wildlife

A Marvel of Nature

/ stidyatkusane / 14 Comments
Blue Cranes, ritual dancing display, Curry’s Post

I am walking through mistbelt grassland, following an old track that leads down past the Two Pines and eventually reaches the river. The saddle, I am now crossing, provides a suitable habitat for three types of Cisticolas, all of which I regularly see here – LeVaillant’s, Wailing and Zitting. Yellow Bishop Birds, various Widowbirds, Yellow-throated Longclaw, Grassbirds, Buff-streaked Chat, Rufous-naped Larks, Red-winged Francolin, Common Button Quail and, on rare occasions, the elusive Broad-tailed Warbler also occur here. In the firebreak-burning season, the African Pipit and Black-winged Lapwing also put in an appearance.

Buff-streaked Chat
Grassbird
LeVaillant’s Cisticola
Yellow-throated Longclaw
African Pipit
Black-winged Lapwing

At the edge of the saddle, I stop to watch the swifts, diving vigorously above me with their swept-back wings. It is amazing to think they may have flown to Europe and back without once touching land.

Birds are a marvel of nature. Evolution has given them a particular combination of speed, stamina and agility that suits their lifestyle, be it in the air, on land or in water. Their diversity allows them to hold their own in virtually any environment on earth. The more you understand about them, the more wonderful they get.

My interest in birds and avian behaviour began at an early age. At boarding school in the Matopos in Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) and, later, Plumtree, on the Botswana border, I used to make regular weekend forays into the bush and surrounding kopjes with my elder brother Pete and a couple of his like-minded friends, looking for birds (and, I am now ashamed to admit, their eggs). At that stage, it was more my brother’s interest than mine. I mainly tagged along to escape the discipline and confines of the school. ‘Exeats’, as it was called, was an activity that both schools encouraged. They believed it would turn us into good, wholesome, patriotic Rhodesians. In my case, I am not sure it did.

Typical Matopos (now Matobo) scenery. It is good birding country.

Pete was more practical than I was, and his approach to birding was very systematic, thorough and scientific. He had specially designed and got printed a series of cards on which he recorded all the birds’ details and distinguishing features – their looks, their behaviour, the habitat they occurred in, the food they ate, the type of nest they built, the colour and pattern on their eggs, their calls, etc.

There was something a bit Victorian about this gathering of information, but I admired Pete to the point of hero-worship. I was never that conscientious, which probably also explains why he always did better at school than I did.

Being artistically inclined, I was attracted to birds more viscerally. I found them beautiful and took delight in their diversity and the rich pageant of brilliant colours they came in, as well as in their contrasting, often highly tuneful, birdsong. It is little wonder that birds have long been celebrated in poetry, prose, art and even music.

After I left school, my attentions became focused elsewhere. For about a decade, I did very little birding.

That all changed when I joined the Witness newspaper in Pietermaritzburg as its Political Cartoonist. There, I met Ken, the sports writer, one of the paper’s true characters and legendary journalists. Ken was passionate about birding (and sea shells – and a few more things besides). As I had never been to Kruger, he invited me to join him on one of his regular ‘bird trips’ there. For two weeks, we travelled the length and breadth of the park, from South to North, East to West. From sunrise to sunset, every day, we were on the road, scanning the bush for birds. Ken doesn’t believe in wasting valuable birding time sitting around in camp.

Ken’s enthusiasm was infectious, and he had a wonderful eye and ear for sightings. We saw hundreds of birds, many of them new species for me. It was a transcendent experience. By the time I returned to Pietermaritzburg, I had undergone a Damascus-style conversion. The spirit had re-entered me and taken possession of my soul. I had become a Born-Again Birder. In the next few years, my belief would border on fanaticism. I even started keeping notes.

(I have mellowed a bit since then, lost some of my single-minded focus, but not my love for birds.)

Thereafter, I joined Ken on many of his expeditions. Kruger, Mapungubwe and Ndumo became regular destinations. We began our one trip by driving down to Umhlanga Rocks on the East Coast of South Africa, dipping our feet in the Indian Ocean, and then heading cross-country, via Kimberly and the Augrabies Falls, to Alexander Bay on the West Coast, where we dipped our feet in the Atlantic. It was a lot colder.

Dipping our feet in the Indian Ocean. Pic courtesy of Mark Wing.

From there, we headed, in Ken’s tiny blue Ford Laser, packed solid with camping gear, to the mountain desert of the Richtersveld. We made it all the way to the top, via Hell’s Gate and past Mount Terror, on what was supposed to be a 4X4-only route. We were the only ones there. When a highly organised convoy of fully purpose-built 4 X 4s, equipped with winches, jerry cans of fuel and a multitude of spare tyres (our only one had a puncture), later arrived, they couldn’t believe their eyes. I think they thought we were some sort of mirage. How on earth had we made it all the way up here in that ridiculous little car?! They looked a bit crestfallen. It took some of the triumph out of their own achievement. From our positions, under a large boulder whose shadow protected us from the worst of the sun, we raised our beers and said, “Cheers! Welcome to Kokerboomkloof!”

Kokerboomkloof, Richtersveld.

We also camped beneath the Blouberg, famous for its large vulture colony. We pitched our small tents on the side of the Soutspanberg, in a howling gale, and almost ended up in the valley below. We got chased down a narrow mountain pass in Marakele (famous for its vulture colony, as well) by an enraged elephant. We got drenched in the forests of Magoeberskloof, slept – or rather tried to sleep – through a hurricane in Mzimkulu. We narrowly missed being struck by lightning in Ndumo. We were hounded by a hyena in Bonamanzi, and I almost got bitten by a Mozambique Spitting Cobra the next day. On two occasions in Punda Maria, Ken had his malaria tablets stolen by monkeys. I lost a box of rusks to a Night Ape.

The Waterberg, Marakele.

Generally, Ken and I avoided the organised birding groups because there is often a vague air of elitism about them, a sense of one-upmanship. Nor did we want to be identified with the nerds in their anoraks and all their paraphernalia. There is far more pleasure to be derived in heading off the beaten track and discovering a rare bird on your own, rather than having a paid guide find it for you (for example, we found the Pel’s Fishing Owl on our own, at Ratho on the Botswana border).

On our various travels, it wasn’t always just Ken and me. We had our own little birding group of good friends, like-minded twitchers and wildlife enthusiasts who would join us every now and again – Mark, Gavin, Gwen, Ant and, later, Carl. We were always a happy band of fellow travellers.

Part of the excitement of birding is, of course, that you never know what you are going to find. It also gets you outdoors and into the wilds. As well as birds, there is often new, breathtaking scenery to discover, new sights to see.

You can bird almost anywhere. Your back garden is as good a place as any to start. I live in the country, which means my local patch is bigger than that of most urban dwellers. Tramping back and forth over it, month after month, can make you more sensitive to the constant changes taking place around you. You build up a comforting familiarity with the landscape. You get to know the regular birds and those that come and go depending on food availability or, in the case of the migrants, the seasons. Sometimes, you stumble on a bird you didn’t expect to find in your area at all. I was recently amazed to see a European Roller, which is not a bird I would associate with our mistbelt grassland. It hung around for several months.

Malachite Sunbird
Cape Wagtail
Southern Boubou
Bar-throated Apalis
Black-headed Oriole
Speckled Mousebirds

A few of the many birds seen in my garden…

Over the years, my bird list began to grow. I became relentless in my pursuit of new species. It is difficult to explain just what the lure of the rare consists in, but, as a teenager, I remember poring over the old Norman C. K. Lighton illustrations in Roberts Birds of South Africa and finding myself intrigued by such oddities as the Narina Trogon, the African Broadbill, the Eastern Nicator, the African Pitta and the Pel’s Fishing Owl. Now that I was back into my birding, I wanted to find them.

Narina Trogon, Bonamanzi, Pic courtesy of Gwen Stokes.

I did, all except the Pitta. I have a feeling it will forever remain “The one that got away…” because it only occurs in a remote part of the Zambezi, in Mozambique, and I don’t have the resources to get there…

Birding obviously requires a certain amount of skill, which you build up over the years. Noticing differences – shape, size, colour – is all-important. Political cartoonists, like myself, rely a lot on jizz. We have to decide which features to select as markers and then stylise them so the character we are lampooning becomes readily identifiable. In birding, you also look for distinguishing features, although not so that you can make a joke out of them. That would be rude.

Sound can help. With difficult species like the Cisticolas I encountered on my walk, it is often the best way to distinguish one bird from another similar-looking one (the Levaillant’s and Rufous-winged Cisticolas, for example). Habitat preference and distribution can also help here, but it becomes difficult when species overlap. Hence, in some instances, the Cisticola’s call is the only way to separate them in the field.

Because of the bewildering variety of calls, it can be hard to remember which one belongs to which bird. It can be absurdly satisfying to be able to put a name to an unfamiliar one.

