SA8. Wimba Way


In Zululand, it’s camping time again. For me, this means searching for new means of lulling myself to sleep at night: animal counting has not proven very efficient so far. Or else I’m picking the wrong animal.

It’s also time for me and Kim to look for the magic cookie that caused Alice to shrink. If it does the trick, we might eventually fit in the lodge. There’s no room for the backpacks unless I kick Kim out the door, so we will be huddling them on the wooden bench that is our bed for the night. Suddenly, the idiom “as stiff as a board” has a sensory meaning. The roof is pitched, the lodge narrow and our two beds are caught in the angles where the slope runs low, which makes sitting upright technically impossible.

I play the detective again and examine my environment, lamp in hand. I wish I could have a vacuum cleaner to suck in all those spider webs that decorate the corners. My guess is that they are also populated but, on the principle “I let you be and you do the same with me”, I resume my checks before disturbing the inhabitants from where they might be nested. I smile at the transient thought of an exaggeratedly protective mother, mine, who would kill herself at scrubbing floors and at arduously disinfecting whatever interacted with my existence. Ironically, it’s the same bacteria exterminator who passed the travel bug and the love for nature on to me. Now, from my spiderless apartment, I look back to Africa and towards my future trips there: the simplicity and thrill of being into vast, wild and unpredictable land is a mesmerising feeling to which I have not yet found equal.

But that evening, we are still very much city people moulded by city-life habits, poking fun at our clumsiness of impersonating the “savage”. Nothing like a good conversation to wipe all fears away, though. At the Zululand Camp, one of the local guides is eager to break some extraordinarily good news to me (I judge it is so by the big eyes and large gestures that accompany his words): only two days before, a snake that could have swollen him whole was found not far from there! He is about 2m high and looks like Djimon Hounsou: the real African, hey! While I try very hard to pretend to share the same enthusiasm for this massive discovery that would make National Geographic ecstatic, my pigmentation fades away. Takalani, an ultimate observer of such circumstances, seizes the moment and jumps in with good advice: “See? You might as well sleep outside and look at the stars,” I hear the voice of the good African Samaritan. “Snakes can crawl inside anyway.” He has a point, but I prefer to give the snake a bit of a hard time, still: let it at least try to squeeze his butt through a crack if it really wants to get me!

Paul from Singapore whispers something about him wanting to share a bottle of whiskey with the group. My pulse comes back again. The idea of slightly numbing my senses sounds sweet in the context. Takalani joins us after we finish our Biryani and, a bit absent-minded, sings what I identify to be Miriam Makeba’s The Click Song”, courtesy of my Capetonian friend from Escape4Africa who made sure I would not travel a complete stranger to South-African music and culture. Caught in the act, our multi-talented guide now has to make “The click consonant for dummies” sort of presentation to us. Lots of eyebrows rising as he does the Xhosa sounds, and laughter as we try to do them, too. After a while, we decide to stick to our own very personal English.

To put all chances of having a sound nap on our side, Kim and I decide to leave the lights on in our tiny lodge during the night. Now, I don’t know at which precise point in time African insects have actually been chased away with the help of a shining light bulb, but we certainly had high hopes to become originators of the phenomenon. If anything, my snoring might have worked pretty well at keeping them at bay, though.

Daylight creeps in to the mixed sound of bird species that I will probably never know. I focus to count how many I can distinguish. An infinitely green universe is waiting for us to come out. I rush to catch bits of it.

We have a game walk planned for today and we’re waiting impatiently for the “go” sign. But before anything else comes Takalani’s piece of advice: “Hé, guys!” (I start counting: 1,2,3,4…) “Hum, look where you put your feet! If you get bitten by a scorpion, the closest hospital is at 200 km. Also, I have no anti-venom shot.” I hardly listened to my parents’ advice as a kid, but when Takalani speaks, he has my complete attention. Takalani’s premonition almost fulfils when one of us steps next to a small scorpion. Though we had been using our eyesight with maximum intensity, we hadn’t been able to see it by ourselves. I still look at my feet.

