice in the park). This is also great bunting country. Our lodge supported a huge flock of Golden-breasted Buntings who gathered at the swimming pool to drink each morning and evening along with an assortment of doves, Mocking Cliff Chat, Arrow-marked Babbler, Glossy Starling, Striped Kingfisher, Red-headed Weaver, Lesser-masked Weaver, Dark-capped Bulbul and a family of squirrels. Strangely enough, there was also a resident Klaas Cuckoo. It had obviously decided not to join the annual migration northwards (unlike other Cuckoos some Klaas Cuckoos do overwinter).

There was more to be discovered. The next day, I came across both a Red-crested Korhaan and a Kori Bustard, the largest flying bird in the world. In the Western section of the park (Mapungubwe is split into two) a solitary African Hawk Eagle sailed overhead, followed, a bit later, by a flock of White-backed Vultures looking for suitable thermals to take them up still higher into the heavens where it would be easier to spot recent kills. On the drive home, an African Hoopoe floated alongside us. I am always pleased to see them – they are considered to be good omens in some societies, messengers from the gods. I can believe that.

And then there are the animals. Because of its arid climate, Mapungubwe doesn’t support the density of population you get in wetter parks, like Kruger, but they are there to be found if you look for them. As you drive through the park, the heads of giraffes can be spotted. gently swaying above the tree tops, pausing every now and again to nibble on the leaves. A sudden cloud of dust might indicate the direction a herd of Zebra had taken after being spooked by some phantom in the shadows.

At the Maloutswa Hide, we watched a group of warthogs trotting in file down to the water’s edge, followed shortly afterwards by another family. Having checked to ensure there were no predators lurking around, a herd of Wildebeest joined them.

Heading from the hide towards the Mazhou campsite, which lies alongside the Limpopo, we were greeted by a great company of elephants coming out of the woodland. They paid not the slightest heed to our presence as we sat in the car watching their slow-stepping mass crossing the road in front of us, heading towards the denser bush that demarcated the course of the river. The largest cows were on the outer flanks and the bulls and young calves scattered in between. Closer to the river, impala, bright rust red in the falling light, frolicked and scampered over the roots of the massive Nyala Berry trees that are a common feature of the flood plain on which the nearby campsite has been built…

On our final night, my three sisters and I put some drinks in a cool box and drove to a viewpoint, on the crest of a stony ridge, to watch the sun go down over a labyrinth chaos of rock. Apart from the sudden trumpeting of an elephant, somewhere down in the valley below, the magnificent scene that greeted was intimate and peaceful. There seemed no limit to our vision. As it sank through the thin layer of cloud and over a line of jagged hills directly in front of us the dying sun put on a spectacular light show. Except for the birds and animals, it felt like we were all alone in this mythical kingdom. When the air grew cold we came down off the rocks. Although the sun had departed an enormous full moon was shining overhead lighting up the random boulders and ground around us.

I looked and listened, felt the air, and wondered if there is an evolutionary explanation for the deep sense of affinity I feel for this place. Our past is composed of images, experiences, and memories. I knew that someplace around here my ancestors (including my grandmother, then a very young child) crossed the Limpopo by ox wagon on their arduous trek * up to Gazaland in the old Rhodesia. Could this provide another connection?

I was still thinking about all this when we got back into our car and headed home through the dusk…

*Footnote: The wagon train was held up in Macloutsie, on the other side of the river, by foot and mouth disease and many of their cattle became so weak they were devoured alive by the hyaena that prowled around the camp. Thomas Moodie (or “Groot Tom” as he was known) the leader of the trek and brother of my great grandmother, died of blackwater fever within a year of reaching his Promised Land – Melsetter in the Eastern Highlands.

GALLERY:

More Mapungubwe scenery:

More San paintings:

More Mapungubwe birds (and a butterfly and some terrapin):

More Mapungubwe animals:

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT:

Palaces of Stone: Uncovering ancient southern African kingdoms by Mike Main & Tom Huffman (Published by Struik Travel and Heritage)

Into The Furnace: Adventures In Kruger

December 12, 2020 / stidyatkusane / 8 Comments

I am, by nature, a bit of a wanderer. Even though I live in one of the most beautiful parts of the country and am mostly satisfied with my lot every now and again my questing instinct begins to reassert itself and I feel obliged to follow where it leads me.

There are good reasons for this. By evolution we are hunters and gatherers. It is an underlying drive. It is part of that sense of excitement and privilege which comes from finding something special – be it a landscape, animal or bird.

Thus, when my sister asked me if I would like to join her on a trip through Mpumalanga and Limpopo Provinces there was no way I could say no…

With the Mapungubwe leg of our expedition behind us, we have now just passed through the Pafuri Gate and driven in to Kruger National Park. It is still dry season and what little grass there is has been grazed to the ground. Although we don’t see them, there are signs of elephant everywhere. Their droppings litter the road. Hundreds of tiny dung beetles are busy mining the excreta, turning it in to compact balls, often a lot bigger than themselves, and then rolling them away. Elsewhere, broken trees and branches lie strewn across the landscape. The closer we get to Pafuri and the Limpopo and Luvuvhu river, the worse the carnage gets.

Just over the Luvuvhu Bridge we turn left down the road that leads to Crook’s Corner where the borders of South Africa, Zimbabwe and Mozambique meet. In the cool of the morning this route, with its lush riverine forest, is one of South Africa’s prime birding drives but because of the intense heat there is not much activity now.

