Kruger National Park And The Story Behind The Story

Kruger National Park is an undisputed national treasure, and SANParks is probably one of the few state-run enterprises that have improved over the years. I fully support and admire the sterling job they do. My photographs are a random, liberal sprinkling of favourites from our stay, in no particular order. Connectivity is a constant headache, so we resort to shortcuts. 

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A liberal sprinkling of satire

Long, long ago, not a million years ago, but about 120 years ago, when things were still in a terrible state and the English, the Boers, and just about everyone else were warring in this neck of the woods, there was a chap called Paul, a dreadful megalomaniac, bully, and brat.

Early on, his mother sent him to the Voortrekkers, where he learnt rudimentary manners and basic camping skills. A tutor taught him to read the Bible (of all things). In his whole life, he never finished the whole Book and never read a novel. He missed out on Lady Chatterley’s Lover, but the title alone was enough to ban the book for a hundred years. He didn't need any instruction; you’ll see he was well-equipped in that department.

One day, while camping with his commandant in Kimberley, he met an English Boy Scout, Cecil, and a few days later, a Girl Scout, Vicky (Victoria). He instantly disliked them both. For one, they were English, and he hated rivals. His word was law, and they felt zilch for any law. They broke all the rules with impunity.

The three Musketeers soon became fierce rivals, and they fought many battles on the playground they called Africa. Leopold, up north, was typestyle (quiet); he needed no encouragement.

Our Paul, not Onse Jan, was living it up at Groot Constantia, enjoying his Boeretroos in the cellars and not giving a flying fig about them. He was secretly pleased they were out of his hair.

Back to our Paultjie. In his school report, his nursery teacher wrote, “Pauljie was quick to detect the false moves made by Cecil and adept at turning them to his advantage, but hopelessly incapable of settling scores. To secure a brilliant and conspicuous success today, he was ready to squander the prospects if he had the power to forecast them. Soldiers (he had the rest of the class marching to his band) would call him a brilliant tactician but a hopeless strategist.”  

Playground brawls were nothing new, and while playing cowboys and crooks, or rather, Boer War 1 and Boer War 2, they evened the score at 1-1 and called it a draw. Kruger narrowly escaped death twice—first, a piece of shrapnel hit him in the head, knocking him out without cutting him; later, a bullet swiped across his chest, tearing his jacket but not wounding him.

His mother, quite understandably, was furious and forbade him from ever playing with Cecil again. That was no chance; of course, he admired his friend-enemy and only said, “My mum says I must go home now”, even though he knew he was biting off more than he could chew.

One day, Cecil even said, “We’ll just take Mozambique from the Portuguese,” because Paul, while playing Trek-Trek or was it “gold-gold,” said he needed access to the nearest port. Paul was furious and declined the offer. Dom Carlos I (kaɾluʃ) was his friend, and he hoped he would ally with him. He kept his friends close and his enemies closer. He often said, “That English is not my mother’s tongue,” while sucking on his moustache.

Anyway, long story short. One day, while visiting Vicky at her estate, Balmoral, the three little nippers decided to show off. While stroking her dolly, Vicky said, “My land is much bigger than yours, Paul. I own an island,” to which Cecil scoffed, “That’s nothing. I own the whole of Zimbabwe,” his arms akimbo to show how large his territory was, “and I’m going to call it Rhodesia.” “Ag, magtag,” said Paul, “that’s nothing, man. I own a game farm that’s bigger than your whole island,” as he pushed his yoke of clay oxen closer to her rocking horse. Out of spite, he kicked poor Cecil on the shin.

Cecil yelped. In dismay, Vicky looked to Cecil for help, but, seeing what he was up to, she bawled in disgust, “Yucky Cecil, stop digging for diamonds. When the clock strikes twelve, your nostrils will look like the Kimberley hole.”

Soon, the wildlife farm had a good stock of animals; Paul fenced the whole lot to keep them from migrating. He didn’t care. Fortunately, things changed, and now we have the Greater Kruger, which encompasses many, many farms. Poor old Vicky would have a conniption if she knew how small her island has become.

One fine day, after months of relentless rain, a sailing ship hurtled past Numbi, the trade person's gate. There, to everyone's astonishment, a funny, bearded man with what looked like a tablecloth on his head opened the hatches and let all his doves out. They certainly weren't homing pigeons, as it soon became clear, and they have remained so to this very day. Their cries were an incessant Le-ta-ba, Le-ta-ba. Paul admitted it was almost biblical.

