Like a migrating bird, responding to some deep-rooted and primal instinct, every now and again I get the urge to take off North (contrariwise, I sometimes go South). And so, it came to pass on a cloudy Tuesday morning. I found myself barrelling up the N1 freeway from Jo’burg. Destination – Mapungubwe National Park. The further we travelled from the concrete jungle, the happier I got. I began to get that old familiar sense of freedom and anticipation…

At Polokwane, we left the Great North Road and headed, in a North-Westerly direction, up the R521. The traffic grew lighter. Then, the thin blue outline of Soutpansberg came into view, silhouetted against the horizon. Once you have skirted its western edge, the country becomes flat, straight, wide, and so monotonous, driving becomes a form of meditation. Your eyes become glazed, fixed on the horizon. If it wasn’t for the potholes, you could almost switch to autopilot.

Occasionally, a large truck came rumbling through the heat-haze, towards us, on its way back from Botswana, on the other side of the Pontdrift border post. Ranchers roared past in their large bakkies, packed with goods or with their workers bouncing about in the back. More and more baobabs appeared. We were heading deep into Lowveld country, under an unyielding, intense blue sky.

At Alldays, the road forks. We turned right. As the miles slipped by, it began to finally feel like we were getting somewhere. A range of red hills came into view, followed by more hills, rock islands in a sea of stunted mopane trees. Snaking its way through it all ran the thin band of dark green, marking the course of the legendary Limpopo River.

Bushmen once lived in these hills and sandstone buttes, leaving behind a wonderful legacy in rock paintings. Sadly, they would be hunted down or driven into even more inhospitable country. Later, the Limpopo would become a major trading route, dealing in gold and ivory, linking the hinterland to the Indian Ocean coastline. Mapungubwe is also the most important Iron Age site in Southern Africa, and was the first powerful kingdom in southern Africa. Its royalty lived on Mapungubwe Hill. Those of a more common ilk lived and worked in the valleys below. Such is the nature of power.

The kingdom held sway from about AD 900-1300. It is thought, climate change and crop failure brought about its demise. Thereafter, the centre of power shifted north-east to Zimbabwe.

The area has a more troubled recent history. The Limpopo once marked the thin, dividing line between the White-ruled South and the Black-ruled North. Evidence of the suspicion and hostility with which they two viewed each other can still be seen in the remnants of the old, electrified, barbed-wire security fence, which was supposed to discourage any armed incursions, and the odd military bunker, heavily fortified with sandbags.

In the dusty afternoon light, however, the landscape, before me, exuded its own singular magic. Sculpted and weathered by rain, sun and wind, it stands as an incredible monument to nature’s powerful artistry. Here, you still get the feeling that the old Africa is not dead, just slumbering.

Mapungubwe has become a special place for me, a place of the heart. Coming to this remote site is a form of pilgrimage, my way of paying homage to the three countries – South Africa, Zimbabwe and Botswana – where I have spent most of my life and that have helped shape who I am. Their borders meet here, at the confluence of the Shashe and Limpopo rivers. Although dried up at this time of the year, the Shashe has an immense width, making it look the bigger river.

There is another sentimental reason for my journey. It was near here (possibly Rhodes’s Drift on the edge of the park?) that my ancestors, as members of the 1892 Moodie Trek, having followed a route similar to the one I had just been on, crossed over the Limpopo, in their ox-wagons, on their way to Gazaland in what is now Eastern Zimbabwe. My Grandmother, Josie, who was on the trek, was only three years old at the time. Sadly, she would die relatively young, giving birth. Her grandmother, Marjorie Coleman, would grow into a venerable old lady. She opened the first boarding house in Salisbury (now Harare), at a time when the bustling modern capital city was nothing more than a scruffy collection of dusty shacks and tents with the Union Jack fluttering in the middle of it.

Finally, I am here for the birds. Studying birds is the closest thing I have to a religion. Nature is my temple, and birdwatching is my form of worship. Like my other passion, painting, I enjoy it because it forces me to notice things. You start off looking for a bird and end up noticing not only it but the ecosystem that supports it. You examine its habitat. You learn to anticipate where some birds might be, although there are always surprises, which is what makes it such a rewarding activity. Tuned to the environment, the birdwatcher can develop great acuity of sight and hearing. And then there is the sheer beauty and variety of our local birds, from the tiny Penduline Tit to the lugubrious Southern Ground Hornbill or the Kori Bustard, the largest flying bird in the world.