All birders have their favourite calls. In my case, it is not just the skill or musicality but the associations. It is by no means our best songster, but, for me, there is something incredibly comforting about the Cape Turtle Dove’s repeated refrain “How’s father, how’s father…?” (or, depending on whether you want to be admonished, “Work harder, work harder…”). It takes me back to my childhood days on our smallholding outside of Salisbury (now Harare), which my father named “Dovery” because of it. Their sound was a constant, reassuring feature of the Miombo woodland that surrounded us. They also put on a marvellous spectacle, with the blowing out and deflating of their chests, coupled with the throbbing throat. The doves almost seemed to take an aesthetic pleasure in their own performance. I certainly did.

Taking a break from calling: Cape Turtle Dove.

Many people will choose the Fish Eagle as the bird whose call most captures the spirit of Africa, and it is hard to argue with that. The Black-crowned Tchagra is another one of my favourite songsters, as it was for my brother, who died not long after his farm was taken over in Robert Mugabe’s land grab. Whenever I hear its haunting, evocative call echoing across the veld, I think of him. It has become his ‘spirit bird’. Similarly, as a child, I used to regularly wake at dawn to the melodious, rising crescendo of the beautiful White-browed Robin-Chat (formerly, Heuglin’s Robin, a name I still prefer) coming from the deep undergrowth at the bottom of our garden in Nyanga North. It also rates high in the nostalgia stakes.

Fish Eagle calling, Kruger
White-browed Robin-Chat, near Hoedspruit.

Finally, no favourite bird call list would be complete without the Fiery-necked Nightjar, whose plaintive, subtle, piercingly beautiful “Good Lord deliver us….” is one of the characteristic sounds of the African night, and touches a nerve deep inside me which no other bird song does.

With their complex behaviour and the startling feats they are capable of, it is little wonder that so many myths and legends are attached to birds or why we remain so fascinated by them. The more time you spend with them, the more you realise what astonishingly refined creatures they are. As any trip into the outdoors will reveal, they have many more tricks up their sleeves (wings?) besides their ability to fly…

Combining birding with breathtaking scenery: Cape Vulture, Drakensberg Mountains.

In Trouble Again: More Adventures in Bonamanzi.

/ stidyatkusane / 4 Comments

At seven, on the dot, I set off. Despite the long, busy road I would need to travel to get to my destination, I was in high spirits. I never had any doubt I would be going back.

The Game Reserve I was headed towards is near the iSimangalosi Lake St Lucia Wetland Park. In the old days, before the arrival of the Europeans, much of eastern Zululand must have resembled the wild, elemental, densely vegetated land now protected within its confines.

Most of that coastal forest is now gone, either cleared for cultivation or given over to hectares upon hectares of sterile pine trees, which support very little in the way of wildlife. This is why I keep returning to Bonamanzi. It is a microcosm of what large sections of the coastline must have looked like before it got converted into farmland and towns.

Typical Bonamanzi scenery.

Walking through its forest, the trees surround you, loom over you, crowd you in. In places, it turns into a vast, impenetrable thicket in which, if you were stupid enough to fight your way into it, it would be very easy to get lost. The diversity of plant species is amazing.

The rich plant life brings with it a wealth of wildlife. Over 426 bird species have been recorded in Bonamanzi’s diverse ecosystem, offering a good chance of spotting rare ones. Game is abundant, especially Nyala. Brightly coloured butterflies flit through the trees and, as you walk, you become aware of scuttling creatures and disparate rustlings. At night, the trills of tree frogs and the chirping crickets provide a musical backdrop.

I arrived at our campsite just before lunch, expecting Mark – who is far better organised and equipped than I am – to have everything up and running with his usual military-like precision. Apart from a pile of canvas discarded on the side of the road, there was no sign of him. I was puzzled. He had left Pietermaritzburg at four in the morning because he had wanted to beat the Durban rush hour traffic and get to Bonamanzi as early as possible. He had even phoned from Ballito to confirm his whereabouts.

Gavin, who was using our site to make a phone call because there was no signal at his site, explained what had happened. Mark had left his tent poles behind and, rather than buy new expensive ones in Empangeni, had opted to drive all the way back to Pietermaritzburg to fetch them. He had calculated it would cost him less. He would only be returning the following morning.

So, I set up my tiny igloo tent in the shade cast along the edges of the forest. Then, I got out my camp chair and sat in it with a mug of tea, soaking up the surroundings. It was good to be back

At about four o’clock, with the temperature subsiding, I wandered over to the other camp where Gavin and Gwen had parked their vehicle. Gwen (Gavin isn’t much for this birding lark) and I decided to go for a walk down a road that wound out of the forest and into more open country. Not far down it, I got my first good sighting – a female Black Cuckoo Shrike. Unlike so many species of birds, where the two sexes differ, she is as striking as the male, although her colours are markedly different.

Dusk was setting in when we headed back. As we neared a point where two roads join, Gwen stopped and pointed. “Look what we missed,” she said. Because we had been so intent on scanning the trees for birds on our way down, we hadn’t noticed the tiny, faded “No Walking” sign, almost obscured by the grass. The prohibition made sense. We had just made our way through good buffalo country, an animal you don’t want to tangle with, especially the solitary males who are notoriously grumpy.

Buffalo country.

I had supper with Gavin and Gwen. It was a beautiful, balmy evening. As we sat drinking in the glowing firelight, we could hear, away in the distant gloom, the eerie ululations of a hyena. The hoot of a Wood Owl echoed through the trees. A Night Ape’s sudden, piercing scream from a nearby tree caused me to almost spill my beer. While we were cooking supper, we were joined by an inquisitive and very tame Genet who took up a position behind a Fluted Milkwood, intently monitoring our moves.

After supper, I made my way back, through vine-laden trees, down the path that separated our two camps and went to bed.

Early the next morning, Gwen and I went for another walk. This time, we kept to the park rules and followed the main road, which led to various Tree Houses. The sudden loud crack of a breaking branch and a weighty pushing of foliage nearby caused us to spin around in alarm. We both had the same thought. Elephant. Wild elephants can be unpredictable and dangerous. They are not an animal you want to creep up on or surprise unless you have gun support. We did not have that luxury. I am not one to take unreasonable risks. Neither was Gwen. So, we did the logical thing. We high-tailed it out of there.

As we hurried along, we could hear the swish of Trumpeter Hornbill wings, and then one of the great birds whooshed into view, alternatively labouring and sailing, flapping and gliding. As it flew, it omitted its wailing, baby-like cry: “waaaaa-weeeee-waaaaa”. It was another bird to jot down on my list after I had put a safe distance between the elephants and myself.

Further down the road, we came to the main workshop area for the reserve. On the other side of the road, there was another campsite with a swimming pool near it. From deep in the undergrowth which surrounded it, we heard a Green Malkoha. SASOl describes its extraordinary call this way: “A clicking ‘kik-kik-kik, winding up to a loud ‘çher-cher-cher-cher’; sequence ends with rapid, clacking sounds”. With its plastic-like, bright yellow beak, the Malkoha is a shy, easily overlooked bird that frequents forest edges. My excitement levels mounted. I have been after this highly elusive bird for years.

Then, the bird fell silent.

We decided to abandon our search for it when we heard the crack of another fallen tree. The elephant must have followed us. We were contemplating how best to dodge them when Mark, who had returned with his tent poles, pulled up in his bakkie. We hitched a lift back to camp with him. Our caution proved wise. Later, we heard that one of the elephants, in a fit of pique, had destroyed an outside geyser at another site.

Ken was due to arrive later. He is not someone whose timings you can ever predict, so we had no idea when that might be. The sun had already given up on him and sunk below the distant ocean, when the familiar sight of his much-travelled Kia came bumping up the road in a cloud of dust. The next chapter in my much- thought-about, but yet-to-be-written, book, Travels With Ken, had begun.

This illustration of mine was based on a real event – only we were headed, in reverse gear, down a very narrow, torturous, steep-sided and winding mountain pass…

The next morning, because the sun was shining, we decided to explore the many rough bush tracks that crisscross the forest. We didn’t see much in the way of birds, but the foliage the car kept brushing against was swarming with tiny black ticks. They launched themselves, in waves, through our open windows.

By midday, we had had enough of fighting off their continued assaults, so, because it was boiling hot, we headed for the swimming pool.

I was sitting in it, cooling waters, sipping a cold beer, when I heard it again. The Green Malkoha. This time we found it.

Birdwatching is like a civilised form of hunting. Besides wanting to increase the number of birds on your Sightings List, you are motivated by the sheer thrill of the chase, although there is none of the associated cruelty and destruction of life.

Finally recording this rare bird brought forth the familiar shot of adrenaline, followed by high fives, the punching of air and mobile phone messages announcing my latest triumph. We birders are a competitive lot…

We had supper at the other site. Feeling tired, I chose to leave early. Back at it, I found the contents of our dustbin strewn across the ground. I decided it must have been the work of the Genet, who had visited us again, and went to bed. We could clean up the mess in the morning..

For some reason, I couldn’t sleep. I was still awake when Mark and Ken returned. I was vaguely aware of an animated conversation between the two, with Ken demanding to know what had happened to his 10-litre bottle of water, which was no longer where he had left it.

I dozed off. Sometime later, I was awakened by a racket outside my tent. My immediate thought was that it was Mark rearranging his bakkie – something he is wont to do – although why he should have chosen the dead of midnight to do so escaped my logic. The noise carried on. Then silence.

