March 25 Londolozi Game Reserve, Bushbuck Ridge, SA

We arrived at the Londolozi Private Game Reserve after two and a half hours stuffed in the pencil-thin fuselage of an Embraer 190 regional jet. Thank goodness I went light on the coffee and limited myself to a single mini-can of ginger ale. It was a spectacular flight, though, as we cruised above a cloudscape sprouting columns of thunderheads that soared thousands of feet above the creamy surface. 

All the while, we worried about our duffels, as just before taxiing my AirTags flashed a warning on my phone that my “luggage” was marooned in Cape Town. Once airborne and at cruising altitude, we called for the flight attendant, who said she would investigate, but her tone did not inspire confidence. Which prompted an American woman to poke her head between the seats. 

“I wouldn’t worry,” she said. “It’s a false alarm. It happens to us all the time.”

She was right. After landing at Skukuza—the airport that serves Kruger National Park and the surrounding game reserves—my duffel sailed off the cart and onto a semi-circular deck like a sausage (with mustard), crushed by regimental-sized roller bags. A legion of guides in bush mufti (safari shirts with rolled sleeves, shoulder tabs and matching shorts) gathered at the gate, holding signs imprinted with the names of guests. Ours was not in evidence. Therefore, with the prospect of absent luggage and no ride to our game reserve, we found a divan beneath a lazy ceiling fan, took turns in the congested restrooms, then settled in to wait. 

“We’ll wait,’ said Denise, who was there last October and thrice before then. “Don’t worry, they haven’t forgotten us.”

No sooner were the words out of her mouth than along came Ross Cheshire from the Londolozi Private Game Reserve (recognizable by his bush attire) brimming with apologies for missing us at the gate. Relieving me of Denise’s 30-pound camera bag, he led us outside where a fleet of Land Rovers, each with nine seats arranged in tiers like grandstands, queued in formation next to the terminal. Each was bound for one of an agglomeration of private reserves that form the Sabi Sand Game Reserve network bordering the southern end of Kruger National Park in the low veld of South Africa’s Mpumalanga province. At 42,000 acres, Londolozi is one of the largest by area followed by the neighboring MalaMala and Singita reserves with 33,000 acres apiece. No fences divide the properties within the Sabi Sand reserve, so the animals are free to roam, which can be a problem for trackers as they cannot follow animals across the boundaries, demarcated by roads.

There would be no bone-rattling, open-air Land Rover for us. Instead, Ross stowed our bags in an immaculate, air-conditioned Toyota Land Cruiser, which bounced and swerved down the red dirt tracks that lead to the reserve, about 36 miles north of the airport. Our first stop was the southernmost of four Sabi Sand gates with armed guards, meant to thwart elephant and rhinoceros poachers. A mile past the gate, our first African wildlife of the trip appeared in the form of wildebeests, zebras, giraffes, and the ubiquitous impalas, all grazing peacefully along the road with no predators about. We also saw generous piles of excrement in the roadbed, some of it fresh, which meant elephants had recently passed through. I would come to learn that the animals as well as humans use the roads in the reserve as the paths of least resistance through woodlands and thorny brush. 

Forty minutes of bumping and swerving at last brought us to Founders Camp, our digs for the week, and a greeting in the parking area by the camp staff, who treated us like long-lost relatives, especially Denise the honored returnee. 

The camp is one of five strung along an embankment of the Sand River: Granite, Pioneer, Tree, Founders and Varty. I list them here in order of opulence, as they are not really camps per se, but luxury hotel rooms under thatched roofs, the interiors appointed in upscale African bush motif with wet bars, plunge pools and king beds draped with mosquito netting. If you can afford Granite Camp ($3,000 a night), you get a private swimming pool and an outdoor bathtub, each with an unobstructed view of river life. Designed for families, Varty Camp may be the low price point ($1,700 a night), but it is also the heart of the operation. It was Charles Boyd Varty who, with then-partner John Unger, bought the sprawling Sparta cattle ranch from Transvaal Consolidated Investments (TCI) in 1926, turned it into a big-game hunting reserve, and pitched the first tents on the site of today’s Varty Camp. 