In twilight, we reached the campsite, not far from the river, made famous in Kipling’s poem. Its strength had now been sapped by months without rain. The site is dominated by several huge Natal Mahoganies and a cluster of tall thorn trees, which provide welcome shade in the intense heat, as well as a roost for the family of very noisy Natal Spurfowl that has taken up residence here.

One of the reasons I like travelling with my birding partner, Ken, is that we share a similar camping philosophy. We like to get off the beaten track and prefer to keep it simple. Mapungubwe campsite meets these needs. Besides its beautiful and isolated location, it has a minimal number of sites, so you don’t get the overwhelming amount of people you get in some of Kruger’s more popular camps.

That evening, a tiny Skops Owl started making its soft, frog-like “prrrup…prrrup” call from the nearby trees and was answered by another, further in the distance. With their huge eyes and striking physical appearance, owls are one of the most charismatic, yet mysterious, of birds. The fact that they operate in darkness and fly so quietly only adds to their air of mystique. I can understand why they feature so prominently in folk cultures and traditions across the world.

After supper, I fell asleep to its soft, reassuring call.

I was awoken early by a multitude of bird sounds. To get the full effect of the dawn chorus and not the muffled sound you hear in bed in your house, you really need to be outside. It is another reason I like camping. Lying in bed, listening through the thin sheeting of my tent, I could identify some of the sounds but not others. It had been a while since I’d been in the Bushveld, so I was a little rusty.

Rising above the great press of unseen birds came the manic chatter of the comical Red-billed Hornbills, one of the most characteristic sounds of the bushveld (the migrating Woodland Kingfisher is another). Over time, the birds have become very tame, and many hang around the campsite, scrounging for scraps. As far as I am concerned, their raucous call defies description, but my battered old 1970 edition of Roberts renders it thus: “tshu-tweetshwee”(three times), “tshutshutshu”(three times), “kukwee”(two times). Have fun trying to imitate that…

After a cup of tea and a rusk, we set off. By Limpopo summer standards, the weather was relatively cool. Away from the river, the trees diminish in size until they become stunted replicas. The surrounding planes are sparse and bare, with hardly a blade of grass visible. What there was tended to grow in clumps. The area, nevertheless, provide suitable habitat for several dry-land “specials”, including the Pied Babbler (which we would see here on this trip) and the highly unusual Three-banded Coarser who, in South Africa, only occur in a narrow stretch along this stretch of the Limpopo (which we didn’t see on this trip but which I have seen here several times before, once with chicks)). Both the Red-chested and Grey-chested Sparrow-Lark also like it here.

Entering the Eastern Section of the park (Mapungubwe is divided into two separate sections), we started off on a high note when we spotted three Lanner Falcons perched on top of a nearby tree, followed a bit later by a rare Ayre’s Hawk Eagle, which I had only seen once before.

As the river swings into view, the road drops over a rocky ledge, dissected by dongas, ravines, large boulders, jagged outcrops and dry, sandy stream beds. It is dotted with bulbous baobabs, their branches clawing at the sky. There are also numerous Large-leafed Rock Figs, their long, tentacle-like, ghostly-white roots forcing their way down through the narrow wedges and cracks in the rocks (hence their other name – Rock-splitter Figs). Rounding a corner, a little later, our hearts sank. Ahead lay a herd of cattle, standing, chewing the cud, in the middle of the road. They had obviously crossed over the river from Zimbabwe.

We had previously complained about their presence, but despite the manager’s promises, it seemed that nothing had been done, as there were even more of them than before. Our objection to their presence is not so much that it spoils the wildlife experience and the general aesthetic of the park, but because the cattle tend to hog the more nutritious grazing along the river banks. This forces the wildlife, especially the more timid buck species, to move inland, to the barren fringes of the park. In a larger, less dry park, maybe this combination of domestic and wild animals might work. I am not convinced it does in Mapungubwe.

So, we complained again when we got back to the Reception, this time in front of a party of startled German tourists who were checking in, and got fobbed off with the same old excuses as before.

We were in for another disappointment. The raised canopy walkway, which provided a good view of the river, as well as an excellent birding spot, had been washed away. The road to it was now closed. It is usually a good place to find the Broad-billed Roller and Meyer’s Parrot, further “specials” of this western section of the Limpopo (in Kruger, the latter is replaced by the Brown-headed Parrot). Luckily, we picked up both later.