I decided the time had come to investigate. Sticking my head out of the tent, I was greeted by the sight of a slightly bedraggled, disgruntled Ken stomping about amongst his scattered possessions, softly cursing to himself.

“Bloody hyena! Look what it has done?!”

I looked. Ken’s ‘bush’ fridge, with a gas bottle in tow, had been dragged at least ten metres from where he had carefully set it up under a Boer Bean tree. A large chunk had been taken out of the lid, which was now smothered in a foamy silver saliva. Although Ken had tightly secured the fridge with octopus rope, the animal had managed to squeeze out a tub of Butro from the top and polished off the contents.

Adding to Ken’s annoyance, the animal had also made off with one of his sandals, the two of which he had neatly placed outside his tent! (Gwen found it, the next morning, in the forest, with a large chunk bitten out of it).

After moving the rest of our gear to the safety of the kitchen area, we returned to our respective tents. I was woken, a little later, by more vaguely irritable snuffling noises. I tentatively shone my torch through the tent fly, scanning the campsite. Shambling along without haste, I picked up the hunched body and hungry head of the maned animal of the night.

“Bugger off!” I shouted, “Scat!” “Get lost!” “Shoo!”

Rather to my surprise, it obliged, making off into the gloom with a cringing, bear-like lope. Then, it stopped, swung its cadaverous head around and fixed its eyes on me. In the reflected light of my torch, there was something very scary about those glowing yellow orbs. I began to feel distinctly uneasy. Hyenas do most of their hunting at night. They are good at it. When their blood is up, they will take on a lion and survive to hunt again.

Unarmed and protected only by a thin plastic tent (I was suddenly envying Mark and his thick canvas one), it dawned on me that I was at rather a disadvantage should this boil down to a fight to the death between the werewolf and myself. I had a small penknife inside my rucksack, but I didn’t think that would be much use in a scrap with an animal whose ferocious jaws can crunch through the thickest of bone. I zipped the tent flap back up and buried myself in my sleeping bag.

Fortunately, the hyena chose to call it quits and disappeared into the forest. Seeing it, in the half-light, had given me the creeps. I can understand why hyenas have a notorious place in African legend. I could also accept the widespread belief that the “shadow soul” of witches inhabits them at night.

Any hope it had departed for the night was to be dashed. It returned a bit later, and then, again, a bit later after that. I didn’t get much sleep for the remainder of the night.

The next morning, I made a point of driving my car right up to my tent flap in the hope it would prevent the hyena from biting off my head or, at least, give me a place of refuge should the need arise.

Later, we discussed the matter. The hyena had obviously become a problem animal, habituated to humans and human beings’ food. We decided to report its presence to management so that they could possibly relocate it to somewhere it couldn’t cause more mischief.

Ken, still scowling over what the hyena did to his fridge. Mark is in the background.

Afterwards, we drove down to where the Hluhluwe River ends its journey. Lake St Lucia glimmered beyond it, a silver sliver against the dark backdrop of the dunes that separates it from the Indian Ocean. Driving towards the now lazy-moving river, the forest opens up into parkland and glade, the grass cropped short by the buffalo, wildebeest and antelope which graze here.

We parked by a fig tree, near where a boat was moored in the river. I sprang out, binoculars at the ready. As I squelched across the fallen fruit, some deep-rooted survival mechanism suddenly kicked in. I glanced down at my feet. I was glad I did. I had disturbed a Mozambique Spitting Cobra. It reared up in front of me, hood fully extended, tongue flickering ominously. It was a fairly small one, although I don’t think that would have made much difference to the toxicity of its venom. Survival mode kicked in again. According to my birding colleagues, I did a ballet-like pirouette and fled. They said they had no idea I could move so fast. Neither did I. I was just glad it hadn’t expectorated into my unprotected eye or sunk its sharp fangs into my leg.

I found the encounter deeply unnerving. What the hell was going on? First elephants on the march, then a marauding hyena, now a snake with an attitude problem!

On our previous visits to the area, I had done a great deal of walking in the park. Discovering what was lurking in the woods had now given me pause for thought. I needed to be more cautious.

But, I still wanted to find the rare Rosy-throated Longclaw that resided in the moist grasslands we were driving through. Needless to say, luck wasn’t on my side here, either. We saw plenty of the more common Yellow-throated variety, but its uncooperative relation eluded us.

Back in camp, we found a friendly ranger who was fixing an electrical problem. He confirmed that, besides the hyena prints, there had also been the spoor of a solitary leopard. I began to feel a little guilty. I was the one who had insisted we stay at the remotest campsite. Now, I was wondering about the wisdom of that choice.

That evening, we returned to the hide that Gwen and I had discovered on our illegal walk. It was shaded by two Sycamore Figs whose massive roots had burrowed their way to sustenance deep down into the earth. In a dead limb, on the side of the one tree, a pair of White-eared Barbet had excavated a hole for their nest and were flying in and out. A tiny Malachite Kingfisher took up its perch to the side of us on a bare patch of branch overhanging the pool. Perhaps, because the sunlight was more dazzling at this time of the day, or perhaps because we were just happy to be there, the iridescent blue of this particular kingfisher seemed a richer colour than others we had seen. To top it off, a solitary African Marsh Harrier swooped, curved and sailed around and around the glistening water surface.

Black-eared Barbet.

Watching it all, I experienced a primitive quietude that conquers all fear. The redemptive power of nature. In a darkening world where I sometimes feel like I am trapped below decks in a sinking Titanic, such moments are becoming increasingly rare (I was to return home to discover Trump had just launched his ill-thought-out and disastrous war on Iran).

The light began to fade, and the bushes and then the trees on the bank darkened. It was time to head back.

On our final day, we decided to go back to the northern section of the Park, which we had previously driven through. It is a good place to find the habitat-specific Lemon-breasted Canary. As we drove, the forest gave way to wood and then Acacia savannah, dotted with palms, the favourite haunt of the Canary.

Coal black in colour, the cotton soil in which the palm grows can be treacherous after rain. Fortunately, we had several days of dry weather, so we felt it was okay to venture on. In the end, we didn’t find the canary, but the road did lead us to a beautiful Fever Tee forest alongside a river. Just as the Baobab is the tree which symbolises, for me anyway, the hot, low-lying areas along the Zambezi and Limpopo Rivers, the Fever Tree is the one I identify most with Zululand.

Exiting the forest, we had a wonderful sighting of a pair of Crowned Eagles, perched in a tree. That made Mark very happy. They’re his favourite birds. Earlier, we had also got a Southern-banded Snake Eagle, a bird confined, in South Africa, to this narrow strip along the Zululand coastline.

Fever Tree Forest

Back in camp, with twilight falling, Gwen and I headed off into the forest one final time (Ken had driven off on his own separate mission). Where a labyrinth of trees met overhead, knotted together with monkey ropes, we were rewarded with a wonderful sighting of a Narina Trogon, bright green in the foliage, with its crimson belly and waxy-yellow bill. Despite the poor light, Gwen managed to snap some wonderful pics. It was a good way to end the trip,

Narina Trogon. Pic courtesy of Gwen Stokes.

We got back to camp to find Mark, who had slept soundly through the hyena visit, had also not escaped the wilderness unscathed. His shirt was off, revealing a back covered in angry red welts. He thought it was mosquito bites, but it was too widely distributed and looked more like some sort of nettle sting that had caused an all-over rash. Or a spider? We were considering the possibilities when I suddenly remembered the warning notice in the ablutions and realised what the true culprit was – caterpillars. Gwen, prepared for any eventuality, rushed off to her vehicle and returned with anti-itch ointment and medicine to treat the bites.

(Mark’s run-in with merciless insects didn’t end there. A couple of days after he got home, he went down with Tick Bite Fever.)

We are not ones to complain, however. Travel wouldn’t be travel without its travails. We are already planning our next trip to Bonamanzi.

GALLERY:

Malachite Kingfisher
Burchell’s Coucal
Wattled Plover
European Roller
African Jacana
Yellow-bellied Greenbul
African Darter

From Shingwedzi to Satara: More adventures in Kruger

/ 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!”

Yellow-billed Stork.

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.

Woodland Kingfisher.

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.

Juvenile Bataleur.

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…

Southern Ground Hornbill.

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:

African Mourning Doves, Shingwedzi
Wahlberg’s Eagle, Shingwedzi
Elephants bathing. Shingwedzi River
Sacred Ibis
Olifants River
Hippo, Olifants River
Saddlebill Stork, Olifants River
Lappet-faced Vulture, Satara
White-headed Vulture, Satara
Grey Heron, Satara
Mocker Swallowtail, Satara
Bearded Woodpecker, Satara
Golden-tailed Woodpecker, Satara
Elephant, Shingwedzi

Storm Clouds over Pafuri

/ 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…

White-backed Vulture.

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.

African Fish Eagle.

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.

Yellow-billed Oxpecker.

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.

Blacksmith Plover on its nest.

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.

Roan Antelope.

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.

View of Limpopo from Crooks Corner.

