From Shingwedzi to Satara: More adventures in Kruger

December 13, 2025December 16, 2025 / stidyatkusane / 14 Comments

I was overcome by a sudden wave of apprehension as we drove into the Shingwedzi campsite. There were far too many people in it for my liking, and their obvious affluence made me only too aware of my lowly status as a permanently hard-up Political Cartoonist.

Perhaps it is a misplaced nostalgia for a simpler world, growing up on a remote farm on Zimbabwe’s eastern border, but, for me at least, much of the fun and romance has gone out of camping. Back then, you would just toss a few leaky canvas tents, some basic cooking equipment, a couple of wooden crates of beer, a sleeping bag, and a pile of fishing rods into the back of a battered old bakkie and head off to “The River” (as everybody called the Zambezi). Nowadays, to qualify as a serious camper, you have to drive a top-of-the-range 4 X 4 with all the mod cons and latest gadgetry built into it. Or, a ludicrously expensive vehicle that unfolds into a skyscraper.

During my life, camping has gone from ‘roughing it in the bush’ to ‘glamping’. With Ken’s battered Nissan X-Trail and our two tiny igloo tents, we were oddities, relics from a bygone era. All the other campers looked sorry for us.

I guess this is where we are headed. The whole attitude to the great outdoors has undergone a fundamental change. Wildlife is now viewed in terms of resource management, another commodity to be commercialised, marketed and exploited, a further branch of the ever-spreading tentacles of modern capitalism. To look the part, you need a massive bank balance, so you can upstage your neighbouring campers.

But maybe it is just a case of sour grapes, on my part. If it furthers the cause of nature conservation and animal preservation, who am I to object?

I cheered up immediately when, early the next morning, before the parrots were awake, we escaped, once more, into the familiar vastness of the bush. We had chosen to do the Shingwedzi River Loop, which is one of the most beautiful drives in Kruger. Huge riverine trees fringe the river, and its banks form big floodplains, bringing in the birds and animals. Statuesque Lala Palms are plentiful. Streamlined Palm Swifts swirl around and nest in them.

A highlight of the route is Red Rocks, a significant geological and historical site, known for its large, heavily potholed slabs of sandstone – part of the Karoo Supergroup – that have been eroded and exposed over the millennia. To the local indigenous people, this site was known as ‘Ribyenera-ra-Gudzani (Gudzani’s Rock), deriving its name from one of their gods. When passing through the area, they would always make an offering as a way of homage and to ensure safe travel. It was also visited in 1870 by the American Captain Frederik Elton, who panned for gold here.

Red Rocks. The exposed sandstone slab is slightly upriver.

The Thsanga Hill lookout, near the Bataleur Bushveld Camp, provided our breakfast spot that day. Before we started cooking, we unfolded our camp chairs and sat gazing out into the silence of the flats that stretched out below us, awed by the view. I couldn’t believe there was so much of it. Once again, I felt overwhelmed by the age and might of this old continent and all too aware of my insignificance in it.

My reverie was interrupted by Ken, in need of sustenance, firing up the skottle. It was a reminder that I had an integral part to play in this ritual – preparing the instant coffee

Although neither of us had sent out an invitation, a Giant Plated Lizard, which had its residence in a nearby pile of rocks, joined us. Despite his rough, scaly exterior, the lizard was a friendly sort and took a shine to Ken, in particular.

Heading back, our progress was stopped by an elephant at the point where the road crosses a sandstone shelf on the Shingwedzi River. It seemed to take some pleasure in holding us up, before, with a dismissive wave of its trunk, ambling off to drink.

After a short break back at camp, we headed out once more. The sun was sinking when we drove down the road that leads to the confluence of the Shingwedzi and Mphongolo rivers. Despite being a short drive, it proved productive. Sitting with its grey feet clamped to a favourite branch overhanging the edge of a pool was a Grey-hooded Kingfisher. Unlike its common brown-headed cousin, which you are likely to regularly see bobbing its head up and down in your garden, this Kingfisher is relatively scarce. It took me ages to find one and then – as often happens – I saw four in four days. Such is the nature of birding.

We scanned the water below where it was perched. A solitary Yellow-billed Stork stood, poised on one leg, lost in stork-like contemplation. I was angling to get an artistic photograph of the bird when Ken let out a gasp -” I don’t believe it! It is another Greater Painted Snipe!”

We had seen one in Mapungubwe and, because they are so scarce, assumed that was our quota for the trip. Now, we have found another. Instead of skulking around the reedbeds, as my Sasol bird book said it should, it was way out in the open. Someone must have forgotten to inform it about its correct habitat.

I didn’t want to allow Ken to, once again, be the one guzzling wine out of the “silver goblet” that night (the reward for having made the best sighting of the day), so I redirected my critical gaze to the surrounding trees as we drove away from the confluence. A bird flashed before me. I followed its flight path to a nearby tree. It was a diminutive Pearl-spotted Owlet grasping its kill – a White-rumped Swift. We were both puzzled. It is unlikely the Owlet could have caught the Swift in flight, so we could only assume it had ambushed it near its nest. The Owlet stared imperiously down on us, as if questioning our right to interrupt its hunting expedition.

It was a good sighting, but I was forced to acknowledge that Ken had trumped it with the Grey-headed Kingfisher and the Snipe. Maybe I was a bit off my game..

*Pearl-spotted Owlet with White-rumped Swift*.

