Life In The Kruger Park Bush Is Wonderful, Especially If You Have Fire and Meat

Life in the bush is wonderful indeed. Tokkie agrees, fortunately, and sings happily along. But she often uses the same words (and melody) to bait me when all kinds of bush calamities occur: the relative new, and very expensive, batteries of the solar system collapse, the gas runs out at a most awkward time, baboons bent on mischief find their way into your home… Tokkie, Tokkie, Tokkie!

Another Tarlehoet song is Rabbit, rabbit long ears. Peet Langley used to play it on the guitar in our varsity hostel, Kollege. Pierre le Roux of Mossel Bay dug deep into his memory for the words, and today he amuses his grandchildren (and friends) by singing to them:

Rabbit, rabbit long ears,

Elephant plays guitar.

Monkey blows the saxophone

se whispers

poing-pong poing-pong …

The children (and friends) join in enthusiastically when it comes to the poing-pong part. The proud grandfather from Mossel Bay is the man who re-introduced the song to the Van Deventers. I am not quite sure that good old Peet was indeed the creator of Rabbit. At one stage I surmised that Piet Henning of Makhado (Louis Trichardt) and presently of Chiredzi, Zimbabwe, had brought it along in 1958, when we were freshmen, together with his disrespectful repertoire of rugby songs they sang at St. John’s College in Johannesburg. He denies involvement.

When a group of Kollege chums of days gone by gather around a Tarlehoet fire, several of Piet Henning’s songs are, however, attempted. Many of the words had long been forgotten, but one Piet song, The ball at Kerriemuir, goes thus: “Four and twenty virgins came down from Inverness, and when the ball was over, there were four and twenty less”. Part of the same song (or is a different one?) relates to certain activities of one, Mrs McGinty: “Mrs McGinty, she was there, she kept us all in fits, by jumping off the mantle-piece and bouncing off her tits.” For some reason, my friends remember the part about the bouncing assets the best.

We also love singing: “Way down in Arizona where the doggies shovel coal, a doggie shovels, shovels, up another doggie’s hole.” The second verse even has a “bush theme”: “Way down in Arizona (Sabie-p-a-ark) where the birdies pick up grass, a birdie picks a feather from another birdie’s arse…”

Finally, birds also feature in the chorus of the Quartermaster’s stores in which feathered friends like the kee-kee bird, ostrich (arse-stretch) and ooh-ah bird compare the size of their eggs and the pain accompanying the egg-laying process. The ooh-ah bird concludes its narrative with an expressive: “Ooh-ah!” t’s leave the sing-songs there.

Welcome back readers who’ve preferred to jump the previous paragraphs. Because this is, actually, a chapter on fires, let me report here and now then on the fire of 11 August 2001 – a Bushveld fire stands out in the Van Deventer. A group of 24 Melkbos friends “came over for a braai”. They arrived in a convoy, all of the 2 000 kilometres from our “beach of milk and honey” near Cape Town.

The next morning the Melkbos patrol, all retirees and members of the local Probus Club, went to the Kruger. The evening before in Sabiepark the meat was done in the proper Bushveld manner. A two-fire affair was organised. “Behind” was a champion fire for the “potjies”, the chops and the “boerewors” (as well as a thick, firm maize porridge in a black three-legged pot). At the “front” was an even larger fire, just for ambience. A load of leadwood, red bush-willow and sicklebush was set to flames. Enough for a month’s ordinary campfires. It was indeed a helluva Bushveld fest with three local experts stoking the fires and preparing a royal treat – hot from the coals. Come in again, Houston…

“Thank you, Lord, for the bounteous gifts from Thy hand,” I thanked God under the bright stars of the Bushveld when I said grace. Before going to bed, I again read Ecclesiastes 3:12 and 13: “I have come to know that there is nothing better for them than to rejoice and to do good during one’s life, and also that every man should eat and drink and see good for all his hard work. It is the gift of God.” And what a precious gift it is!

I’ve intimated, large fires are not essential for great times. A modest fire can also be great, and provide sublime moments. If you are lucky, even a midday braai on charcoal (yes, charcoal) at the picnic spot can develop into a golden moment. When elephants, even one or two, cross the river during your braai, it makes your day. At night a hyena or leopard can follow your activities with glowing eyes. Lions can express the wish to share your meat. It adds spice…

At one special “sundowner” party at Tarlehoet, the guests were not humans nor predators. On the list were kudu, blue wildebeest, zebras and two herds of impala. After they have left, a handful of bushbabies descended on Colin’s table as usual. It was a striking parade that started the moment I lit my fire in our lapa.

That favourite task was performed while a multitude of impala were peacefully grazing behind the house. The first little flames was like a sign the animals had been waiting for. Tokkie and I sat spellbound, watching – we even sank down and sat on our hunches on the brick paving.

At first a bunch of wildebeest came dancing around the corner. On their heels emerged nine kudu in the opposite direction – slowly, gracefully and silently. One by one these beautiful antelopes walked past with a large bull, regally, last of all. In their wake followed a line of impala, some hesitant, others carefree and jubilant. At the exact moment when darkness swallowed the last impala, the first bushbaby appeared in the large marula tree.

Never-to-be-forgotten moments – moments one would remember the day even when old age had made visits to Sabiepark impossible.