We stop for lunch at the picnic area on the banks of the Luvuvhu. Sitting in the cooling shade of the massive, spreading, Nyala and Jackal-berry trees my thoughts drift back to the Battle of the Somme-like scenes I have just witnessed.

*Pafuri picnic site, Luvuvhu River*. My niece, Kelly.

Elephants have, of course, been destroying woodlands for thousands of years. In the process, they consume vast amounts of pods which they then deposit elsewhere so, in that sense, this is all part of a natural process of regeneration. The problem now, of course, is that the elephants movements have been restricted to certain protected areas and park which puts added pressure on the environment.

Kruger is probably big enough to absorb the damage but you do feel a solution needs to be found in some of the more worse hit areas. It is a controversial subject, of course, although there is one thing I am certain of. It is no good saying we mustn’t interfere with nature. We already have.

At Pafuri there is another factor which has led to the destruction of the riverine forest. If extreme weather still counts as natural, than the severe floods that have hit the area in recent years, uprooting or flattening hundreds of trees, overnight, changed much of the landscape. Again, it could be argued that this nature’s way of replenishing the precious top soil and allowing new plants to emerge, although such thoughts also, invariably, lead to the question of climate change.

What effect is it having? Will it have a significant impact on bird-life and mammals? Will they be able to adapt? These are questions which go around and around in my brain and end up nowhere, so I go back to munching my sandwich.

The subject of climate change still weighs heavily on my mind, later that day, as we sit on the verandah of our chalet at Mopani Camp, overlooking a dam studded with dead tree trunks. The temperatures are in the low-forties. I feel like I am drowning in the heat. Everywhere animals and birds lie spread-eagled in the shade. Even the usually noisy, hyper-active, Greater-eared Starlings sit panting in the shrubbery.

In this breathless air, the normal sounds of the bush have become eerily muted. The birds have stopped singing, the butterflies have grown lethargic and abandoned their search for nectar, the lizards cease scurrying, the hippos sink deeper in to their watery homes.

Even the coming of night fails to sooth it. As the sun sinks, the water of the dam turns the colour of cauldron flames. Along it edges, duck, geese, heron, egrets, cormorants, darter, stints and little waders stand motionless, frozen in the moment like figures in a painting. Suddenly a family of White-faced Fulvous Whistling Duck rise, in spumes of spray, and head off across the dam. Their rallying whistle is a sound like no other. Hearing it, the years flash back, through my childhood, to the days when I used to go out exploring with my brother, Pete, or went fishing with my Dad for bream in the farm dams.

On the edge of darkness, flocks of Red-billed Quelea come swirling through the evening sky in massive, rolling, waves, to their roosting spots in the trees along the water’s edge. Suddenly a much larger, darker form swoops out of nowhere at breath-taking speed and veers down towards them. Then – another. And another! Three Bat Hawk, each one the essence of distilled cunning, are out hunting. The Quelea immediately become vigilant and shoot up in another massive wave of movement. One bird is not so lucky. Having seized the tiny bird in it talons, the Bat Hawk wheels off victoriously. Still flying in synchronised formation, the rest of the Quelea continue with their evasive action before returning to their roosting spots, to live to fly another day.

There has been no let up in the temperature the next day. In fact, it has got worse.

Exhausted by the heat my sister elects to remain at home but the rest of us head off in the Isuzu bakkie along the Tshongololo Loop. We stop at the ford below the Pioneer dam. Scampering alongside it are a pair of Black Crake. They are normally the shyest of birds but these ones have grown so accustomed to the steady flow of traffic across the bridge that they barely give us a sideways glance.

In the shallows on the other side of the bridge there are some Spoonbill and a Great White Heron. A lone Yellow-billed Stork stands with his wings outstretched, gazing intently into the water. Like the Narcissus of legend, it seems to have fallen in love with its own reflection although I am not sure why because they are curious-looking birds. Or maybe it is just hoping to spear some fish…

A family of Cattle Egret stand amongst the rocks on the banks of the river. There are yawning hippo in the pool. Crocodile too.

Leaving the river behind us we find ourselves rapidly encircled by a sea of low Mopani scrub, just come out in leaf. Sitting in the front seat, I feel like I am on the bridge of a battleship pounding through waves of green. Suddenly, above this leafy expanse, I see a tall, dead branch protruding like a submarine’s periscope. On it sits a raptor. It takes a while for the different components of my brain to start working in unison before I finally figure out what it is – an Osprey. I go through various stages of disbelief. Really?! What is it doing out here in the boondocks? It is totally out of its normal habitat. Then I remember the Pioneer Dam is not all that far away. I take a photo of the bird even though it is just a speck in my viewfinder.

There are lots of Brown-hooded Kingfishers in the woodland. This kingfisher, like the Wooded, Striped and Pygmy Kingfishers, is an oddity of evolution in that it doesn’t actually fish or hang out near water but prefers to hunt for insects deeper inland.

Further on, we come to a rock kopje. Growing amongst its elephant hide-coloured boulders is a massive baobab, in which a colony of Red-billed Sparrow Weaver’s nest. The birds are agitated. We soon discover why. A rufous-form, Tawny Eagle sits on one of the branches, a study in regal elegance. I decide the whole scene will make a good painting so take another photograph. The eagle flies off and lands on top of a nearby dead tree.

