4/1/25 Tswalu Kalahari Reserve, Loapi Camp, Northern Cape

My sister Denise and I touched down at Tswalu on a Tuesday afternoon aboard a Beechcraft Super King Air 350, after weaving above and below, within and without, the stack of thunderheads that gathered above the rolling, rocky slopes of the Korannaberg Range.

It was then that we “spotted” our first wildlife of the day: Sociable weavers, native songbirds, had constructed a vast communal nest resembling an inverted rick with a honeycomb face under the thatched roof of the pavilion. The little brown and tan birds flitted in and out of multiple chambers and skittered fearlessly about on the red sand floor scavenging cracker crumbs from the refreshment stand. These were the nests we would later see clinging to the limbs of the three dominant trees at Tswalu: the silver cluster leaf, camel thorn, and shepherds. The birds choose these trees specifically because they can carry nests for as many as 250 to 500 birds and can weigh up to two tons when wet. Unbelievably, some sociable weavers’ nests are multi-generational, surviving for more than 100 years.

Sociable weavers nests in the bushveld can hold as many as 250 to 500 birds.

This second game reserve visit of the trip would be a study in opposites. While Londolozi straddles the Sand River, which provides water aplenty for the flora and fauna, Tswalu occupies a swath of the southern reaches of the 350,000 square-mile Kalahari Desert, which in Tswana Kgala means “great thirst,” or Kgalagadi “waterless place.” However, that was not the case during our visit as the contents of the thunderheads and the abundance of acacias, camel thorn and heavy brush would soon attest. We were in the middle of what is known as the “Green Kalahari,” where the iron-rich red sand holds water from seasonal rains enough to sustain plant and wildlife in abundance. 

At more than 300,000 acres, Tswalu Kalahari is the largest private game reserve in Africa and massive in comparison with Londolozi, which tallies about 37,000 acres. However, as with Londolozi, Tswalu (in the indigenous Setswana language, “new beginning”) was once an agglomeration of 35 run-down farms and cattle ranches that had laid waste to the landscape. Then in 1995 the British entrepreneur and conservationist Stephen Boler bought the farms to form one of the world’s biggest big game hunting reserves. In the process, he tore down the structures, removed the fences and reintroduced native wildlife, including black-maned lions, rhinoceros, giraffe, and many other species. When Boler died in 1998, Nicky Oppenheimer, a fellow Briton, bought the property, stopped the hunting, and focused on conservation exclusively. 

But back to the thunderheads. After our first evening game drive, which resulted in the spotting of a lioness and three young males, a kudu buck and his harem, and a ground squirrel who uses his tail as an umbrella, we stopped for a sundowner (drinks). Clouds gathering to the west effaced the setting sun, emanating beams of iridescent peach, one skimming a crescent moon, growing more intense by the moment. We were unaware of the bursts of lightning in the cloud bank to the south. A thunderstorm was not in the forecast until Thursday, though Hailey pointed out that you cannot rely on forecasts in the Kalahari, to which the locals apply the pronouns, “she” or “her.” (No language police here…yet.)

One thing was clear: The Kalahari makes up her own mind in all things. 

We wisely packed up and returned to the lodge for dinner, met by our homati (butler), Denver, 26, whose home is 70 miles north of the reserve. A blade thin man with a sunny disposition, he works the same cycle of shifts as everyone in the game reserve business—six weeks on, two weeks off. When his off cycle arrives, the reserve drives him home and brings him back. While on duty, he lives in a studio apartment attached to the lodge. Denver’s colleague for the dinner hour was the chef, Thato, 24, another spindly man with a passion for cooking and a ready smile. 

Kalahari storm drove us indoors on three occasions

The evening was so calm that I assumed the storm had changed course and would pass us by. Then, about 11:30, high winds snapped and ruffled the peaked canvas “tent” pavilions that cover the building’s flattop roofs and toppled the deck chairs and serving trays left outside. Thunder and lightning soon followed— flashing, booming, and cracking directly overhead, shaking the building, rattling the soap and shampoo bottles in the bathroom, and glassware in the kitchen. One bolt hit not 10 yards away, close enough that I removed my cell phone from its charger. The fireworks, followed by a hard rain, went on for two hours, just as they had at Londolozi, snuffing out another night’s sleep.

4/2 Morning 

The storm passed, and the alarm rang four hours later. I staggered out of bed, disoriented and unable to find a single light switch, despite the briefing from Denver the night before. Most guests that stay in the bungalows report this phenomenon, according to Hailey. Fortified by a coffee and bundled in a puffer jacket and watch cap for the morning chill, I climbed wearily into the Rover for another game drive but soon awakened to the morning view of this spectacular desert landscape. 