The shooting stopped in 1969 when Charles’ grandchildren, Dave and John, took over, changed the name to Londolozi (in Zulu meaning “Protector of All Living Things”) and invested in conservation, wildlife viewing and eventually high-end accommodations. It paid off big time. They welcomed the first guests three years later, and by 1993 were accorded Relais & Châteaux status, becoming the first game reserve among the 580 hotel properties across the globe. There is a lot of precious verbiage about Relais & Châteaux standards on its web site (as well as the reserve’s), as you would expect. Boiled down, what it really means is that you are pampered and the food is good. However, there is no question that at Londolozi, luxury ecotourism is good for the landscape, good for the community, good for the guests and great for the wildlife, who no longer need worry about becoming a trophy in the prime of life.

“The elephants especially are less liable to be aggressive because they don’t have to be wary of hunters,” our guide, Nick Tennick, said later (not long before throwing the Rover in reverse with an angry young bull in pursuit).

After our meet and greet, head host Hannah, a raven-haired woman in her late twenties, escorted me down a swirl of paved walkways to my room, which was at the far end of the Founders unit. (My Apple watch reported that I put in 2.4 miles each day walking back and forth to the “deck,” which consists of an open-air, African motif lounge, bar and dining area overlooking a dry riverbed.) Room One is a family unit, Hannah explained, meaning mom and dad get the luxury quarters with the king bed, fully stocked wet bar, a bathroom with an enormous tub, shower, and traditional water closet—plus access to the deck and plunge pool. On the opposite side of a sliding door is the anteroom, which consists of twin beds disguised as sofas, a desk, luggage rack and a standard bathroom with sink, toilet, and shower.

This is not Denys Finch-Hatton and Karen Blixen listening to Mozart on a wind-up phonograph in front of a canvas campaign tent deep in the bush veld; or even, for that matter, the camp I stayed in 26 years ago at Motswari, 50 miles to the north. That consisted of a tent pitched atop a rectangular lavatory built into a bluff with an outside staircase. If you had to go in the middle of the night, you either used the chamber pot provided, or unzipped the tent in hopes that you were the only mammal prowling the grounds. (Additionally, you always knew when someone was using the toilet because the pipes moaned with every flush.)

No safari camp is foolproof when it comes to wildlife, however.

“Make sure you latch the front door (from the outside) when you leave, otherwise the monkeys will get in,” Hannah said. 

Monkeys?

March 25 Londolozi Game Reserve, Bushbuck Ridge, SA 

Our First Track

We were off on our first game drive with Nick Tennick (our guide at the wheel) and Joy
Mathebula, our tracker.

We had an hour to cool off and have a bite, before Nick and his tracker, Joy Mathebula, met us for our first game drive. I could tell Nick felt bad about not being there to greet us at Skukuza (he had a conflict), which is normally the function of your guide during a stay. But Denise put him at ease straight away, dropping a few names of mutual acquaintances and sharing with him her love for Londolozi’s leopards and photography.

The reserve’s rooms may be graded by luxury, but time in the Rovers with guides and trackers is egalitarian; that is, the same degree of skill and dedication to craft is experienced by all. And that is the primary reason one goes on safari. We struck it rich right off by stumbling on a pair of lionesses from the Kambula Pride basking in the sun on the side of one of the Rover tracks that criss-cross the reserve. They did not budge, but I confess to a twinge when the lioness closest to the Rover locked her amber eyes on mine. Nick idled past to a clearing around the bend and called Joy in from the tracker’s chair, which juts from the port side of the grill. He next executed a U-turn for a more thorough study. The animals could have cared less. The only time they might attack, Nick said, would be if we idiotically jumped from the vehicle.

We stumbled on these two lionesses, one of them raising her head briefly to look me in the eye before returning to sleep.

“Anything on two legs is an invitation,” said Nick, 31, a Johannesburg native of Cornish descent, who has been guiding for three years after earning a degree, in of all things, real estate. Joy was born and raised in the Kruger National Park area and has been tracking here for more than 10 years, joining his mother who is the chef at Tree Camp. He is a graduate of the tracking school, underwritten by Londolozi and conducted in the reserve’s village, as well as out in the bush.

You can only snap photos of sleeping animals for so long, so we moved on from the lionesses to a herd of Impala. Their reddish-brown coats, white underbellies, with three black stripes on haunch and tail, stood out from savannah grasses by then gilded by twilight. About a mile on we spotted three kudus (antelopes also known as the greater kudu) perched like goats on a termite hillock overgrown with brush that is sweeter than their normal fare.