Although the sun was now below the horizon, we decided to do a quick dash to the Kanniedood dam area and were immediately rewarded with the sight of two lions, dozing on the far bank. Then, we retraced our steps back to camp. It had been a good day. We decided to reward ourselves by dining at the restaurant that night.

On the day of our longest drive, along the S50 (an alternative to the main tarred road) and then on to Satara in the South, the sun finally arrived. By 0930, God had turned the temperature up to 42 degrees. It continued to rise thereafter. In this breathless air, even the birds had fallen silent (except the hornbills, of course. Nothing dims their racket).

During these long, hot, dry months, before the rains break, life becomes a relentless battle for survival. The rivers dry up, and the animals are forced to travel great distances to find water. Amongst all the sand in the dry river beds are the odd soft pools where the hippo have congregated to puff and blow. The elephants, knowing where the underground water is, dig wells. Other creatures take advantage of their thoughtfulness.

*Searching for water*, *Shingwedzi River*.

Over their long evolutionary history, most animals have adapted to such extremities in weather; however. Because many have become specialist feeders, they can co-exist in times of drought.

We drove on through the thickening heat. Perhaps it was the sun messing with our heads, but between Shingwedzi Camp and Dipeni Dip, we got into a spirited, if nonsensical, discussion about what birdwatching must have been like in the Age of Dinosaurs. Later, back home in Curry’s Post, it would lead to this cartoon:

We rejoined the tar road just north of Mopane. The sun was still climbing steadily up the back of the bluest sky, and the temperature gauge in the car was now showing 45 degrees. Nearing the Olifants turn-off, it began to dawn on Ken and me that we were the only vehicle driving along with our windows down and no air-conditioner pumping. Some visitors were even shooting their Big Five photos through the glass for fear of letting a minuscule amount of hot air in to damage their sensitive, suntan-lotioned skins. Contrariwise, Ken believes that when you are in Kruger, you have to experience it in all its extremity to get the full feel of the place.

It’s another thing we agree on. Enduring such extremes of weather can be a form of mini catharsis, a kind of redemption. Like pilgrims on an arduous journey designed to test your faith, it is a way of separating the true travellers from the faint-hearted. You emerge from it feeling a better person and wiser.

We were headed for Satara. The open plains surrounding it attract many species of ungulates. With them come the predators, including lions, leopards, cheetahs and the nomadic Wild Dogs. Also, vultures and Marabou Stork, the undertakers of the veld, who feed on the kills they leave behind.

Wiping the sweat from my brow, I suddenly became aware that something else had changed. Driving along the dirt back road earlier, it had felt like we had the whole park to ourselves. I was alone in the wilds of Africa, a modern-day David Livingstone opening up new territory.

The problem with fantasies of this sort is that sooner or later, they get punctured. That is what happened to mine as we neared Satara. The plains that make the area so attractive to wildlife also make Satara a magnet for the overseas tourist who gets bused in, in their hundreds, from nearby Hoedspruit. They are easy to identify by their trendy camouflage safari gear (Ken, on the contrary, was wearing a luminous pink shirt he had been given by a sponsor of one of the sports he writes about so well. Amazingly, it didn’t scare away the birds) and the fact that they are clearly not from these parts.

Confronted by a seething mass of them in the main reception/shop area, my mood changed. I grew edgy and irritable, urging Ken, who had begun dawdling over his grocery shopping again, to hurry up and make his purchases, so I could get the hell out. The whole mad pantomime was getting to me.

Walking back to the car, with Ken muttering about what a curmudgeon I’ve become in my dotage, my mood suddenly perked up when I heard, from a nearby tree, one of the defining calls of the Lowveld – a Woodland Kingfisher. Africa is a place of incongruities, and this bird is one of them – a kingfisher that lives in dry woods. Brighter than any illustration could ever be, this striking bird is also a migrant, and its loud, piercing “chip-cherrrrrrrrr…” is only heard in summer. We had been hoping to hear one all trip. Our wish had finally been granted. They were back.

My mood improved still further when, sitting outside under a sultry night sky, a pride of lions, setting off on their nightly hunt, began to roar close by.

After an early morning shower and a cup of tea to wake us up, we set off in the direction of the Orpen Gate. We only had one full day left in the park and a lot to condense into it. We hadn’t gone far when we came upon a male lion and two lionesses lying stretched out in the shade, not far from the edge of the road. They were obviously sleeping off the previous night’s kill.

Word of the sighting had spread rapidly. A long convoy of cars lined the road, all clamouring to get the best viewing position. Seeing a lion is always an event, a small triumph, so we fought our way into the scrum.

Then, I started getting paranoid again. What the hell was going on? I had come here to escape the madding crowd. Why were they following me? On whose authority? I began to wonder, too, about my own motivation. Is this really how I want to experience life in the wilds? It felt more like I was part of an excited crowd at a rugby match.

The lions, on the other hand, were completely indifferent to all the clicking cell phone cameras and yawned and stretched with boredom.

I felt less jittery when, a little later, we branched off the main tar, onto the much quieter Timbavati Drive, which takes you along the banks of the river bearing the same name. It is another beautiful drive. Timbavati is justly famous as lion country, although they all seemed to be taking a nap too, because we didn’t see any on this stretch of the road.

