Karoo paradise and historical treasure trove

 



Top and above: Samara provides every comfort

in its natural Karoo setting



The enchantment of Samara private game reserve, not far south of Graaff-Reinet, comes in a combination of factors: the location amid imposing mountains, the wide open plains viewed from those mountains and, of course, the wildlife - all enhanced by the lush green veld after a prolonged period if good rains. The acacia leaves are soft and succulent and their thorns gleaming white, and sharp as needles. At night you feel the stars are so close you could pluck them from the sky, and the mornings so fresh you could bathe in them.



Alex and students after their graduation.

But that’s not all. This beautiful location happens to be associated with places of learning which are closely related to it in their function: the hospitality training at the College for Tourism in Graaff-Reinet and its affiliated Tracker Academy whose students learn their skills partly in the soil of the Samara reserve. Through our son Alex, who was instrumental in establishing the academy, my wife and I had been invited to the year-end dinner and graduation ceremony of the students at the college on Magazine Hill in the historic town.

I have not attended many such functions, but the ceremony made a deep impression on many of us in the audience. It was not just the sight of these bright young black people in their academic gowns about to receive the rewards of their studies - many far from their homes - but their beautiful singing at intervals during the ceremony and as they filed out of the venue, all of which left us a little misty-eyed. Also impressive was the obvious commitment of the staff, officials and the executive director Andre Kilian and chairperson Gaynor Rupert, wife of prominent businessman Johann Rupert. Three of the top students had already landed plum jobs overseas even before their graduation.

Samara is about 30 minutes’ drive from Graaff-Reinet via the Tantjiesberg mountain, so named for the tooth-shaped outcrops along its ridge. As a Boer War history enthusiast, the Camdeboo region has long fascinated me, after extensive reading about the dramatic events during the “invasion” of Cape Colony by Boer guerrillas after the fall of the Transvaal and Orange Free State republics to the British in the war of 1899 to 1902. Graaff-Reinet is rich in the history of this conflict.

Karoo Lodge is the central building on the 18 000 ha property, with three stand-alone suites across the way past the swimming pool and other accommodation located elsewhere. Viewed from across the extensive lawn at the back (with resident tortoises) its rear elevation is beautifully symmetrical Karoo farmhouse with neat twin chimneys, exactly as it must have looked on the restoration drawing board.

Meals can be taken under the trees.

The lodge provides luxurious colonial-style accommodation, fine décor and, due to its limited size, excellent service from locally-recruited staff, some of whom were still there from our previous visit two years before, spoiling us with the same friendly desire to keep us comfortable, especially after a walk or drive in the veld. General manager Marnus Ochse and his wife Anneke were regularly on hand for information or a chat. The three meals a day (plus two tea-time spreads) were all outstanding and served in different locations either indoors; out on the lawn under a shady tree, or on the spacious veranda, where dinner is lit by an attractive arrangement of paraffin lamps at the table.


Cheetah cubs in the bush at Samara

The wildlife experience came with two sources of expertise: the Tracker Academy about 10 minutes’ drive down the road, and Samara’s tall young Zimbabwean head ranger with a marvellous smile, named Test Malunga – affable, humorous and, above all an excellent teacher with a wide knowledge, some self-taught and some from academic studies. On a late afternoon game drive with four other guests we walked with a journey of giraffe and approached a cheetah and her two cubs to within a few metres. The mother lay in the grass hardly taking any notice of us, her elegant tail swinging to and fro occasionally as the cubs played nearby. Although the cubs seemed quite relaxed, Test pointed out the erect hair on their backs.

“They are being very brave,” he laughed, “but they are not really comfortable.”

On a walk in the bush the next afternoon, Test turned our attention to the flora, explaining how acacia trees protect and renew themselves with strategic deployment of thorns, providing browsing animals only with a regulated supply of food. As he explained, elephants have overcome this trickery by breaking off whole branches, or uprooting the whole tree in order to circumvent the natural chemical process. We also watched as a trap-door spider worked his own trickery, his thick legs neatly folded just inside his hole, waiting for prey. With the veld blooming with spring flowers, we observed the function of the Karoo anchor-bush in binding the soil, and learned some of the names of the many beautiful species of ground cover. We crossed a stream twice, wobbling on the stepping stones over the bubbling, sparkling, pollution-free water.




Cape mountain zebra on the mountains around Samara.

We also took a very rugged drive up onto a mountain location with dramatic views of the Plains of Camdeboo, made famous by the book of the same name by Eve Palmer. Up on the mountain we viewed large groups of quizzical mountain zebra and stately gemsbok.

Observing nature is one thing; tracking wild animals and other creatures is another. To learn more about this skill we joined Alex, Tracker Academy trainers Pokkie and Janetta Benade and the eight students carefully chosen from all over South Africa. Pokkie is an officially recognised master tracker who grew up in the area which is now the Karoo National Park, where he worked for many years, and Alex is a senior tracker and general manager of the academy. Janetta is progressing through the ranks, studying, teaching and acting as house mother to the students who are invariably far from home and accommodated in dormitories. They were fascinated to meet Alex’s parents and we felt like visiting celebrities as they lined up, smiling broadly, to shake our hands.

Before long we were on the trail, finding tracks all over the veld. Identifying and following them is an ancient skill whose usefulness is re-emerging after almost being lost, thanks to the few who have dedicated themselves to its preservation.  Today, trackers are being used in tourism, anti-poaching and research, and many of these young men can look forward to exciting careers.

