One hectare can qualify as a large garden. It is, however, far removed from the size of a farm. Sabiepark owners definitely do not qualify as farmers. A large number, perhaps most of them, have soft hands – unlike those of farmers. But deep inside? What one hears there, is the beat of farmer hearts. Like farmers, each of us have learnt the full register of emotions that pertain to the weather. The inconsistency of the weather has taught us humility and dependence.
Sabiepark was established 30 years ago. Over the three decades since, the beloved place experienced extremes. The years 1983, 1989, 1992, 1994 and 2003 were grim. It was bone-dry. The veld was bare. Animals suffered and had to be fed for months on end. In 1993, 1996 and in February 2000 the soil became over-saturated with rain. Flood damage occurred.
In between there were good years, even years of plenty. The heart rejoices after good rains, because, in bountiful seasons, Sabiepark becomes a bush paradise. The green is overwhelming. The animals thrive. Flowers abound. Morning-glory and other creepers grow into the tree tops, and even cover the roofs of houses on the river bank.
The last flood was in the year 2000. It was Sabiepark’s worst. Monday, 7 February 2000, was like doomsday. The Sabie River went crazy. It flooded its banks and disdainfully exceeded previous record levels Within moments, the park was isolated from the outside world. Fifteen houses were swallowed. The picnic spot was destroyed. The hikers’ trail was swept away.
In the early morning hours, the mass of water started to build up. At 08:00 the floodwater-mark of 1996 was exceeded. At 08:15 hopes flared up that the worst had passed. At 10:15 hopes were crushed by a second mighty deluge. In the next five heart-stopping hours the brown wall of water kept rising: one metre, 1,5 metres, two metres…three metres. At 11:00 the picnic spot was a sea. The water gushed through the gate into the parking area. The retaining wall was swept away. Gigantic trees fell like ninepins. The water-works, retaining wall and game fence disappeared bit by bit – downstream.
Little streamlets became turbulent rivers. Roads became impassable. By 12:00 the roofs of the riverbank houses were dots of islands in the milling, thundering mass. Windows and doors gave way. Muddy waters gushed at ceiling height through homes. Furniture floated through windows. A retired field warden declared: “Auk, the water came, it came. It walked, it ran.” Later on people could smile at this graphic account, but… that was later. During the flood there were no smiles.
The game photographer David Hughes (erf 266, off Wildevy Avenue) and his wife, Carol, were among the worst hit. One moment they still attempted to remove their valuable cameras and equipment from the danger zone, the next moment their fridge, couches, books, tables, pots, pans and crockery drifted all around them. Panic-stricken, they had to swim around in their lounge, trying to save photo albums and dozens of cartons with irreplaceable films. One film on badgers in the Kalahari took them three years to make.
Soon, water on the ground floor reached the top of the doorposts. The entire house was pitch-dark. The risk of being trapped became very real. The shocked couple had no choice. They had to leave everything, and crawl up the stairs to reach the top deck. From there it became painfully clear what the extent of their dilemma was. At least 70 metres of fast-flowing water, two metres deep in places, had built-up between their home and safety. Only an excellent swimmer would attempt it.
David Zeller summoned a helicopter to rescue the stranded couple from their
roof. Two helicopters arrived, but the thatched roof was too steep to attempt a
landing. In addition, there were lightning conductors on both sides of the
house. The rotors soared for a few moments above Hughes and his wife. Then the
pilots waved… and flew on. Zeller and his team had to utilise ropes as well as
the couple’s washing line to risk a rescue attempt themselves. Surrounded by
tree trunks racing past them, they fought like Trojans to rescue the hapless
couple. Eventually, they brought them to safety one by one, covered by scratches
and bruises.
The following day, the water had receded sufficiently to inspect the damage. It
was not an encouraging sight. Many valuables were missing, washed along when
doors and windows gave way. Documents and photos collected over years washed up
against trees and bushes hundreds of metres downstream. The rest was buried
knee-deep under mud. Expensive cameras were extensively damaged. But miracles
never cease: the thin cartons filled with the films of the badgers were found to
be as dry as the day they left the Kalahari.