We pressed on to the nearby viewpoint at the confluence of the Shashe and Limpopo. You can see why the old SADF chose this prominent feature as a base camp because it provides a commanding view over what was then regarded as hostile territory.

On reaching the saddle between it and another rock-strewn ridge, Ken ordered a halt. It was time to get out the skottle and make brunch and coffee (the latter – my difficult assignment).

After our meal, we headed east into the broken, hilly, 4 X4 section, alongside the river. Here we encountered yet more cattle, their bells tinkling merrily, making it hard to argue, as we had been told, that they are difficult to find. There was no sign of any Kudu, Nyala or the other buck species I used to associate with this route – just a few baboons sitting on their haunches while scratching their crotches with an air of complete indifference. They are shameless creatures…

Next stop: Poachers’ Corner. We had been told by the ranger, back at camp, that the rare, much sought-after, Pel’s Fishing Owl had recently been seen in the massive Nyala Berry trees around here. We scanned the ground under them for the telltale fish scales, as well as the branches above, but we were out of luck.

We soon found something else to occupy our attention. Not far from another old SANDF bunker, erected here, we came across two male and one female Klipspringer, who stood outlined against the hills. Not far from them, an elephant rubbed itself against a palm tree. Three more elephants siphoned up vast volumes of water from a nearby pool. They alone did not appear perturbed by the cattle (understandable, given their massive bulk and fearsome tusks). Another elephant had blocked our planned exit route. It showed no inclination to move, so we decided to take another road, which led into more hills inset with outcrops of ochre-coloured boulders and weather-stained cliffs..

Driving along it, I was saddened to see that the two distinctive baobabs I had once done a painting of had collapsed and disintegrated into piles of rotting fibre (the handiwork of the elephants?). My artwork had now become part of the park’s recorded history, an artefact from another time. I wondered if it would make it more valuable? I doubted it….

The road continued winding through the hills before making a huge loop at its easternmost end. Thereafter, it turned inland through vast acres of mopane scrub. Near the exit gate to the Eastern Section, there is a tiny dam with virtually no cover along its banks. Oddly enough, it has often yielded surprises, and this time proved no exception. Wading in its waters, right out in the open, was a beautiful male Greater-painted Snipe. It seemed an unlikely place to find this uncommon bird, which normally prefers to skulk around reed beds and is difficult to locate. Having only recorded it a few times previously, I excitedly jotted it down in my notebook. My Bird List was growing.

Then we drove back to camp.

The next morning, we decided to do the River Forest Drive, in the Western Section, which took us along the banks of the Limpopo. This is a good place to find the Senegal Coucal, common to the North but rare in South Africa. We didn’t find it, but did locate a Tropical Boubou, which shares a similar limited distribution in this country.

After brunch back at camp, we set off down the Den Staat road, which links the two sections of the park. The low rays of the afternoon sun had caused the sandstone cliffs, to which we were headed, to glow like fire embers, giving the whole landscape an ancient, otherworldly, mystical feel. As we got closer to the hills, we encountered a large herd of elephants feeding peacefully amongst the mopane trees.

Maybe it’s the layers of history that lie buried here, perhaps it’s the quality of light or the rugged contours of the land, but Mapungubwe is one of those places that provoke an instinctive response in me, a sense of connection, an inexplicable link, even though I grew up in a completely different environment. Its scenery holds me breathless.

Heading back to camp, we decided to do a detour and find a spot for a farewell sundowner. Sadly, the Maloutswa Hide, where I have spent many happy and productive birding hours, had also been partly destroyed in the floods and was closed. There was little sign that anything was being done to repair it.

To make up for it, we drove along the stream that feeds the pan. It proved well worth it. Mapungubwe means “the Place of Jackals”, and, sure enough, in the orange evening glow, we were greeted with one of the most delightful scenes of our short stay in the park. Five young Black-backed Jackal cubs, no doubt recently ejected from their den and sent off to fend for themselves, were scampering around in the open, playing games with each other. They seem unperturbed by our proximity. Many farmers would probably feel the opposite, but I love jackals. Their call, which I hear regularly at home too, does for the animal world what the Fish Eagle does for the birds. It captures the spirit of the place, the soul of unspoilt Africa.

These youngsters were too busy with their games, but later that night, lying in my sleeping bag, I heard the adults calling, not far away.

Next day, we headed on, down another pot-holed road, for Kruger, where I hoped to experience the same thrill…