As we walk, we quietly rejoice the possibility of danger that fills the air. At home, none of us has a valid comparison of what we are now living: a small, defenceless group, walking in the middle of mysterious African bushes out of which anything can spring. The vegetation is dense, the trees a height I have never seen before, so my eyes leave the ground towards the peaks but…”the feet”! This is not a dream; it is reality that requires some psyche presence. Still, the place is so captivatingly, unearthly beautiful, that I almost wish we get lost in it.

No predator seems to want to do a bit of a show for our sake, but Thaddeus, our youngest trip fellow, is bitten by some colourful insect. It happened so quick that we hardly even saw it coming. Takalani grabs the boy protectively and within one second he scans through him. He is relieved, no venom, but Thaddeus has to get used to a very swollen back for a while.

In the afternoon, we drive through Hluhluwe–iMfolozi game reserve in the hope of spotting lions – the one Big Five to have escaped our cameras so far. That Thaddeus got bitten was perhaps the price to pay that day, for here is a beautiful lioness standing still right next to the road. After few seconds, though, we realise it is hurt: it limps quite badly. I’m naïve enough to believe it will receive medical attendance, but hell no, not in the jungle. There, the man does not interfere in the natural way of things. Takalani smashes me with his: “This is nature, guys. One needs to go in order to make room for another.” Ok, he’s a winner with his genius remarks, but I hate to watch that lioness disappear in the bushes, limping, knowing that it stands no chance for survival. “Something always dies when the lion feeds and yet there is meat for those that follow him.” (Wilbur Smith)

We move on and discover two other lions barely concealed by some trees, so close to our 4x4s that I estimate it would take them one medium difficulty jump to get on board with us. What concerns me is that Takalani drives the vehicle back and forth too many times to make room for the others: I’m afraid they might get annoyed at all this movement. Why tempt the devil? In the end, they don’t seem to give a damn about us – they’re just big cats lying in the sun as far away from me as my couch is from my TV. I can almost hear the pride bursting in Takalani’s chest: he’s happy to have given us the lions. Grand day!

Heading back, we stop to admire a rhino grazing peacefully while some small birds feed on the dirt that covers its back. In the sunset and the peacefulness of the place, it is an incredible sight. We are absorbed by the landscape, caught in the moment, when…


Boom! We have a flat tyre. I presume Takalani swears in Venda, one of the 11 official languages of South Africa – the language of his people. He might have sworn in all 11 of them at the same time. Reluctant, but with no miracle option at hand, he gets off the car: somebody needs to replace the tyre. Or else we are supper. The trouble is that we have only just left the rhino behind. Not to mention that the grass is almost as big as us and there is no way to see through it. And that it is forbidden to step off from the vehicle in a safari park. Unless, maybe, if you have a flat tyre.

Takalani is tensed. The guys jump off, too, to lend a helping hand in the process. We, the women, naturally look at them at work and offer, no doubt, essential moral support. I might also have prayed, additionally. It takes two lifetimes until the guys manage somehow to replace the tyre – it’s a strange irony: the bigger the number of men doing the same job, the slower the job is done. The “new” tyre actually looks like it needs to be replaced soon, too, but Takalani hopes it will last as long as it takes to get us out of trouble. We really want to believe that, too.

The others had reached the campsite a long time ago. But we now have the stories to tell. And whatever the night brings, I know I will be sleeping like a log.

SA7. Zululand via Swaziland

South Africa_Kruger

5 a.m. and Kruger starts to come alive. What we see has the unrealistic grasp of a movie in production: as if following invisible stage directions, wild animals start to pop up from the bushes. We activate vocal chords (zebraaaaa, giraaaafe, elephaaaaant, rhiiiinooo, buffaloooo), we swap places, jump over each other and inevitably squash a few toes and kick a few faces on our way to the windows. Takalani, happy with his vaccinated European kids’ reaction to such blooming fauna (and “most especially” with the proof that he did not bring us to Impala National Park) instructs us to shout some more when we want him to halt for snapshots. The truck is flooded with overexcitement: Africa, at last!

