I felt like a Peeping Tom! Just a few metres below me, in clear water, naked bodies frolic’d underwater. One gave a tiny fart and it bubbled up to the surface. They kept their heads down as long as they could, but every now and then they’d have to stick their noses out to breathe. Sometimes just their nostrils, sometimes eyes and nostrils. A mouth-breathing hippo would have a major problem.
Fish nibbled at their thick hides and a terrapin shuffled past them underwater, making sure not to get underfoot.
A hippo pod lurking in a pool. Up close! Often seen from afar in brown muddy water; only once before seen this close. This time was below a bridge across the Letaba river in the Kruger National Park. The other time was in even clearer water in Tsavo National Park, at Mzima Springs in Kenya.
Jess and I are snugly ensconced in the old Wakkerstroom Hotel, established for our comfort in 1869. We’re ‘camping’ and eating comfort food and (me) drinking Old Brown Sherry. Jess has stayed indoors in front of a cheerful fire all day. Well-ensconced, the lazy bum. I ventured out to the winter wetland for some interesting birding. Here are my usual amateur pics – some feathers were too fast for me as usual, but I did get these.
The first three all have ‘African’ in their name: Rail, Swamphen and Snipe. The little one is a Stonechat.
Here’s my clearest pic – another African Snipe. He froze and waited politely while I focused. Check the deep orange / russet on his tail.
Cherry on top as the light started fading over the wetland open water:
Three otters appeared and started baljaar‘ing in the smooth water, creating beautiful ripples and wakes in the sunset-coloured water.
baljaar – frolic
I forgot to include Jess and the hotel! Here they are, waiting for breakfast to be served. That’s the menu on the wall; they should add a chicken to represent the eggs.
Plaf Plaf Plaf Plaf Plaf (growing louder) *Huff Puff Huff* PlafPlafPlaf Plaf ( fading away) Ermigawd I’m back in the Kruger Park.
The Kruger’s most abundant dangerous mammal is jogging round n round, earphones on, carrying a bottle of ‘pure’ water trucked in from hundreds of miles away, belching diesel fumes.
And again. And again. Eight laps at least, three joggers, running separately. All seem to be wearing Adidas three sizes too big, judging by the hollowness of the Plaf. Then peace descends. They’re finished. Or, Deo Volente, been eaten by a lion.
We’re camping in Letaba camp. Now the evening sounds can begin. I’m waiting for a Pearl-spotted Owlet, but nope, first to call is the Barred, then later the Scops owls. Hyenas whoop; Hippos guffaw and snigger at their own dirty jokes; fart jokes, I bet. A Bushbaby cries, followed by a loud bellow. An Ele? No, more bovine. A Buffalo?
Must remember the rule though: For any mystery noise in a game reserve, always suspect Homo sapiens, so I can’t rule out a happy camper’s bowels being the source.
Then a Spotted Eagle Owl; Then – quieter and much nearer – another hyena? I roll onto my back to free both ears so I can listen in stereo.
Nope, just Jess having a mild little argument in her sleep, half sleep-talking. Sleep-mumbling.
~~oo0oo~~
The next night the same sounds, plus a lion’s roar. When it gets light I go for a walk along the Letaba river boundary of the camp. Lazybones Jess grunts ‘No’ and rolls up tighter under her duvet, so she misses out on seeing a distant pride of lionesses and cubs on the flood plain.
All I know is I remembered enough of my matric Afrikaans to know my feelings of amazement and denial were one word, ending in a question mark: liewedondersebliksemhoekanditwaarwees?
But it was waar and there we were, thirteen ou toppies laughing at each other. If you matriculated in 1972 and it’s 2022, true’s bob it’s been Ff – Fff – a NUMBER of years, no good denying it.
We were hosted by classmate Willem Lombard on his farm Waaidam where he has built an amazing spread.
~~oo0oo~~
long word – how the hell did we get so old so quickly?
waar – true, surprisingly
ou toppies – old codgers
Alternative name for 50th matric reunion? Matric Farewell
Always remember what Jim Croce said: . You don’t piss into the wind You don’t step on Superman’s cape You don’t pull the tent off the ole Ford Ranger And you don’t mess around with Slim ..
The lost puppy escaped an orchidectomy, anyway not having any external ‘orchids’ to harvest. Tiggers, the rescued kitty cat is unlikely to escape the ordeal. He’s heading off to MAWS and I don’t think he’s read the details of the invitation, poor fella.
The two heartless ladies are taking him. I was invited, but no ways I’m risking the vets getting confused as to which male needs doctoring.