Sabiepark was cut off for days – no access by road, no telephone or cell phone communication, no electricity in the offices. An anxious period of waiting ensued while we, the owners, wondered, guessed and feared how badly our beloved bush retreats had suffered. Exactly one week after F-day, on Monday, 14 February 2000, the fax line to Sabiepark was restored. Three days later we received a fax message from Zeller. The heading was: “Flood disaster – February 2000”. The message was not reassuring. It read: “Sabiepark was in the midst of a disastrous volume of water and extensive damage was done to the river bank.”
Of course, one had to be there to see for oneself. Only then could you appreciate the extent of the catastrophe. You had to be at the picnic spot, or on the stoep of one of the riverbank houses, surrounded by mounds of mud and sludge several metres high. You had to see with your own eyes the scene of merciless carnage. Or else your heart and mind would simply refuse to believe what you heard.
CAPTION: WATER, WATER EVERYWHERE. The Kruger bridge is ruined. The statue of Paul Kruger (right rear) just managed to “keep head above water”.
Tokkie and I arrived at Sabiepark on Monday, 13 March, naturally very anxious. The bridges across the North-Sand and the Saringwa Rivers had just been patched up and could bear slow traffic. The road between Hazyview and Kruger Gate was opened the day before. Repair teams were working full speed on the damaged bridge across the Sabie River. It would, however, take a long time before traffic could flow again.
We felt relieved when we slowly turned into Apiesdoring Avenue, then right into Wildevy. The veld was beautiful – large patches of luscious green grass waving in the wind, and the driest branches of the driest trees adorned with soft green foliage. At Tarlehoet, the name-board stood firmly, surrounded by a leafy wreath. The driveway bore a message: clearly, very strong, and lots of water had passed that way. Large holes were ripped open. But the new Honda CR-V passed its first crucial test. And the house was unscathed. Amazing grace.
A severe shock awaited us at the picnic spot the next morning. The lower terrace was swept away. Antique trees had lost the battle. Flotsam and jetsam hung like birds’ nests in the trees. A tough Natal mahogany, a large jackalberry, a beautiful weeping boer-bean and a ornate sausage-tree fortunately survived. Only just. I searched for the river island where I had taken the photo of the fat “ballerina” elephant. It was gone. The pieces of wood of the step-bridge had to be buried somewhere beneath the waters of the new Mozambique “lakes”. What a disaster! Caterpillar tractors and tree-saws sang a non-melodic tune in their efforts to clean up the mess. Slowly, very slowly, out of the ruins a new picnic spot emerged.
CAPTION: A RIVER RAN THROUGH. The house Meiringspoort on the river bank knee-deep in a sea of water. The flood water swept through it at ceiling height.
Virtually nothing was left of the picturesque hikers’ trail – only sand banks, sludge, chunks of trees and piles of flotsam and jetsam. On both sides of the Sabie River two wide green belts had simply been mowed down. The river, which was previously hidden behind a dense mass of trees and plants, now flowed open and wide. It was possible to see far and deep into the Kruger, even as far as the river road, the S3. You could see two elephants and a group of bushbuck grazing. The Kruger bridge was completely exposed, as well as the statue of Paul Kruger. But the photogenic softness of the panorama was lost. A hard, barren and unfriendly world was all that you saw.
To reach the riverside houses of friends like Jan and Dalene de Necker and Ronnie and Elma Schoombie, meant a slushy, foot-by-foot trudge through dark mud. The area looked like a war zone. Dirty curtains fluttered through broken window panes. Pathetic piles of furniture, bedding and kitchenware stood around. Fridges, stoves, baths and washbasins were covered with thick brown mud. High against the dirty walls, the flood mark left evidence of its path. Outside were the remains of kitchen cupboards and wardrobes, broken picture frames and crockery. Cushions and pillows stuck in the branches of trees.
On the way back to Tarlehoet, we had to trot and quickly hide our cameras down our shirts when more rain started to fall. The annual rainfall mark at Sabiepark was fast reaching 1 000 millimetres since January. When we went to bed, we read by candlelight from the Biblical diary Die dag is vol genade (The day is filled with mercy) by Johan Cilliers, the page marked 14 March – the appropriate prayer: “Thank you, Lord. We know that You do not walk past pieces of wreckage along the road, but recreate them.” We started our journey back to Cape Town, extremely downhearted and shocked to the core by the terrible damage. But we were happy that we could see the veld in its summer glory. The young jackalberry near the front stoep shot up so quickly, that its nameplate fell off. Ripe marulas already began falling. And our hearts beat warmly for the people of Sabiepark – our people, who would not be beaten into submission.