This was followed by the bonus of the day: the mother and son Nkoveni leopards that Denise had photographed last October. Again, Nick called Joy into the Rover, and we followed them around a section of the reserve, hoping that they might hunt the Impala, though my iPhone photos are of them padding along the road before vanishing into the bush. With the leopards far behind and sun over the yardarm, we pulled off the track in a secure area for the “Sundowner,” a ritual practiced in every private game reserve in Africa. Nick and Joy lifted a hinged platform affixed to the front of the Rover grill and filled it with snacks and drinks provided by the reserve’s kitchen. It is the perfect way to rehash the drive, and on this first stop, come to know one another. Afterwards on the homeward jog, Joy scanned the bush on either side of the track with a spotlight where occasionally we would see eyes glowing in the lamplight. 

 

The bonus of the day was spotting the mother and son Nkoveni leopards that Denise had photographed last October.

On our return to the darkened camp, as always welcomed by staff, Hannah cautioned me not to walk from my room to the deck and vice versa without an escort with flashlight. A leopard might be about, never mind the snakes. 

Snakes! What kind of snakes?

The poisonous ones, she answered.

This is Africa. It is not like taking a stroll to the mailbox. 

Dinner this first night was in the BOMA, an acronym that either means British Officers Mess Area, harkening to colonial days, or is another word for a kraal, or cattle pen. Enclosed by 10-foot-high picket fences and illuminated by torches, the BOMAs are a secure way to enjoy drinks and dinner outdoors. Founders’ edition this night featured a bonfire at dead center with tables and chairs for diners; all set on a floor of sand imported from the riverbed. Most of the camps have BOMAs, Pioneer’s being directly below my room, hidden by a tangle of forest and foliage (the Founders economy view). Denise trudged through the mini-dunes (she is not a fan of the BOMAs) and joined me while I devoured a steak, greens grown on a farm sponsored by the reserve and minced snake (just kidding). 

After that, I returned to my room accompanied by a staff member, as directed, who swept the walkway with his beam. I slipped behind him in lockstep. 

I drifted off with the lights on, alert to every sound, including whoops from an animal that remained unidentified during my stay. I learned much later that in trying to duplicate the call I had become a source of entertainment, as I was asked to repeat the sound innumerable times, invariably followed by laughter.

March 26 Londolozi Game Reserve, Bushbuck Ridge, SA

Morning

The alarm went off at 5 a.m., followed by a wake-up call from the lodge. I donned my safari shirt and shorts and made my way to the deck in pitch dark. Confused? So was I until the staff assured me that creatures longing to bite or eat me had lost interest at that ungodly hour. Nick handed me a coffee before fetching Denise and her cameras from her room (next door to the deck) and we boarded our trusty Land Rover Defender #18 to see what we could see. 

Right off on our second day we followed an elderly female leopard who spooked a family of giraffes near to the camp. Denise Vouri photos

Right off, we spotted the elderly Nhlanguleni female leopard who, at 14, is a legend in her own time on the reserve. The give-away was a group of nervous giraffes crossing the track, and a guttural sound (an elderly growl?) emanating from the brush. The old girl is quite stiff, from age and a recent injury, so it was a leisurely push through dry creek beds, thorny acacia trees and other assorted flora eager to rip off our clothing. She ambled along, laid down and cleaned herself. Then she ambled some more. Stopped. Licked her paws. Ambled still more. Scratched. Finally, she took a big stretch and, like any cat, laid down and turned her back on us. That was it. See ya. Meanwhile, along came another Rover full of youngsters from the village, guided by co-owner John Varty, a noted cinematographer, who paused to shoot his own images. He has known the old girl from the time she was a cub.

Our next find was a lone male white rhinoceros trodding heavily from bog to bog, vacuuming the ground with his snout beneath his two cropped horns; cropped, I might add, to discourage poachers looking to cash in with elderly Chinese men who prefer the powder extracted from the horns to Viagra. This big boy was also spraying urine here and there, marking his territory in hopes of attracting a female. We followed him to a pond where he drank, sniffed, drank, sniffed, looked up a few times and went on his way. I felt like an intruder into his life, the same as with the other animals here. But this is how we learn about and treasure them.

A rhinoceros herd is called a “crash,” in case you didn’t know.

The grand finale of the second day morning was a herd of elephants in the road close to camp, one of whom (a young bull) chased us after backing down from a bigger bull.

The grand finale this morning was a herd of elephants in the road close to camp. We knew they were near from the telltale signs of branches blocking the track and huge piles of fresh dung. Then, suddenly, we were among the herd. From the rear, the animals look like gigantic gray beach balls with stumpy legs and voluminous floppy ears, until they turn and trunks and tusks come into view. Then you know you are in the presence of something special—those childhood Golden Books and stuffed animals, Babar and Dumbo and the San Francisco Zoo and the occasional circuses that came to town with one lonely creature doing tricks. 