~~oo0oo~~
Tigger is back. The deed was done by the voluntary vet at MAWS, and he survived the ordeal. He’s not happy, he’s resting and recovering, subdued.
One day later, and he’s almost back to his old self, full of energy and mischief, pouncing on anything that moves, including Jess, who he has forgiven, gullible cat.
Locals know there’s no easy way to the main road from the river outside Janet’s place. Okes from Durban know better, so they venture off looking for a shortcut. Which ends up needing rescue, a towrope, mocking laughter, eye-rolling and getting to the tyre place an hour later than planned. Luckily, Janet’s old Mazda BT – a stablemate of my Ford Ranger and about the same vintage – is 4X4. All it needs is GPS, but despite the well-known Humphrey navigational challenges (Trish could get lost too), Janet did eventually find and rescue me. Easily. Damn. Ignominy.
At SupaQuik, Reggie and his men say they can fix me up with their eyes closed and one hand tied behind their back. All we have to do is bugger off to the Dusty Donkey for coffee and cake, and come back with a credit card.
– Dusty Donkey chook & chicks-
As we’re leaving the Donkey a roadside trader waves and makes a rolling motion while pointing at Janet’s left front wheel. Puncture. We hop out and deploy the jack and spanner and wooden base for the sand and start expertly changing the tyre like a Ferrari pitcrew. Good fortune makes my cap fall off as I bend down. The trader and his mate take one look at the whispy white hair surrounding the large pink bald spot and they gently nudge me aside and change the wheel for us. Ke a leboga borra!
Weg is ons back to Reggie where I exchange 3700 pula for two new tyres and we’re free to go, driving off feeling like I’m wearing brand new shoes.
~~oo0oo~~
Ke a leboga borra! – thank you gentlemen!
Weg is ons – beetle off
Feature pic – re-enactment of the humiliation. Jess forgot to take pics; she’s not cruel like her Ma
Janet has a lot of energy. A lot. Also, she knows her patch. So when she said in the pitch dark of way-too-early morning, ‘Please come and help me,’ you don’t argue. Shoes on, grab your torch and out into the chilly fullmoon morning. What us loafers would more accurately call the chilly fullmoon night.
‘There’s a puppy with its head stuck in the fence. Go there, I’m going round outside to behind it.’ You do as you’re told.
And so there was: A cute little blonde pup with its head poked through the bonnox wire; its head smaller than the hole, so it could easily have pulled back but was pushing forward, determined to get into the yard. Word must have got out that the lady at number 1414 is a softie who feeds and waters five cats, a mutt, ten thousand birds and sundry cattle, goats and donkeys.
Well, the pup was right. Once it got into the yard there was food and milk and four outraged and indignant cats. Mom! You’re not letting This Thing into paradise, are you? they sniffed at Janet.
Still way too early, we left on Janet’s power walk up and down the dry Thamalakane river with Muppet, the large hound with the small brain, most of the grey matter dedicated to enthusiasm, little to forethought. Raising dust as we strode towards, then away from, then back towards the sun, which had sensibly not risen yet. The full moon was still trying to set.
And at her heels was the new arrival, trotting along as if trained and long used to this. The walk was a good long one, up to Wilmot Island and down to Kagiso and back, but lil Puppy was relaxed and happy.
As we got back to Jan’s gate a young chap who told us his name was Gift met us and asked, ‘Have you seen a puppy? A female puppy?’ at which Puppy ran to him and rubbed against his ankles. Happy reunion and happy cats who muttered, ‘Damn Right, Be Off With You!’
Lucky for Puppy too, as while we thought she was a he, we had already planned his de-nackering.
Raintree Camp is just short of Shorobe, north of Maun. Janet and I, gaily chatting our heads off, woke up when we got to the fork-off to Kazakiini Camp, a good 26km past the turnoff. We pretended we knew all along and were just reconoittring the area. Jess was unimpressed at our u-turn. We had actually both noticed the Shorobe Basket Weavers sign, but hadn’t figured out that meant we were passing through that village!
While backtracking, we went straight back to yakking and solving the world’s problems, including the fact that the bakkie was pulling to the left as a result of the road camber and the thick sand on the left compared to the harder calcrete in the middle.
Which was actually neither of those things. It was because of a left front puncture. Our prolonged diagnosis meant the tyre was shredded by the time we stopped.
Jess then took a near-plumber’s crack picture, which resulted in her forfeiting supper last night.