*Baobab. A Tawny Eagle can just be seen on high branch to the left*.

We plough on through miles and miles of similar looking country before returning home later that day.

Eating breakfast on the verandah, the next morning, we are visited by two of the larger reptiles who seem to have made their homes amongst the tumble of rocks in front of our chalet – a Plated Lizard and a Water Monitor (or Leguuan) Then some butterflies flutter by. Among them, I recognise the Citrus Swallowtail, African Monarch, Blue Pansy. My brother-in-law says there don’t seem to be as many birds scrounging around the chalet as there was the last time he visited. He wonders if this is because lockdown had deprived them of their most reliable food source – the stuff discarded by humans – forcing them to move away?

*Citrus Swallowtail alighting on blue Plumbago.*..

After breakfast, we decide to brave the heat once more and head off along the Tropic of Capricorn loop road that takes you through yet more of the flat, savannah plains that stretch out as far as the eye can see, in every direction, As we drive through this familiar landscape, I feel that old sense of connection I always get when I am in Kruger. It is like I have become part of something much larger than myself but which somehow includes me. It is an almost spiritual – some might say, religious – connection with the bush.

On the road directly in front of us a large shadow silently steals so I direct my gaze upwards through the windscreen of the car. With its stubby tail and striking colours there is no mistaking a Bataleur. Later we will see one squatting on the ground. Parks, like this one, have become one of the last bastions for this majestic eagle.

A bit farther on we come to a place where a recent thunderstorm storm has flooded part of the plain, leaving an extended puddle of water in which are several small waders – White-fronted Plover, Kittlitz’s Plover, Marsh Sandpiper, Wood Sandpiper, Ruff. We drive on. Just around the corner, in the same open expanse of ground, I discover a flock of birds I had failed to find in Mapungubwe – the Chestnut-backed Sparrowlark (formerly Finchlark). Although there are plenty of trees they could fly to, they have chosen to seek refuge from the sun by huddling up in the shadow cast by a few stones. Just beyond them I spot one of my favourite songsters – the Rufous-naped Lark. A Black-chested Snake Eagle wings overhead.

The temperature rises by a degree, then another. It is nudging towards forty-five. As it does so everything begins to slacken: the restless searching for food, the browsing, the fluttering about. Buffalo, Wildebeest, Tsessebe, Kudu, Impala, Waterbuck lie idle in the torpid heat. Birds seek shelter in trees and under bushes, their beaks agape desperately tying to keep cool.

A car has drawn up on the side of the road up in front of us. We stop to see what its occupants are looking at. A shape suddenly comes in to view high up in a tree. There is a leopard drowsing in a fork between several branches, its tail twitching as if trying to fan itself.

We move on, leaving it in peace. Despite the heat, there is still game in plenty even if most of it is resting. As we drive, I search with hopeful eyes for lion or – even better – Wild Dog but other than the solitary leopard there doesn’t seem to be a predator for miles around. Nor do I see any vultures circling high in the sky, indicating a possible kill. (a good friend of mine, the bird artist Penny Meakin, will pass through this part of the world a few weeks later and have much better luck – she will see seven lion, several leopard, a pack of Wild Dog, a cheetah, plus a host of vultures squabbling over the carcase of a recently killed buffalo).

Undeterred, I keep scanning the sides of the road, picking up several birds as I do so – African Pipit, Wattled Starling, Double-banded Sandgrouse, Swainson’s Spurfowl, Brown-crowned Tchagra, Red-headed Finch, Red-breasted Swallow, Kori Bustard, Jacobin Cuckoo and, most special of all, a family of Ground Hornbill who regard us quizzically through long eye-lashes before ambling off.

Running roughly parallel to the distant Lebombo mountains is a long, thin, shallow depression where grass, reeds and rushes grow in course clumps, almost like moorland. Later in the season I can imagine it will be completely flooded bringing in scores of waterfowl but at the moment there are only a few pools of water. It looks like ideal lion – or even cheetah – country to me but still no luck.

By an old concrete reservoir, a herd of elephant queue patiently, waiting to take their turn to drink. There is no other animal in the wild that elicits quite the same emotions in me as an elephant. I love them but I fear them too. They are huge but delicate, powerful but surprisingly gentle. They can shatter the sky with their angry trumpeting and yet are also able to move through the bush as silently as ghosts…

Elephants travel in matriarchal groups, ordinarily the leader is the oldest cow. There are several new calves with this group. Yet again, I am struck by the strong sense of family the herd exhibits. You can feel the kinship, loyalty and respect for the matriarch. I wish human society was as well-ordered and peaceful. If elephants bear ill-will towards us it is hardly surprising for we have harried, tormented and hunted them for so long that the memories of man-inflicted terror must be ingrained deep inside their cavernous skulls.

A little further down the long vlei, the road abruptly veers right, heading up to the Shibavantsengele lookout point in the Lebombo range. We decide to go there. Stepping out the car is like stepping in to a furnace but the view makes it worthwhile. The Lebombo – which begin in Zululand and then stretch up through Swaziland to provide Kruger with its spine – are not particularly high at this point, but are still high enough to make you appreciate the enormity of the land, stretching away in to the blue distance and simmering in the thickening heat haze. There is a magic to this place. A spirit seems to haunt the air, ancient and impassive.

