A Travellerspoint blog

South Africa

Part 2: Kruger Park

And how a porcupine almost turned us into dinner

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Day 4 started out early. As in sometime just barely after day 3. Priscilla wanted us up before the birds to spot the Big 5 in Kruger Park, still a good few hours’ drive away. And so one of the lodge guides came round at the ungodly hour of 4 to wake us up. I’m an early bird, but anything before a 6 a.m. wakeup leaves my stomach in small waves of nausea and my eyes rather unflatteringly puffy.

But we managed to shower, and pack the last little bit (packing and unpacking was a long hassle, as I tied everything tight on Priscilla’s warning that snakes make their way into ANYTHING) before heading down the dreaded bug path one last time to a waiting Jimmy—up and refreshed and in his Avis gear—ready to pack the bus. David had made us all packed lunches, but mine sat unopened till I finally threw it out 2 days later—a sandwich and boiled egg with no chance of making it in one piece into my churning stomach.

The whole getting up thing was just a blip in our nights’ sleep, though, as we all nodded off for the ride. (Near the end of the trip, Alan—a fellow Montrealer and Jimmy’s co-pilot after the almost-didn’t-make-it-asthma incident—speculated that Jimmy amused himself by warbling the steering wheel and watching our sleeping heads fly about in the mirror). A few hours later and we were in Kruger, bright and early, walking around the gate to stretch our legs and snap a few pics (including a croc some 100 feet away) before heading on our Avis bus tour of the park.

Paul Kruger Gate entrance to Kruger Park

We probably spotted a Kudu first—a deer-like thing with white stripes across its back. So impressive and swift, and everywhere. But soon we were spotting more and more: buffalo, hippos (the most dangerous animal in Africa, believe it or not), white rhinos, two impressive giraffes, zebras, klipspringers, chimps (including one atop a tree doing what young men with dirty magazines usually do in the bathroom), warthogs, two lionesses hunting for prey, and—finally—elephants. Sasha spotted them first, earning her Priscilla’s elephant-spotting trophy: a bottle of Amarula.

Kudu in the bush

Klipspringer on a rock

Lion on the lookout

Fish eagle drying its wings


As we congratulated her on impressive spotting skills, however, Alan started to yell—between mighty asthma coughs and inhales on his puffer—that we’d better move the bus. Because just a few metres away, in a fit of adolescent bravado and a honk of his horn, one elephant was getting ready to charge. The bus. And so Jimmy got us moving and Priscilla gave us a play-by-play, including a moment of relief when she said the elephant finally realized what big, red monster it was up against and decided to back down. Still, our Avis queen would have looked impressive with a battle scar or two.

First elephants spotted!

Disco elephant

Bad elephants! Blocking our exit from Kruger Park. Detour took an hour.

We spent the afternoon touring the park, stopping for lunch and a few purchases at the gift shop (isn’t there always a gift shop?), including a bandana for me. Because for all my intentions to rough it and pack as lightly as possible and not turn into some girly-girl, I was cursing myself for leaving the hairdryer at home. The big, wet lump of hair down my back felt like having a rain-soaked cat stuck to my neck, day in and day out. Nothing dries in humid weather—it just warms up and sticks and smells and drives one completely mad. So—following Erin from Tahoe’s example—I got a bandana and stuck my hair up out of my face and off my neck, for good.

We finally pulled into Pretoriuskop camp at about 5—just in time for us to run over to the waiting open-jeep for our night drive through Kruger. No time to get my coat, just a fleece and my camera and Neal and I squeezed to the middle at the front. (What’s with couples taking a window seat EACH, anyway? The nasty Russian guy next to me took up ¾ of the seat with his legs and his camera tripod and elbowed me whenever he needed a shot on my side—all while his girlfriend had her own comfortable window seat in back of him. So I elbowed him one for good measure.)