Fathers in the area were beginning to regard Paul with renewed respect and interest. When Mr Hobhouse asked his beloved Emily what she thought, she replied, “He typifies the Boer character both in its brighter and darker aspects and is no doubt the greatest man—morally and intellectually—whom the Boer race has so far produced. In his iron will and tenacity, his ‘never say die’ attitude towards fate, his mystic faith in another world, he represents what is best in all of us.”

“Gosh,” he thought. “Emily is a smart cookie, but too big for her boots. She’s only twelve, after all.” He took another long swig of Jameson and puffed on his cigar. After a minute, he replied, “That was quite a mouthful, my poppet.”

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“Dash it,” said Lord Phillips, plucking bits of dry, blood-soaked toilet paper from his cheek as his barber, the old soak, handled a Gillette steel straight razor and nicked his chin. “I’ll have to find another way of doing this,” he whined. But he needed the capital and had heard of the Kruger millions buried on the farm. Once groomed, he wrote to Florence (conceived in Italy), suggesting a blind date with you-know-who.

“Once seen, he is not easily forgotten,” Lady Flo Phillips wrote. “His greasy frock coat and antiquated tall hat have been portrayed countless times ... and I think his character is clearly to be read in his face—the strength of character and cunning.”

Mrs Ossewania Kruger said enough was enough and soon had Paul marry Elsie, 14—Elsie of Afrikaner stock and a committed Dopper. (No booze and no dancing!) Although not uncommon then, both sets of parents and the bride herself had to approve the union in writing. With dangling carats and Kruger rands, they soon reached an agreement.

The reception was held at the farm's new lodge. The chequebook was open, and the guest list was as long as an elephant's trunk.

“Diamonds are a girl’s best friend,” Cecil whispered, twirling his BFF. Vicky agreed, staggering under her tiara, which sported the Cullinan diamond. “You are so gay, Ce-Ce,” she whispered, giggling, as she watched him throw a glad eye at the dandy Barney next to the wallflower Emily.

Paul admitted this to his mother while drinking coffee (from his saucer, no less) in his parents’ bed the following morning. *“Ek kan nie glo dat ‘n arm man so lekker kan kry nie, Moeks!” Within five months, the first child was born prematurely. Paul loved all his children and, once again, to keep up with the Joneses, named his homes (plaashuise and volkshuise) after his kids.

The twins Bergendal and Malelane, Bridget (aka Crocodile Bridge, who sported a set of teeth and had a skin condition), Letaba, Sabie, Mopani, Oliphants, the triplets Orpen, Maroela and Tamboti, and his fav, Pretoriuskop (after his mentor and guide).

Elsie lost the will to live and died young. Who could blame her?

A few weeks later, Cecil sent a telegram to Vicky: “Paul remarried the nanny Gezina. Stop.” Years later, he followed this up with a letter saying, “with whom he had 16 children—nine sons and seven daughters (some died young). He even had eight sickly grandchildren transferred to her from the concentration camp at Krugersdorp, where their mother had died in July 1901. Five of the eight children died within nine days, and two weeks later, Gezina also died.”

He ended his missive with these words. “I should be the Queen, not you! Ce-Ce!”

Time slipped by, and before he knew it, Paul was seventy. A good age, long in the tooth, really. He would celebrate with all his friends and family. Fumbling for his notes, a page from the Bible, Paul announced that Wilhelmina from the Netherlands had invited him to stay. He’d accepted the invitation and would be sailing forthwith.

His friend and political opponent, Rev. Thomas François Burgers, who said grace, affectionately called Paul "Die ou Buffel" ( the old Buffalo).

Relieved, his children celebrated his imminent departure. They would later exile him to their holiday home at Clarens in Switzerland, where he had buried his nest egg in a Swiss bank vault.

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Part 2 

Everyone who has ever could visit the Kruger National Park has done so. We all know how unique the wildlife is, how well-managed the Park is, and how many accommodation options we have.

Recently, we’ve visited the Park three times. Once, for five days, we cooled our heels, waiting to visit friends in Hoedspruit. We stayed at Letaba and, a fortnight later, returned after visiting friends in Komatipoort. Now we're here for three nights en route to Mozambique.

We left Komatipoort and spent a few days in Lower Sabie and Satara.

There were almost no campers at Letaba, so leaving at 4h30 in the morning felt like a dream. The campsite was good, and we noticed maintenance upgrades underway. The shop and restaurant are top-notch and well stocked; if we ran out of anything, we could easily stock up. 

Every evening, after our game drives, or instead of one, we’d wander over to the restaurant for a sundowner and spend half an hour watching elephants come down to the river to drink or bathe. Sometimes we were lucky and saw the hippopotami heading out to forage.

Their route passed our campsite soon after sunset, giving us a clear view of them grazing. The hyena paced up and down the fence line, waiting for scraps previous campers might leave out, or, regrettably, throw out for them. Campers' spotlights were a novelty, and we’d watch until they went to look for other easy pickings.

Satara was by far the most crowded camp. On the veranda and in the restaurant, we noticed many foreign tourists, a good sign that tourism was returning to Kruger. The restaurant and shop are excellent, and the staff are friendly and helpful. Although the watering hole didn't attract many animals, the summer rains provided plenty of alternatives in the veld. We enjoyed drinks and a meal there. Hearing foreign tongues all around us was like music to our ears.

NOTE: I tried to book online at Satara but couldn't, so I asked reception whether there was availability. Just as well. South African Retirees/Pensioners who book at the camps in person are entitled to a 40% out-of-season discount! With a Wild Card, this makes a visit to Kruger Park very affordable and attractive.

At Lower Sabie’s campsite, hardly a soul was about. We saw more tourists in the shop and restaurant, where the Mugg ‘n Bean was doing a roaring trade, despite the renovations to the deck. I’m not a M&B fan. The portions are too generous, but I admit this was outstanding. I had a delicious Thai-inspired beef and noodle salad. The serving was perfect, with good flavours, and the noodles weren’t pasta. There was enough for Butch to have a taster portion!

Once again, Kruger delivered, and we had excellent sightings. Instead of writing about it all, I will include a video and a photo dump of a few extraordinary experiences we enjoyed.

The heritage site we visited was fascinating and eye-opening. The guide was informative, and we learned about early iron smelting and how they made tools and weapons. I now know what Phalaborwa means too. "Better than the south". This particular tribe moved there, settled in the area, found iron deposits, mined them, and set up a smelting and ironmongery operation.

The veld was green and lush, the rivers full, and the sky blue-blue with puffy cotton-wool clouds. I seem to recall we endured only a day or two of rain, and Cyclone Cheneso was yet to come thundering in, causing havoc in Kruger Park and its surroundings.

Kruger National Park is one of our top tourist destinations, and it should remain so. Imagine if the powers that be filled SANParks’ coffers with a billion rand for five years, or put our sports teams, such as the Springboks, Cheetahs, Lions, and Proteas, on promotional T-shirts.

Enough of politics. At least our lights stayed on while we were there.

What impressed us most: The AUTOBOIL electric urns in the kitchens. There's a constant supply of boiling water on tap for your bevvies. So convenient, easy to use and thoughtful.

Favourite campsite: the Tsendze Bush campsite, a satellite of Mopani Rest camp. Small and rustic yet spotless, the campsites are hidden under large Mopani trees and are well maintained. There is no electricity, but sites share a common tap. Numerous ablutions serve a few campsites. Ours has two fabulous outdoor showers.

The camp manager, Roger, and his wife, Helena, came around last night to introduce themselves; they do so every evening except on Sundays. They are charming, friendly, and hospitable, a sheer delight. The few minutes they spent with us were a treat we'll never forget. This morning, Helena showed us the resident Scops owl and a European Nightjar. This couple are pure golden sunshine.

I was impressed by the shops and food kiosks at all the picnic spots, which served excellent picnic fare, such as coffee, cold drinks, and roosterkoek. The shops were well stocked. The staff were friendly, helpful, and very proud of their terrain, keeping monkeys away and the sites spotless.

Least favourite: the internet. We really get the short end of the stick, not from SANParks but from the internet providers. Expensive and poor. 

Google Translate: *“I can’t believe that a poor man can have so much pleasure, Mama”

Africa's diamonds are the animals and trees we protect, and the conservation we practise. At the same time, kings and queens suffer the migraines of their crowns; angels work tirelessly to protect our natural wonders. They are the heroes. 

February, when typhoons and heavy rain make landfall, is probably not the best time to visit the park. Trees are in full flush, grasses are shoulder-high, and wildlife is well dispersed, so you don't need to search for water or grazing.