That evening, as I help myself to another generous glass of my brother-in-law’s very expensive single-malt whisky, I am aware of a changing of the guard. One set of living animals is going off to slumber, while another comes to life.

The surface of the dam turns a fiery gold again. The Quelea are returning to their roosts but although I search the skies with my binoculars I see no sign of the Bat Hawk. Maybe they have decided to do what Bat Hawks are supposed to do and gone off looking for bats (my brother-in-laws bat detector has picked up hundreds of their calls).

‘The next day we set off home, unaware that Kruger is saving up its best for last. As we are driving, my eagle-eyed sister spots a pair of ears protruding just above some low-lying scrub. For a while the ears remain where they are, then a magnificent female leopard slowly rises to her feet, stretches and ambles across the road directly in front of us. For a few minutes she stands in the middle of it, coolly observing us. Then, with a dismissive whisk of the tail, she strolls on.

She has performed her royal duty – provided us with a classic tourist photo-opportunity. Now we must buzz off.

We do…

When Two Troops Go To War: Adventures in Mapungubwe

November 24, 2020November 24, 2020 / stidyatkusane / 6 Comments

I am returning to one of my favourite places, after a gap of several years. It is where I love to go birdwatching although that is only one of its many attractions.

The tarred road we use to get there, as is the norm in Limpopo Province, is a nightmare to drive on and my brother-in-law is a study in intense concentration as he tries to navigate the countless gaping potholes. We bump along the section that runs along the southern base of the Soutspanberg, then crawl up, via Vivo, to All Days. Here we branch off right.

The fact that the journey ends up taking twice as long as it should have doesn’t dent my enthusiasm for we are headed to Mapungubwe. It is somewhere along here my grandmother also travelled, as a very young member of the Moodie Trek, on her way up to the then Southern Rhodesia. Unlike us, she travelled by ox-wagon, not in an air-conditioned Isuzu bakkie…

There is a stark minimalist, beauty to the landscape around here. The miles and miles of stunted mopani, the sudden, jagged outlines of ochre and strawberry-pink, rock outcrops and cliffs, the barrenness of the earth, all give it a slightly strange, almost mystical, atmosphere.

Returning to Mapungubwe is like a homecoming to me. Clambering out the car after the long drive, I stand, look and listen and let myself become part of the place again. Tshugulu Lodge, where we have booked in, is surrounded on all sides by towers of red, sandstone rock, eroded by the wind and rain and sun in to all sorts of weird, fantastical shapes.

We are thrilled to find we have it all to ourselves

On the first morning, I get up at 0530 and go outside with my mug of tea. My brother-in-law has, as usual, beaten me to it and is already sitting outside but my sister is still asleep in her room.

As I plop down in the chair next to him, he points to the soft, wet sand in front of us and says “We had a visitor during the night!”. I immediately see what he is talking about. The huge footpads of a solitary elephant lead from the lodge gate to the swimming pool and then head out again along a slightly different path. There has been much testimony as to the silence of elephants so I hadn’t heard a thing but my niece, Kelly, whose cottage was much closer, had listened to it siphoning up vast quantities of heavily chlorinated water.

It is a perfect African morning, a time when the world still belongs to the animals. Above us I can hear the European Bee-eaters calling as they soar and glide in the thermals. When the breeze blows I catch the smell of Wildebeest, grazing not far from the perimeter fence of the lodge. Somewhere in the unseen distance I can imagine carnivores finishing a kill before heading off to lie in the shade,

The rock cliffs, that hem us in like an old-fashioned castle wall, glow orange-red from the rays of the early morning sun. As I do a quick scan through my binoculars I see a snapshot of birds and other small creatures. Amongst the cracks and crevasses, the resident gang of Red-winged Starlings play hide-and-seek. In the shade of a Large-leafed Rock Fig which has sent its ghost-white roots burrowing down through the cracks and fissures, I hear the soft hooting of a Laughing Dove. Near it a skink, with brown stripes along its back, raises its head out of the rocks as if to smell for rain.

Down on the ground, not far from where we are sitting, a pair of Natal Francolin scurry past on some unknown errand. In the tree above us the beautiful Red-headed Weavers sway and dangle before flying off to bring back beak-load after beak-load of carefully selected twigs with which they construct their nests. Their pain-staking industry is more than matched by all the activity in the Lala Palm where a small colony of Lesser-masked Weavers have opted to build. They prefer to use grass and palm shards.

After a breakfast of fruit, muesli and yoghurt, we head off to the Eastern Section of Park. This arid area occupies a unique position in the country’s history for it was here that South Africa’s first important kingdom was established between 1200 and 1290 AD. Ruins left behind by Africa’s early civilizations are almost invariably found in hill country (Great Zimbabwe and Thulamela in Kruger are other obvious examples) and the Mapungubwe Hill site is no exception. From the summit of this steep-sided bute, its rulers would have been in a good position to keep an eye out out for enemy warriors, as well as greet traders coming up the Limpopo – for it is known they kept extensive links with the east, including the Chinese and Indians, the sails of whose ships were swept over to Africa on the winds of the monsoons.

We do not have time to visit the hill that marked the centre of their civilisation but from the top of the lookout site, at the confluence of the Limpopo and Shashe Rivers (where the borders of Zimbabwe, Botswana and South Africa meet), we can just make out its red ramparts rising out of the dusty earth. From here, the road, ostensibly for 4×4 usage only, takes us along the Limpopo River as far as Poacher’s Corner before branching off through yet more oddly-shaped hills and balancing rocks.