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.

Ken makes a friend…

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.

Giraffe on Mphongolo Loop.

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.

Martial Eagle.

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:

African Jacana, Klopperfontein Dam
Rainbow Skink (Trachylepis margaritifera)
Redcrested Korhaan
Swainson’s Spurfowl

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?):

The Place of the Jackal

/ stidyatkusane / 7 Comments

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.

Old SADF bunker, Eastern Section, Mapungubwe.

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.

Heading towards Pontdrift. The dark green line marking the course of the Limpopo can be seen in the mid-distance.

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.

“I did not order this for breakfast!”. This Crested Barbet was a regular visitor to our campsite.

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…

The manic chatter of the comical Red-billed Hornbill.

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.

Large-leafed Rock Figs.

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.

View east from the lookout point. Zimbabwe is on the other side of the Limpopo.

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.

Near Poachers, Limpopo River.

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….

My painting of the Baobabs that Died. Now in the permanent collection of Prof Ric Bernard.

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.

Having made sure the Limpopo River is where the mapmakers put it, the Great Explorer, Ken, sets off on the next leg of his Expedition to uncover the Mysteries of the Interior…

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.

The quality of the light…

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…

Exit, Pursued by a Serpent: Hiking the Wild Coast

/ stidyatkusane / 10 Comments

In March 2025, I made my fifth journey, in as many years, to Mtentu. Purpose of journey: to attend a 21st birthday party, organised by that intrepid pair of African travellers, Ian and Mandy Tyrer. My memory of that milestone in my life is so vague, I needed to be reminded why it is important. This time, instead of walking in, we had decided to spare ourselves some tired legs and catch a local taxi. Given the state of the Transkei roads, I am not convinced it was any wiser a decision.

Traffic jam, on the road to Mtentu.

Still, the scenery was magnificent. The road led us over a roller-coaster of hills, topped by ridges of weathered rock and cut by deep ravines, over grassy balds, from which you could catch occasional glimpses of the Indian Ocean, glimmering in the east, a sliver of silver beyond the verdant green. Patches of indigenous forest clung to some of the river valleys, but most of the trees had long ago been felled, leaving vast stretches of open grassland. In places, small parcels of land had been cleared to grow a few straggly-looking mielies and other food crops, the cultivation of which was left mostly to the women.

As we drove, goats raised their heads and stared querulously at us from the roadside. Cattle grazed on the hillsides. Here, as elsewhere in South Africa, they have always been at the core of traditional culture, a symbol of both status and wealth. And, of course, a source of food.

The further we travelled towards our destination, the worse the road got. Our driver was obviously accustomed to the challenges and navigated each obstacle with practised skill. At about fifteen kilometres before our destination, we swapped our mode of transport, abandoning the relative comfort of the minibus taxi to get crammed, sardine-like, into the back of a covered bakkie. This exchange of vehicles seemed to coincide with a further deterioration in the road, over which the new driver now proceeded with painstaking deliberateness.

Bumping along, we eventually crested a ridge, which afforded us a long view over the coastline.

What struck me most about it, as on my previous trips, was the almost complete absence of habitation directly on the shoreline. Perhaps this reluctance to build there stems, partly, from an awe for the almost supernatural power of the sea, with its wild, angry winds and ferocious storms. There is another reason, however. Because of its history as a supposedly “independent” Bantustan under the old National Party government, the Transkei mostly escaped the unbridled development and continuous ugly urban sprawl which is now the predominant feature of so much of the South African coastline.

The road continued its winding descent. Taking a small side track off the main Mtentu Beach road, we eventually drew to a halt outside a scattering of brick, cement, wood and mud buildings. In the forefront stood our destination – the Hiking Shack – where Kelly Hein, the ever-cheerful and hospitable organiser of the Mtentu Ramble, was waiting, with a pile of fresh fruit and cold drinks, to greet us. Despite the discomforts of the journey, I could feel the place beginning to work its familiar magic over me.

That evening, I opened a quart of beer and sat outside, under a star-smattered sky. The grass was already wet with dew, the air salty with the faintest taste of wood smoke. Down below, where the land meets the sea, I could hear the relentless crashing of waves on rocky shores.

We were up just as the first hint of daylight appeared on the horizon, ready to greet the sun as it rose over the sea. We were by no means the first to do so. Others were already going about their chores.

There is a daily rhythm among all the creatures that inhabit these beautiful green hills. At around three in the morning, the village roosters do their trial run. Close to four thirty, they strike up again in unison and force their triumphant clarion calls to the rising sun, echoing across the landscape, getting picked up and echoed by every other strutting, chauvinistic, vain, peanut-brained rooster in the area. They were not alone. Outside my window, pigs grunted, dogs barked, a horse whinnied, children yelled excitedly as they got ready for school, and a bakkie spluttered into life. This was followed by the bawling of cows and the whooping and whistles of the herdsmen as they ushered their herds out into the fields.

As we sat outside, our chairs placed in a neat row, drinking coffee, dozens of Barn Swallows began congregating along the power line directly in front of us, chattering excitedly amongst themselves. It was now late March, and they were presumably psyching themselves for the long flight back to Europe. I am always sad to see them go.

Next, a legion of goats, led by an impressive old billy, sporting a fine beard and schimitar-like horns, came trooping past. From one of the three thatched rondavels on the other side of the road, a lady in a colourful dress emerged, holding a broom. Washing danced on a nearby line as if manipulated by unseen hands.

On the surface, the Pondo people, amongst whom we were now staying, appear to live simple, carefree lives, in harmony with nature. Dig a little deeper, however, and a more intricate, complex society emerges, one strictly regulated by tribal structures and bound together by custom and ritual.

After breakfast, eager to be off, we set forth, once again, into the familiar vastness of rolling grassland. We were headed southwards, on a 20-kilometre circular hike which ended up at the Mkambati Falls, a beautiful, half-amphitheatre-shaped, natural feature, which falls, in a series of steps, directly into the sea.

I love hiking. On foot, you feel the soul of Africa seeping up through your shoes. You have time to stop, stand and soak up the beauty, romance and mystery of this ancient landscape – something you can’t really do in a speeding car, train or aeroplane.

Apart from a bank of grey cloud hanging low over the ocean but the rest of it was a cloudless blue. The grassland was still a burnished gold, still blowing. Despite the early hour, the regulars were already gathering at the local shebeen, perched strategically on top of a hill, just above our shack.

Descending the winding track, we came in sight of the imposing Mtentu River Gorge, with its massive cliffs of soaring rock, stained with lichen and fringed with mangroves and indigenous forest. Where the gorge narrows and its brackish waters darken, the thick trees have the feel of jungle.

Mtentu Gorge, looking upriver.
Crossing the Mtentu estuary

Here, we were obliged to hire a canoe to ferry us across the wide estuary. Once on the other side, we rounded a grassy point, where a sign marked the northern boundary of the Mkambati Nature Reserve. Amongst a vein of tumbled rocks, littered with debris and deadwood, that cut down into the sea, we came across the bleached bones of a large whale, which the waves had effortlessly tossed onto the land. Beyond the dead leviathan, a beautiful beach stretched ahead. The sand was firm and easy to walk on. It was bordered by dunes covered in wild bananas and gnarled trees, hunched down against the howling sea gales, their branches interlocked and twisted together like piles of mangled, long-legged spiders. Ahead, the rest of the group strung out along the sand. It made me think of pilgrims, on a quest for the purpose and meaning of holiness.

I was beginning to think maybe I had found it…

I walked on in soulful mood. Above me, palm fronds rustled in the sea breeze. Hermit crabs scuttled along in their mobile shell homes, retreating inside them when I bent over to investigate.

Hermit crab in Turbo cidaris shell (common name: Crowned Turban). Identity provided by Ken Borland.

Leaving the beach, we climbed steadily up a hillside, covered in flowers. There had been plenty of rain here, and the ground was wet and squelchy underfoot. A group of round-haunched zebras, tails swishing, stood on the round edge of a hill. As soon as they saw us, they broke into an easy run and vanished over the horizon. Apart from them, we didn’t see a soul.

The sun was now as hot as toast, but it didn’t bother me. I found a lovely lyrical quality in warm sunshine, the riotous whooshing of the waves below, the tufted green grass, and that endless blue sky. My spirits were high. I was on another journey of discovery.

The indistinct track we were following eventually linked up with an old road which led directly down to the falls. Having posed for the obligatory photos on a promontory overlooking them, I headed upstream for a swim.

Striking a pose…pic courtesy of Mandy Tyrer
Mkambati Falls

Choosing a suitable spot, I eased my way into the cold water and felt the cool go through me. After the long walk, I felt alive, tingly, happy to be in the water. The pool where I swam was fed by a large waterfall, which crashed through a cleft in the rock shelf, churning the water into a creamy lather of eddies and wavelets. I stroked out towards where I could feel the edge of the current and then, deciding that was enough for me, swam back.

As I was hoisting myself out, I happened to glance over my shoulder and, from the corner of my eye, caught a glimpse of a long, dark, serpent-like thing speeding, torpedo-like, directly upwards towards my foot. It was a deeply unnerving experience. My first reaction was one of fright. I launched myself onto dry land.