Master tracker Pokkie Benade (third from left)

with students.

But learning the skill is far from easy. A tiny smudge in the sand can be part of the track of a small animal like a mongoose or suricate; the evidence of claws, sometimes visible, sometimes not, for example, can indicate not only the type of animal but whether it was walking or running. Even the hoof tracks of ungulates (hoofed animals) vary in many ways and positively identifying the differences requires a trained eye. Pads and toes also show subtle differences between animals. Some tracks are much more obvious than others, like the large impression of the rhino or giraffe, but other spoor left by obscure animals, reptiles, tortoises, birds and insects - all playing their part in the ecology - are not. Even the big cats’ tracks are all markedly different.

In spite of my recent part-time theoretical studies of tracking, I was mostly left guessing. The students, after only their first six months before moving on to Londolozi game reserve in the Lowveld for the second semester, were asked in turn, secretly, so that the others couldn’t hear, to identify a random track along the trail, and almost invariably got it right.

Graaff-Reinet is an excellent tourist destination.

The town of Graaff-Reinet is an excellent destination in its own right, especially for history and culture buffs. It has scores of prominent historical homes, buildings, churches, monuments, memorials, museums, galleries and a famous stone prison.

In the centre of town, where Parsonage Street and Church Street intersect, the famous Dostdy Hotel (currently being renovated), Reinet House (once the home of Andrew Murray) and the truly magnificent Dutch Reformed Groote Kerk - said to be modelled closely on Salisbury Cathedral in the UK - form a sort of central assembly on which the rest of the town hangs. Across the road from the Groote Kerk, for example, is the elegant low-slung Graaff-Reinet Club where exuberant officers of the Coldstream Guards once danced on the bar counter and fired revolvers into it in celebration of their imminent departure at the end of the Boer War.

A little way down Church Street you find McNaughton’s Bookshop, with many fascinating books, including the comprehensive Graaff-Reinet: An Illustrated Historical Guide by Tony Westby-Nunn, a treasure trove of information and priceless illustrations which shows in detail why Graaff-Reinet is such a special town.

Following the graduation ceremony at the College for Tourism, a group of us were the guests of Gaynor Rupert for lunch at a restaurant called Polka where we enjoyed an excellent cold buffet (and an excellent perfectly chilled Chenin Blanc) in the yard under vapour-irrigated vines. The restaurant, at 52 Somerset Street, is rated No 1 among five in the town.

Useful websites:

http://www.samara.co.za/
http://www.polkacafe.co.za/about/
http://www.graaffreinet.co.za/

Relinquish your achievements and your failures

Thich Nhat Hanh is a Vietnamese Buddhist monk, meditation master and beloved teacher. He had some horrific experiences during the Vietnam War and went on to play his part in the peace talks to end that war. He was nominated by Martin Luther King for the Nobel Peace Prize. Exiled from his native country, he established a retreat in France called Plum Village. He has written many books and travelled widely. One of his best known books is The Miracle of Mindfulness, from which the passage below comes. His teachings are simple yet profound, often inspired by the suffering he has encountered in Western society. Mindfulness is associated with meditiation and is about unconditional engagement with the present moment, with conscious breathing a central practice of everyday life: 

Recall the most significant achievements in your life and examine each of them. Examine your talent, your virtue, your capacity, the convergence of favourable conditions that have led to success. Examine the complacency and the arrogance that have arisen from the feeling that you are the main cause for such success. Shed the light of interdependence on the whole matter to see that the achievement is not really yours but the convergence of conditions beyond your reach. See to it that you will not be bound by these achievements. Only when you relinquish them can you really be free and no longer assailed by them.

Recall the bitterest failures in your life and examine each of them. Examine your talent, your virtue, your capacity, and the absence of favourable conditions that led to the failures. Examine to see all the complexes that have arisen within you from the feeling that you are not capable of realising success. Shed the light of interdependence on the whole matter to see that failures cannot be accounted for by your inabilities but rather by the lack of favourable conditions. See that you have no strength to shoulder these failures, that these failures are not your own self. See to it that you are free from them. Only when you relinquish them can you really be free and no longer assailed by them."

An intimate encounter with Winston Churchill

The recent Diamond Jubilee of Queen Elizabeth brought historical Britain sharply into focus again, literally, with the usual perfectly executed pomp and the Thanksgiving Service which BBC cameras covered with their usual breathtaking precision. Some, people, like syndicated columnist William Saunderson Meyer, think it’s all a load of poppycock, but for many of us ex-colonials it still brings up some nostalgia from the days when we stood at our seats in the bioscope while God Save the Queen was played at the end of every movie.

This and my current reading matter on the subject of Winston Churchill (read with genuine interest, though perhaps to some extent influenced by Boer-Brit conditioning which goes with having a surname like mine) took me back to a visit to Britain in 2005.



The Dunnotar Castle in which Churchill sailed to
South Africa.

 I have read Churchill’s book My Early Life which includes his time in South Africa during the Boer War, but only recently came across the book on that same period by his granddaughter Celia Sandys called Churchill Wanted Dead or Alive which describes his controversial escape from the Boer POW camp at the Staats (State) Model School in Pretoria. She insists on calling it, in English, the States Model School, but we can forgive her for that. The picture of the Dunnotar Castle aboard which Winston sailed to SA is actually circa 1950s and not the one pictured here. But we can forgive the editors for that.

