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.
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..
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.
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.
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?
I arrived back, in the pouring rain, at Kens house, where his wife had prepared a welcome meal, feeling triumphant…
GALLERY:
Stidy's Eye 