We did see Bataleur, including several juveniles, one of which was tearing away at an old bone. These days, you don’t see many of these magnificent eagles, with their curved wings and short, stubby tails, outside of the major game reserves, so it was good to know they are still breeding and that a new generation was growing up to replace the one before.

Approaching the river, I noticed a solitary vulture wheeling towards us. As we sat there, more and more of the great birds came circling through the sky. News of the kill had obviously spread like a windstorm.

We soon discovered the reason why – a lone Black-backed Jackal had made a kill. Having landed, with a hollow wing thrashing, the vultures half-hopped, half-cantered forwards, looking, for all the world, like a gang of giblet-eyed, greedy thieves. The jackal snarled and bristled. The vultures maintained a strategic distance but showed no signs of fear. They knew the routine and that their turn would come.

There were four types of vulture present – the massive Lappet-faced Vulture with its raw skull and wrinkled, feathery neck; the more common White-backed Vulture, of which we had seen quite a few; the critically-endangered White-headed Vulture, ghostly beautiful in an ugly sort of way; and the diminutive and also scarce Hooded Vulture. Each vulture is a specialist feeder selecting different parts of the carcass to feast on.

*Keeping a strategic distance* – *Lappet-faced and White-backed Vultures*.

I watched them through my binoculars as they continued probing forward while the outnumbered jackal stood its ground. Vultures get a bad rap, on account of their habit of sticking their crooked necks deep into piles of putrescent meat, but I like them. They have a filthy job to do, but they do it willingly, albeit with a lot of hissing and squabbling amongst themselves…

At the Timbavati picnic site, Ken hauled the skottle out again, and we set about cooking breakfast. A safari vehicle, with a raised platform for better viewing, drove in and parked. A couple of young bloods, wearing beanies and puffer jackets, hopped out of its back and began jabbering away in Swedish into some sort of recording device. Not wanting to lose my newly mellowed mood, I did my best to ignore them, scanning the surrounding bushes for birds.

We pressed on. Close to the river, we came across a solitary Southern Ground Hornbill, rooting around in a debris of fallen leaves. It emerged with what appeared, at first glance, to be a beetle. It was only later, when I had downloaded my pictures back home, that I realised it was a tiny baby tortoise. I felt sorry for the poor creature. It had not had much of a life. In the wilds, there is no room for sentiment, however…

In both Xhosa and Zulu belief, the Ground Hornbill’s booming call is regarded as a sign of impending rain. I glanced up at the sky but didn’t see much evidence that the heavens were about to erupt any time soon. I was wrong on that score. The next day, as we were driving back to Jo’burg, my sister sent me a Level 9 Weather Warning, saying severe conditions were on their way. It was on the mark. As we passed through the polluted, industrial hell-hole that is Steelpoort, it began to rain. The following day, on the long drive back to my home, in Curry’s Post, it bucketed down the whole way.

Back on the tar, Ken suddenly drew to a halt on the side of the road and pointed to a group of trees. Sitting under the one, staring at us with glowing eyes, was a leopard. Although a big leopard is small in comparison to a lion, they make stealthy, lethal hunters. Cornered, they can be as dangerous as any animal in Africa. After glowering at us, this one got up and stalked off into the gloom. I am not sure why – perhaps it was Ken’s garish, eye-blinding shirt – but not a single car of the many that drove past stopped to see what we were looking at.

In the late afternoon, we did a quick drive down the S100 N’wanetsi River Road. Heading back to camp, toward sunset, the grass began to turn silver, then gold. As often happens, Kruger had saved the best for last – in the strange half-light, we spotted an African Wild Cat scurrying across the road. Safely on the other side, it stopped to look back at us. It was by far the best sighting I’ve had of this shy, elusive animal.

‘The next day, we set off on the long, wearisome haul back to Jo’burg. It had been a good trip. All birders vary in skill, but according to some notes I consulted before coming to Kruger, if you get more than 150 birds in a week, you can consider yourself “a competent birder”. I got 160, which qualified me for this exalted honour. It got me wondering, though, how you measure an “incompetent birder”? Someone who spends a week in the park and can’t find any of the plague of cackling hornbills or a single Grey-headed Sparrow?

*Heading home. The North Drakensberg in the distance*.

I arrived back, in the pouring rain, at Kens house, where his wife had prepared a welcome meal, feeling triumphant…

GALLERY:

Storm Clouds over Pafuri

November 29, 2025November 29, 2025 / stidyatkusane / 12 Comments

*The Luvuvhu River, with an approaching storm.*

Our entry into the Kruger National Park, via the northern-most Pafuri Gate, had all the drama of a big-budget movie. A powerful weather wind had blown in from Mozambique, bringing with it much-needed rain. Soaring thunderclouds were gathering in the east. The sky, on the one side of us, was enshrined in an unholy light. Puffs of wet wind were tossing black leaves across the road.

Three African Hawk-Eagles glided low over the car, viewing us with suspicious eagle eyes. In the growing gloom cast by the storm’s shadow, two spooky-looking White-backed Vulture sat hunched up, curved necks slung low, on the twisted branches of a dead tree. The distant thunder provided the obligatory drum roll…

By the time we reached the Luvuvhu, the storm was almost upon us. The special effects didn’t ease up. We stopped on the bridge for a quick scan along the river. A regal African Fish Eagle sat perched, close by, its washing powder-white feathers thrown into sharp relief by the dark skies behind. I waited for the telling coup de gras – it’s haunting, oh-so-evocative-of-Africa call. Alas, someone had neglected to give it the script. It remained stubbornly silent.