We’re not exactly riding at full speed, since Takalani truly wants us to reach our own private pictures-taking quota. The animals don’t seem to mind us until some of them approach us worryingly. We have everything under control, for Takalani has already trained us to yell when big animals were a wee bit too close and we deemed it dangerous. Upon hearing us, he would then start the engine (which he systematically turned off so as not to scare the animal away) and immediately take off. Judging by the fact that he occasionally did not hear us crying “stop: picture!” and that the engine took forever to warm up and decide whether to work or die on us, the success factors seemed less romantic.

And then, the unexpected: A young elephant crosses the road, centimetres away from the front of our truck. Takalani stops the engine and stays alert. The elephant stops, too, intrigued by our presence. It is big, powerful, and close enough to stretch its trump and transform Takalani’s massive vehicle into flying saucer. No one breathes for some long seconds. Takalani does a saving gesture: he lets the car slide down a bit. This, I believe, showed that we meant no harm. Dumbo is reassured and moves on. We inhale.

Further away cars were clustered, meaning that something major was on. We are indeed lucky to see our fourth Big Five: a young leopard lets his tail and legs hang from a tree for a unique photo shooting session. I damn my zoom lens for not reproducing the original in all its beauty and give myself a chance to put the device aside and observe. This is a rare sight, even for locals. Once more, there is silence.

Another look and we must leave world’s third biggest wild reserve behind. Life and Takalani carry us away at an extraordinary fast pace in this African adventure. Today we cross the Kingdom of Swaziland to reach Zululand.

The Land of the Swazis, outside South Africa, is in many aspects a dream country. First of all, it is so small, that you have to keep your eyes open as you cut across, so as not to miss it, my Swaziland-born friend told me. For the men who fancy polygamy, Swaziland is one of the last 50 countries that still acknowledge this practice. Here you can buy as many wives as you can handle, if you have the money and the stamina. The king himself, Mswati III, sets the good example by marrying a woman every year. Sadly, this is also where HIV touches half of the inhabitants – a figure hard to believe.

Mswati number III is a naughty boy: at 45, he counts 13 wives and 27 children, still a poor performance compared to that of his deceased father. The history goes that the late King Sobhuza II lived happily with his 70 wives and 97 children. This gives us a sense of Sobhuza’s favourite hobby and the volume of ginger that might have been consumed during his reign. Slightly less sex-oriented than his daddy, Mswati catches up reputation-wise by feeding the newspapers with other exemplary exploits. In a country where the majority of the population lives on less than the equivalent of 1.25 USD per day, the king, ranked one of the world’s 15th richest monarchs, spoils himself with bling bling parties and fancy gifts. But, being the last absolute monarch, he must think he’s worth it.

We pull the truck on the side of a large sugar-cane field to eat sandwiches and fresh mango. Some of us get grumpy at the sandwich, but Takalani has his way of making it go easier down the throat. “My brother, you will eat sandwiches until you say no more”.

South Africa_Swaziland

We eat, pack and move on, for though tiny in size, Swaziland has a time-consuming border crossing process. Now as an immigrant, I am highly allergic to procedures. They usually require something that I don’t seem to have naturally been endowed with: patience. Queuing up and melting under the burning sun to get stamps that give you the right to step on the other side of the fence is something that I would have definitely revised, had I been one of the king’s wives. A privilege that I am denied, by the way, since Swaziland’s most wanted man narrows his choices to black African women only.


In total, we get our passports stamped in guise of souvenir four times: 2 for going out and back into South Africa and similarly into and out of Swaziland. “Hakuna Mat…Thank you,” say I to the lady who inks my document for one last time, making my return to SA legally possible.

At the Lavumisa/Golela border, some Zulu girls are dressed for what we suspect to be a special event, maybe a wedding. They enjoy themselves big time laughing at us: we must look as fallen from out of space. I do my best to get social and smile at my condition along with them, trying to come to terms with the idea that ridicule hasn’t killed anyone. Yet.

The back turned to the fairy-tale that is Swaziland, a board welcomes us to South Africa’s Zululand, Kwazulu-Natal. Finally!