Sandys’ personally researched book, which took her to many actual locations in South Africa, meeting many relatives of the people involved in the story, is an interesting expose of Churchill as the young man with a special gift for overseeing and reporting on armed conflict, which excited and activated him. He was not a big man and spoke with a slight lisp. In his early twenties, as many boy-officers did, he tried to cultivate a moustache. At a dinner party, apparently irritated by his youthful outspokenness, one of the guests reportedly told him she didn’t like his politics and didn’t like the moustache he was trying to grow. Replied Winston: “Madame, I can see no earthly reason why you should come into contact with either.”



Young Winston at the wreck of the British

armoured train where he helped to save

several British lives under intense Boer fire.



Arrogant, intelligent, “clever”, as he was sometimes called by those who benefited from his quick thinking, especially under fire – young Winston was supremely self-confident to the extent that he routinely told very senior officers what he thought of their actions or inactions, and had his heart set on becoming a Member of Parliament as soon as possible after returning to Britain, which he did. As a war correspondent for the Morning Post (and concurrently, by his own special arrangement with General Buller, a Lieutenant in the South African Light Horse regiment), he would knock off 2000-word reports in long-hand without hesitating, bringing vivid and shocking accounts to his readers at their breakfast tables in London.

Winston Churchill was a remarkable man by anybody’s standards, named by some as the “greatest Briton ever”. As a politician with a surgical wit, a prolific writer and painter, a family man and a statesman, to this day his life continues to capture the imagination with a montage of images, from the rousing speeches of World War II to the handyman building his own garden wall and the loving husband sitting beside his wife near the dam in the grounds of his “most beloved place on earth”, his country home, Chartwell in Kent.

I travelled to Britain partly as a guest of Visit Britain, the tourism authority, to revisit Chartwell and to see the then new Churchill Museum in London, adjacent to the Cabinet War Rooms, which I had visited before and looked forward to seeing again. These places offer a feast of insights into Churchill’s life. The museum was opened in 2005 on the 40th anniversary of his death and the 60th of the end of World War II, a war that could have turned out badly for Britain and the world had it not been, in large measure, for Winston Churchill’s courage and determination in the face of an imminent invasion by Hitler’s enormous Nazi war machine.

I motored down to Chartwell from East Sussex to Kent along leafy avenues, happily in the company of the driver, a former girlfriend. There were neat paddocks populated with fat sheep and cattle, and plenty of beautiful flowers in bloom. Along the way I spotted a fox darting along a hedgerow, which confirmed that I was in the English countryside.

The tranquil grounds of Chartwell in Kent.

Chartwell, now a museum administered by the National Trust, is a large family home in rural surroundings. The pictures and ornaments in every room all have a personal story to tell. The drawing room has a lived-in feel and was the place where the Churchills met their guests. Winston was fond of playing bezique and his card table over near the window is set for a game. Among the ornaments is a crystal cockerel, the symbol of France, given to Lady Churchill by General de Gaulle. In the library, often used by Churchill’s research assistants, there is a model of the floating “Mulberry” harbour called Port Winston at Arromanches, Normandy as it was on D-Day plus 109 (September 23, 1944). There is an impressive portrait of Sir Winston over the fireplace, painted by Frank O Salisbury in 1942. It shows him wearing one of his self-designed “siren suits” (a kind of zip-up overall made of a comfortable fabric) which he liked to wear during the war years.

 

Winston and Clementine at Chartwell.



Upstairs, Lady Clementine Churchill’s bedroom, with its four-poster bed, is full of pictures of her forebears, and on her mahogany kneehole desk is one of the last photographs taken of her husband and one of their much-loved daughter Marigold who died in 1921 at the age of two. The adjacent bedrooms were converted after Churchill’s death to display a selection of his many uniforms – as seen in familiar press photographs and newsreels - and many of the gifts and awards presented to him. These include his Nobel Prize for Literature and Oratory awarded in 1953, his honorary citizenship of the United States and the Order of the Garter, the foremost of the English Orders of Chivalry, with which he was invested also in 1953.

For me, the most interesting room is Churchill’s study. This is where he conducted his affairs and did most of his writing. He found it easiest to think while standing up, dictating to his secretary as he strode up and down the room. He laid out his reference material on a lectern along one wall. The large mahogany writing desk inherited from his father is covered with portraits of his family and his particular heroes. There are little busts of Nelson and Napoleon among the items, and a sketch of South African Field Marshal Jan Smuts.

Churchill was not the natural successor to Chamberlain as Prime Minister in 1940. Lord Halifax, the Foreign Secretary, was the preferred choice of the Conservative Party, the King and the Queen, and Chamberlain himself. But Halifax recognised that he lacked the necessary qualities to lead Britain in war. Churchill was the only possibility once Halifax had ruled himself out.

And so it came to pass that Churchill was the man who sat in the wooden round-backed chair in the centre of the cabinet room in what is now known as the Cabinet War Rooms during World War II, the secret underground facility not far from No 10 Downing Street.



The Cabinet War Room: Churchill sat just in
front of the map at back.



Facing Churchill across the table, within an arm’s length of him, sat his three Chiefs of Staff of the Army, Navy and Air Force. There is no way any of them could have escaped his probing questions or avoided a face-to-face confrontation when they disagreed with him. The rest of the cabinet sat at the extended table right around the rather claustrophobically small and, in those days, smoke-filled room. And Churchill was stubborn and argumentative. When his advisors voiced their doubt about a plan he had proposed he would sometimes pretend he couldn’t hear clearly, or didn’t understand their objections.