Feeling a vague sense of anti-climax, we continued on. My lingering sense of disappointment quickly disappeared when, beyond Baobab Hill, we encountered a massive herd of buffalo crossing the road. We stopped so I could take photos of some of the Yellow-billed Oxpeckers that were hitching a ride on them.

The sight of the familiar hills of Punda Maria cheered me up still further. I was back home in my favourite part of Kruger.

We like to stay at Punda because, being far from any major centre, it doesn’t attract the usual tourist hordes, flocking to Kruger to find the Big Five. We were a little put out, then, to discover the usually quiet campsite had been taken over by a massive gathering of folk attending a conference

They had also grabbed all the best spots. Weaving our way through the parked cars and smouldering braais, we wondered what had brought them so far up here, a line of imaginative guesswork that resulted in a sudden premonitory flash – maybe they were members of some secret Doomsday Cult?

I was keen to enlist straight away because I thought it might involve some interesting late-night rituals. Ken, displaying commendable good sense, talked me out of it. We had no time for frivolous distractions. It would disrupt our tight birding schedule. Besides Punda Maria, we still had Shingwedzi and Satara to explore. Ken is a man who gets his priorities straight.

And so we decided to have a few beers instead. We had deliberately chosen the most remote corner of the campsite to pitch our tents to get away from the crowd. It also brought us closer to the bush. It paid off. Not far outside the fence perimeter, we heard the low rumbling of elephantine guts, probably one of the deepest and most sonorous sounds made by any animal on earth. It is an elemental sound, evocative of some ancient life force, now in danger of getting snuffed out in our increasingly technology-mad age.

The next morning, we set out to do the 27km Mahonie Loop, which circles the hill on which Punda Maria Camp is built. Punda Maria is positioned on the eastern-most extreme of the Soutspanberg, and because of its elevated altitude, receives the highest rainfall in Kruger, although the surrounding plains are, outside the wet season, usually very dry. Because of this, it contains a wide variety of trees and vegetation types that are scarce elsewhere in the park. Huge Pod Mahoganies (after which the loop is named) abound, there are thick groves of Ironwood, as well as Large-fruited Bushwillows, Apple Leaf, Jackal Berry, Marula, Leadwood, Sausage and Nyala trees. The varied vegetation, in turn, brings in a wide variety of habitat-specific birds.

It was a gloomy day, however, and we didn’t get as many birds as we usually do.

We had better luck in the afternoon when we decided to head up to the View Point on the southern side of Thulamila Hill. We passed two Wahlberg’s Eagle nests, along the way, both currently occupied – the one by the pale morph form of the bird. Seemingly unconcerned by the latter’s near proximity, several Red-headed Weavers had built their scruffy twig nests directly below it.

Captain J.J.Coetzer, who was appointed the first ranger at Punda Maria in 1919, after serving in the East African military campaign, originally sighted his camp on the north side of the hill. It was situated under a large tree, which still stands, near a spring. It is now marked by a cairn. Because of the water, it is a good place to stop to look for both animals and birds.

We stopped there. A pair of giraffe browsed on the leaves of a nearby tree, a troop of baboons strode across the bare earth with their gaunt gate and slow, purposeful strides. The younger ones cavorted in the dust. A fork-tailed Drongo suddenly erupted from a nearby bush, in hot pursuit of another, larger bird. It proved to be a Greater-spotted Cuckoo, a bird that likes to lay its eggs in other birds ‘nests– thus escaping the burden of chick-rearing. This parasitic Cuckoo is not uncommon, but, for some reason, I have seen very few, so I was excited to have such a good sighting.

It was getting late when we got to the viewpoint. We were the only ones there. Below us, the mighty landscape spread away in a haze of sand, grass, mopane trees, meandering rivers and sun rays. There was no evidence of habitation, nor any sign of man, only away in the far distance and out of sight because of the thick cloud of acrid smoke from bush fires, the Lebombo Mountains in the east, and the Northern Drakensberg to the west. And the animals, of course, great herds of moving, unhurried, mostly unseen animals, totally at home in this elemental landscape. Their footpaths trellised the countryside.

It is the sort of scene, especially in this late afternoon half-light, I don’t think I could ever tire of, even if I lived to be a hundred. It is what keeps bringing me back to these parts, again and again.

The next day, we decided to try our luck on the scenic Klopperfontein Loop, a meandering road which takes you past scattered granite kopjes and an assortment of vegetation types. The Ivory hunter Dick Klopper used to make camp here, near the dam, which is named after him.

At the dam, a small group of elephant were standing in the parking area, As a precaution, we stopped some way back on the road – elephants are notoriously unpredictable – and waited for them to finish drinking (a precaution, which didn’t stop one over-confident fool in a minivan, packed with children, from overtaking us and parking right next to them. One elephant got very twitchy, but luckily didn’t upend the vehicle.)

Having quenched their thirst, the elephant ambled off, fording a deep gully before vanishing into the trees. We proceeded down to the water’s edge. It was a classic Out of Africa scene.

*Elephants drinking upstream from the dam*.

A Terrapin sunbathed on the back of a snoozing, half-submerged hippo. An enormous, grey-green, slit-eyed, crocodile lay stretched out on the cement wall, grinning evilly, as if relishing the prospect of making a meal of us, evoking an instant, primaeval fear in me. Far less sinister, a solitary Knob-billed Duck paddled past (along with the earnest, endearing White-faced Whistling Duck, they are my favourite wild duck). Upstream, ears alert, a herd of zebra waited their turn to drink. A buffalo snuffled, snorted and swished its tail, as if looking for something to vent its frustration on.