Early in June we returned to Sabiepark. We could not wait to see the place after three months. Our hopes were high. Hard work, creativity and the natural powers of nature had indeed healed some of the wounds. New “braai” places were erected. New lawns were progressing. New trees were planted. The veld was still beautiful and the game fat and frisky. The summer rainfall had reached more than 1 280 millimetres, a record to surpass all records. This was 225% above the annual average. Special delights were all the new arrivals, especially two mini-giraffes – with one of them still boasting an umbilical cord, dangling beneath its body.
The “old” green picnic spot with its gigantic trees, little island, hippo pool and irreplaceable hikers’ trail, however, had a special place in my heart. That heart of mine could sympathise with a woman from the Netherlands who swung her walking stick a few times, shook her head in disbelief and kept on repeating: “Everything is gone! Everything is gone.”
But my wife became impatient with me when I continued to mope. “No, my dear husband, pull yourself together,” she reprimanded me. She showed me the first green sheen which had become visible and full of promise between the skeletal trees at the picnic spot: the reeds showing their fingers in the sand banks in the river. She also drew my attention to three kingfishers sweeping over the water like in bygone days, and hippos in the river. The trees and shrubs of Sabiepark were full of green leaves, as in early spring. This was due to good follow-up rain. Tokkie even saw a giant “gourd” in the veld. On close inspection, however, we found it to be a stone covered with moss – and that in the Bushveld!
At the church service in Skukuza, on the last Sunday of our vacation, we received the church’s official newsletter containing a well-written article by Charles Fryer. To read a newspaper in South Africa is a short cut to despair, wrote this old friend of mine. He proves his pessimistic statement by means of an inventory of the most heinous atrocities in the news at that time: children, even babies, raped; scholars mown down by gangs; good Samaritans punished by death. But Fryer is as not one without hope. He finds solace in the heroes of faith through the ages; also those who move among us today. Such a hero of faith was a reverend friend of his who was seriously ill, but whose faith and zeal for the gospel only grew stronger. He declared: “I am not healthy, but I am whole.” Fryer’s conclusion: “The golden glow of hope glimmers through the darkness upon darkness of newspaper reports.”
Fryer also quotes the aged artist Robert Hodgins: “It is wonderful to live.” One
must agree. Yes, life is wonderful. And yes indeed, the trees will blossom
again, even though we are surrounded by disasters. With that wonderful certainty
in my heart, I moved in behind the steering wheel on the long journey back home.
The trees were in blossom when we returned in February 2001. A greener, more
luscious paradise greeted us – even better than in March 2000 after the abundant
rain. At Tarlehoet the lapa and the waterhole were covered by grass. The
driveway was a winding green tunnel. The entire bush sparkled. The whole place
was covered with flowers. Creepers had again reached the tops of the highest
trees. Khaki weed grew “Tokkie-high”, and higher. Mushrooms appeared everywhere,
in shady spots and in trees overhanging the river. More and more of the flood
wounds had healed or were camouflaged. The devastated picnic spot, which I
bemoaned so much, had undergone a metamorphosis. Much of the ugly flotsam and
jetsam lay hidden under a blanket of new life. One could again enjoy a
late-afternoon glass of wine, without thinking all the time of what had been.
Even the hippos had returned.
The abundance was a joy to delight in. “Drought, where is your sting?” one felt
like shouting, but the impulse was wisely suppressed. Because deep in your heart
you realised: no prosperity lasts forever. Hard times would come again:
life-draining droughts and other calamities. That is the inescapable cycle of
life.
Droughts are probably a farmer’s greatest nightmare. But another load of worries
can keep him awake at night – such as the fear of fire. Every season large
tracts of earth are scorched, also in the Kruger Park. In September 2001, the
worst fire calamity in its history struck. And its neighbour – Sabiepark –
experienced it intensely. The glow on the horizon; the rampant flames on the
other side of the river; the thick blanket of smoke, and the smell of the smoke,
brought home the message to every Sabiepark household that an enormous tragedy
in nature was unfolding. Not only 23 persons at the rest camp Pretoriuskop, but
hundreds of big game, countless small game and irreplaceable plants were wiped
out. At least twice in this season of devastation, Sabieparkers were terrified.