The title of this chapter is Fire fun. Fires are not always fun, however. Some fires, I remember for painful reasons. And if I should dare to forget, Tokkie would prod mercilessly. She simply loves to re-open wounds. She loves to remind her husband, for example, of days (fortunately long, long ago) in Buffels Bay, when my mother-in-law, “Ouma Marietjie”, had to fan the unwilling smoky flames of my fires just about every night, by waving a paper plate up and down.

In the ‘60s, when Tokkie expected Johan, our first child, she and I went on an extensive tour of the Garden Route. In the boot of our car was a flimsy fold-up braai thing which we bought at a Bloemfontein garage at a much reduced price. At Oudtshoorn I had a sudden inspiration: tonight we will braai in Meiringspoort (the real one). Tokkie was immediately enthusiastic. We bought meat, beer and charcoal and found a pretty, sheltered spot among the formidable crags and boulders of that area.

An empty matchbox and a beer or two later on, the charcoal was still pitch black and cold. My ego was sorely deflated. I angrily swept up the cheap braai equipment and flung it into an empty drum that was conveniently near. Tokkie protested and tearfully retrieved our possession from the drum. She feels strongly about stuff that belongs to her. We sombrely returned to Oudtshoorn.

At the camping grounds Kleinplaas we turned in, and, fortunately, found a heap of glowing embers which some considerate caravaner had left behind – for a poor wretch like me. So, we did not go to bed hungry. It took a while longer to restore marital harmony, however.

Obstinate fires that refuse to burn, are a curse. My own failures range from that disaster in Meiringspoort, to a “holey” puzzle with a Weber, to a bad anti-climax in Dillard, Georgia.

The “holey” Weber incident is very sensitive. It reflects on me and me alone. Nothing and no one else can be blamed. I was simply stupid, and had ignored the basics of reading the manual before attempting to play with a new toy. The result was that holes which should have been open, were closed and vice versa. Guests and host were later better “done” than the leg of mutton. Chris van Rensburg had a burnt hole in his smart new trousers after all the waving and blowing away of suffocating smoke, and all the effort to get smouldering embers to catch alight.

Georgia was a mess. On a visit to the USA in 1995, right from the first day, I had in my mind’s eye a picture of spending at least one night in a log cabin as I had often seen in pictures. A cabin would be much more romantic than a typical middle-class motel. And a friendly “Southern gal” at an information bureau along the Interstate US 23-44 did not hesitate one moment: “Chalet Village, at the next town, Dillard, would be the ideal spot.”

She was fully on target. We stopped in Chalet Village at a isolated mountain hut, surrounded by grey-green birch trees. At that moment, I experienced the satisfaction that an explorer at times must feel. All the effort was worth it. Even the fireplace in the lounge was exactly as I had been seeing it in my imagination – it even boasted a massive log of wood. In colourful Dillard, at the old-fashioned general store, Tokkie and I bought meat, wine and other provisions. We were ready for a special evening. Just one snag: the log was not the burning type. Even the most promising little flames soon gave up the ghost. All that I could manage, was a dense cloud of smoke. It was time for plan B. The meat went into the pan and the romantic dinner turned out to be a chilly affair.

Near Sabiepark, are smart neighbours like Londolozi, Mala Mala and Singita. If you really wish to entertain the one of your choice, the grand (but wickedly expensive) venues of the rich are superlative. A bush journey in Londolozi in July 1999 turned into something totally different. Tokkie and I (on an affordable package deal) went to visit the leopard kingdom for two days. We were still excited about the very close proximity of a magnificent pride of lions and two rhinos – we did not even need to use a long lens for prize winning photos – when our driver, Chipson, stopped the green Land Rover, next to a table laden with the choicest of snacks and drinks. Time for an elegant cocktail party by lantern light under the stars of the Bushveld.

Pictures just had to be taken!

Searching for the best angle, I stepped back, again… and again. The next moment, flames all over the place. The dry grass had caught alight. Three storm lanterns lay on their sides. The winter grass needed no encouragement, and soon the yellow tongues were licking real fast. Fortunately, Chipson and George, our tracker, were wearing thick-soled army boots. They danced a jig as they trampled the flames.

It could have become a major catastrophe. Fortunately, it did not, but this photographer was rather down in the dumps. Late that evening, we saw our first leopard in Londolozi. It was fast asleep, high in a massive marula, its head resting on its prey, an impala with its legs dangling from a branch. Everyone whispered excitedly. Only I sat in silence, brooding, and very much aware of what could have been if it weren’t for Chipson and George…

Never play with fire. Accidents happen easily. One evening, Tokkie was almost in a “stew” – no pun intended – when she fell forward into a Tarlehoet fire. Her foot got caught on some three-legged braai contraption, standing on the brick paving, next to the lapa. She literally dived down. “Boerewors” flew everywhere. Her dramatic fall was probably halted by a huge log that had recently been placed on the fire to give it its inaugural “burn”. A second stroke of luck: she was not wearing synthetic clothes. But how she survived the ordeal with only a leg full of lumps, a burn on the knee and torn pants, remains a mystery. And how she managed to get to her feet without pressing her hands on the embers, I cannot explain.

I try to joke about the incident: “The fat was in the fire”, “My wife was almost half done”, etc. But I had one heck of a fright (fire and all that). It was almost a nasty accident. Our guests were all petrified. Fortunately there were many helping hands.