I searched with hopeful eyes for a lion. On a previous visit, we encountered two magnificent males and a female. This time, they eluded us.

Glancing out of my side window, I noticed a Blacksmith Plover had made its nest on a bare, stony patch of ground, where it was now patiently sitting on its eggs under a blazing sun. It seemed a very exposed and idiotic place to lay your eggs, directly on the path the elephants take to the water. The plover appeared unfazed about the possibility she might get squashed flat, regularly turning her eggs over and fussing over the best way to sit on them. Maybe she had confidence that the elephants, who can tread with surprisingly delicate steps for such huge creatures, would see her and do a polite detour.

I still thought she was gambling with her life…

We headed back to Punda Maria. Near the skeleton of an old, rusting windmill, Ken suddenly brought the car to a juddering halt. Two Roan Antelope were standing there. Ken stared at them in real surprise (so did I). There are reputedly only 90 of these shy animals left in Kruger, so this was a rare sighting. Excited, Ken immediately jotted it down on a scruffy sheet of paper to write it up in his extensive note-taking that night.

Saving the best for last, we rose early on Sunday and took the tar road north to Pafuri, which we had passed on our way down. Two major rivers meet here, the Luvuvhu (which almost always has water) and the larger Limpopo (which, in the dry season, often doesn’t). The banks of the Luvuvhu, along which we drove, are dominated by a thin strip of massive Nyala, Jackal berry, Apple Leaf and Ana trees. They crowd together, pressing out over the water to catch the direct and reflected sunlight. Sadly, the intermediate zone of tall acacia woodland and fever trees between them and the mopane veld has been mostly destroyed by flooding and the tree-killing habits of the elephants, which, in many places, has completely altered the character of the bush.

The elephant problem – here, as elsewhere in southern Africa – remains unresolved. Many differing solutions have been proposed, but it seems that reaching a consensus opinion is challenging, even among experts.

As a result of the elephant’s impact on the riverine forest, the prolific birdlife, for which Pafuri is justly famous, is no longer as abundant as it was when I first started visiting the area. The striking but secretive Gorgeous Bush Shrike, for example, whose distinctive “kong-kon-kooit” was such a familiar sound of the dense undergrowth, is now seldom seen or heard.

If you look, though, there is still good stuff to find. The elusive African Finfoot occurs here, as well as the Tropical Boubou and Eastern Nicator. White-crowned Plovers are common. Both Bohms and Mottled Spinetails roost in the numerous baobab trees (for many tribes in Africa, the baobab, being infested with all sorts of nocturnal creatures, such as owls and bats, is a house of spirits. Sadly, the baobabs, too, have been hammered by the elephants).

The beautiful picnic site, on the banks of the Luvuvhu, is an excellent spot for picking up White-browed Robin-Chat, White-throated Robin-Chat, Black-throated Wattled Eye, Retz’s Helmetshrike and various other riverine ‘specials’. While we were cooking brunch in the skottle, we happened to glance up and discovered another, slightly more sinister, denizen of these dense trees – a massive, deadly, Black Mamba, slithering through the lower branches above our heads.

Having its beady eyes fixed on me made it difficult to enjoy my coffee…

On my last visit to Pafuri, I had picked up the solitary Collared Palm Thrush, a rare vagrant from the North, that had taken up temporary residence at Crooks Corner. It was still rumoured to be there, but we couldn’t find it. I have also recorded Green-capped Eremomela in the tall Ana trees growing here.

Crooks Corner, where the two rivers join forces and the borders of three countries (South Africa, Zimbabwe, Mozambique) meet, is always a good spot to get out and examine the river for signs of birdlife. On this visit, the sharp-eyed, ever-alert Ken (except for the early mornings when he takes some time to fix his bearings) noticed a small flock of Pratincoles resting on a distant sandbank. Judging by the darkness of their wings, when they flew off, we thought they might be the extremely rare Black-winged Pratincole, which would have yielded me the first lifer of the trip. After further research, we later changed our minds and settled for Collared Pratincole. It is still a good bird to get.

Besides producing arguably the best birding in Kruger, Pafuri houses, next to Mapungubwe, one of South Africa’s most important archaeological sites – Thulamela. Despite its close proximity to the tar road, these ruins were only rediscovered by a trails ranger in the 1980s. As with Mapungubwe, the royal palace was situated on a hill, high above and secluded from the common folk who lived in their thatched dwellings below. Like Mapungubwe, too, it was situated close to the Limpopo, which then served as an important trading route, linking the hinterland to the Indian Ocean coastline. The Nyala Drive actually ends up at the foot of the hill, but you can only climb it with a guide.

Baobab on Nyala Drive. Oil on Canvas by the author.

On my last visit, I had met Dr Tim Forssman, an archaeologist currently re-excavating the site, who, on discovering my interest in the subject, offered to take me up Thulamela Hill. Unfortunately, it clashed with our travel schedule, so I had to decline. I still hope to visit it one day, preferably with him because of his expert knowledge and convivial company.