On 5 September, the day of the Pretoriuskop inferno, the flames rolled to the
north and the west, up against the Sabie River. It crackled through bundles of
flotsam and fallen trees. The wind raged from the south. Flames licked across
the river at the bone-dry winter grass. Belching flames threatened to jump the
river between the Kruger Gate and the picnic spot. Sabiepark’s ever-alert fire
teams were deployed. Fortunately the flames diminished, and the next day the
Kruger staff themselves started making fire breaks along the entire river bank.
Three helicopters scooped up water from the river to dump it a few kilometres
further on over the burning veld. Tokkie and I were among the dejected
spectators.
On Monday, 10 September, the danger for Sabiepark increased even more. A runaway fire was spotted by chief-induna Eckson Mathebula and others on the adjacent Lisbon Estate. The flames were fed by a strong easterly wind. The fire alarm was activated. The fire team and all available personnel, male and female, reacted quickly. A fierce battle ensued. Five stressful hours later the battle was won. At least, so it seemed. Two-manned fire brigade vehicles were nevertheless left in Jakkalsbessie and Worsboom Avenues to keep an eye on matters.
Late that evening the fire was rekindled when a smouldering tree-trunk fell into
a crevice. The fire team had to come to the rescue once again. The next morning
at 05:30 George Lourens saw Zeller and two helpers, carrying watering cans,
running over the dam wall opposite his house. Again they had to combat flames
that refused to die down. Those were anxious moments, said Lourens. “The fire
team had saved Sabiepark from certain disaster.” We understand only too well
what he meant. Once a fire got hold of a thatched roof, once it landed among
that two hundred thatched roofs, how could it be stopped? In addition, every
household had a gas cylinder or two. One shudders to think of the catastrophe
should those “bombs” explode one after another.
When the fires eventually abated, spring was at hand. The yellow sjambok pod,
the Natal wild-pear (like an almond tree, a spring bride) and blood-red
sausage-trees were in full bloom when we locked up Tarlehoet in mid-September to
return to Cape Town. The first knob-thorn and coral-trees appeared in their
spring wear. But everywhere around Sabiepark were still black-burnt tracts of
land, thirsting for water. In the Kruger, popular roads such as Doispane Road
and the S3, were closed to traffic. Around them the fire damage was ghastly. The
sky was anxiously watched for signs of rain.
Not before October did the fire risk lessen when a welcome 32,2 millimetres were measured. Good follow-up rains of 142 millimetres followed in November. Almost overnight Sabiepark (and its neighbours) turned green. Summer returned in all its beauty with sounds and signs of new life. Owners could breathe again.
June, July and August, the usual short winter of the Lowveld, came and went. It was now the season of strong winds, which cause the trees to bend down low. Another El Nino was on its way, the weather prophets warned. That meant less than normal rain could be expected in the north-eastern regions of South Africa. An unfavourable summer rainfall was on the cards. The north-eastern region was our part of the world. One did not sleep easily.
In 2001, the first impala lamb made its appearance as early as 11 November. In 2002, the second week of November came and went. Another week passed. Not a lamb in sight. It’s due to too little rain, some said. The ewes hold back the births. No, said the experts, that is impossible. That ewes hold back their lambs, is a myth. Still, where is the rain? And where the new crop of impalas? The veld became arid and drought-stricken. December had rainfall of 52 millimetres, January of 51 millimetres and February of 30 millimetres. It compared unfavourably with 246 millimetres over the same period in 2002. The sun beat down mercilessly, day after day. The Shangaans said “xo hisa”. It means “stiflingly hot”.
At the end of February 2003, Zeller warned in the newsletter: the game was still in good condition, but grazing is becoming a problem. There’s little grass. Statistics prove that the condition of the veld – in mid-summer – was poorer than in the middle of the previous winter. Hay, lucerne, wild seeds and molasses were placed at twelve feeding places to serve as additional feed. It was not a long-term solution, however. To decrease numbers seemed inevitable...
In May matters became desperate. Hardly any grass was left for grazing. After quite a few good years, drought returned. It took hold of Sabiepark with an iron grip. The park received only 60% of its annual rainfall. Because of the poor rainfall as well as its large game population, it was being slowly strangled. Altogether 27 zebra, 18 blue wildebeest and 72 impala were captured and sold. Fifteen impala were shot.