Our guide spotted Kudus and chimps climbing across a rock face—plus a klipspringer way up high and a family of rhinos and another of elephants that we got to see close up. Then dusk settled in, and out came the spotlights—2 in front and 2 in back—attracting bugs that occasionally whipped at our heads (with one so big it hit me from under my nose to my chin—and I covered my mouth after that). We spotted a few glowing eyes in the spotlights, the guide carefully trying not to shine the light at any prey, who’d be helpless to outwit their predators if blinded. Somehow the guide spotted a chameleon in the trees, in the dark—a green thing with great, big eyes amongst the leaves.

Then we traveled a little while longer, down the bumpy dirt road—scaring wild rabbits and blue-tailed birds, one of which somehow flew through the open windshield and into the back of the jeep before sailing out the other side.

And that’s when the guide spotted the porcupine.

Fat and round and prickly and running like mad to get out of the light. And just as it we started to chase us, the Jeep stopped. Stuck.

In the mud.

In the middle of Kruger park.

After dark.

And so he tried to drive backwards. The forwards. Then he got out and stuck a piece of wood under the wheel. And then he said it, the words we didn’t want to hear: We’ll have to get out and push. As in get out in the park, after dark, when THE LIONS ARE HUNTING. For meat! And here we were, a walking smorgasboard of Canadian, French, Russian, American, and who-knows-what-else kinda delicacies, all wrapped up piggy-in-a-blanket-like in coats and marinating in bug spray and perfume and other such yumminess.

So we got out. And pushed. And we stuck close together, me looking around to see what I can spot—which ended up being some dim-wit woman from France who decided to take a good 20 steps back to capture the whole thing on film. And, forgive me, I thought—oh good. The lions can get that idiot first and give us ample warning to hop back on the Jeep and drive like mad.

Hurry! Push!!

But the lions must have been looking elsewhere, and we all drove on in search of a lion and cheetah but found nothing more, pulling back into camp 3 hours after setting off, a little tired, a little cold, and covered in bugs (Sasha, holding the lamp in the back, with bugs up both arms). But dinner was ready, and our room was lovely—a clean and simple chalet with high ceilings, a sink, and warm clean blankets and not a bug in sight. We ate a barbeque and opened—ironically—our bottle of Porcupine Ridge and finished the night sharing Sasha’s bottle of Amarula on ice Jimmy found somewhere, and I felt the welcome, welcome relief of being pleasantly tired.

Neal wanted to stay up, but I knew it was my window. After 2 nights of tossing and turning in fear of the unknown, I was ready for a night of oblivious sleep. So I headed back, and fell asleep almost instantly—leaving Neal to finish up the wine with Steve from London (tall and kind and funny with an accent confused us all). Neal knocked on the door 20 minutes later, but I must have opened it in my sleep.

Our restful chalet in Pretoriuskup

I’ve never slept so well in my life.

Posted by tway 13:36 Archived in South Africa Comments (0)

Part 1: Out of Africa (and wishing I was back)

Setting off on the big, red Avis bus

View Africa on tway's travel map.

Why Africa?

If I had a dollar for every time someone asked us that--sometimes with horror and disgust written all over their face--I'd have paid the trip and had enough left over to pick up part of next month's rent. But, no matter! It was actually secretly pleasing, knowing so many people thought we were partly odd and slightly crazy. I pictured them lounging on some Cuban beach for their honeymoon, red as beets and on their 4th mojito before 10 in the morning. And here we were off to Africa, someplace unknown, not quite sure what to expect. It was exciting.

But my goodness was I scared.

I'm not even sure why. I just sat on the front porch—waiting for the taxi to the airport—and realized we were off to the most dangerous city in the world followed by 3 weeks with 13 strangers on a bus through god-knows-where. That's when—after 3 years of breaking the habit—I started to bite my nails.

And so we were off: Montreal to Paris, wait an hour and a half, then a long flight down to Johannesburg where we arrived, tired and travel-smelly, to a 2-hour line-up at customs, where 2 agents (one on the phone to her boyfriend the entire time) processed 2 full planes' worth of passengers. Welcome to Africa—and Africa time!