The Kalahari

The koppies that frame the flatlands are deceptively lush and green from a distance, but as we closed with them, I realized that they were little more than stacks of boulders from which the lavender fever berry springs in abundance. You would be exhausted after 50 feet if you tried to climb one of these hills, never mind the prospect of tumbling into a spiky buffalo thorn bush or a medley of deadly snakes, such as puff adders, Cape cobras, spitting cobras, and boomslangs. I remain on red alert for these, as Hailey told me the electric fence that rings our lodge is foolproof when it comes to lions (who pass by often) but NOT snakes. 

“Sorry,” she said. 

About 10 minutes into the drive, we spotted our first oryx (also called a gemsbok), a large antelope with horns sprouting straight up (therefore the name, from the Greek “pickaxe”) from a noggin sporting a black muzzle, overlaid by white markings that resemble a molar when viewed from head on. The animal has a beige topside with black stripes framing a white belly with a long, black-tasseled tail astern. Like most skittish, even-toed ungulates (deer and antelope), this big guy was loathe to remain frozen for a photo. All I managed was one from about 100 yards away. 

Eighty-five African oryx were introduced by the U.S. Department of Fish and Game at the White Sands Missile Range in New Mexico in the 1960s as exotic targets for hunters. Owing to the abundance of food sources, their numbers ballooned to 6,000, including herds in White Sands National Park. No more than 2,000 range in the Southwest today. 

Not long after the oryx, our tracker, Ahti, spotted Kudu way off on the side of a koppie, which compelled me to remove my sunglasses and extract binoculars from my pack. It was only when rounding the koppie into the low morning sun that I realized that the glasses were no longer on my person, nor anywhere in the vicinity of my seat. I searched every pocket and the seat-back pouch, until Hailey stopped and along with Ahti and a ranger trainee, Reese, mounted a thorough search to no avail.

April Fools came a day late. 

Ahti has been tracking for many years and at one time was an instructor at the Londolozi tracking school, where Joy, our tracker there, was one of his trainees. Our ranger, Hailey, trained at Tswalu, graduating 18 months ago and choosing to remain. She is a determined guide and has developed a rapport with Ahti, which was revealed this morning on a search for four lion cubs and two lionesses, who led us on a less-than-merry chase through the brush and around koppies over several miles. We finally gave up when their tracks meandered into foliage so robust and impenetrable that even the Rover in Hailey’s skilled hands was no use.

However, one penetration that we did see minutes later was the mating of two adult lions, the male easily 400 pounds with a blond mane, rather than the customary black. We approached them with caution, as mating lions tend to be irritable with gawkers (as anyone would be), especially the male. We jockeyed for the perfect shot for Denise, which was difficult because we were at a disadvantage with the sun. Eventually, the female rose, and he dutifully followed. But she reclined again, hidden from the camera by brush, and he settled in to wait her out. So did we. A half-hour passed. Finally, she was up, as was he as well, literally, roaring all the while. 

“OK,” Denise said. “I got it.” 

And away we went. While we did not find the cubs, we did witness “…some in the making,” as Denise pointed out. 

A masked weaver adds finishing touches to his nest. Denise Vouri photo.

Back at the lodge, another mating dance unfolded with another species, the masked weaver songbird. This variety of weaver creates a distinct solo nest, unlike their sociable weaver cousins, although you will find them in groups, hanging like Christmas ornaments on camel thorn or acacia trees, the thorns handy for binding the twigs and fresh grasses. The male is a brilliant yellow with a black band over the eyes (the mask) when mating, but pulchritude does not suffice for the female of the species. In her estimation, the male must also be a skilled engineer and defender of the work if he expects her to call it home. If he does not pass muster, she tears the nest apart. Then he starts over. We watched one little fellow in a tree in front of our lodge build with amazing speed. In a matter of hours, it hung bright green (from the fresh grass) with others that have since browned. And it was hearty enough to survive the overnight winds and hard rain. But the jury was still out on whether it would pass muster. 

Meanwhile, the radio squawked just before lunch. It was Hailey. She had returned to the area where we spotted the kudu and, VOILA, she found my sunglasses where they had landed…alongside the track in the red Kalahari sand! 

4/3 Morning 

We were up at 5 a.m. after only four hours sleep for the second night in succession, thanks to a hard rain beating on the canvas and high winds that once again rocked the deck chairs. I hit “snooze,” but once the alarm goes off, I rarely go back to sleep in my advancing years.

