There Is Only One Way To Get Connected In Skukuza, Kruger National Park

Officially, our Sabiepark postal address is PO Skukuza. The main rest camp of the Kruger Park is not only our post office, however. Unofficially, it is also our laundry, our general dealer, our filling station, our internet connection, our golf course, our doctor and our church.

One of the features of Sabiepark is that it allows you to enter the Kruger via the Kruger Gate for all kinds of express visits, from banking business to a service in the striking, cool church with its magnificent fever tree in Skukuza’s neat personnel village. Most Sabieparkers buy a so-called Wild Card for ±R350. This card affords the holder unlimited admission, irrespective of the purpose: be it shopping, pleasure, church or work.

From Sabiepark to the Kruger Gate is exactly two kilometres. Add 13 kilometres to the rest camp. Sometimes the drive of 15 kilometres to Skukuza is over in as little as 20 to 25 minutes. Sometimes it takes a lot longer. You can’t afford to be in a hurry when eight lions take a carefree nap in the middle of the road, a bad-tempered elephant threatens, two rhinos purposely block your path, or a hungry lioness goes on a hunting expedition on a Sunday morning before church.

The eight lions not far inside the Kruger Gate was a memorable sight

The beasts were peacefully surveying matters when Tokkie and I arrived on the scene. We hurried into the Kruger from our house in Sabiepark in record-time, reacting to an urgent sms, sent by a considerate friend travelling to Skukuza for business. Later the pride took a stroll in the general direction of the gate, inquisitively peering into the parked car of a bemused traffic inspector, and “inspecting” all other vehicles, coming or going – surely not to check on their permits or to issue roadworthy-certificates!

The lone lioness provided a singular experience. Just as I tried to manoeuvre my car past her, she suddenly crouched hopefully in a hunting stance. A bushbuck trotted past, but was just beyond her reach. Shortly afterwards, she actually rushed a young impala ram. Again without success. It all goes to show that one has to make provision for unexpected interruptions, even on your way to church.

At one stage the admission permits at the gate were regularly changed. On one form were three columns: one for the number of passengers, one for the number of children and one for OSV’s. We asked a friendly gate guard what OSV stood for. Initially, he was stumped. No, he did not want to be untruthful. Then his face lit up: “Perhaps it is for unborn babies?” He was at least creative! Tokkie, ever practical, wondered how pregnancies were going to be predicted over the short term: sonars for every female visitor? Later, a better informed gate guard explained: OSV indicates Open Safari Vehicle.

Those green Land Rover Defenders or Nissan Hardbodys, with rows of seats for tourists, have multiplied many fold on the roads of the Game Park over the past few years. Every few minutes one appears. Unfortunately our “very own” river road, the S3 across the Sabie from our picnic spot, has become one of the main OSV routes. The road, formerly always in good condition, has become badly corrugated at times.

Our present Game Park vehicle is a Volkswagen Microbus that has travelled extensively. Its name is Bosbus (Afrikaans for Bush bus). This “Bosbus” replaced the Honda CR-V. Sometimes the “bus” rattles and shakes badly on an afternoon outing on the S3. And with road maintenance not very up to date, one has to hold on tightly. Hope the time won’t come when everybody without a 4x4 has to keep to the tarred roads…

We leave our Honda at Melkbos for the simple reason that we have become too lazy (old?) for the 20-hour trek through the Karoo, the Free State, Gauteng and Mpumalanga. We garage the Microbus in Nelspruit. The arrangement has its advantages, mainly under the headings of convenience and time-saving.

At the gate one day I overheard a young man with the distinctive French accent talking to the attendant. He and his female companion were from Paris. They paid and hurriedly took off for Skukuza. He did not notice the white rhino close to the road. In Skukuza, I saw him again. I called him and explained (not in French!) that he should drive slowly in the Game Park, and keep his eyes wide open. I told him about the rhino he had just hurried past. He thanked me for the friendly advice – but then added nonchalantly: “We have already seen a rhino in Hluhluwe.” You could have bowled me over with a tiny guineafowl feather!

Skukuza boasts “everything necessary for a successful Bushveld holiday” – from a resident doctor to an emergency road service. For Sabieparkers it is their nearest and most convenient village, for postal and banking services, groceries, fuel, beer and other beverages, charcoal, newspapers, magazines and whatever. One quickly learn the ropes. One should not only patronise the smart (and expensive) Park shop. It caters for toutists with their bulging purses. The smaller, less elegant shop in the personnel village is cheaper.