We return to the lodge, later that day, to find the local squirrel has taken advantage of our absence and made merry in the kitchen. Rusks have been chewed on, a bottle of honey lies open, its contents spewed all over the table and floor…

That evening, deciding to take advantage of the balmy summer light, we climb up one of the kopjes behind the lodge for sundowners. The view is astonishing. To our north, on the other side of the Limpopo, a massive storm is brewing. Soaring thunder heads rise above the plains casting the world beneath it in an unholy purplish light. There are bolts of jagged lightning, followed by the drum-like roll of thunder. You can feel the malevolence in the heavy air and smell the rain although it never actually reaches us.

There seems to be no limit to our vision. One our right side, a labyrinth of glowing, sun-burnished, bare rock, pock-marked and twisted and looking like it could be guarding the entrance to the underworld, stretches away from us. Somewhere, in the ultimate distance, land and sky merge. It feels like we have the universe all to ourself.

Anxious to transcript so great a mystery, I pull my camera out of its bag and start snapping. Then I just sit still for a long time watching the unfolding drama until eventually the fading light sweeps it all away…

That night I lie content beneath my mosquito net as the air conditioner – a novelty for me since I mostly camp on these adventures – drones away. Outside the crickets call.

I rise even earlier, the next morning, but it does no good. My brother-law-law has beaten me to the kettle again. He tells me we have had more visitors. These ones are much smaller than the formidable old behemoth who visited us the previous night. In the magic of twilight they had come flying out from their hidey-holes and roosting nooks.

They are bats.

Bats have always received a bad rap. Some time, back in history, perhaps around the period the when the church started persecuting perceived witches, they were turned in to creatures of ill-omen, along with crows, owls and – oddly enough – hares (it was thought that witches could shape-shift in to them). Later they came to be associated with vampires and Count Dracula and sharpened stakes and bundles of garlic. It is a label and an association they manifestly do not deserve for these nocturnal wanderers are marvels of evolutionary engineering..

I don’t know much about bats but my brother-in-law does. An Emeritus Professor, he is an expert on the subject. The reason he knows they have been active while we slept is because – like some Cold War spy – he has been secretly recording their chatter on two metal Bat Detectors he has attached to some trees. I listen raptly as he explains their workings. Because they mostly fly around at night bats can be difficult to identify but science – and technology – has found a way around that by tuning in to the ultrasonic sounds the bats emit.

My brother-in-law’s findings from this and subsequent recordings are, to my mind anyway, amazing, revealing a secret night-time world in which the bats are completely at home (see Acknowledgement below).

The bat puzzle solved, we next set out to explore our corner of the park, a lot of which is new to me.

The day is hot but bearable because the heat is mostly dry. Our route takes us through a badlands of arid hills and trees that are, for the most part, low and barren. In marked contrast, every now and again, we come across a baobab rising like some ancient monument, sometimes in the middle of nowhere, some times next to the stone face of a kopje.

This is good raptor country. In no time I have added Martial Eagle, Black Eagle, African Hawk Eagle, White-backed Vulture, Common Buzzard, Brown Snake-Eagle and Gabar Goshawk (black form) to my bird list. Plus a Kori Bustard and a Red-crested Korhaan. Later, we will see the male Korhaan performing its strange courtship ritual, flying straight up in to the air and then closing its wings and tumbling to the ground, as if shot, before gliding in to land.

After taking us through more rough, broken, terrain, the road starts winding down in to a rock-strewn valley which, in turn, opens up on to an immense plain, on the one edge of which lies the Limpopo. As you approach the river, the Mopani scrub abruptly gives way to a green line of tall trees – Nyala Berry, Jackal Berry, Natal Mahogany, Ana Trees, Apple Leaf.

I am a little taken back by the state of the Mazhou camp site which has altered much since I stayed there last. The electric fence that protects it no longer seems functional and everywhere there are scenes of devastation. I know who the culprits are. As in Kruger, elephant are presently destroying the acacia thorn (and many other species of tree) that also grow along the river bank at a rate regeneration can’t keep pace with. Those not knocked down have been stripped of their bark and are dying that way. In ten-years time I doubt if there will be many of these beautiful trees left to see.

One can only hope this is part of nature’s cycle although I am not convinced. In former times, elephants herds were scattered and nomadic which helped minimise the damage they cause; now their movements have been confined to restricted habitats, such as the one we are driving through. The results of this loss of freedom to wander at will are plain to see…

From the camp site we follow the river for a short distance, through the tall trees that provide favourite perches (and nests) for the vultures, before branching off to the Maloutswa Pan Hide.

As the main rains have still not arrived there is not much water in the pan. The mud that occupies the place where liquid should be is black and cracked and caked and pitted like the moon’s surface. Numerous hoof-marked tracks lead down through it.

Obviously fans of the formula that there is safety in numbers, we find an immense gathering of baboon squatting by the water side. It is the biggest troop I have ever seen. As we sit watching them, another, even larger, troop suddenly emerges out of the tree line.

As they draw closer to one another, I can scarcely believe my eyes or my ears. It is like a clash between two medieval armies. There is an immediate outbreak of barking and a hurling of wild manic howlings. This is followed by lots of jumping up and down, chest-thumping and angry gesticulating. The baboons are doing it, I soon realise, only for dramatic effect. It is a mock call-to-arms and does not signal the start of an all-out war.