“There is something after me!”I exclaimed, excitedly, pointing back to the water from whence I had so hastily extracted myself, “I think it is a big barbel!”

We all gathered around the point where my pursuer had now surfaced. It wasn’t a barbel, as I had thought. It was an enormous eel! Its size was a tremendous surprise.

As a child, swimming in the streams and rivers that flowed directly out of the Nyanga mountains, I had often had this faint worry – no doubt part of some deeply ingrained, built-in, primordial, survival mechanism – about what might be dwelling in the murky depths below me. Now, I realised there was some basis for my fear.

One of the younger members of our party – a professional bird guide – had the presence of mind to do a quick Google check on his cell phone. He identified it as a Giant Mottled (also known as Marbled) Eel (Anguilla marmorata), a little understood and secretive creature which is primarily an Indo-Pacific species but can also be found in some freshwater habitats in South Africa..

Their life story is an unusual and, in many ways, unique one. Like other eels, they are spawned at sea but spend most of their lives in freshwater, often undertaking perilous journeys to find a suitable home. Incredibly, the young ones are even capable of scaling such natural barriers as Howick Falls. Later in life, they will return whence they came, spawn and die. The female Giant Mottled Eel can grow up to two metres in length, the male up to 1,5 metres (ours, whatever its sex, was about this long) and weigh up to 25 kilograms. They are long-lived, with some individuals reaching forty years.

A spirited discussion followed on what our eel’s true intentions were – good or bad? Was it just driven by curiosity in following me? Or was it some form of aggressive, territorial display? Or was there something more to it?

I found it a little eerie. Looking in its pale, bottomless, blue eyes, I felt, for a moment, like I had been transported through a portal into some enchanted, fantastical realm.

Perhaps not surprisingly, these huge eels have found their place in traditional Zulu and Xhosa folklore. They gave rise to the Inkanyamba legend, the fearsome monster that lives at the bottom of the Howick Falls, not far from where I live. Giant eels are similarly linked to the story of Nyami Nyami, the Zambezi River God or Snake Spirit, who – the belief goes – stalled the construction of the Kariba Dam wall, because it controlled the weather and was capable of summoning up both floods and drought.

There is a widespread consensus amongst most African groups that the ancestors can come to visit the living in animal form, both in dreams and while the person is awake. Snakes are a particularly common form of such ancestral manifestation, and eels have a strong physical resemblance to them..

Interestingly, these snake spirits, particularly those that manifests themselves in the form of a python (which sometimes has a glowing light attached to its head) tend to inhabit deep pools in rivers, often below waterfalls, where the water is fast moving and “living” (which, in turn, is often associated with its ability to generate foam – foam appearing to have a symbolic purpose). Furthermore, the pools are often associated with steep banks and are surrounded by dense indigenous forest. The natural sites where these beings are believed to reside are typically located in remote and relatively untouched places.

The Mkambati River.

The one I had just innocently jumped into completely fitted the bill…

The fact that this one seemed so unafraid of humans and kept circling through the reeds and out into the pool, like a shade moving through dim corridors, and then swimming back to eyeball us again and again, made me wonder whether it could be one of these mystically charged beings. It was almost as if it were anxious to communicate something. But what?! The sceptical, rational side of my brain began a wrestling match with its more psychic, superstitious sub-strata where all the symbols, archetypes and images of our collective unconscious lurk.

In the end, I decided it was a good sign. Far from civilization, on this elemental stretch of African coastline, it seemed an appropriate spot for some sort of divine revelation. It also made me realise that such beliefs, while outside traditional Western perspectives, are often rooted in carefully observed natural phenomena and reflect something of the spirit of the landscape.

Anxious to transfix so great a mystery, I grabbed my camera and started snapping away…

After a snack lunch, we left the eel to continue patrolling its remote, watery domain and headed back down to the beach, where lay – flipped high on the rocks by a violent storm – one of the many rusting wrecks of old ships that stand as mute testimony to this notoriously treacherous stretch of coastline. There was not much left. Its old smoke stack could be seen sticking out of the rocks, with the rest of the hulk – at least what remained – lying clear out of water, its iron panels eaten away and only a bare skeleton left.

Our relationship with the sea – especially waters as moody and temperamental as that of the Wild Coast – is a complex and ambiguous one. Despite its fearsome reputation amongst mariners, the warm Agulhas Current that washes these shores is also viewed, by those that dwell alongside it, as a source of benevolence – as well as violence and destruction.

For the Nguni-speaking people of Southern Africa’s eastern seaboard (which includes the local Pondo and Xhosa), water, be it from rivers, pools, lakes, springs or the sea, is integrally connected to the living at a spiritual level. The sea, however, is seen as the ultimate resting place for the ancestors; it is the great place of the departed souls, especially those who lived long ago, beyond living memory, who can still provide guidance to help the living. Many deeply revered customary practices and rituals are linked to it. For such rituals, signs of ancestral presence and approval are sought through the appearance of creatures associated with the site, such as whales, dolphins, sea birds, turtles, etc.

When Shell sought permission to conduct seismic blasting along the Wild Coast, followed by oil drilling, the possible desecration of these sites and its impact on local livelihoods and the environment were among the arguments against it.

Having just experienced my near-mystical encounter with a messenger from the deep, I knew whose side in this ongoing battle between ‘progress’ and conservation, traditional and non-traditional, I was on…

MORE PICTURES:

REFERENCES

There and Back: The Elusive and Secretive Lifestyle of the Freshwater Eels of South Africa by Celine Manzen

Messages from the Deep. Water Divinities, Dreams and Diviners in Southern Africa. Doctoral Thesis by P.S. Bernard

Escaping the Madness (Part Two – Mkhuze)

/ stidyatkusane / 6 Comments
Mkhuze with the Lebombo Mountains in the distance. Picture courtesy of Ant Williamson

The N2 to Pongola, in Zululand, is packed solid with coal trucks, heading to and from the port of Richard’s Bay. As I carefully weave my way in and out of them, I find myself cynically wondering what fat-cat politicians are benefiting from all these exports? Then, I wrench my mind back to the more important mission at hand. I am on my way from Bonamanzi to Mkhuze Game Reserve. I am not here to do my day job, lampooning politicians in my cartoons. I am here to find birds.

The human brain is hard-wired to seek answers. That is why I have spent so much of my life exploring nature and looking for birds in all their multitudes and colours. Like a detective searching for clues, I want to gather information that will lead to the unveiling of my quarry’s true identity. I want to find rare species too.

I am well aware not everyone shares my passion. You can walk through the bush with a companion and they just do not register the sights and sounds that are so evident to you; nor do they make the same judgements and connections. They do not know what they are missing out on.

One of the most obvious advantages a birdwatcher enjoys over an ordinary tourist who only visits a Game Reserve to see the wild animals is that the countryside becomes alive in many new ways. There is so much more to see and enjoy. Each bird has its own quality, habits, characteristics and behavioural patterns. Also, there is much more and a far greater variety of them.

For a birder, there can be a special satisfaction from testing one’s expectations in a less-than-familiar location which is why I am glad to be back in Mkhuze after a gap of many years. Lying on the eastern side of the Lebombo mountains, it is is mostly flat country, with the Nsumo Pan and several major river sources dominating the southeast. There is a wide variety of woodland, thornveld, open savannah, sand thicket and other vegetation types. It is home to the Big Five and – thanks to its varied habitats – enjoys an abundant bird life (over 450 species have been recorded), making it a popular destination for twitchers.

I get off to a good start. Driving on my own, behind the other two cars, I spot what they have clearly missed – a Dark Chanting Goshawk sitting, in plain sight, on a dead tree. A scarce resident, it is not a raptor I have often seen.

As I drive, I look and listen, feel the air, and let myself become part of the place again. It is always a risk to go back to a place you haven’t been to for some time but which you retain fond memories of, but, from what I can see, not much has changed. I am aware, however, that, like many other reserves in South Africa, it is under siege. Poaching is an increasingly serious problem. We get grim evidence of this when, rounding a corner on a loop road, on our first day out, we come across a Giraffe lying prostrate across the road. It has lost part of one leg to a snare and someone or something has gouged out its one eye.

The problem with poaching is that it is not just done by the local rural people, looking for a bit of “free meat”, as was probably the case here. It is also being conducted by highly organised, professional gangs with sophisticated weapons, sponsored by wealthy syndicates, who want Rhino horns and elephant ivory. Often underfunded, the game rangers and conservationists have their work cut out countering this scourge. And game reserves, such as this one, are now the last refuge of these big animals, which in most of Africa is almost gone.

We also come across a dead Fiery-necked Nightjar on the road. We surmise that some speeding tourist, who has stayed out too late and is in a hurry to get back to the camp before gate-closing time, must have not seen in until too late and driven over the bird. It saddens me to think this will mean one less beautiful call (one of the most evocative and iconic in Africa) lighting up the night.

There are plenty of other birds to see and our tally is soon mounting. Overhead sail vultures (White-backed), eagles (Bateleur, Tawny, Wahlbergs, Black-breasted Snake Eagle, Long-crested Eagle), Yellow-billed kites, looking for carrion, and amongst the trees we catch a glimpse of a much smaller raptor, not much bigger than a pigeon, a Little Sparrohawk.

Having already seen two at Bonamanzi, we are lucky to come across more Black-bellied Bustards, including a group of three who we pick up in our headlights coming back one evening. They appear to be involved in some weird courtship display.

After my good start – and success at Bonamanzi – I seem to have gone slightly off my game though. I am not the one finding the interesting birds. Carl, a relative birding novice, is putting me to shame in the front car. His camera barely leaves his hands as he snaps picture after picture of all the birds he is coming across. I can see he has been bitten by the birding bug, which helps compensate for my lack of success.

In the evening, we sit outside around a glowing campfire. A beautiful bright full moon rises through the twisted boughs of the acacia tree in front of us, casting mysterious shapes on the fringes of my vision. In the deep bush, the various night noises blend into a lulling night symphony. More irritating, mosquitoes keep pinging in my ears. No matter how much I swat or slap at them they keep coming back, like tiny Messchersmidts attacking a target. I apply more repellent and do my best to ignore them.

Ant is in charge of the braai and what a cordon-bleu-style meal it will turn out to be. As he cooks, we talk about birds, animals and our past experiences in the bush. We talk about rugby (the Boks are due to play England). We drink more beer and laugh a lot.

Suddenly, we become aware we are being watched and – sure enough – we see, as relaxed as a domestic tabby, a Large-spotted Genet lying in the grass, watching us. No doubt it has been attracted by the delicious aromas emanating from Ant’s braai. It is also hunting geckos, which, in turn, are hunting bugs under the outdoor lights. Displaying incredible speed and agility. it suddenly launches itself high up the wall and grabs one. “Spiderman would be envious!” comments Ken.

Thereafter, the Genet turns up every night, at more or less the same time.

Taking advantage of the early morning crispness and purity of light, we drive off into the flats around 0530. The fragrance of the acacia blooms floats in the air. I can hear a Rain Bird (Burchell’s Coucal) rolling its soft notes from its throat, like water from a bottle.

Ant wants to go to the viewing platform which offers a panoramic, 360-degree, survey of the surrounding countryside. From where we stand, awed by the view, the plains stretch out to the gullied slopes of the Lebombo in the west. To the east, they eventually modulate into the wetlands and sand dunes of the Greater St Lucia Park.

At the Viewing Platform. Picture courtesy of Ant Williamson

It feels like we are all alone, in a landscape oblivious to man. I feel overwhelmed by the age and might of this old continent, its primordial magic. Its apparent emptiness gives me an idea of how it must have once been, although in the distance, to the north and south of the reserve boundary fence, you can just make out where the sun is twinkling on hundreds of metal roofs.

During our stay, we make several visits to the Nsumo Pan, normally a prime birding spot. The water level is surprisingly high and because there are no exposed mud banks I do not see any of the waders I was hoping for. But there are other water birds: Goliath Heron, Openbill Stork, Great White Heron, Pied Kingfisher, Little Egret, White-winged Terns, Whiskered Terns, African Darter and several Great White Pelicans.

One of the pelicans is fishing. I think it is the power of flight we most envy and admire in our daydreams and watching this large bird, with its black flight feathers, flapping heavily over the waters, stalling and then plunging down, with a galumphing splosh, to gobble up some unsuspecting fish (tilapia?) in its large yellow bill pouch, only reinforces that envy.

Great White Pelican

There is not much game around either, but through my binoculars, I can make out the surfaced snout and eyes of a large crocodile. The brute sinks slowly out of sight, only to re-emerge a little later. Signs are warning us of their presence at the water’s edge although, as Ant points out, they should probably have been placed further in. A crocodile can leap out of water at considerable speed and cover a big distance. Suitably cautioned, we decide to heed his warning and keep our distance.

After a cooked breakfast, in which Ant once again excels himself, we move on to another spot of the pan. Even the most experienced birders can make spectacular mistakes of identification based on misperceptions, wishful thinking or ludicrous misreadings of size and distance. Here, the normally dependable, Ken misreads his visual cues and confuses his cormorants – insisting the much larger White-breasted Cormorant is a Reed cormorant, not in its breeding plumage – until the latter bird lands on the same branch and the size difference becomes only too apparent. Later, I make my own comical mistake when looking at a photograph, I misidentify a Schimitarbill Hoopooe as a Purple-banded Sunbird. In my defence, I maintain it is a blurry picture.

White-breasted Cormorant.

We also visit the various hides, dotted around the reserve. The main Mantuma Camp, where we are staying, has a fairly run-down feel. Many of the chalets need repairs and renovation, but the hides at Mkhuze are amongst the best I’ve seen anywhere – excellently located and extremely well-built with all sorts of thoughtful little additional touches. Apart from the first one we visit ( the water has dried up) where we only see a large Water Monitor, they all prove highly productive with abundant game and birds visiting them.

We arrive at the Kamasinga Hide at the crack of dawn, in time to witness a seemingly endless procession of Nyala coming down to the water to drink. It seems to be something of a social gathering point. While the rams, young and old, joust with each other the females tiptoe down in little groups. They are joined by a giraffe, an impala, a lone Wildebeest and even a very gnarled old Leopard Tortoise. And plenty of birds.

On our first few drives, most of the animals had remained largely invisible, so it is good to see so much.

That afternoon, the rest come out of hiding. They are everywhere. Giraffes sway in the feathery limbs of tall acacias; Wildebeest, with their long, doleful faces, troop across the veld. Sleek Zebra cavort, Kudu stop and stare. With the arrival of the rains, many of the impala have given birth and, in places tottery calves, only a few hours old, sway and collapse and get to their feet again. In a few days, they will be running strongly.

Nor is the activity confined to the ungulates. Tiny Dung Beetle come churning along the road, rolling their balls, containing the recent droppings of hundreds of animals. in front of them. We are careful not to run over any. Once they find a suitable location they will bury their treasure, enriching the soil in the process.

With all this activity, I search with hopeful eyes for a lion or even a leopard, but they are obviously lying low or keeping just out of sight.

We pull in at the Kwamalibala Hide situated on the main road back to Emshopi Entrance Gate. It proves another good decision. There are two rare White rhinos at it.

The White Rhino is a grazing animal that lacks the long upper lip of the Black Rhino, which is more of a browser and is usually confined to the thick bush. They are also more gentle and less inclined to charge than their notoriously bad-tempered cousin. These two could hardly have looked less threatening as they lie, eyes closed, half-submerged in the mud. It makes a heart-warming sight but it also leaves me feeling sad. There was a time when these magnificent animals roamed over large chunks of Africa. Now they are confined to a few isolated pockets, such as this one, and their numbers are rapidly dwindling because of poaching.

It has been a hot day and there are lots of birds coming down to the water’s edge to drink – a variety of doves (including Namaqua), weavers, sparrows, waxbills and Cattle Egrets, It is not often you see both types of Thicknee together (old name: Dikkop. It will always be the monitor I use because I love the sound of the word and the images it conjures up) – the Spotted and the Water. I note the marked difference in height between the two species, something I hadn’t really appreciated before.

Spotted (left) and Water Thicknee
Cattle Egret

As I scan the waterhole, I see a terrapin’s shadow moving across the pool, just its bug-eyed head above water. Then it sinks and vanishes. They are everywhere, lying on mud piles and protruding logs. Some of them are doing things which make me think they should post a sign, warning sensitive viewers to divert their eyes.

Warning: Not for Sensitive Viewers...

We have barely covered a couple of kilometres from the hide when Ken wheels to a stop and points excitedly to where a solitary Black Rhino stands, out in the open, just in front of a tangled, thorn thicket. The sun glints on the moisture on its nostril, and the animal faces us like it means business. It is taking mute note of us. Unlike buffalo, the Black Rhino suffers from poor vision and its short-sightedness makes it very nervous and twitchy. A sudden movement or a slight disturbance can be enough to trigger a charge. This one had that belligerent, challenging, don’t cross me look about it. To reassure it we have no such intention we snap a few photos and move on.

As we drive away, we marvel at our good luck. What are the chances of seeing the two species so close to one another, especially in this day and age when their numbers have dramatically dropped?

Ahead of us, Ant, Carl and Gavin are having their close encounters of a venomous kind. There are several species of very dangerous snakes that occur in Mkhuze and driving through the sand forest, they meet two of them within a kilometre of each other – a massive Black Mamba that stretches almost across the road and a large Green Mamba hanging, sinisterly, from a branch on the verge. The Black Mamba has a reputation for being an aggressive snake, although some of the stories about it have probably been exaggerated. Still, I have no intention of putting it to the test having seen how fast they can strike…

They also see a Side-striped Jackal. They are far less common than the more widespread Black-backed Jackal (which we hear calling virtually every night where I live in the Midlands).

Side-striped Jackal. Picture courtesy of Ant Williamson.

As the sun begins to sink in the West, a great company of elephants looms out of the trees, flowing together in seamless motion like grey lava, ears blowing as they move. They look full of purpose and intent, determined to reach their destination. We pull up further down the road to not block their path. After Ant’s story, the night before, about one goring his vehicle when he was a rookie ranger, we have no intention of getting into an argument with them.

We see more giraffes, peering down at us through quizzical, long, eye-lashes. Where a small stream crosses the road, one of them moves in elegant, slow motion and then pauses, stretching out its long legs and lowering its head to drink.

A flock of Crested Guineafowl comes scuttling nervously down the road, keeping a cautious eye on us. In the late afternoon sun, their feathery crests are a medley of changing velvety blacks, dancing purples and blues. Further on, a large herd of milling buffalo, agitated about an unseen something, snort loudly and go cracking and crashing through the trees, leaving a trail of dust and startled birds behind them.

By now, the sun is sending up long shafts of golden light as it drops behind the Lebombo, so we pull over and crack open some beers. Our final sundowner, in a perfect setting.

The trip ends on a high note. Returning to the dead giraffe, early on the final morning, Ant and Carl find two magnificent male lions at the carcase. Upset by what I had seen earlier, the news makes me feel a little less so. At least, the two predators got a free meal out of the poor animal.

Picture courtesy of Ant Williamson
Picture courtesy of Carl Williamson

On our way out of the Reserve, we – that is all of us except Ken, a man who rushes for no one and is still trying to get his act together, back at camp – pull into `Kwamalibala Hide for one last look. I am glad we do. The two White Rhino have returned although now they are quietly snoozing under the shade of an acacia tree on the far side of the waterhole. Several giraffes peruse the waterhole from a distance. Satisfied it is safe to do so, they come down to drink.

There are not as many birds as yesterday but, like an animated emerald, a Diederik Cuckoo flashes past and lands on top of a nearby tree. Puffing out its creamy chest, it begins to call, a loud persistent “dee-dee-deedereek”. A relatively common summer visitor (like most cuckoos, more often heard, than seen) seen), it parasites on weavers’ nests.

Next on the programme, a large male Warthog, with its ferocious tusks and wiry mane, its tail as erect as a car aerial, trots down. Several Red-billed Oxpeckers are hitching a ride on its back, The hog stops, scratches its raspy hide with a sharpened hoof, and then drinks. Its thirst slated, it selects a muddy patch and has a good wallow. Wanting no part of this activity, the annoyed oxpeckers fly off. Its hide caked with mud (a protection against pests and parasites) the Warthog ambles off, the way it came, and is soon swallowed up in the surrounding bush.

Sadly, time is marching on. I need to leave the reserve and take the dusty road back to the N2. As I head out, I let my eyes make one final sweep of this timeless landscape. For a brief while, I have become totally immersed in it. I have always felt the need for wilderness, for remote places beyond the urban/industrial sprawl that have been spared the relentless march of “progress.” For me, journeys like this one are redemptive. They offer spiritual fulfilment, help unclutter my mind and get my heart, body and soul back into alignment.

We have a farewell breakfast at the Wimpy in Mkhuze town. Ken has finally caught up with us, bringing various items I left behind. Then I get in my car and head home, dodging the coal trucks as I go…

GALLERY:

Giraffe
Great White Pelican
Breakfast at Nsumo Pan
Leopard Tortoise
Pied Wagtail
Red-billed Oxpecker
Emerald-spotted Wood Dove
Red-billed Oxpecker on Impala
Three-banded Plover
Cattle Egret
White Rhino
Cattle Egret
Violet-backed Starling
Diederik Cuckoo. Picture courtesy of Carl Williamson
White Rhino

Escaping the Madness (Part One: Bonamanzi)

/ stidyatkusane / 10 Comments

As I grow older, I sense I am becoming increasingly out of touch with the times. Perhaps this is an inevitable part of the ageing process, a reaction to a fast-changing world in which many of the comforting old familiarities have gone. Perhaps I have become just another stick in the mud, rooted in another era, destined for the scrap heap.

But I think it is more than just a symptom of querulous old age..

There is a spiritual aridity to modern life. Increasingly we live a virtual existence, our lives driven and controlled by computer technology. Information is disseminated at extraordinary speed and in enormous quantities. Smartphones, the internet and AI have transformed our everyday routines in ways that are not always good. It is hard to escape the feeling we are being pushed into an uncritical passivity, our lives manipulated by massive Big Tech companies who claim to have our best interests at heart but are pushing their own agendas.

While our technology progresses at a staggering rate, we have regressed in other ways. With the collapse of the old Soviet Union, we were supposed to have moved into a brand new era with liberal democracy emerging triumphant. Instead, we face a rising tide of authoritarianism, our freedoms are under threat, society has become more polarised, the rich-poor divide has widened, and autocracy is on the rise. Fed on a diet of algorithms and poor TV, the dumbness of the many has played into the hands of a scheming few, as never before.

All of this is my way of explaining why I am on the N2 heading northwards, through squalls of coastal rain, towards Zululand. I am in full-flight mode. The US election results are out and, having been booted out four years previously, the truculent Man-Child, Donald Trump, has somehow convinced a majority of Americans, dissatisfied with their standard of living, that he is the one to lead them to the Promised Land, to make America Great Again. The fact that he is a serial liar, a grifter, a sexual offender and a convicted felon and fraudster doesn’t seem to have made one iota of difference.

For me, his election to the most powerful position in the world defies rational belief. I need a break from the freak show, from a man whose craziness seemed to have rubbed off on millions. What I am searching for is peace and restoration. I’m hoping I’ll find it up there, in nature.

I am not an especially religious person (more agnostic) but there are certain places— be it the soaring cragginess of the Drakensberg, the stark beauty, barrenness and silence of the Karoo, the untamed wilderness of Kruger – where I still get a glimpse of the divine, a sense of the ineffable and mystical.

Zululand fits that bill. This is where I hope to find salvation. It is a part of the country I react instinctively towards, another landscape that exerts a magnetic pull on me and feeds my soul. Not that this trip is solely about my quest for meaning and transcendence. It is also an excuse to hang out with a bunch of friends and have a… well… jolly good time.

And find birds.

Birds are beautiful. They inspire a sense of wonder in me. I enjoy the hunt and the pleasure of learning their ways. They are like us in some ways and different in others. The more I watch them, the more I realise how little I understand them and yet somehow being with them makes me feel more connected to myself.

I will link up with my regular birding sidekick, Ken, in Bonamanzi. We will spend a few days there and then travel on to Mkhuze Game Reserve where we will be joined by three others.

They have booked us into a lodge, which is a step up from our usual way of doing business. Some of my friends can’t understand why I camp. To them, it is a dirty, uncomfortable, unnecessary, and pointless business, especially when, if you shell out a bit more, you can stay somewhere that comes with all the modern comforts.

Admittedly, my motivation is partly driven by frugality—usually, all my limited budget will stretch to—but I like camping. It gets me close to the earth. It is somehow more real and authentic if you are after a proper bush experience.

I feel a homely affection for the warm comfort of my dome tent, as small and cramped as it is. Closing the fly sheet behind me at night, I place my water bottle, various pills (I’ve got to that age), and torch beside my pillow, and then crawl into my sleeping bag. Snuggled up inside, I always feel wonderfully secure. Relishing the sense of aloneness and solitude I lie in the darkness, listening to the wind, the comforting creature sounds and all the other peculiar noises of the night.

The rain has stopped by the time I reach Mkhuze Village and my turn off. It is not far from my destination, Bonamanzi, a privately owned game reserve, about 4000 hectares in extent, with the Hluhluwe River forming its eastern boundary. It supports a diverse range of habitats, including sand forest, savannah and wetlands, making it an excellent place for birders.

Having checked in at reception, I head to our campsite where I pitch my tent, get out my cooler box and organise the rest of my camping gear, such as it is. Then I sit down in my chair, place my binoculars on my lap, and wait for Ken to arrive.

Much to my surprise, he arrives earlier than I had anticipated.

Later, with darkness fallen, Ken unpacks his cooking equipment and fires up the skottle. Chicken, potatoes, rice and cabbage are on the menu.

After dinner, we sit talking into the night. A light drizzle has started falling when it suddenly dawns on me that Ken is no longer listening to my conversation. Peering through the night gloom, I see he is fast asleep (the next morning he has no recollection of rain). Leaving him gently snoring in his camp chair, I climb inside my tent and settle down for the night.

I awake to the dawn chorus. By 0500 I have pretty much the full orchestra playing. Amidst the great press of unseen birds, I hear Red-capped Robin-Chat, Yellow-bellied Bulbul, Sombre Greenbul, Eastern Nicator, Diederik Cuckoo, Red-chested cuckoo, Black Cuckoo, Gorgeous Bush-Shrike, Purple-crested Turaco and Kurrichane Thrush. By 0600, the peak of the noise is past and the excitement of seeing the dawn of another day has begun to subside. The various birds drift off on their feeding expeditions, to resume their mating rituals or build nests.