The Central Map Room.



Among these rooms are the map rooms and communications rooms vital to tracking and planning the war effort, with large world maps and pins marking fleets of ships and strategic locations. In another there is a bank of telephones, including a “hot line to the PM”, all with lifelike models of the staff who would have worked there. There is a small dining room and a kitchen which provided Churchill and his wife or senior staff with three meals a day. The bedrooms of Churchill and his staff are virtually as they would have been at the time, with personal effects like neatly folded pyjamas in place.

At the entrance to the Cabinet War Rooms there is a 350kg German bomb hanging from the ceiling - a rather innocent looking contraption with a piggy-bank shape. It was these bombs that rained down on London above ground while the Prime Minister presided over the affairs of war, protected in his secret hideaway by thick concrete - though it is estimated that a direct hit might have broken through. But Churchill didn’t allow himself to lose contact with reality. Apart from his personal visits to bomb-devastated areas, he would regularly go up to a vantage point where he could watch the bombing himself.

Inside the Churchill Museum.

The adjacent Churchill Museum, opened as part of a multi- million pound project, is the first national museum dedicated to Winston Churchill and provides an intimate and multifaceted look at his life. It is divided into five “chapters”: Young Churchill (1874 to 1900), Politician and Statesman (1900 to 1929), Wilderness Years (1929 to 1939), War Years (1940 to 1945) and Cold War Statesman (1945 to 1965). These sections are arranged around the edges of the new museum, with the “Lifeline Interactive” down the centre. Here, at the touch of a panel you can view any of the thousands of scanned documents and photographs covering every aspect of his life.

I contented myself with the details of the static and interactive displays. Here you can see everything from baby Winston’s rattle to the pistol he acquired during his escape during the Boer War; his trench periscope used on the Western Front during World War I and his red velvet siren suit worn during World War II. From time to time the shadows of German warplanes pass across the room, with wailing sirens, the scream of Stuka dive-bombers and the genuinely loud crash of a bomb exploding nearby.

The interactive displays include a series of enlarged and back-lighted black-and-white photographs. Each time you stop in front of one you hear the voice of Churchill speaking words that are pertinent to the picture. At one showing a group of smiling young RAF fighter pilots – wearing collar and tie under their flying kit, with a Hurricane fighter in the background – one hears the famous words: “Never in the field of human conflict has so much been owed by so many to so few”, spoken by Churchill after the Battle of Britain which finally turned the Germans away from their designs on invasion. One wonders if those magnificent young men in their flying machines would have prevailed so successfully without the outstanding wartime leadership of Winston Spencer Churchill.

See http://churchillmuseum.iwm.org.uk/

Family fun in the African wilderness



Sunset in the bush: Our camp on the banks of the Timbavati.



Our family group is sitting comfortably in the game drive Landcruiser watching a kudu cow and female calf browsing quietly within a few metres of us. It is a lovely scene, the two animals looking so soft and feminine, so contented, their big eyes staring at us, unblinking. Suddenly there is a bolt from the blue as a leopard charges past so fast that most of us don’t even see it. The calf disappears into the bush, the mother charges away, barking loudly in alarm, and the female leopard has made off again, without the food she had hoped for, for herself and her cubs.

This is one of those moments in the bush that one never forgets, this time in Ngala private game reserve in the Timbavati region west of the Kruger National Park. And this time we are not pampered guests in the five-star lodge. We are accommodated in the “trail camp” on the banks of the Timbavati River in a remote part of the reserve. The occasion is the 60^th birthdays of my wife Estelle and my brother Philip, and this is our favourite way to celebrate – eight members of the family together in the bush.

Family outing: Fanny and Dylan lead the way.

Our ranger Dylan and tracker Fanny go into action following the “strike” by the leopard, Fanny moving from the tracker’s seat on the front left-hand mudguard of the vehicle to take his place next to Dylan – standard procedure when you’re onto a predator. In that flash of high action Dylan has noticed that the predator is a female leopard he last saw when she was heavily pregnant, and that she is now lactating.

For half an hour we search for the leopard in thick bush. The brand new diesel Landcruiser is put through its paces, pushing through the long grass, bushes and small trees, crunching and snapping, but barely straining its powerful motor in low range. Fanny indicates right, and indicates left, and indicates right again, guiding Dylan through the bush, but the leopard is gone, and we make for the dry riverbed for a coffee break.

The previous day we had witnessed another encounter between a young leopard and some impala. The leopard was lying among some trees on high ground, with just its head showing. We held our breath as a string of impala passed by calmly, directly below the leopard, sure that at any moment it would pounce on the easy prey; but its obvious immaturity and lack of experience caused it to hesitate as the opportunity slipped by.

Accessing the reserve from the west and bypassing the SA Wildlife College on the southern boundary, we assembled at Ngala Tented Camp. This camp offers luxury tented accommodation and everything you expect from a first class lodge, but we were headed for something a little more rustic. At the Tented Camp we met our designated ranger Dylan Davies and veteran tracker Fanny. My son Alex, who was among us, and the motivator of the whole expedition, had once been head ranger at Ngala and knew Fanny from the old days. They shared jokes in Shangaan and regaled us with some of their experiences.

Tented camp: each tent accommodated two people.

The trail camp has four tents, accommodating two people each. They are quite widely spread out along the (at this time dry) river and reaching them at night requires a torch or paraffin lamp. Unlike at the luxury lodges, there is no escort at night, so due vigilance is required. In each tent there is a whistle, so that if a hyena is trying to get into your tent in the middle of night, you can whistle for help!