The next day, we headed south towards our penultimate camp, Shingwedzi. We stopped for a cooked breakfast and to stretch our legs at the Babalala Picnic Site. It is the perfect spot for a leisurely meal, situated under a monumental fig tree which attracts all sorts of fruit-eating birds, including parrots. Ken, a sociable chap, immediately made a friend – a Red-billed Hornbill. I suspected it had ulterior motives. Ken’s fried eggs, mushrooms and bacon.

On the large, grassy vlei that runs past the site, you are more or less guaranteed to see an elephant. This time it harboured yet another surprise – a lone male Roan Antelope, making our total three in three days. Another 87 to go… and two and a half days to find them in. I didn’t fancy the odds enough to bet on it.

There was something distinctly odd about this Roan. At first, I thought it had some sort of weird skin condition because its sides and neck were covered in dark brown blotches. Examining it more closely, through my binoculars, I realised it was a fling (I believe that is the collective noun?) of Oxpeckers. I have never seen so many on a single beast.

Babalala also marks the start (or end) of one of the best drives in the whole of Kruger – the S56 Mphongolo Route. It is, however, one of those drives where you can either see an awful lot of game or nothing at all. On my last trip down it, I had been lucky. It had been a veritable Garden of Eden. Now, our timing was off. The long dry season meant that there was virtually no surface water available to drink, so the animals were few and far between. Likewise, the birds.

By way of compensation, we did have an excellent, close-up sighting of a magisterial Martial Eagle, but the light wasn’t good, so my photos of it were a bit sub-standard.

I took it philosophically. Regular visitors to Kruger soon learn to take the rough with the smooth, the good days with the bad. I was content just to sit back and admire the scenery.

Many dusty hours later, Shingwedzi hove into view.

(to be continued)

GALLERY:

PAINTINGS

Here are a few baobab paintings I did after a previous Pafuri Trip. Sadly, the first one appears to have died in the interim (elephants?):

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:

Finding Salvation on the Tsendze Loop Road

August 28, 2021August 28, 2021 / stidyatkusane / 9 Comments

The insurrection or attempted coup or counter-revolution (the various ministers in the ANC defence cluster differed in their interpretation) began on a cool winter’s day in July. Spurred on by cynical ideologists, crowds of supposedly pro- Jacob Zuma loyalists went on the rampage, protesting his recent jailing. Supermarkets and warehouses across Kwa Zulu-Natal and parts of Gauteng were broken into, trashed and ransacked. Everything that could not be taken was destroyed, including the buildings themselves.

For several days after the looting, many shops were still closed, as was the main Jo’burg to Durban freeway. In the absence of effective policing, alarmed communities set up roadblocks in an attempt to protect themselves. Much to my consternation, I found myself having to go out on a night-time patrol, something I hadn’t done since the Rhodesian Bush War days.

It was something I had hoped I would never have to do again too…

From where I sat, on my hilltop home, it all seemed hideously unreal. I felt dazed, finding it hard to believe that almost thirty years after the ending of Apartheid something like this could still happen in South Africa. And yet I was not completely surprised either – given the rampant corruption and mismanagement in the country, as well as the grinding levels of poverty.

Worn out by the never-ending Zuma saga – as well as having our lives upended by the continuing Covid crisis – I found myself longing for an escape.

A chance to get away from it all duly came when my sister, in Mpumalanga, phoned to ask if I would be interested in joining them for a break in Kruger National Park. I said yes. I hoped such a journey would be redemptive. That it would remind me of why, in spite of everything, I still love living in Africa.

And so a week or so later I found myself passing through the Phalaborwa gate and into Kruger. It was good to be back. I suppose it is not surprising that I found the sights and sounds of this place so familiar and comforting since I have visited it countless times before both with my family and my regular birding companion, the sports journalist Ken Borland. I always revel in the sense of freedom and discovery the park gives me which even the occasional discomforts – it can get incredibly hot in summer, the mosquitoes can be a nuisance – cannot detract from.

Familiar and Comforting scenes – Baobab at Mopani…

It is all part of the experience.

Besides its animals and small, biting insects, Kruger is famous for its birds. The variety is bewildering with over 500 species having been recorded, representing roughly 60 per cent of the total for South Africa.

Because it was winter, a time of the year I had never visited the park before, I wasn’t sure what to expect, however. I was immediately reassured. We had not got far into the park when we came across a strangely behaving Spotted Hyena, intently ploughing its way through a small, muddy pan, its nose skimming close to the water’s surface as it went like it was searching for something it had mislaid. I wasn’t sure what that was although, later, I was told that they do sometimes hide the remains of their kills and scavenged carrion underwater.

As we drove on I was rewarded with other happy reunions. I hadn’t anticipated seeing many swallows at this time of the year but as I scanned the sky, above the Letaba bridge, I spotted several beautiful Mosque Swallows – a bird confined mostly to the Kruger area – dipping and soaring over the river. Like the similar water-loving Wire-tailed swallow, they are one of the few swallows that overwinter in South Africa instead of heading north like the rest of their species.

We carried on. Overhead sailed vultures and Bateleur eagle, still relatively common in the park but hardly seen outside it now. In my head I had a sort of hit-list of birds I hoped to encounter and I found myself eyeing each bit of terrain we travelled through, trying to imagine what species might be lurking there. It is not as easy as it seems. Coming from the KZN mist-belt, it always takes me time to readjust to the harsh Bushveld but gradually I felt myself getting my eye and ear in and start to remember how things fit together and relate to one another.