Only these animals are free agents, and you quickly learn that your presence is tolerated rather than welcomed. If you do not follow the rules and keep your distance, especially around young bulls undergoing musth (sexual compulsion), they will let you know. Twenty-six years ago, at Motswari, a bull in musth charged a Rover, scaring not only the guests but a new guide who could talk about nothing else in the dining area until taken aside and shushed by his workmates. I did not see the charge firsthand, but I was on red alert on every drive after that and it was on my mind as Nick slipped through the herd. Then a young bull, feeling his oats, crossed the road between us and another Rover to challenge a significantly larger male. The big boy was having none of it and bullied (literally) the youngster into a backpedal, whereupon he turned his attention to us. At first, he approached at a walk and then picked up the pace. Familiar with the dynamic and expecting the youngster’s reaction, Nick threw the Rover into reverse with both bull and vehicle picking up speed until the bull lumbered into the bush. 

‘Whoa!” was the cry in unison.

“When you put it in reverse and give them room they will chase you for a bit,” Nick explained.

On returning to the camp, the guests in the Rover ahead of us were abuzz about the rowdy elephant. One woman shot a video of us backing away, so we exchanged AirDrops. The bull never really came that close to us, thanks to Nick’s experience and quick thinking. But it was stimulating enough to warrant a refill of the morning Mimosa. 

Afternoon 

After a brief nap, I awoke to a genet dashing past the sliding door of my deck. It was orange with black spots and a long tail, very much like a Maine coon cat, but with a marsupial head, fleshy ears, dark eyes, and a pointy muzzle. For a second, I thought it was raccoon. I jumped off the bed and snatched my cell phone from the coffee table but, as per usual, I bumbled signing in and hitting the camera app and the animal was gone in a flash. Darn. I had no idea what it was, so I Googled the above description and voila! There it was, including a photo of one taken in Kruger National Park, a few miles away. When I told Nick about it as we prepared for the drive, he said it was remarkable that I had seen one in daylight.

“Lucky.” 

The sighting boded well for what was to come next, but it took a while. We broke into open country above the Sand River, the dry tributaries of which cut across the reserve in spindly ocher tracks, providing pathways for the wildlife and ourselves. Marula trees (Sclerocarya birrea) dotted the savannah, and miles away thunderheads stacked on the horizon. This is the wide-open Africa familiar to me as an enthusiast of “Out of Africa.” All I needed to see was Blixen and Finch-Hatton (Redford and Streep) winging overhead in a Gypsy Moth.

It was here that I saw my first wart hogs, skittish and wary in the distance, ears poking above the grass, tails erect and twirling. Giraffes and elephants appeared next, as we searched for the Nkuma lions spotted earlier by another guide north of the reserve. Rover radios are continuously abuzz with traffic as guides share sightings and stay in touch with the base station in the village. The reserve maximizes coordination to ensure there are never more than three vehicles per sighting and only one vehicle where young are present. 

We passed through a grove of leadwoods (cobretum imberbe), large bush willows that can live up to 1,000 years, where we spotted a lone Nyala, an antelope with a pair of horns that look as if they are bending in a strong wind. We then descended, near vertically, a rock-strewn track to a dry part the riverbed. As we swayed through the sandy bottom, a male giraffe appeared to the right on the far embankment, his long neck extended like a signal tower above the lush greenery and robin’s egg sky. 

We caught the stench of carrion, and that meant lions might be feeding nearby. Sure enough, around a bend was an engorged lioness supine on a granite outcrop above the river, and below in the riverbed, a young male, relaxed with a distended belly.

An hour passed with no results, and I expected that we were about to stop for the day. But Nick and Joy persisted. The Nkumas were nearby. We next pursued a fresh-cut road that looped in a figure eight around the main track. It was then that we caught the stench of carrion, and that meant lions at supper. Sure enough, around a bend was an engorged lioness supine on a granite outcrop above the river, and below in the dry riverbed, a young male, relaxed with a distended belly. I gulped as Nick, undaunted and eager to give us the perfect view, forced the Rover off-road and downhill, breaking through windfall, and bouncing over rocks hard and round as bowling balls—snapping, cracking, careening—until we were not 20 yards from the lioness. Perceiving my discomfort by this extreme bushwhacking, Nick later explained that being a private reserve, Londolozi is not bound by Kruger National Park rules that forbid off-road driving and bush walks.