It was still dark, cold, and wet outside, so I added an anorak and rain pants to the mix, had a coffee, and clomped along the raised deck (above the snakes) to the Rover, where Hailey, Ahti and Reece awaited. For this drive, I asked to sit in the left seat next to Hailey so I could hear every word she said. This had been next to impossible on the third tier while we are underway through the rush of wind and the Rover’s speed. 

We were seeking a female cheetah reported roaming the northeast quadrant of the reserve, known as the Duneveld. Theses dunes are nothing like you would expect after watching “Lawrence of Arabia,” or going on a dune buggy ride at Honeyman State Park in Oregon. Abundant clumps of sour and bushman grass up to three feet high, interspersed with devil’s thorn, camel thorn, and silver cluster leaf trees hold them in place, save for bare patches of coarse red sand on the crests. But they are still challenging for Rover drivers, who must build up a head of steam before ascending the bare sand tracks up the hillside. 

Hailey took a running start, urging us to hold on tight. The vehicle swayed, but she stayed in command, her ball cap set forward atop pigtails that flew in the wind. We combed the dunes for signs of the cheetah, but she had gone to ground in the sour grass. Rovers are forbidden to go off-road in the dunes. Instead, they circle on perimeter tracks that subdivide the landscape into “blocks.” We spent three-plus hours looking for the female, much as we did yesterday with the lion cubs, as Hailey did not want to give up.

But the morning was not without benefits. The views from atop the dunes were splendid, the Kalahari advancing for miles to the base of the Korannaberg range. No marulas, leadwoods or jackal berries here; just grass and scrub. During our coffee break atop a dune, Hailey wanted a decision: We could continue to search for the cheetah, but with the tall grass and dearth of tracks, it would be like finding a mouse in a cornfield. As it was 9:30 and breakfast time, we turned around and headed for the lodge, on the way meeting a journey of giraffes, two hornbills and four bounding ostriches, none of which would sit still for a photograph.

We pulled into the lodge where breakfast awaited. The plan was to seek the lion cubs again on the afternoon drive. 

4/3 Afternoon

The Kalahari has three seasons: The rains come anytime between November and January and may last from March through May. It is cold and dry June through August, then hot and dry from September through December. What we were to experience throughout our week was not unprecedented in terms of timing, but rather in volume, such as the thunderstorm that hit after breakfast. It was so ferocious that the locals said they had not seen anything like it—EVER—at this time of year. And one of them has logged 30 years. As a result, we opted out of the afternoon game. 

Sheets of “trampling, hissing rain” (to quote John Dos Passos) punished us for three hours or more, creating a pond around our lodge and drawing a troop of baboons seeking refuge for their young under the decks. I could hear them hooting. Denver radioed Hailey to let her know that we did not expect to see her and so we settled in to read, nap and scribble (as this section attests). Save for the next day, forecast sunny, the thunderstorms blowing in off the Indian Ocean were forecast through our departure date. 

I did not mind, seeing how I barely slept the night before.

4/4 Morning

We were up again at 5:30 this morning, bundled into rain gear for another morning drive across the desert, which had turned a deeper shade of green, refreshed by wildflowers, and frequented by several antelope species drinking at pans filled to the brim and feeding on the sweet grass.  

Our first search was for a pair of young male lions (including the one we saw mating on Wednesday). These fellows came to the reserve from Botswana months before to refresh the gene pool, a tricky process. The lions are darted (anesthetized) and rubbed down with each other’s scent, calculated to trick them into believing they are brothers. It does not always work and can trigger combat, but these two took to one another straight away, and have been famously palling around the reserve, except when Blondie, the dominant one, is not pursuing a lioness. That is why we could not find the cubs a couple of days ago. While one lioness was keeping Blondie busy the other was keeping the cubs on the move. A male lion will kill cubs that are not his own, unless the female, through skulduggery, can fool him into thinking they are his and that his line will continue to dominate the area. 

Well…the two big boys led us on another frustrating bushwhack, passing from block to block and hiding among the scrub and tall grasses. Our sole photo capture was a garden orb spider in another impassible thicket. We finally gave up and decided to seek a pair of black rhinoceros atop a dune, but they were a long way off. Black rhinoceros are persnickety and will charge a Rover that comes too close; therefore, Hailey kept a safe distance. 

A storm gathers behind two koppes.

We finished off the drive watching oryx, kudu, roan antelope, and springbok grazing—and tracking cloud shadows as they moved across the koppes. Another stack of thunderheads loomed on the horizon. More heavy rain was on the way.

4/4 Afternoon

The goal for the afternoon was to find the wild dog pack. This we did, but not without some consternation owing to miscommunication and misdirection, and consequently a substandard viewing position for serious photography.

An endangered species, the African wild dog (Lycaon pictus), also known as the Cape hunting dog, or painted dog, once ranged throughout sub-Saharan African, but their numbers have dwindled over the years because of human encroachment and disease. Tswalu has taken great pains to sustain the growth of a seed population by affixing a signal-collar to the alpha female. In this manner they can track the movement of the pack and ensure that it does not escape the reserve and wreak havoc on surrounding farms, which, in turn, could lead to the decimation of the pack. The reserve additionally limits the pack to 15 individuals because that is all the landscape, as extensive as it is, can sustain. In 2024, nine pups were born and when weaned, were transferred to other game reserves.

Thanks to the alpha female’s collar and spots by fellow guides, Hailey knew where to find them and so put in a request for first viewing. This would limit the number of vehicles closing on the animals. The protocol is honored by most of the guides, but there is always the temptation to get there first, earn praise and potentially high tips. Soon, the best-laid plans dissipate in an instant, which is what happened to us.

We started out OK, passing through two electric gates, one with a sign proclaiming, “DANGER: Lions in this area” in three languages. As we motored toward a ridge line consisting of several koppies, the radio buzzed with news that the pack was sighted. Two other Rovers were closing for a view and Hailey’s reservation was suddenly invalid. At that point, rather than drive to the sighting, she decided to go in the opposite direction—a waterhole where the pack had been drinking an hour before. We would wait there 15 minutes and then join the viewing queue. 

The pond’s olive-green surface was still, ringed by red sand, camel thorn trees and wild sunflowers. A giraffe stepped through the brush, approached the shoreline and paused. Denise pronounced, “He’s going to drink,” and set up her camera for a rare shot. Just as he started to bend to the water another Rover with chattering occupants pulled up, and the startled animal stood up.

“Darn!”

The other driver, suddenly aware, shut off his engine and quieted his charges. The giraffe relaxed and with legs splayed for balance bent his long neck and began to drink. Click, click, click went Denise’s automatic shutter advance, as another enchanting moment unfolded in the African bush.

However, the dogs were not going to remain static for long, so we pushed on below the ridge and after about 10 minutes, an abundance of radio chatter ensued. We had arrived at the viewing area, as did a Rover behind us. Still another Rover emerged from open land at the base of the ridge, its guide and tracker motioning that the dogs were where they had been. Hailey ignored their signals and continued along the track, making a wide sweep in anticipation of where they might be, while the Rover following at once turned toward the ridge. By the time Hailey completed her circle, one of the dogs was running along the port side of our Rover, while others were scampering over the rocks that dotted the base of the ridge. They were heading in the same direction.

I had seen a pack of these dogs 26 years before at the Motswari Private Game Reserve bordering Kruger National Park in eastern South Africa, so I recognized them instantly. With their long snouts and lanky frames, they look like coyotes, though the resemblance ends there. Their coats are a melange of orange, black and white, with no patterns the same. It is as if nature poured the colors in a pot and splashed them on the animals, therefore, “painted dogs.”  Their prominent semi-circular ears—very much like the Mouseketeer ears you can buy at Disneyland—completes the package.

The dog on our left outran us, as did the other Rover, flanking the area where the pack had assembled to rest and grabbing the best camera perspective. We were stuck nose-in, which, with the Rover’s collapsible windshield and roof supports, combined with the ubiquitous brush, made it almost impossible for Denise to get a decent shot. After 15 minutes, we expected the lead Rover would back out and share the photo perspective, but the driver did not budge. We overheard her offering an extended interpretation of dog behavior while her passengers continued to snap photos. This was entirely opposite to the cooperation among the guides that we had experienced at Londolozi. When asked if she could intercede by asking the other driver to let us have a crack at the view before the dogs moved on, Hailey demurred.

“We have a responsibility to all our guests,” she said. But evidently not to the ones in her vehicle. Denise came away without a shot and, as I was sitting in front by then, I got blurry cellphone shots of two of the animals.

We had lost out. 

We later learned that the other driver had started guiding at the reserve the same time as Hailey. They were good friends, but still competitors. Hailey was in an awkward position, and in the end, we understood her actions and let it go. How could we do anything else? We still had two more full days of game drives.

Kalahari sunset

 On the way home we stopped for the usual sundowner and were once more captivated by the thunderheads piling up over the mountains—promising another humungous storm—and a few lone clouds assuming provocative shapes, glowing salmon pink and burnt orange with the setting sun. Dinner awaited at our lodge, the day had gone to the dogs (literally), but there was always tomorrow…and the prospect of lions.

We will see.