Then I heard a party of Brown-headed parrots, shrieking overhead. Because of their relative rarity (and cheerful personalities), I was keen to locate them. The gaudy birds aren’t as easy to find as you might think, since they always seem to be flying away but these obligingly landed in a tree and started squawking away, giving us plenty of opportunities to study them as they clambered up and down the branches of the trees, playing their parrot games.

Resuming our journey we eventually joined the main tar road, that runs down the centre of Kruger, near the Mooiplaas picnic spot where we stopped for a short tea break. From here we headed north to our first stopover camp, Shingwedzi.

This is very much Mopani country. Stretching as far as the eye can see and farther they are the dominant tree of the northern part of Kruger.

Shingwedzi, itself, is associated first and foremost with elephants and we were to see plenty of these, the largest of mammals, over the next few days. Even when we didn’t see them their impact on the environment was everywhere evident – branches strewn across the roads, entire trees shoved over, paths hammered through the thickets, water holes dug in dry river beds. To the uninitiated eye, the amount of damage the elephant cause may seem shocking but it serves a very useful purpose, reshaping the natural environment for the benefit of other smaller creatures. In this sense, they are regarded as an umbrella species although they require vast tracts of land to maintain their populations.

Our lodge could hardly have had a more perfect setting. Whereas most of the chalets have, for some reason, been built at some distance from the river our accommodation overlooked it.

That evening I sat on the river’s edge, sipping a beer and taking in my surroundings as our outside fire sent up its golden fountain of sparks. The light began to fade, the bushes and then the trees on the bank darkened and then got engulfed in the blackness. In the distance, the fiery-necked nightjar started calling. It is a heart-stealing sound, one that captures the very heart and soul of Africa.

Lying in my bed later, I could hear a restless lion roaring from the other side of the river, then, a bit later, the the spooky whooping of a hyena. Not to be upstaged, a convocation of baboons started barking and hurling obscenities from their sleeping positions in the treetops. I wondered what had got them so aroused? Maybe a leopard was on the prowl and they had scented it?

The next morning I woke with a new sense of wonder. The sun appeared. The pale golden tones it cast illuminated the animals drinking at the pool below the lodge, giving them a slightly ghostly appearance. The large troop of baboon that had kicked up such a row the night before now looked completely relaxed as they squatted on the dry river bed, peaceably grooming one other.

At moments like this, I felt I could live this sort of life forever.

**The rush hour traffic grinds to a halt on the S51 road.**..

After a quick cup of coffee to warm us up, my nephew, his wife and I set off along the Red Rocks loop which follows the Shingwedzi upstream to a point where it crosses a band of Gubyane sandstone which has been eroded into a series of potholes. Every birdwatcher enjoys coming across the unexpected so we were understandably delighted to see three Kori Bustard – the heaviest of all flying birds on earth – and then, a little further on, another pair. We also saw – again, the first of several sightings – a Red-crested Korhaan, a bird famous for its peculiar flight display in which the male flies straight upwards, then folds its wings and drops, kamikaze-style, towards the ground, pulling out just before impact.

With their big, binocular eyes, distinctive flight, cuddly size and softy, dumpy shape owls have acquired a special mystique and status, figuring in folklore, myths and legends. I love all owls but have a particular affection for the three tiny ones that occur in South Africa – the African Barred Owlet, the African Scops Owl and the Pearl-spotted Owlet. I was as instantly as happy as a lark when my nephew’s wife spotted one of the latter sitting on a deadwood stump, not far from where we had stopped. What makes this particular owl somewhat unusual is that it is often active during the day. Another curious characteristic is that it has a pair of false “eyes” on its nape, presumably to confuse friend and foe alike.

Seeing it immediately made it my Bird of the Day.

After lunch we headed up the tar road to the Babalala picnic site which marks the turn-off point to the Mphongolo River Route, to my mind, one of the best drives in the entire park, taking you through some exceptionally lovely riverine country. As we drove we were met by a dust-devil spinning a plume of red dust, burnt grass and ash. At the picnic site itself, I picked up a Bennet’s Woodpecker which is always nice to get. Plus the usual assortment of picnic site hangers-on: Greater Blue-eared Starlings, Red and Yellow-billed Hornbills and their cousin, the Grey Hornbill. Used to a steady flow of traffic they have become very tame here constantly filching for food.

You invariably see elephants both here and along the loop. We hadn’t driven for too long when I heard the sombre crack of a branch being snapped and we rounded the bend to find our path barred by a small herd of them. They were feeding on both sides of the road and seemed in no hurry to depart so we had to sit and wait for them to move on. There are also several big herds of buffalo in this area, often carrying both Red and Yellow-billed Oxpeckers on their backs. They are said to be the most aggressive animal in Africa so it always pays to be wary around them.

We also saw several giraffes, their heads swaying gently above the trees. They are far less menacing creatures although a kick from one of them could land you in the next world.

The next morning we set off for Mopani, taking the road that winds eastwards along Shingwedzi river to near the point where it cuts through the Lebombo mountains into Mozambique. Huge Jackalberry and Nyala trees lined its banks. Even though we were in the dry season there were still pools of water where wading birds were mirrored, crocodiles lay doggo in the sun and other animals came to slake their thirst. Game trails and hoof prints radiated out from each watering point. The deeper pools had pods of hippo blowing bubbles and snorting into the air.