Unfortunately, the “Whengele a albasini” in the compound does not exist any longer. The latter was a truly old-fashioned dealer on the corner. Here you could buy paraffin in large quantities at the best price in the area. On its shelves were also basic foods that are not on the shopping list of the normal tourist. Like samp or maize flour.

Our first Christmas in the bush was in 2002. At the Park shop they had a special offer. You could have your photo taken with Father Christmas for R10. The background was a zebra skin. To be photographed with a black Santa Claus in a red suit in front of a zebra skin – that was Africa. I recognised the man behind the white cotton wool beard, when he had to wipe away perspiration from his face. It was the rotund, jovial Wonderboy of the shop’s photo service. I often had my films developed at that facility, before it was, unfortunately, closed down.

In July 2003 I said to Wonderboy: “Last year you were Santa Claus, weren’t you?” He almost fell on his back when he realized that I had identified him in his costume, and that I remembered. I am just sad that I did not pay my R10 and had my picture taken with Wonderboy. Why on earth did I let that one slip?

One needs a doctor from time to time, for anything from insect bites to a digestive system in protest against all the barbecue meat. We needed one badly after a mishap at the gate. Manie Steyn went to fetch his fire-arm in the car to have it sealed. On his way to the office, his forehead collided with the sharp end of an overhanging roof. He fell like an ox. Blood ran in rivulets down his face. Manie has been shot, we all thought as we ran towards him. When we reached him, he drunkenly managed to regain his feet. He cursed the roof. He also cursed himself for being so stupid, and we felt relieved – he had not been shot. A few stitches in Skukuza’s surgery, plus a few headache tablets. later, and Manie was ready for the Game Park.

A great asset of the Skukuza connection is the availability of electricity – a convenience which is missed in Sabiepark homes. As regards washing and ironing and several other domestic chores, electricity is not really essential, but at times it could be very useful. In Skukuza’s camping area are two laundries with coin-operated washing machines, a worthwhile discovery I made one day. The price is most reasonable. Because one does not know how long one might have to wait at the laundromat, Tokkie usually takes a book along. However, she seldom needs it, because there is so much else to do – washroom culture: who did you see? what? where? which road would you recommend? did you hear?

A senior citizen with a silver fox mane once entered the laundromat while the machines purred their monotonous song. He just wanted to have a look around, he announced. For old time’s sake. He missed camping. For twenty years he and his “old girl” always came by caravan. Now they were too old. A rondavel is not nearly as enjoyable or romantic.

Griet often accompanied Tokkie on her washing expeditions. One day a Shangaan woman wanted to engage her in conversation. Griet replied, in Afrikaans: : “Ekskuus?” (Beg your pardon?) She did not understand one word. “Now which language do you speak?” the other woman inquired. “Afrikaans.” “Only Afrikaans?” “Yes, only Afrikaans.” “So, apartheid is to blame.”

Before Brent’s inverter, that laundry had to double as a computer room at times. While Tokkie and Griet saw to the washing, I would connect the portable computer to a wall plug and catch up on some overdue correspondence. I discovered a more convenient alternative later on: the stoep of a rondavel. My first experiment was on the stoep of rondavel 182. Three American women had just removed their baggage. I pounced on them with my computer under my arm, and the unusual request to plug it in. “Go ahead,” they replied simultaneously.

In order to off-load e-mail, one needs more than a plug, however. A telephone line is essential. This valuable equipment virtually fell into my lap when I entered a Sanparks office, seeking advice on software problems. A friendly official quickly solved my problem. He invited me to work in his office, and to come back if I wished, to send or receive e-mail. I did not hesitate a single moment. But the exact location of this official’s office is my secret. Sorry.

An obstinate computer can badly disrupt one’s life. One Friday began badly for me when my aged Toshiba model suddenly became full of tricks. At my wits’ end, I decided to visit the knowledgeable official to ask his advice. But I first wanted to take a photo of zebra and wildebeest at the feeding point in Wildevy Avenue, Sabiepark. In reversing, the large rear windscreen of the Microbus collided with a lonely red bush-willow in the middle of the road. Crash! The glass cracked into thousands of fragments. I drove home, angry with myself and deeply embarrassed.

The atmosphere at home was still rather tense on account of an irritation I caused earlier that morning, when I was unreasonable toward my long-suffering spouse. She reacted, as usual – rather fed-up. However, when I dejectedly turned up with the broken windscreen, she took pity on the poor old man. She helped me to sweep up the pieces and patch the hole with plastic material.