As sated as she was, the big cat looked up, regarded us for a moment, and reclined again. She had her evening meal. The male below looked up as well, panting all the while, which prompted memories of the Alka-Seltzer commercial, in which the actor Milt Moss moans, “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing!” 

I thought, “Ok, Sundowner!” as we climbed back to the road, but Nick and Joy were not having any of it. They wanted to find the carrion and more lions. We doubled back and homed in on the stench, now overpowering. Phew.

“This is it,” Nick said. 

With that, we ascended the hill, wading through the tall grasses, knocking down young bush willows and skirting glacial erratics, until at last Joy spotted the young male we had seen below. He was on his way for a second helping but could not finish the climb with that big belly. Not 10 feet away in a swale, four more lions were devouring a giraffe that Nick surmised had been trapped in the heavy brush and could neither fight nor run away. He stopped and turned off the engine. Now we could hear heavy breathing as the lions crunched bone and tore away flesh. We knew it was a giraffe by the rear haunch and hoof. Denise leaned in for a shot, as did Nick, also a photography enthusiast. I tried a video and snapped a couple of stills but found myself saddened and turned away. All God’s creatures gotta eat, I know, but only an hour before a magnificent giraffe had peered down at us from the treetops above the Sand River.  

A half hour passed amid the grunting, chewing, and gulping. In the dimming light, Denise’s phone automatically flashed, illuminating the scene. I was alarmed at first, but there was no real danger. If we stayed in the Rover, and there was enough giraffe to go around, the lions would ignore us. Nonetheless, it was time to go. On our way downhill, we spotted a hyena lurking on the perimeter, ready for leftovers, but wary enough not to approach until the lions disbursed. 

We made our way back to the camp, high beams on and Joy scanning the bush with the strobe. This time, Nick chose to cross a skim of water on a causeway over a flowing section of the river. We might see crocodiles, he enthused. We stopped halfway across and scanned the waters with the strobe until we saw one plunging away from us and into the reeds. No more were in evidence, but that was fine with me. Being in proximity with mega-carnivores is exciting, but as Captain Kirk would say, I had reached “orbit decay.”

Not quite.

 As we passed through the camp entrance, we stopped behind another Rover. They spotted a Puff Adder in the low grass before a directional sign. 

“They’re such magnificent snakes,” Nick said.

 “I’ll give it a pass,” I replied, never a fan of vipers of any kind.

 I decided that rather than return to my room I would have a gin and tonic before dinner. I got my drink and joined a family from Milwaukee around the bonfire in the BOMA. They were a grandma and grandpa with their daughter, son-in-law and three children. They were among those in the other Rover during the elephant chase, which was the topic of conversation when I joined them. The grandma, a bit younger than me, asked if I heard about it.

“Uh…yeah,” I said.

Then Grandma changed the subject.

“There was a big snake in our room today.” 

That got my attention.

Around the BOMA campfire, one of the guests, a grandmother from Milwaukee, said she discovered a black snake in her bathroom. Her husband unwisely threw a towel over it and pitched it off the deck. Visions of this fellow—a black mamba—bedeviled my sleep that night. Stock photo

She had entered the room—next door to my sister’s—following the morning game drive a minute or two ahead of Grandpa. There it was in the bathroom, “black with green highlights” and a big head. She stepped back and was heading for the front door when her husband appeared. “There’s a snake in the bathroom,” she told him. He thereupon threw a towel over it and pitched it off the deck. Hannah, who had joined us during the tale, was aghast. The snake had stolen into the room when the housekeepers were cleaning, she surmised. Someone had left a door open.  

“Next time dial 100, we’ll take care of it for you,” Hannah said…after a considerable pregnant pause.

“Do you think it was poisonous,” I asked, feigning zoological interest.

“Who knows?” she replied. And then, thinking of the grandkids, added, “But if it allowed him to pick it up—which he should not have done—then it was probably a Natal Black Snake. Their bite just makes you sick.”

True to form, on returning to my room—checking every potential hiding place, especially the bathroom—I Googled South African snakes fitting Grandma’s description. The AI at once bounced to the highly venomous Green Mamba, then to the equally deadly Black Mamba (the most feared in Africa) and finally variations of the Mozambique Spitting Cobra, which can blind you with venom from 10 feet away. And there was I, in my tail-end room, surrounded by a tangle of greenery and brush piles with a pond (plunge pool) on my deck…in the dark, in darkest Africa. An adage sprang to mind:  

“Had it been a snake it would have bit me.” 

I did not look under the bed.