Realising they are outnumbered, the troop already at the waterhole stages a strategic withdrawal, yelling parting taunts and trying desperately to preserve their dignity and not show any loss of face. They retreat to a position a hundred metres or so downstream where they sit down and mutter conspiratorially amongst themselves. For our part, we find it a rather an impressive performance and feel like clapping but the solitary, bored-looking, Spurwing Goose who was in the middle of the battlefield remains completely unmoved. He has obviously seen and heard it all countless times before…

On the way back from the pan my sister sees two Crowned Lapwing in an open patch of ground and then, a bit further down the road, says “Look – two more of them under that tree!”. Although, I am on the wrong side of the car to see them, a little bell goes off in my head. Maybe they are not plovers at all! I urge my brother-in-lay to stop and reverse back to them. I am very glad I do for it turns out to be a pair of Triple-banded Coursers which are extremely unusual in South Africa. I am even more amazed when I see they have two chicks. In Africa, all game birds suffer high rates of nesting loss. There open homes are highly vulnerable to a whole host of predators – caracal, serval, jackal, civet cat, genet cat mongoose, raptors, various egg-eating snakes.

The chicks are lucky to have survived so far.

Returning home we take a slight detour to Little Muck which lies on a ridge below which a seasonal stream bed runs. How it got its odd name I have not been able to ascertain but it is a good place to see elephant. There are also several San rock-painting sites in the area but I imagine you have to get permission to see them. There are more baobab standing here in heraldic silence, their branches covered in the sprawling nests of the Red-billed Sparrow Weaver. With the exception of those in more inaccessible positions, they too, have been badly gored, stripped and desecrated by the elephant. I suspect many of these ancient, symbolic trees won’t survive either.

Which would be sad because, standing under them, I felt overwhelmed by the age and might of this old continent and realised – yet again – what an important part of it they are…

GALLERY:

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

I am extremely grateful to my brother-in-law, Emeritus Professor Ric Bernard, for organising this trip and for his many kindnesses, information and assistance. To help me understand the world of bats better he also kindly prepared the following notes:

Studying bats is not easy because they are active at night and spend the days in often inaccessible places. They are hard to see in flight at night and almost impossible to identify even when they are seen. However, in the same way that birds can be identified based on their calls, so too can bats – with the same proviso that identification based on call alone is not always accurate. However, unlike birds where the call can be heard, the calls of bats are at a frequency that is far too high to be heard by us. This makes studying bats very different from studying birds. The ultrasonic calls of bats can be detected and recorded and on a recent trip to Mapungubwe and Mopani we used two Song Meter bat detectors to record the bats in the area. Over 6 nights, we recorded more than 16000 bat calls. Analysing these calls manually would be very time consuming and we used software to do this and to group calls into clusters. We were then able to examine the clusters and based on previous work to identify most of the calls.

The ultrasonic calls of bats are used to detect their prey and their surroundings (echolocation) and typically not to communicate with other bats. The call of each species is characterised by a particular frequency or range of frequencies and it is based on this that they can be identified. Calls fall into one of three groups, being Constant frequency (CF) where the call is relatively long and at a single frequency, Quasi Constant frequency (QCF) where the call is long and covers a very small range of frequencies, and Frequency Modulated (FM) where the call is shaped like a hockey stick and covers a range of frequencies from high to low at the bend of the hockey stick.

The CF bats are all horseshoe bats and we recorded six different constant frequency calls at 35, 47, 76, 81, 105 and 114 KHz (kilohertz). The likely species were the cape horseshoe bat, Geoffroy’s horseshoe bat, Darling’s horseshoe bat, Hildebrandt’s horseshoe bat, Lander’s horseshoe bat, Swinny’s horseshoe bat.

Amongst the FM bats, we identified the Cape serotine, long tailed serotine, banana bat, rusty pipistrelle, Natal long fingered bat, and Temminck’s myotis.

The vast majority of the recorded calls came from the QCF group. These are bats that often inhabit the roofs of houses and which SANParks are trying to attract into bat houses that we saw at both Mapungubwe and Mopani. The species included Midas free tailed bat, Angolan free tailed bat, Egyptian free tailed bat, Mauritian tomb bat, large eared giant mastiff bat and the little free tailed bat.

All of these bats fall within their known distribution ranges.

All the species are insectivores and will be feeding on both flying and sedentary insects.

I would also like to thank my sister, Penny, for the wonderful food and – along with her daughter, Kelly – being such good company.

Mind-travelling in Lockdown

August 15, 2020 / stidyatkusane / 8 Comments

If there is one thing lockdown has done it is to force us to redraw the parameters of our lives. Suddenly, everything has shifted, the familiar signposts have been removed, the old sense of continuity has gone. Instead, I am faced with the difficulty of navigating differences over such issues as the wearing of masks, social distancing, how much contact to have with others and whether I can risk eating out?

In short, every decision I make is weighted in moral ambiguity. Cast adrift from my usual moorings, I find myself torn between the need to stay safe and a desire to escape.