Some young guys stopped to help, only to be told we had everything under control. Noticing some slight huffing n puffing, they ignored me and kindly loosened the wheelnuts with ease. Other than that, of course, everything was under control.
~~oo0oo~~
A short drive north of Raintree there’s a lagoon in the Thamalakane with water from the last rains. Yellow-billed Storks, Spoonbills, Hamerkops, a lone Pelican, a Saddle-bill Stork, flocks of Sandgrouse, Blacksmith Lapwings, and a large pod of Hippo. A mokoro poler with two passengers gave the hippos a wide berth, hugging the reedbed on the western shore.
Along the dry shore, Magpie Shrikes, White-crowned Shrikes, Meves Starling.
We had a lovely campsite under a raintree – lots of those here! – near to Janet’s safari tent. The third night I moved the bakkie next to her tent as I had brilliantly left a light shining all night, so needed to charge the aux batteries by plugging in to Botswana Power Corporation.
To complete my puncture and battery faux pas trifecta, I then moved the car, snapping the charging cable. f&#-it! Luckily, we were fully charged already, and the fridge’s two compartments were back down to 5⁰ and 0⁰C.
Raintree Camp is a lovely place with lovely people, big trees, great ablution facilities, a bar and a pool. We enjoyed our three day stay. Some of the tents are close to the road, so noise can be an occasional factor. New chalets are planned on the water side of the property, away from the road, owner Neil Kendrick told us. So do check it out if you’re headed that way. As a transit camp on the way to or from Moremi, it’s ideally located.
Yay! Camping in Khama Rhino, good to be back in Botswana. Jessie’s first visit. She lost her passport and has only just got round to getting a new one.
Pumping up the tyres after reducing pressure for the sandy and twisty roads in the camp:
Palapye Red VW DubDub Club?
Back at Janet’s place at last! The Tamalakhane River on her doorstep dry and dusty:
– Father’s Day – a big breakfast at Sitatunga Camp –
T.C. Robertson Nature Reserve is situated on the right bank of the Mpambanyoni River close to its mouth into the sparkling Indian Ocean. Part of Scottburgh townlands, it is about 60ha in extent. Established in 1989 and named after should-be-more-famous South African author, ecologist and soil and grassland conservationist Dr. Thomas Chalmers Robertson.
TC Robertson (15 September 1907 – 11 January 1989) was an extraordinarily gifted man – accomplished journalist, gifted raconteur, ardent naturalist from boyhood, war correspondent, and Jan Smuts’s anti-Nazi propagandist during World War II. His most significant work lay in his lifelong mission to save southern Africa’s soil and grasses, and for this he sacrificed any ideas of personal ambition.
TC was widely known during his lifetime as South Africa’s doyen of soil conservation and was regarded by many, including some of the best brains in the world, as a genius. Yet many South Africans today know little or nothing about him. This is partly because he was little concerned with self-promotion and put off writing his autobiography despite many requests to do so. He wrote insatiably, but not about himself. His passion was the land. He was driven by three things: his mission to save the soil, his insatiable quest for knowledge, and his equally insatiable hedonism.
He was of the intrepid, cavaliering stuff of which romantic heroes are made, a born musketeer, and a man with an enormous capacity for friendship. Outspoken, witty and able to hold an audience in the palm of his hand, he was immensely private when it came to his deepest feelings, sorrows, fears and any inadequacies he might have felt; his passion, his total commitment, was for his mission: saving the soil, conserving the land.
No public monument of bronze or stone commemorates his achievements. His epitaph is written in the soil of southern Africa, whispered by the grasses and leaves, murmured by the streams, and engraved indelibly on the hearts of all who knew him; plus in a small evergreen sanctuary on the banks of a subtropical river estuary on the south coast of KwaZulu Natal. Among the great men our country has produced, he was truly one of the greatest.
Paraphrased from author Shirley Bell – who wrote his biography, The Happy Warrior: The Story of TC Robertson 2005 ISBN978-0-620-33255-2
Birds seen on a short visit today 08:30 to 10:30 – Sunbirds, Amethyst, Collared, Olive; Weavers, Eastern Golden, Spectacled, Dark-backed; Mannikins, Bronze, Red-backed; Square-tailed Drongo; Flycatchers, Black, Dusky; Grey Waxbill; Lesser Honeyguide; Barbets, White-eared, Black-collared; Yellow-rumped Tinkerbird; Yellow-bellied Greenbul; Dark-capped Bulbul; Yellow-eyed Canary; Cape White-Eye; Hadeda; Geese, Egyptian, Spur-wing; Blacksmith Lapwing; Hamerkop; Little Egret; Black Sawwing; Black-bellied Starling; Red-capped Robin-Chat; Purple-crested Turaco; Grey-headed Sparrow; Doves, Red-eyed, Tambourine; Speckled Mousebird; Darter; Cape Wagtail; Heard: African Firefinch; Fish Eagle; Natal Spurfowl.