We had 2 days' of pre-tour time off, so we booked an organized trip through Jo'burg and the Apartheid museum, accompanied by Sasha (from Toronto) and Bill (63 and on his gazillionth trip)—both on our upcoming GAP tour. It's hard to say if Jo'burg was what I expected—dirty, crumbling, a miss-loved relic. Not somewhere I'd feel safe on my own. Yet in the middle, erected amongst in the ruins of an old prison, was the new court—designed to be fair and representative. A true reflection of South Africa and its people. It's hard to wrap your mind around South Africa, a constant tug of war between dirt and hope and poverty and reconciliation. It pulls you in so many ways.

Entrance to the Apartheid Museum

That night we met our group: 11 people from all over the world, plus Priscilla our guide, and Jimmy the bus driver. Jimmy elicited fear and respect in all of us from the get go (although we would eventually discover the pussy cat hidden beneath) and Priscilla gave us a taste of what was to come: 3 weeks of travel in some of the most beautiful scenery to meet some of the world's most wonderful people. She had a knowledge of everything botany and a spirit of utter kindness and goodwill (which never wavered once the whole trip).

We also met the grand dame of our trip: the big, red Avis bus we would be travelling on. The rolling cash machine, as we came to call it. Jimmy's pride and joy. Never in my life have I seen such a clean, well-kept, ship-shape shiny bus. No matter where we were, Jimmy would find a second to polish her here, wipe her down there. If Avis ever wants a spokesman for their company, they've got a prime candidate in Jimmy, sporting his Avis cap at all times and keeping us safe and secure.

The trip started bright and early with breakfast and a run through the rain to pack the bus. Then we found our seats for the trip (a weird habit, that—coming back to the same seat again and again) and we were off. Around Pretoria, through the downtown, with bits of history on this building and that street, seeing dilapidated shops and pristine squares, then off to stock up on missing supplies, food for Mozambique, and the all-important liquor run (where I spent $20—$20!!!—on 4 bottles of wine that would have easily set me back over $100 here).

Then we were off—through the incredible countryside, the bus whizzing through Mpumalanga province, our big, red road machine turning heads wherever we went. A quick nod to the small city of Belfast—shacks out there to the left, with dirt floors and tin roofs—had Neal running for the camera. It all looked so peaceful and green, interspersed with more of those little ghetto-like towns, where, Priscilla told us, people use their homes for sleeping and little else. No need for a mansion here. The land is their home.

Then came my internal tug of war again. A huge sign, with flashing lights, warning drivers not to stop. In fact, warning them to not stop under any circumstance, as wherever we were was apparently notorious for highjackings. As in, shoot-now-ask later highjackings. And the bus went silent, and the signs passed, followed by more green, more mountains, more shanty towns, more people waving, people staring, women carrying impossible loads on their heads, children with big smiles.

Hours and hours and many bathroom breaks later, we were in the Drakensberg escarpment, rolling through the mountains and turning such steep angles along the fenceless roadway that I closed my eyes and held my breath. A quick stop at God’s Window, with a view of the whole world, was more than worth it—along with a quick hike to the edge of Blyde River Canyon, a 250-million year-old canyon carved by the slim river below. We spotted out first dung beetle—a hard-working thing with his days’ work rolling along in front of him—an endangered and protected insect bigger than I’d care to meet in a dark alley.

God's Window

Neal and I at Blyde River Canyon

Sunset at Blyde River Canyon

Then off again, though the last bit of sunset and into the dark, heads lolling on the bus, now into our 12th hour or so of travel, half delirious and half asleep. At some point, the Afrikaans-mixed-with-English whispers at the front of the bus let us know we were lost, out here in the dark. And on go the lights inside, down some dark dirt road, and suddenly we were exposed in front of so many dark figures walking alongside the bus. Thirteen whiter-than-whites, faces half-frozen in the windows. Thirteen potential paydays on a big, red rolling cash machine.

But it was our fear, our imagination. Because a quick call to the lodge and a bus back-up in the middle of nowhere, with hands outside the window waving us cheerfully on, and we made the right turn, hours and hours late, into Shalati Bush Lodge—somewhere in Limpopo province on the edge of Kruger park.

