“A 210sq mile reserve is a tremendous
beast to keep running,” says Edwin Pierce,
Timbavati’s head warden. We’re speaking
in Tanda Tula’s open-sided dining area,
watching banded mongooses skitter over
the grass as nyala antelopes wander up from
the sandy riverbed. “When Covid-19 hit, our
operating budget tumbled, and this was at a
time when anti-poaching security costs had
risen 6 00% in the previous four years. Our
40 field rangers all took voluntary pay cuts to
keep things ticking over.”
The increased sophistication of poaching
syndicates — in South Africa, more than 450
rhinos were killed for their horns in 2021 alone
— is a tragedy of its own. Taken in tandem with
the devastating fallout from Covid-19, which
in Tanda Tula’s case impacted everything
from its local education programmes to its
conservation research, the going has been
decidedly rocky. The return of international
visitors has been a godsend. “I can’t put a value
on the money that it brings,” continues Edwin.
“It’s fundamental to absolutely everything.”
Back out on the bushveld, as we rumble
over grasslands under eagle-patrolled
skies, this “everything” becomes ever more
vivid. Scotch reveals golden orb spiderwebs,
hunting jackals, resting lions and a slinking
leopard. He identifies bird species with ease,
giving not just their names but their field-
guide page numbers. “Grey go-away-birds,”
he says, pointing to a punk-haired pair,
named for their loud ‘go away’ call, who are
overlooking a herd of spiral-horned kudu. A
half-second pause. “Page 23 1, entry six.” A
sense of interrelation underpins all he shares.
A chalky pile of droppings in a clearing isfrom hyenas, he explains, who chow down on
scavenged carcasses and ingest the bones.
“The dung then gets eaten by tortoises,” he
adds, confidingly. “The calcium strengthens
their shells.”
Twenty-seven years in the same
environment hasn’t dampened Edwin’s
wonder at coming across rare creatures.
On our final morning, after three days of
eye-widening sightings, we’re treated to a
dazzlingly up-close encounter with a pack of
nine African wild dogs, one of the world’s most
endangered mammals. The dogs sprawl across
each other in a snoozy heap, their oversized
ears twitching and their spotty legs akimbo.
“Can you believe it?” whispers Scotch, as we
watch them slumber and stretch in the low
grass. “These animals are like a gift.”HEAVENLY HOSTS
The Greater Kruger is big. It takes around six
hours to drive from Timbavati in the south
to the Makuleke Contractual Park in the
north, with most of the journey within Kruger
National Park itself — a route that zigzags
cautiously past elephants, veers slowly around
water bucks, and adds new meaning to zebra
crossings. Along the way it also traverses the
Tropic of Capricorn, meaning that by the
time I arrive at the glorious Pafuri Tented
Camp, where crocodiles line the river under
vast jackalberry trees, it feels like a different
country altogether.
The 10 2sq mile Makuleke Contractual Park
is tucked away in the northernmost pocket of
South Africa, with barely a warthog’s whisker
between my bed and the border, but it’s
emphatically no backwater. The park packsOn our final morning,
after three days of eye-
widening sightings,
we’re treated to a
dazzlingly up-close
encounter with a
pack of nine African
wild dogs
Clockwise from top: Lanner Gorge
at dusk; African elephants in Pafuri
Tented Camp; guide Wiseman
Manganyi from Pafuri Tented Camp,
which is almost entirely staffed by
members of the Makuleke community