We ‘all want to preserve nature,’ right? I was the only person there those two hours on a perfect Sunday morning! Even Jess declined, ‘There’s TV to watch, Dad!’ Damn!
One bakkie did drive in and out. The manager, who stopped for a chat. He seems enthusiastic about changes he has brought in the five months he has run the show. Low attendance is a challenge. Next Sunday there’s a flea market, 37 stalls booked.
Look for a slight decline in the EFF’s results in the polls.
Driving south on the N2 a coupla days ago, I had a red bakkie right on my tail. Its nostrils were probly touching my exhaust pipe. Soon as I could, I moved over and it roared past, big hurry. It was an EFF election bakkie, only two weeks left, lots to do.
– like this – saw this one on election day –
A couple of k’s later, hundreds of posters lined the roadside. About a mile of red n yellow EFF election posters won’t be adorning poles on the KZN South Coast this week. They’re Scatterlings of Africa.
– oops –
I think youthful exuberance got the best of the two young guys in the bakkie. Let’s See How Fast This Thing Can Go! Move Over You Old Goat! WHEEE!!
I’m imagining them getting to Izingolweni and the main Mama of the EFF branch yelling, ‘Wadda you mean you don’t know where our posters are!?’
Tony the electrician (ancient: must be my age if he’s a day) arrives to check the cottage electricity for the wicked landlord. A ‘certificate of compliance’ is needed.
I introduce him to Jess. After a while he needs help checking all the plug outlets while he stands at the DB board and runs the show. He needs a reliable hand. He looks at me then says, ‘Jess can you operate my checking instruments for me please?’
She loved doing it!
Later she became a plumber! Walking back from closing our high security (not) gate, Jess said, ‘Dad, there’s the sound of water running underground!’
I switched off the supply on the pavement and called Dominique, lady plumber with a pink plumber bakkie.
The wicked landlord implied, ‘Heavy truck drove over supply,’ to which I quite correctly replied indignantly, ‘Mine tiptoes like a butterfly with sore feet.’ To prove my bakkie’s innocence, I sent proof:
1. Dominique’s gat; 2. The leaky pipe; 3. The innocent bakkie tyre tracks;
Mother Mary got onto the topic of obesity a while ago. She’s probly about 40kg soaking wet, and one of those is the steel in her thighbone. After discussing various people at the home’s ‘weight problems,’ she blurts out, ‘Koos, you’re not fat, are you?’ She’s using her earnest Woe is Me Mary voice.
Mom! I’m positively sylph-like! People call me slender; a bean pole. She laughs but with suspicion. I’m just right, Mom, I reassure her.
Dunno why she has this thing about weight! I mean, I’m a 69yr-old Dutchman it’s not like I’d get a boep or anything.
Tonight Mom told me she’d watched a movie. Her central vision is shot so she can’t see detail, but she says it was something about history from Henry VIII to when Churchill took over from Chamberlain when Germany invaded Poland. She was eleven back then.
Warsaw, she says. ‘I used to play the Warsaw Concerto, I loved it, it was very clever. The music had the sirens sounding for the bombing, and sounding the all clear after it was over. All just on the piano,’ says Ma. ‘You know the King and Queen stayed in Buckingham Palace during the bombing (we’re in England now) and they say that’s what helped England win the war. They could have gone to the country, but they stayed.’ My Mom Mary Monarchist, who hatched a very anti-monarchy son.
She saw the King n Queen once. When she was nineteen. Where did she first see the King n Queen? Why, in Benoni.
04/29 – Sarie: Please can everyone who is on Vodacom report the bad signal. (I spose the theory is like prayer? If you can get lots of people to pray, there’s a better chance things will happen?) Marie: Where can we report? I am on Cell C and we work on the same tower. Don’t know where to report Fanie: No signal at all. Been going on since Friday Jannie: Peet told me on Saturday they had stolen the batteries at the tower and using the generator now. Maybe the diesel has run out. .. I arse you, Vodacom! How ve hel are the mense going to be able to swipe up to tjek the poppies pole vaulting and hoogspringing in vey leotards if you don’t give us signal!?
…
update
05/17 – Three weeks later, the dorp whatsapp is buzzing again:
