People don’t go to the Kruger National Park to post images of canned lions, or the glamorised exterior of Victorian colonialism represented in leopard print, leather and khaki. They go because they have to. It is yearning that comes from deep within. To spend time marvelling at a corner of the earth that is still as it was in the beginning. This is woven into our DNA. For a surprising number, it is a gruelling 18-hour northeastern pilgrimage in a bakkie towing a bush lapa in a re-enactment of the Groot Trek.
We spent a week in the Kruger National Park in early July to experience the bushveld version of Garden of Eden while we still can, and to soak up the moisture from the deluge of a wet Cape winter. We went to the SANParks camp of Berg-en-Dal because we had booked late, and space in this camp was miraculously available in the July school holidays.
We drove through the Malelane Gate in a surge of excitement. Partly, from the romance layered into the lore of this land by the 19th century gold rush, and the tales of Percy Fitzpatrick and his loyal hound, Jock. But also in anticipation of the experience that lay before us. The subtropical winter sun energised us as we crossed the Crocodile River Bridge, where we paused to observe a hippo grunting in the river and a crocodile recharging on a riverbed.
The dark green jackalberry and apple leaf trees set in the khaki grass against the blue skies were a refreshing contrast from fynbos, grey clouds and rough seas. The mammals and birds of the veld began to reveal themselves as our mindset gently transitioned from getting there to mindful observation.
As the name suggests, Berg-en-Dal is situated in the koppies and valleys of the southwestern corner of the Kruger Park. This was my first visit. The buildings are face brick and unattractive in most architectural senses, though our two-bedroom bungalow looked out towards the fence and the riverbed behind it and was functional in every other way. I listened to the sounds of the veld and watched a hyena circling the fence later while grilling our yard of wors on a hardekool fire. Later I heard our neighbours play, respectfully quietly, Die Heuwels Fantasties singing the lines “Die gelukkigste wat ek ooit was, Op die naat van my rug in die natuurreservaat” (The happiest I have ever been, flat on my back in the game reserve). It was, indeed, fantasties.
Waking up to the bush chorus is wonderful when you are accustomed to the less sonorous morning shriek of the seagull. I tried to distinguish my cisticola from my cuckoo calls, while lying in bed, staring at the thatch roof and absorbing an extra five minutes. An overnight shower had freshened the veld and percolated the dust into that nostril-tingling, uniquely African aroma of pepper and moist clay that you miss most when you live abroad.
My pair of nine-year-olds’ enthusiasm ensured we were 10th in the idling queue of cars waiting to leave the gate before the gates opened at 6am. The bush was illuminated by the sun rising behind us as we drove west on a dirt road loop towards the Matjulu Spruit on a tip from a friend. We were equipped with two-way radios to ensure proper communication with our friends in the car in front of us.
Herds of impalas with shining coats began to appear in the bush beside us as with swooping hornbills and the ubiquitous lilac-breasted rollers, which should really have studied the law of diminishing marginal returns to be appreciated more. Crested barbets chirruped from sicklebush branches while raptors of a bewildering variety perched on the taller trees and swooped over the grass in search of breakfast.
We struggled between bird books and apps to distinguish snake eagles from the tawny and the lesser spotted varieties, but it didn’t seem to matter which category ornithologists had characterised them into. Looking at their fierce gaze and curving talons through the binocs was a thrill enough.
We respectfully observed solemn, wrinkled tuskers methodically deleafing trees beside the road. I kept the car running. The hairs rose on my arm while we watched a family group trumpeting during their morning bath at a waterhole. We were staring at a mirror of ourselves.
And then we circled a bend, and our friends’ Land Cruiser had stopped.
“Bhubesi on the right,” crackled through the radio.
He was 15m away, staring at us, insouciantly, with the morning sun forming a halo of his mane. He was camouflaged in the dry, waist-length yellow grass, in his prime and beautiful. Latent violence shone into my binocular lenses through clear yellow, vertical, slitted eyes. He looked as satiated (and as exhausted) as a stag after an all-nighter in Vegas. We watched silently for at least five minutes. In awe. That is saying a lot for a pair of nine-year-olds and their 12-year-old sister.
Next stop was Afsaal, a venue designed for a rest and feed to break up the morning drive at 10am. Helpfully they rented us a skottel-braai to fry up our bacon, eggs and sausage on freshly baked roosterkoek.
“How extraordinary,” observed an American tourist in a short-sleeved, Hemingway-style shooting tunic, complete with cartridge loops.
How ironic.
Visitors ranged from stylish Italians dismounting from private reserve game viewers in bush couture, to an oom en tannie in their farm bakkie. Someone had emblazoned “Los my in die bos” (Leave me in the bush) onto the rear end of his car, while a large tattoo of an elephant covered another’s calf.
We began to meander back to camp after breakfast. Travelling the main arterial tar roads is an unadventurous method of exploration but it delivers a high return on effort because the spotting has inevitably been done by others. After a couple of minutes, we encountered a snarl-up. After a short wait, cars moved off while occupants pointed out a large male leopard, comatose in the dappled light of the fork of a wild fig tree. He didn’t seem to mind people watching him sleep, despite the unfortunate angle in which he had arranged himself.
For the record, we saw the big five in a morning, though ticking boxes is the last thing this experience is about. Before long there was more joy in mongoose pups, a golden oriole and a hyena den than another leopard in a tree clogging up the traffic.
After two days, it felt like we had been away for a month, Wi-Fi and scrolling a distant irrelevance. After another four, we are prepared for the next Heraclean challenge that will inevitably appear in our path.
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