At the base of the Lebombo mountains, we said goodbye to the river and turned southwards. Apart from this long low ridge, which provides Kruger with its spine, the low, hot woods around here lack rises or landmarks. Looking across it, as we did from the Nyawutsi viewpoint, halfway up the Lebombo, was like scanning an ocean. On foot, it would be very easy to lose your bearings.

We halted for breakfast at the Nyawutsi hide, a beautiful little glade with a winking, crystal-clear pool, surrounded by Lala palms, Fever Trees and some magnificent old Leadwood and Apple leaf trees.

The scene that greeted us at our next stop, the Grootvlei dam, provided me with one of those spontaneous moments of happiness you only get when you loosen the bonds that tie you to civilisation and escape into the wilds. A small herd of elephants were swimming. Elephants form complex social bonds and language structures and there was ample evidence of this in their playful behaviour here. There was much good-natured jostling and sparring as they splashed around, spraying one another and rolling in the water.

As we watched them another, bigger, herd of elephants loomed through the trees on the other side of the dam, ears flapping, trunks waving, dwarfing the scrub and deadwood. A few minutes later, an even larger herd came lumbering out from a slightly different angle. It was a splendid sight. With all the comings and goings, I felt like I had been given a free front-row pass to some grandiloquent parade, a mesmerising piece of outdoor theatre.

Time was not on our side so having lingered as long as we could we pushed on south past small companies of zebra and wildebeest and even some tsessebe who took mute note of us. We continued to see elephants everywhere.

A g’nother, g’nother, g’nother gnu (wildebeest)

At Mopani, I was pleased to find we had been allocated the same chalet as last time. The view from it, across the Pioneer dam, was just as beautiful as I remembered. At sunset, the air became completely still and the water turned to gold, perfectly reflecting the dead trees that studded its surface, as well as the surrounding greenery. White-faced Whistling Ducks whistled to one other as they flew off to their sleeping quarters, Great White Egret flapped across the water with thick wings and guttural protests. Huge flocks of Red-billed Quelea landed in the trees below us, weighing down the branches as they did so while chattering non-stop. All around us bats flitted off to meet the dark.

I scanned the darkening sky for signs of the elusive Bat Hawk but didn’t see any this time.

The next day we explored the S49 and S50 and the various loops along the Tsendze river, before driving down to the drift at the bottom of the Pioneer dam. In the past this has always proved a happy hunting ground for me and, sure enough, I quickly spotted a Green-backed (or Striated) Heron hunched up over a small pool, a study in single-minded focus and concentration. A few hippos rose and sank in the pool on the other side of the drift. On the far bank, a large crocodile sunned itself. Two Water Dikkop (now Thick-knee. I prefer the old name) stood just behind it, totally unconcerned by its ominous, cadaverous presence. Another large crocodile was swimming just beyond the hippo, with only its snout, eyes and a few ridges along its back visible.

Having exhausted the drifts possibilities we drove on towards the Staplekop dam. A few small kopjes inset with elephant-coloured boulders rose out of the flat mopane veld. The one, which has a huge baobab growing out of its side, I once did a painting of.

Apart from another Korhaan, skulking on an old airstrip, we saw few birds and not many animals either but that didn’t bother me too much. The fact you don’t have any surprising experiences doesn’t necessarily make the journey an unrewarding one. For my part, I was content just to soak up the sun, heat and stillness of the scene.

What it also means is that when you do finally come across something unexpected you get doubly excited. I was to get proof of that the next morning, on our way out of the park.

We had hit the road and driven south for about an hour when we came to a junction. There seemed to be some animal activity just to the left of it, so we left the tar and crunched down the dirt track for about fifty metres. I couldn’t see what was happening so I stuck my elbow out the window, gazed across the grass stubble and then gasped in amazement. Slinking towards us was a cheetah. Long-legged, streamlined and beautiful, they are an animal built for speed, the fastest in the world. Indifferent to our presence, this magnificent specimen strode disdainfully along, its small head hung low. I was worried I was not going to get any decent shots because it seemed intent on disappearing from view but, at the last moment, it changed its mind and instead of fleeing turned around and leapt up onto the large stone cairn, on the side of the road, that pointed the way to Tsendze Loop.

On top, it struck various poses, like a well-trained model on a ramp, and then – having marked its territory – leapt down and set off again, with its gaunt gait, across the tar road, still unafraid, still searching. It came to a stop at the opposing cairn on the other side of the road, peering around from behind it, as if inviting us to partake in a game of hide-and-seek. It sat there for a few more minutes and then, losing interest, strode off without looking back and got swallowed up by the encircling bush.

I am not normally given to religious flights of fancy but it was hard not to believe that the whole trip had been divinely arranged to lead up to this point. It was a moment of pure elation, one to savour and rejoice in. I may have not got any new ticks for my bird list but I had found a cheetah and, with it, salvation of sorts.

Nor was that the end of it. A little further on, as we were approaching Satara, we came across a pride of lions lazing in the long grass. Unlike the more solitary leopard, lions are social animals and this lot looked especially relaxed and happy in each other’s company although should a rival male appear I imagined the mood would swiftly change and there would be much snarling and gnashing of teeth. And maybe a rather brutal fight.

I would have been quite content for that to be my last big sighting but then, a few hundred metres on, we came upon a small group of those most lugubrious of birds, the Ground Hornbill, waddling across the veld in search of food while cautiously observing us through long eyelashes.