So we unpacked, dragging our packs and weary selves though the dimly lit front gate, in the middle of what seemed like nowhere. The electricity was virtually shut off, the owner told us. A product of being in the middle of nowhere. Still, the bit of light showed the bar, the outside restaurant, the fire pit keeping supper warm, and the pool.

And the scorpion in the pool.

“Um...” I asked the owner. “Is that, a…um... scorpion?”

“Yes,” replied the Dutch Crocodile Dundee.

“Don’t they, um… bite?”

“If you step on one, yes.”

And that’s when fear bordering on delirium set in. Not helped one bit by a giant, hairy tarantula-like spider stalking a tiny frog on the edge of the pool. Something in the back of my head went into panic mode and stayed there.

Neal braving the dreaded pool of scorpions!

We were guided to our hut by one of the local guides, holding a kerosene lantern to light the way. I was busy studying the ground, watching for everything—spotting 10-inch centipedes, giant snails, flying bugs the size of mice. My brain in overdrive. Opening the front door, the guide lit another lamp and left us, me searching frantically in every nook and corner for things that could sting, bite, badger, or scare us to death in the middle of the night. The geckos on the wall even scared me, although not as much as turning back around and finding them gone.

Supper was delicious, the walk back anxious, and the entire night sleepless—at least for me. Neal snored on like always, while I tucked and retucked the mosquito net, with visions of malaria dancing though my head. I had to keep pulling Neal’s hand away from the edge, where he’d flop it against the net in his blissful sleep (no use—he got bit anyway). Then, at dawn, I heard it. A rustle. A loud one. Over our heads. Running across the inside of our thatched roof. And without light or contacts, I could only imagine it. A snake. A flying rat. World’s largest malaria-infected mosquito. Torture. Torture. And still no sleep.

We were up ridiculously early, quickly showered and looking for people—anyone, just people. A quick breakfast, and David—from the local Mnisi village—took us all to see his home. A long, hot walk up a dusty road to a tin-roof village, and the local school where the children rushed inside at the sight of us, sitting in polite rows and ready to show what they know.

“This is my head!” they said at the top of their lungs, clutching their heads.

“These are my eyes!” they yelled loud and clear, pointing.

“This is my stomach!”

So loud and confident, in a language not their own. And so polite, and smiling. I asked if I could take a picture, since it seemed almost cruel to capture them like a souvenir. But David said yes, please do—and I realized they were proud to be so good and smart, to impress. Proud to have people walk up the dusty road to see what they’d learned to do.

Children at the local school

On the way to the village

Back down we went, though the cattle and the meager shade and the waving people.

And back into another Tina nightmare. Outside Priscilla’s guide’s hut, there was a squiggle in the sand.

“A puff adder!” the she said, which meant nothing to me.

“No,” said David. “The line would be straight, not curved.”

And then I started to catch on.

“I think,” said David. But I didn’t want to hear it.

“I think it was a spitting cobra.”

And so I slipped a little further into delirium. How could I possibly take 3 weeks of this? My mind was a mess, I couldn’t sleep, and every step was terrifying. Potential death. Terrible pain. Around every corner. Priscilla brought out books on insects and I read though them all, seeing my imminent death on every page.

10-inch centipede!

That’s when we saw them—the Dutch. The big, white coach full of travelling Dutch. They pulled up like we did the night before, spilling bags and people (and one very done-up guide in heels and mile-high hair) all over the entrance.

And it was the Dutch that saved me. Because if Granny Klumpen can think nothing of hairy spiders and spitting snakes and god-knows-what-else lurking in the corners… If this bunch of suitcase-toting, hairdryer-packing visitors from the homeland can step out here without a flinch or a squeal, well… who was I to worry over scorpion in the pool?

Plus the lights finally came back on.

Our hut of sleepless nights.

And that’s when I started to love Africa. And I mean really love Africa.

Posted by tway 14:16 Archived in South Africa Comments (0)

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