Yellow-bellied Greenbul

As a low golden sun burns its way through the trees, I unzip myself from my nylon womb and stick my head out, tortoise-like. Satisfied that all is well, I emerge into the light. My first order of business is to get out my gas cylinder and perform the all-important early morning ritual of making a brew. Without it I can’t function. As I wait for the kettle to slowly heat, I familiarise myself with the surroundings, scanning my binoculars around the campsite for signs of activity.

Life always seems much simpler and somehow more real

I can hear Ken fumbling around in his tent, trying to find his bearings while doing something that sounds improbably industrious (he is not the early morning person, I am). Finally, he stumbles out, clutching a huge towel, and, with a bleary glance in my direction, heads off to the shower room. I know, from long experience, that it may be a considerable time before he re-emerges, so I make another cup of tea and continue birdwatching.

For breakfast, we make do with a rusk and a small tub of yoghurt. We can’t afford to waste crucial early morning birding time cooking. While we are sitting there, though, I catch a glimpse of the Robin, who was singing earlier, hopping through the undergrowth.

Feeling that delicious sense of anticipation that always comes on the opening day of a new bird trip, we head East down towards the Hluhluwe River and, just beyond it, the vast Isimangaliso Wetland Park, with its band of vegetated dunes running along the far side (this system of lakes and interlocking waterways is actually part of the Hluhluwe River estuary). Past that, lies the warm waters of the Indian Ocean..

Although it is still cloudy and overcast there is a strong impression of activity and movement everywhere. We are soon rewarded with our first sighting and what a sighting it is – the aptly named Gorgeous Bush Shrike (possibly the same one I heard this morning, lying in my tent). Few birds are so dramatically beautiful. Although its distinctive, penetrating “kong…kon…kooit” can be heard virtually everywhere in these low-lying coastal forests they are usually difficult to locate because of their habit of hiding deep inside dense, tangled thickets.

We plug on through the forest, ticking off more birds as we go. Driving down the southern boundary fence, we make our next good find. A Southern-banded Snake Eagle swoops out of a tree in front of us, flies a short distance and then perches on the top of a gum tree on the neighbouring farm, where it stares down at us through luminous yellow, accusatory eyes. Some birds only belong in certain distinctive habitats and this uncommon resident is one of them – in South Africa, it only occurs in these eastern lowlands adjoining Mozambique.

As the land begins to level out, we come across a bird which has a wider distribution but is also not often seen, a male Black-bellied Bustard with its long thin neck and boldly mottled back. Impressive-looking birds, it is always a privilege to encounter any sort of Bustard or Korhaan in the wild.

The forest is now opening into glades, where the grass has been mowed short by the buffalo. We come across a lazing herd, stretched out, chewing the cud and idly contemplating us as we stop to look at them. The buffalo is said to be the most dangerous animal in Africa, much more dangerous than a rhino, a beast that will often thunder past its target and keep going (an experience I have had but which I have no desire to repeat) whereas the buffalo will stick doggedly to your tail until it has inflicted some form of retribution. These ones looked peaceful enough although the fact they had calves meant they probably wouldn’t stand for any nonsense.

We are now in open country. The reed beds, alongside the river, are alive, with Barn Swallows. They are wonderful to watch in flight, swooping and diving through the air with astonishing agility. I sit and watch as they bank and fall, barely decelerating, to skim the surface of the river, making all sorts of micro-second calculations and adjustments, so that their beaks just touch the water. The Bee-eaters – especially the European are equally acrobatic in flight. More than any other bird, they seem to enjoy the freedom of the air, the buoyancy of flight, and the unalloyed pleasure that comes from being able to mediate between the earthly realm and the heavenly world.

As we drive further, we scan the grassy plain that runs along the side of the river. Something flies up calling a loud, whistling “phooooeeet”. It is a Yellow-throated Longclaw. Soon we are seeing a lot more, plus several pairs of Wattled Plovers. They stand up erect and stare at us as we drive by, uninvited interlopers in their territory. What we are actively looking for is the very rare, habitat-specific Rosy-throated Longclaw, that is restricted to such moist grasslands and in South Africa occurs only here, in Zululand.

Yellow-throated Longclaw
Wattled Plover

Although we have been told where to look, we do not find any.

We do, however, see a few Brown-throated Weavers, another Zululand “special”, a bit further down the road. They are part of a huge, swirling vortex of Swallows, Bee-eaters, Southern Mask weavers, Yellow Weavers, Thick-billed Weavers and Common Waxbills feasting on the flying ants that are poring out a hole on the side of the road.

Brown-throated Weaver

An equally extraordinary sight greets us a bit further on. In the far distance, we spot a solitary elephant heading towards us. There is something not quite right about the shape of this particular elephant. We examine it through our binoculars. Is that some weird growth or perhaps mud around the back of its head? As it draws nearer, we realise what it is – the elephant has a tractor back-tyre around its neck. How it got there, we have no idea.

Fortunately, we come across a ranger. He has also just seen it and tells us they are arranging to dart it and remove the necklace.

After a full day of birding, we arrive back at camp after dark. Ken lights the lamps he has hung from some overhanging branches. Then, with the enthusiasm of the true scientist absorbed in the fine details of his work, sits down – a beer next to him – to write up the day’s notes, except he doesn’t have a proper bound notebook, just a collection of random, scruffy, pages that look like he has scrounged out of a dustbin. Far less conscientious, I open a beer too and sit back to enjoy the huge, luminous, moon rising through the trees. With the arrival of the rains, the frogs have found their voices and from the trees, river and the nearby ponds I can hear an amorous compendium of croaks and trills as they settle down to the serious business of mating. In the distance, a pair of Wood Owls are conversing with each other from different trees. The haunting call of Fiery-necked Nightjar quavers through the still night air.

The next two days are spent exploring the rest of the park. We drive through the extensive coastal forest where the trees and bush crowd together, pressing over the road to form an arch, as they strive to gather direct and reflected sunlight. In places, the thick trees have the atmosphere of a jungle.

Typical coastal forest at Bonamanzi

We can hear the Eastern Nicator calling everywhere. Like the Gorgeous Bushshrike, the Nicator is a shy, unobtrusive bird resident in dense riverine and coastal forests, more often seen than heard. Sasol describes its call as “a short, explosive, liquid jumble of notes that includes snatches of mimicry”. It takes a lot of looking but finally, on our last day, we locate one. It’s another good bird to get.

On a little used road through the forest, we finally get our first ‘lifer’. It is not a bird as I was eagerly anticipating (the Green Makoha is top of my list)– it is a Bell’s Hinged Tortoise (as opposed to the more common Leopard Tortoise which we have already seen several of). I take a few photos, so Ken will have a record of it.

Bell’s Hinged Tortoise

In the northern and westernmost sections of the park, the coastal forest subsides into Acacia woodland/scrub and riverine vegetation, which includes a beautiful patch of Fever Tree forest. There are also numerous Lala Palms scattered about which makes this good country to look for Lemon-breasted Canary, yet another Zululand ‘special’ (there is also an isolated population in the Pafuri area of Kruger). We are excited to see our first one but, in the end, see so many we begin to get a little blasé about the fact.

Heading back to our campsite, on the one day, we pull in at the Reception and Main Camp area. We know, from experience, that you often find lots of interesting birds around such habitations. Ken immediately goes trundling off, as is his wont, down a path that exists only in his imagination. It leads past a colony of Thick-billed, Yellow and Southern Masked weavers nesting in a reed bed. While initially reluctant to follow, I am glad he does because, in crashing through the shrubbery he flushes three Black-crowned Night Herons, one of which, obligingly lands in a nearby tree. I can get a good photo of it – my first ever of this elusive bird.

Black-crowned Night Heron

In the quiet, backwaters of the dam in front of the camp, we come across several other water birds, including two White-faced Whistling Duck, feeding among the water lilies. I feel a strong, sentimental affection for this duck. They are high up on my list of most “charismatic” birds. They are such alert, earnest, amusing little characters. They don’t say quack like ducks are supposed to; instead, their characteristic three-note whistle is one of those much-loved sounds I’ll always associate with Africa.

Twilight is coming. Floating along, in the orange glow of the setting sun, the ducks look like little, painted ornaments. Elsewhere, the Egrets, Herons and Ibis head off to their roosting spots.

White-faced Duck

Before we pack up camp on our final day, we have a celebratory coffee. As we are sitting there, Ken on his huge camp chair (“The Throne”), me on my cool box (my aged camp chair collapsed on me earlier), I suddenly become aware of movement above me. I look up. Perched on an exposed branch, in clear view and some five metres up is a largish, brilliant emerald-green bird with a crimson lower breast. It is a Narina Trogon, a furtive, forest-dwelling species which has the odd habit of sitting with its back to the observer. I can’t believe it has decided to grace us with its presence. A few seconds later, its mate swoops in and the two birds fly off. What a way to end the Bonamanzi section of our trip! I decide that the sighting of this striking bird partly makes up for my failure to locate the one I had set my heart on finding this trip – the Green Makoha.

Then we drive out of Bonamanzi, heading North. Our next destination – Mkhuze.

GALLERY:

Glossy Starling
Ehite-eared Barbet
African Jacana
Three-banded Plover
Nyala
Buffalo
Leopard
Nyala
Reedbuck
African Darter