It is not the being alone that bothers me so much as having my freedom taken away from me. I have always been happy to embrace solitude provided it was on my terms. With lockdown that has all changed. Now it is being imposed by decree from above with the government taking increasing control over things and placing limits on our movements

While I can understand the need for some of them, being bogged down in this murky mire of regulations has bought out all my anti-authoritarian tendencies, as well as my fear of being trapped. Suddenly it is like I am back at boarding school where all the rules are designed with the naughty boys in mind. For example: because there are quite a few delinquent drinkers in south Africa, a blanket ban is imposed on alcohol sales which means all of us are collectively punished irrespective of own behaviour.

With the pandemic shrinking our horizons, my fear is finding myself confined to a cramped, parochial lifestyle. I worry about sliding in to passivity.

I have always lived a fairly nomadic life, ready to hit the road whenever I have felt that familiar build up of stress and anxiety, like a smoldering fire, inside me. I think this restlessness can be attributed, in part, to a childhood spent among the beautiful Nyanga mountains and a deep-rooted urge to retrieve that part of myself in a far-off place. Also, I like to feel I still have some control over my life. That I am able to exercise my skill in being free.

As lockdown progresses I have found myself fantasising about trips I want to make, as well as recalling some of the ones I have made in the past. I play them over and over again in my imagination, remembering bits I had forgotten.

I pour over my old AA maps planning possible new routes. I formulate plans which will probably never come to fruit. I look at photographs of trips I have made in the past. Because of the circumstance I now find myself in, their memory suddenly seems more precious than ever. There is a sadness too. In some cases the pristine places the photographs have captured are disappearing. Others I will never see again.

It is hard to pick a favourite journey but, if forced to do so, I would probably settle for the Great South African Traverse, I undertook in September, 2003, with my birding partner, Ken, just because of the sheer diversity of countryside we passed through.

Umhlanga Rocks, Indian Ocean. Pic courtesy of Mark Wing.

Wanting to do it by the book, we started off by dipping our feet in to the warm waters of the Indian Ocean, at Umhlanga Rocks, and then drove across the breadth of South Africa and did the same in the freezing Atlantic, at Alexander Bay. Along the way we stopped at Vaalbos National Park near Kimberley and also at the Augrabies Falls.

I had never been to the Northern Cape before but the first thing that struck me about it was how straight and long and empty the roads are. Much of the landscape between Kakamas and Springbok is flat and featureless too but the N17 does take you through Pofadder which is a place I have always wanted to visit because of its quintessential South African name. There is not much to the town apart from all the huge communal nests of Sociable Weavers on either sides of it but I did buy a lump of rose quartz, in the local café, just to prove I had been there. I still have it.

The further west we drove the drier the countryside became and the fewer trees there were until, finally, we entered a landscape that consisted mostly of stones. This was the Richtersveld, South Africa’s only true desert – or rather mountain desert.

Wedged right up in the north-western most corner of the country along the border with Namibia it is a wondrous place, a truly mystical landscape of moulded, multi-coloured, rock and drifting sand. The sky is a strange intense blue, limitless and criss-crossed with lazy scrawls of thin, vaporous, cloud.

For our first few days we camped at Pokkiespram on the Orange River. It is an enchanting spot with the water idling languidly past while the mountains on either side rise up to naked peaks of rock.

Next on our itinerary was Kokerboomkloof. The road to it was marked on our map as 4X4 only but we decided to risk it in our small blue Ford sedan, heading up through the Helskloofpas – the name should have tipped us off as to what we could expect – in to Tatasberg mountains. We were probably foolish. It is not the sort of country you want to break down in because there is no water, no communications and you never know when the next traveller might chance along.

Also, our spare tyre had a puncture.

The road snaked its way between colossal boulders, around cliffs, ravines and barren gullies until, finally, on the other side, we found ourselves looking out across a vast, pale, plain, that appeared devoid of all vegetation. Along its horizon stretched another range, perhaps even higher that the one we had just crossed. Certainly the peaks seemed steeper and more pronounced and as desolate and devoid of life as anything we had seen. I was obviously not the only one to find them scary and intimidating. Consulting the map, I discovered some early cartographer had named them Mount Terror.

The road skirted the edge of the plain before winding its way up a rock-strewn kloof amongst which grew the strange-looking Kokerbooms – or Quiver Tree – that had given the place its name. Because of all the twists and turns and the numerous humps which, for some reason, had been put across the road our progress continued to be heartbreakingly slow. When we finally reached the top I felt a mixture of relief and exhilaration and was only too happy to stand there, absorbing the silence and sense of solitude.

With its dead, dry, moonscape setting, Kokerboomkloof is as about as far as you can get away from the cooped-up space of the cities. When the night closed in around us, I really did begin to comprehend my own insignificance in the vast scheme of things. Curled up in our sleeping bags under an enormous star-studded sky, you could hear no sound other than the occasional gust of wind blowing from nowhere to nowhere.

Kokerboomkloof, Richtersveld. Note Quiver Trees.

Another journey I would rank high in my hierarchy of ones to be remembered is the trip I made with my sisters and their kids, across the arid, thorny badlands of the Great Karoo and then down the West Coast to the mountain wilderness of the Cedarsberg.

Once a vast lake, the Karoo is now a place of extremes, hard and waterless. The early Trekboers who settled here – and those who followed – had of necessity to be tough for it is a harsh, unforgiving part of the world.

The white population has thinned out over the years, as the younger generations has drifted off to the cities. Many of the old farmhouses stand abandoned, there presence demarcated by a few ancient gumtrees, the skeletal remains of a windmill and the rusty wrecks of cars.

This particular trip was to have a spiritual dimension to it. My sister, who was then working on her Ph.D. in Social Anthropology, was keen to visit the Doring River, hoping to find out about the local belief systems, especially those pertaining to water. I volunteered to join her, driving on the dusty road that crosses the Pakhuis pass and then descends through ever drier country down to the river.

Strangely enough, there was a donkey dutifully waiting for us when we arrived on its banks, like he had been ordained as our designated guide. As soon as we got out the bakkie it turned, as if signaling us to follow, and proceeded to lead us down a hoof-pocked track, past fleeting pools that reflected the blue sky above until we came to one large, reed-lined one where it stopped. This, my sister decided, must be the spot.

Leaving her to make contact with the mythical giant snake and the mermaids that might inhabit its depths, I set off to explore the surrounding sun-blasted, cave- riddled cliffs.

On a knoll overlooking the river I came across one that had several faded San paintings on its wall.

Sitting in this ancient cave where, a few hundred-years ago, members of a vanished race of hunter-gatherers also hunched up I could feel the great stillness of this African landscape seeping in to me. A sense of place is often bound up with the history of the people who once lived there so it was saddening to think of the areas former occupants who had been hunted down or driven to even harsher climes.

In a continent the size of Africa you would have expected there would be space for all.

The Little (or Klein) Karoo, which falls mostly on the eastern side of the imposing Swartberg – and which I am much more familiar with – has a similar lonely, sparse, windswept feel. Like its larger neighbour, it is a haunting landscape of low trees, flat plains and ranges of lavender and purple mountains.

Back in the times when the Karoo was mostly lake and swamp, millions of reptiles lived and died here leaving their fossilised remains behind in the shale to give the palaeontologists lots to argue about much later. The Karoo is manna to such scientists.

Although I am not from these parts I have always felt a strong connection with this parched and ancient land too. It fills some unarticulated need in my soul.

I get a similar feeing whenever I visit the Langeberg, in the Western Cape, although, in this case, it could be imprinted in my DNA since my Orkney Island ancestors settled here back in 1817 and their descendants still farm the land.

The Richtersveld, Boesmanland, the Hantam Karoo, the Plains of Camdeboo, the Valley of Desolation, the Suurveld, the Langeberg – all have lodged themselves inside me. There is one other place, though, that has prior claim to my heart – the Bushveld. Each time I go there it is like a nostalgic journey in to my past.

Opinions differ as to where it actually begins. Some say it is where you start seeing Marula trees. Others, a particular bird (in my case it’s the White-crested Helmet-shrike). Mostly, it is just an instinctive, gut thing.

Marakele, where I also went with my friend Ken, certainly feels like it is in it. The park falls in part of the Waterberg and is dominated by the pyramid-shaped Kransberg. An interesting fact about this mountain is that the architect Gerard Moerdijk, who had a farm nearby, is said to have based the Voortrekker Monument on it. There is also a butterfly that occurs only on this mountain.

You can actually drive to the summit via a narrow, twisting road, the views from which are superb. It is a road you need to go carefully on. We had the harrowing experience of being chased down it, in reverse gear, by an enraged elephant bull. How we didn’t end up, a crumpled wreck, at the bottom of the valley I shall never know.

When I go seeking the Bushveld, my favourite escape route is, however, the Great North Road although we usually skip the freeway and take the old main road. This way you don’t miss out on the old platteland towns.

If you branch off at Polokwane on to the R521 you follow roughly the same route the Pioneer Column took on its way up to what would become Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe). When you reach Vivo, my advice is to take a left turn at the crossroad, taking the road that leads to one of South Africa’s hidden gems, the Blouberg Nature Reserve. If you love plants as well as birds this is the place to for not only do its step mountain slopes contain the biggest colony of nesting Cape Vultures in the country but also probably the widest variety of trees for a reserve of its comparative size.

Blouberg. Vulture colony cliffs. South side of mountain..

Here, as much as anywhere, you feel you are in the true heart of the Bushveld.

Rejoining the R521 we then usually head north through Alldays to Mapungubwe where an isolated stone-working community once lived amongst the red sandstone cliffs that border the Limpopo river. Their civilisation was linked to trade routes that stretched all the way to the Indian Ocean and beyond. Mapungubwe is now a game reserve but driving through the hot, dry, strangely eroded countryside you still get a fleeting sense of its former inhabitants ghostly presence.

There are many tall, beautifu,l trees along the Limpopo as well, but move a few hundred yards inland and they are replaced by miles and miles of scrubby mopani, that accompany you eastwards all the way to Pafuri and beyond.

But the Kruger, the rest of Limpopo province and Mpumalanga, where I also often go, are a story in themselves, a tale for another time…

Sentenced to no more travel for the duration, it often feels those journeys were undertaken by someone else; or perhaps it is my life in some parallel universe. Longing for beautiful scenery (not that there is anything wrong with the view from my balcony) but unable to take a holiday because of Covid-19, I am forced to do the next best thing. I delve in to my collection of travel books.

I gain a lot of comfort from them. The older I get, the more it occurs to me that I am not going to to be around forever. I no longer have the time to visit a fraction of the places on my bucket list. This is my way of short-circuiting that. Reading about other peoples travels and adventures, is a fun way to live vicariously through them by snooping on journeys you are probably never going to be able to make.

Plus it is a lot cheaper and you don’t have to worry about leaving any carbon footprint…