Generally, help comes in the form of two young casual workers whose attention and dedication is unwavering. Water for each tent’s flush toilet and shower has to be brought in every day and the “geyser” is a large inverted bag which empties just enough warm water for a shower or two. Inside the tent are two very comfortable beds and a table with Hemingway-style wash basin and metal jug, illuminated by your paraffin lamp when it’s dark.

Our safari outings were divided between game drives in the morning and late afternoon walks with Dylan (armed) and Fanny. The walks were easy-going affairs with particular attention paid to tracks and birds. While walking in the bush one has the time and inclination to observe the wilderness more attentively, to use binoculars and take more carefully composed pictures. Walking provides a relaxed opportunity to discuss nature with the experts and with other members of the group.

On the game drives we encountered three species of the Big Five close-up. In perfect morning light we were able to watch as a huge elephant bull tugged and chomped at thorny branches, seemingly unaffected by our presence or the sharpness of the thorns. Sitting in silence we were awed by the gentleness of this powerful animal and his quiet thoroughness in going about feeding his enormous body.

Game drive: A bull elephant tugs at twigs.

A young pair of rhino males came next, staring at us with as much interest as we stared at them. Looking at these magnificent animals in their natural environment made me realise fully what a terribly destructive crime poaching is, feeding the lust and greed of ignorant, indiscriminate and unscrupulous traders and consumers of rhino horn.

Then came the buffalo, hundreds of them, moving along lazily, clouds of dust rising from the dry earth disturbed by their hooves. Dylan realised they were making their way to the water in a large dam nearby and took us to a site where we could intercept them and view their arrival. The leaders plunged into the water to drink, among them bulls, cows and few young calves. Determined though leisurely, they kept arriving for some time as we watched.

Camp fires are of course legendary for story-telling, sometimes hilarious banter and sometimes serious conversation among family and friends. And as the setting sun gave way to a blazing fire, the full moon rose, casting mysterious shadows throughout the bush.

The moonlight helped us find our way back to our tents for a relaxed night under the dreamy African sky.

Awakened by calls from our young helpers the next morning, the new day begins.



Inquisitive: A pair of rhinos check us out.


This story appeared in Diversions leisure magazine.



Botswana's Moremi reserve is a wild place

Moremi Game Reserve in Botswana's Okavango Delta is a wild place, and a very hot place in October. There are a few lodges in the north-western part of this 4 872 square kilometre wilderness but most visitors depend on camping, mainly using rooftop tents. This is exclusively 4x4 territory and even if you fly in to Xakanaxa airstrip, the rest of the trip will either be in boats or off-road vehicles.

On the way to Moremi: Philip goes about his

ablutions. On the table are priority provisions.

 My brother Philip had been doing all the driving in his Land Rover Discovery from Johannesburg and through Botswana. At a road block, traffic officials had demanded his driver’s license. Naively, I had left mine in South Africa and dared not drive without it. So I felt it only right for me to volunteer to take over once we were in the bush. With the airconditioning wooshing and in second gear, high range – neither of which was indicated for present conditions – we cruised along the narrow sand road, me feeling like a seasoned adventurer. Then we went down; the power dissipating as quickly as the wheels sank into the sand.

“Oh my God,” I said. “I’m so sorry,” imagining darkly that I must be the only fool on the sub-continent that could get stuck so easily.

The others were silent as we surveyed the situation. It was heading for sundown and I wondered how I would handle the emotional burden of being responsible for landing us in the middle of nowhere in Big Five territory for the night. My son Alex and his friend Brett emerged from Alex's short-wheelbase Defender in front and attached the incredibly strong hand-made “snap strap” around its axle in order to tow us out.

“Never around the tow bar knob,” instructed Philip. “I was told the other day about one that snapped off. It came straight through the windscreen like a bullet and killed the driver of the vehicle being towed.”

With that dire warning we were soon on our way, only to go through the whole process again twice – with my brother again driving his own vehicle.

As dusk was gathering and the kilometres to Third Bridge diminishing rather slowly, we went down for the fourth time, and this time the Defender faltered. Brett was up on the roof rack in a flash, unfastening the sand tracks. With the loud roaring of both motors the short wheelbase literally bounced the Discovery out of the sand, burying the tracks about a foot underground in the process. As the non-drivers were putting in some sweat and blood pushing from the rear, a giraffe glided by serenely, looking at us with  some disbelief. Nothing focuses the mind quite like the thought of being stuck in a place like this after dark, mainly because pitching the tent attached to the camping trailer would have been impractical at this spot.

In the wild: our camp at Third Bridge.

Third Bridge, named after a rickety timber structure nearby, with crystal clear water flowing under it, is a centrally located group of camp sites. Here there was a very basic ablution block (now rebuilt and apparently bigger, very clean and user-friendly) and a tap. At that time, 10 years ago, you could heat the water by making a fire under some drums,  or “donkeys” as they were known, but cold water was a real treat in the hottest month of the year, especially when you constantly feel covered in dust.

 As we set up camp in the gathering darkness we had a lone visitor – an adult elephant standing quietly watching us about 30 metres away on the edge of the group of sausage trees which provided shade for the camp. Later, around the camp fire, we thought we might have more visitors when a few lions made themselves heard not very far off. But after the barbecue and a few beers, a night’s sleep on an inflatable mattress came easily, ending early the next morning with a chorus of bird calls from the trees and surrounding bush.