More bad news: Sabiepark fell within the “redline” area. Of necessity, game had to be sold across the “redline”, and then had to be kept in quarantine for a fortnight. Prices were lower. The Sabie River was also sinking fast. Deeper canals had to be dug urgently. Owners were requested not to waste a drop of water.
The ugly face of the previous real drought (in 1992) was recorded in a short sequence of images on the video which persuaded me to buy Ukuthula in 1998. On the video a kudu, with every rib showing, waddles closer to take a carrot on the wall of Ukuthula’s swimming pool. That was sad to see, but the video did not nearly prepare me for the harsh reality. When we went through the gate on Sunday, 22 June, turned right into Maroela Avenue and again left into Wildevy (an alternative route to our home) neither Tokkie nor I uttered a word. Only when we stopped under the marula next to the house, did she break the silence. Her mouth was dry. “There’s no grass at all,” she croaked. “No”, I echoed. “there’s nothing.” There was nothing – only bare soil as far as the eye could see.
Fortunately, the trees still had plenty of leaves. The giraffe, kudu and impala could manage. But the poor zebra and blue wildebeests just loitered, with long faces, near the feeding points. The footpaths leading to the food were trampled to dust. In Wildevy, near our house, was one of the feeding spots. We regularly heard the tractor going past with a load of hay. Sometimes we walked over and watched how the zebras and wildebeest lowered their heads to feed. This was the only place where we would see them during this holiday.
One zebra foal really looked bad. He stood aside, head hanging down. The eyes
were dim. The next day we found him in the middle of Wildevy Avenue. He had
difficulty getting out of the road. We did not know whether the drought was to
blame, but we wondered aloud whether he would make it. We did not see him again.
One morning a party of kudu lay on the boundary line between us and the Van
Tonders (erf 153). The trees still had enough leaves, and they did not appear
too badly off. But they looked tired and despondent. Perhaps they’re conserving
energy, Tokkie ventured. Because the wind was strong, the leaves sifted down.
The falling leaves emphasised how dry it really was. Perhaps the kudu felt a bit
depressed, I thought, like us.
On the last Sunday of our holiday we went to Skukuza, as is our custom, to attend church. I stopped to get fuel for my car. “Hakuna mabula,” I said to the service station attendant. “There’s no rain.” “Hakuna mabula”, he agreed. For a moment we were mutually depressed. Then in the Skukuza church the Reverend Carl Louwrens lead us in a hymn, based on verses from Habakkuk 3:17-19:
Although the fig tree itself may not blossom,
And there be no yield on the vines.
The work of the olive tree may turn out a failure
And the terraces themselves actually produce no food,
The flock may actually be severed from the pen,
And there may be no herd in the enclosures.
Yet, as for me, I will exult in God himself.
I will be joyful in the God of my salvation.
God, the Sovereign Lord, is my vital energy.
And he will make my feet like those of the hinds.
And upon high places he will cause me to tread.
The words touched our hearts. They strengthened and encouraged. I thought back to that Sunday after the Great Flood and remembered Charles Fryer’s encouraging words about trees that will blossom again. I thanked the Lord for the anchor that this church had become to us. “Thank you, Lord, for the congregation of Kruger Park.”
On 5 September came the first spring showers, 35 millimetres. On 13 September it rained again. The figure for the month rose to 44,5 millimetres October brought another 20,3 millimetres. But in November and December the sun baked down mercilessly. The total rainfall for the season stood at a mere 122,3 millimetres at the end of the year – only 22% of the average for the period. The drought was far from over. The first impala again arrived late. Just one wildebeest calf arrived, but soon died, due to the stressful conditions. A baby giraffe also died. Its condition had become very poor and it was soft target for a leopard.
Then in January and February the heavens opened. A blessed 176,4 millimetres fell in January and 319 millimetres in February. Those were exceptional rain months, but regular showers fell until July. The total downpour for the season came to 770 millimetres, the best since the flood of 1999/2000 and next best since 1995/1996. The rain graph shot up 35% above the average for the season.
During the night of 23 February it really rained cats and dogs; not less than 200 millimetres fell in the dark hours. The water flowed and flowed – “it walked, it ran”. Our roads were again washed away. But it was the turning point. The “farmers” of Sabiepark rubbed the wet earth between their fingers, and they thanked God for salvation.
CAPTION: HIGH IN THE TREES. The cushion of a lounge suite found a last resting place in an unusual spot.