The birdlife in Moremi is phenomenal. A dominant call is the whining sound of the ubiquitous grey loerie, an inescapable part of any African bush experience. Apart from the main waterways, in the dry season the water is found in pans and pools scattered throughout the reserve. Though we were unsighted by reeds, we could hear hippos splashing and snorting not far from the camp. On game drives the pools make good places to stop and watch the hippos, as well the occasional crocodile and often the elegant red lechwe antelope, always found near water. One afternoon we were literally stopped in our tracks by a herd of about a hundred elephants, from the largest imaginable bull to little chaps tugging at twigs as they went by at a leisurely pace.

We swiftly became aware that there was a downside to the idyllic Third Bridge – Africa’s most talented scavengers, hyenas and baboons. On our second night in camp we asked for it by leaving a gas refrigerator outside on the ground when we went to bed, because the trailer didn’t provide enough ventilation for it. In a midnight raid by a hyena, the fridge's lid was ripped clean off by an animal with the most powerful jaws in the world. The hyena’s activity caused his large, tough body to bump and thump the trailer violently and Philip and his wife Cathy awoke to a sensation they had never experienced before. Cathy looked down through the ventilation hatch beside their bed on top of the trailer and screamed. There he was (maybe it was a she), staring back at her, silky coat and bright eyes, like a naughty puppy.

“Philip! He’s here, right here.”

Philip lunged at the hatch. “It’s a bloody hyena! Hey, hey, fuck off, fuck off!

These were the words to which I (in the same tent, down on the ground) awoke. But it was all over. Having ravaged the tomatoes, destroyed the feta cheese and punctured some cans of beer, the hyena made off.

Breakfast with Brett: firewood at Third Bridge

burns all night.

Then came the baboons.

A big troupe had earlier invaded a neighbouring campsite, on which occasion we rushed over to try to pile some of the ammo boxes containing groceries into the absentee campers’ tent and then tried to drive off the infuriating animals with loud curses and the odd missile, which they ignored completely. It seems they will yield to nothing, bar perhaps rifle fire, though I doubt it.

Leaving soon after for a game drive, we secured our groceries and zipped up our tents. On our return we found chaos. The baboons had demolished Alex and Brett’s free-standing tent, collapsed our gazebo and trampled a camping table, though gaining nothing from their raid. At nightfall the primates took to the trees, with much barking and scuffling right overhead in the tall sausage trees, as we made supper.

The next morning Philip discovered that he had received just retribution for his bad verbal treatment of the animals the previous day. Two large loads of shit covered the windscreen on the driver’s side of the Discovery. Retching, he set about cleaning up the mess.

While the baboons were resting in the trees, another type of invasion occurred. Three identical Toyota double-cab 4x4s arrived, each carrying four middle-aged German-speaking men. The leader was a fit looking, wiry fellow with a large hunting knife on his belt and no shirt. Within 15 minutes they had put up a central gas lamp, erected their double roof tents on each vehicle, put down the ladders, put out their equipment and set about preparing supper, each apparently with a predetermined duty. A scribe sat updating the journal. Without messing about with making a fire, the German gents cooked supper on gas in the time it took to drink two Windhoek lagers, ate their food and went to bed as one man. They were up at first light and ready to roll at sun-up. “Go, go, go,” shouted the leader with enthusiasm, and off they went. We were out on our morning game drive sometime later when the convoy passed us at speed, perfectly spaced, with a small German flag flapping proudly on the cab of the lead vehicle. North Africa, 1941?

When the Germans and another English couple had left their camp sites and we had gone off sightseeing (first collapsing the small tent and taking other precautions) the baboons disappeared as quickly as they had arrived.

On the second last day we chartered a flat-bottomed boat with canopy to take the five of us on Xakanaxa Lagoon to see something of the famous waterways of the Okavango Delta. The water here is warm, crystal clear and deep, and it was really just a bird watching outing with a very knowledgeable guide named John, though our first sighting was not of a bird but an extremely rare sitatunga – skilfully spotted by John – an antelope which has adapted to living permanently in water, with elongated hooves, for feeding on reeds and other aquatic plants in swampy areas. When alarmed, it will submerge itself, with only its nose sticking out of the water.

The most impressive bird was the enormous marabou stork on its nest of large twigs in a bush not far above the water. It was shading its squawking chicks from the blistering sun with huge outstretched wings, waiting for its mate to return with lunch from some far-off kill. After all the tranquillity, John delighted in giving us a parting thrill by racing the boat at top speed along the narrow channels through the reeds.

No further: Reading the fine print I discover that October

in Moremi is "Africa at its harshest".

On one of our last game drives from Third Bridge we witnessed lions mating on a large open plain. They do it like clockwork every 20 minutes for up to three days. But that was not the end of the lions.

A huge lioness strolled past the ablution block the next morning while we were showering and we had no sooner hung up our towels back at camp when she showed up again – ambling right though the camp, without even glancing at us, and off into the bush.

That’s the joy of Moremi. Anything can happen.

This story appeared in Weekend Argus Travel.

2012 is the year of evolution of consciousness




The moon with Jupiter and Venus: Taken from the stoep of

our cottage at The Crags in December 2008. Our sun will

align with the centre of the galaxy in December 2012.

 I have just finished reading The Mystery of 2012, an anthology of essays by numerous esteemed intellectuals, professionals, activists, teachers and authors, each of whom contributes his or her impressive understanding of everything from the Mayan calendar which ends with the winter solstice on December 21, 2012 - when our sun will align with the centre of the galaxy - to various aspects of science, business and politics which are being affected by the evolution of human consciousness at this time. This is a fundamentally spiritual transformation, but it is attended by social, political and scientific changes of attitude (see the news from Bolivia below).

The book was published in 2007 and many of the writers suggested at time of writing that 2012 will be the year around which all sorts of dramatic events might happen to and on our planet. At that time the global recession had not yet developed in earnest, nor had the Gulf oil spill and the earthquakes and tsunamis that hit Japan yet happened, not to speak of the Arab Spring political uprisings in the Middle East and other significant events.

In his essay, Hungarian super-intellectual and Nobel Peace Prize nominee Ervin Laszlo explains societal transformation from 1800 to 1960, and on to the present, emphasising the accelerating growth of technology. But “the uneven and imbalanced globalisation sparked a new gold rush for the wealth promised by the high-technology service and production sectors… (and) broke apart established values and priorities.”

According to Laszlo, 2012 represents the Chaos Point. “Now a simple rule holds: We cannot stand still, we cannot go back, we must keep moving. There are alternative ways we can move forward. There is a path to breakdown, as well as a path to a new world.”

Another contributor, Corinne McLaughlin, who is the executive director of the Centre of Visionary Leadership based in Washington, fascinated me with her observation of the dramatically increased power of civil society around the world – “the biggest movement in the history of humanity”, she calls it. With the failure of governments to address major problems like poverty, environmental pollution and health care, for example, these organisations work with ideas rather than force, and collectively could become the "new world superpower", the big difference being that their work is quietly effective and unobtrusive, and therefore has the hallmarks of a “spiritual” movement.

Consider also web-based organisations like Avaaz.com and the powerful effect it has had on international political, social and environmental events with its huge base of active international supporters. We have also seen the effects of cell phones and social media in the “people power” uprisings in North Africa, for example.

Governments beware; your roles and power are eroding!

The final chapter in the book is by James O’Dea, formerly director of the Washington DC office of Amnesty International and executive director of Seva, a non-profit organisation dedicated to international health and development issues in Latin America, Asia and on American Indian reservations. He has also participated in the World Wisdom Council in partnership with Irvin Laszlo.

Writes O’Dea: “Our consciousness is most deeply perceptive and lucid when it is spiritually immersed and compassionately involved in the unfolding of the full range of experience - in other words, when it is paradoxically both detached and engaged. This detachment is not a separating or uncaring stance ….it is a deep surrendering and releasing of the small will, so that it is a not confined by the logic of narrow self interest. In this kind of surrender we experience a profound trust that, below the surface of the visible world, there is a vitality, an inspiring aliveness, and even a source of greater guidance.”



Precious forest dwellers: Taken from the kitchen window of

our cottage at The Crags.



What's with Bolivia?

With the cooperation of politicians and grassroots organisations, Bolivia is set to pass the Law of Mother Earth which will grant nature the same rights and protections as humans, according to Wikimedia Commons. The legislation is intended to encourage a radical shift in conservation attitudes and actions, to enforce new control measures on industry and to reduce environmental destruction.

The law redefines natural resources as “blessings” and confers the same rights on nature as human beings, including: the right to life and to exist; the right to continue vital cycles and processes free from human alteration; the right to pure water and clean air; the right to balance; the right not to be polluted; and the right to not have cellular structure modified or genetically altered. Perhaps the most controversial point is the right “to not be affected by mega-infrastructure and development projects that affect the balance of ecosystems and the local inhabitant communities”.

In late 2005 Bolivia elected its first indigenous president, Evo Morales, who is an outspoken champion for environmental protection, petitioning for substantive change within his country and at the United Nations. Bolivia, one of South America's poorest countries, has long had to contend with the consequences of destructive industrial practices and climate change, but despite the best efforts of Morales and members of his administration, their concerns have largely been ignored at the UN.

Bolivia will be establishing a Ministry of Mother Earth, but beyond that there are few details about how the legislation will be implemented. What is clear is that the country will have to balance these environmental imperatives against industries, like mining, which contribute to the country’s GDP.

And already (September 28) these high ideals are under stress. According to online pressure group Avaaz, Bolivian police have used tear gas and truncheons to crack down on indigenous men, women and children marching against a mega-highway that will slice through the protected Amazon rainforest.

As a result, two key ministers have resigned, Bolivians are erupting in street protests across the country and President Morales has been forced to temporarily suspend the highway construction. "But powerful multinationals are already divvying up this important nature preserve. Now, only if the world stands with these brave indigenous people can we ensure the highway is rerouted and the forest is protected.

"Avaaz has just delivered a 115 000-strong Bolivian and Latin American emergency petition to two senior government ministers; they are worried about massive public pressure and are on the back foot... let’s ramp up the pressure and raise a global alarm to end the crackdown and stop the highway. Sign the urgent petition - it will be delivered spectacularly to President Evo Morales when we reach 500 000," says the message from Avaaz.

A monastic lifestyle down at Milkwood Glen

Milkwood Glen: A relaxed environment.

In a post I wrote elsewhere on this blog almost a year ago, I said the time had come to release a society that “desperately tries to repress anything it does not understand and that does not follow today’s economic rules” (an American astrologer’s words in quotes). I have my own path to follow, I declared.

Well, I meant what I wrote, but I had little idea about the direction in which my path might lead.

Since then, Estelle and I have moved from our timber cottage in the forest to a house bought by my son at Milkwood Glen, about five minutes walk from the sea at Keurboomstrand, near Plettenberg Bay. This is a beautiful verdant place with, as the name implies, plenty of milkwood and other trees. Trees, shrubs and flowers flourish here. We do miss our forest walks with the dogs (and sometimes the cats, too) and we miss the calls and sightings of the wonderful variety of birds, including the regular chatter of low-flying Knysna loeries. But being on the edge of the ocean brings within easy view a new collection of wildlife, most notably whales and dolphins.

Wide open: Keurbooms Beach with Robberg on the horizon.

One late afternoon recently, when the sea was like a pond, a large shoal of fish appeared to be moving across the bay and seabirds plunged at it with abandon. At the same time, in small groups all over the bay, dolphins were also feeding freely. When, like small children, they had had enough and were full of energy, they did loops out of the water and surfed the breakers in a frenzy of pure joy.

Yesterday evening we had another surprise show of pure glory. As the sun set on Robberg peninsula, across the bay from us, a dead-calm ice-blue sea met a pink sky as the breakers rushed gently to shore. The colour of the distant Tsitsikamma mountains was a sharply defined deep blue. Berg wind conditions clear the air and bring the environment into sharp focus, retouching it with magical colours.

We returned to the beach this morning and the sea was as calm as it can be, softly ironed by the gentle north-westerly. But this time nature provided additional delights. Two whales wallowed serenely a couple of hundred metres out. An ocean safari boat soon arrived with a full load of red life-jacketed whale-watchers. But it was not an intrusion and must have provided those tourists with the kind of experience that is beyond description back in London or Berlin. The colours of the boat and the life-jackets reflected brightly in the still water as the whales showed a leisurely fin here and an unconcerned tail there. Back on the beach, the tide had strewn a million intricately detailed shells and we collected pockets full as we walked.

In the man-made past year, of course, the recession has bitten deeper for many of us. We resist, but it persists. Estelle is working some nights at the rehab in Plett and at the vet shop and surgery some days. I still have some newspaper work (and a very small pension), but, in Estelle's absence, I am now quite largely engaged in house-husbandry. Yes, house-husbandry, as in househusband instead of housewife. It’s an occupation which for some reason I don’t seem to mind too much and I even take some pride in washing up (it could simply be a socially accepted form of obsessive-compulsive disorder), hanging up the laundry, sweeping the patio and shopping for groceries. I try to approach these tasks with what Buddhists call mindfulness, which teachers say can be interpreted as “unconditional friendliness” towards what is happening in the present moment, and appreciating it for what it is, without judgment.



Buddha: He likes cooling off in water.

 I also walk Buddha our Newfoundland dog around the village. He is much loved here because, like his revered namesake, he is unconditionally, and uncontrollably, friendly. Buddha loves to carry bags of any description, so when you come across a family who have just moved into a holiday house for the weekend, and are busy unpacking their groceries, Buddha charges up, desperate to help carry. The sight of him, because of his black coat and large size, can be quite alarming, but shock soon turns to unconditional friendliness. Buddha also loves to cool off in the water, but prefers pools to waves.



Birthday hike: Estelle on Robberg on the eve of her 60th.

 When you add to my domestic activities reading, writing and daily meditation, you come to the conclusion that I live a pretty monastic lifestyle which, in spite of earlier ego-resistance, I am now learning to accept. A cutting in my little book says “transcendence arrives when you embrace the life that is given”.

Many people in this area are familiar with the financial struggle which can follow making a commitment to this most beautiful part of the world. It seems to breed a toughness and self-reliance – a kind of battle-hardened acceptance which lies side by side with a love of doing your own thing in a lovely place. If your fridge or TV needs attention, you don’t book it in for repairs with hundreds of others, or, better still, buy a new one. The repairman, who you know from the old days, comes to your house and fixes it with good humour and goodwill, and you pay him an undeniably fair sum in cash. And the appliance works better than ever.

Anyway, to get back to the point. My situation is such that I have been forced, or rather provided with the opportunity, to look at things differently. It’s all about perception. I’m learning to find “greater joy, deeper peace, more certain wisdom and more loving relationships”, in the words of an eminent spiritual teacher. But, of course, I’m still a student with common weaknesses.



Concert time: Charley and Anna with Missy.

 My daughter Melissa and her husband Charles live on a farm on the other side of town. Charles, a horticulturist, is the son of legendary veterinarian Andre Reitz whom I have known since the days when I bred Aberdeen Angus cattle in the area with my late father-in-law. Charles and Missy have provided us with delightful twin granddaughters who are sure to teach us plenty in the coming years. And we hope to teach them something, too. And apart from providing us with a home, our son Alex continues to inspire us with the work he does in the world of wildlife (and human) conservation and the almost weekly updates on the new and exciting opportunities he draws to himself.

I still write travel stories, as you can see below, but these days I prefer going to the many interesting South African destinations rather than doing long hauls overseas, even in business class and staying in fancy hotels. I cherish the memories of some of my overseas travel, but my tastes have changed. For example, thanks to Alex and his network of associates, in August we are going on a walking safari as a family with my brother and his wife, our children and their partners, in a remote part of Ngala private game reserve, staying in a tented camp complete with ranger, tracker and cook. Alex is a veteran ranger and professional tracker himself, so when we get into the bush we should know exactly what we’re looking for, and at.