Take in the sounds and colours of a northern KZN winter

Eyebrows were raised in the school car park in June when we announced that we were proceeding with our plans to visit Mkuze, Zinkwazi, and Umzumbe, in a surf and turf adventure to the winter warmth of subtropical KwaZulu-Natal.

The country was in an interregnum while the final clauses of the government of national unity were hammered out, and the MK party’s threats of instability had unsurprisingly raised doubts about the safety of our plans.

The 2021 riots started on the final day of our last winter holiday to KwaZulu-Natal in 2021, though we had managed to rush to the airport before any lead had begun to fly, or any flat-screen TVs had been looted. So, we were conscious of the threat, though some calls to friends in the province, and the prospect of returning to God’s country, had allayed most of the anxiety.

However, I did wonder about our choice as we boarded the plane. I had visions of manning the barricade at the Zinkwazi off-ramp, armed with a seven iron, while my family headed for Mozambican border in a ski boat.

Our children were excited, primarily by the food in the Slow Lounge, but also by the prospect of another flight, and a return to familiar winter holiday destinations. Anyone who has travelled regularly for business has long since forgotten the marvel of flight, recognising the journey for what it is; a utilitarian two hours, cramped in an iron tube without enough air vents. And in this case, constantly finding things for children to do other than play virtual games on screens.

Any anxiety disappeared as the plane banked over the coastal colour continuum, which ranges from indigo sea, white shore break, tan beach, forest green bush and finally to the lighter green of the sugar cane waving in the breeze. The salty air was warm and mildly humid, while the locals were welcoming.

We set a northerly course for our three-hour drive to Mkuze Game Reserve in our Haval Jolion rental, which proved to be a pleasing ride with all the mod cons, while lacking the raw power you need to pass a pantechnicon with the minimum of risk. The Hluhluwe/Umfolozi Park is closer, better known and bigger than Mkuze, though it was full by the time we had finally stopped prevaricating. Besides, I had never been to Mkuze and was interested in what it had to offer. Mkuze lies to the east of the Lebombo Mountains and is spread over 250km². I had heard talk of rare birds and wonderful, unspoilt wilderness, which has been protected since 1912.

The N2 is in excellent shape north of the airport, which isn’t surprising given the number of tolls on the way. The environment on either side of the road provides a pleasing contrast to the Cape fynbos with conical hills covered by sugar cane forming the roadside vistas along with occasional impregnable valleys of indigenous bush. Coral trees bloom in deep orange. Wild strelitzias provide the subtropical reference while flat topped acacias root us in Africa. 

We passed road signs to eMdloti and eMhlali, referring to villages on rivers, which roll onomatopoeically off the tongue. Soon we had crossed the Thukela and were surging through enormous plantations of commercial forestry while sitting behind lines of trucks, or avoiding them bearing down on us, two abreast in the oncoming traffic. Trucks are ubiquitous on this road, as they are on all our main arterial routes since the collapse of Transnet as a functioning utility. This frustration grows when you see the unused railway tracks parallel to the road.

Our drive up the N2 took longer than expected. It could have been the relentless lines of trucks or excessive caution on my part, but we turned right off the highway towards Mkuze Game Reserve only in the late afternoon, when the light was beginning to fade, and the fear had returned. The last stretch of ragged, potholed road into Mkuze winds through a traditional, semirural settlement. The signage became confusing exactly when we needed reassurance, and our GPS lost signal, but we made it through the gates before sundown.

The environment changed immediately as we entered the park. From relative feudal disorder into the ordered beauty of nature. The rains had been good, and the bush presented itself in lush dark greens of figs, tambutis, acacias and the khaki of the grassland while the plentiful plains game pronked about in sparkling form, and in shiny coats.

The roads in the park were excellent, and new hides had been built without any concern for capital saving. Also, it was devoid of human life. We saw two other cars in three days we were there, which seems absurd given the rich potential of this place as a tourist destination. Obviously, no-one comes here because, if they can find it, driving here is too dangerous, and the roads are awful for the last few kilometres. This is ridiculous for all of us, but mainly the people in the rural villages surrounding the reserve, who would benefit greatly from a functioning tourist attraction on their doorstep.

We had rented a three-roomed thatch cottage in the Mantuma camp. On arrival, we experienced the opposite of having the red carpet rolled out for us. In our case, the carpet had been rolled up. We drove around the empty camp for 20 minutes before we finally found someone who directed us in the general direction of our cottage. Like the other buildings in the camp, our cottage was painted in a disturbing mixture of pink and brown. But the accommodation was clean and comfortable without being luxurious. The sheets were fresh and the beds comfortable. The cottage had been recently rethatched. A full suite of Dstv channels was provided to drown out the bush choir and the roars of the lions. Tame nyala that live in the camp minded their own business as we ambled past.

The bird life was marvellous. I had a fleeting glance of the crimson breast and emerald throat of a Narina trogon with my morning tea, while an indistinct woodpecker provided the background percussion to a layered natural symphony of chirrups, whistles and zzzzrrps.

At sundown we stopped at the iNsumo Pan picnic site for gin and tonics under the fever trees. A fish eagle called in the distance as the gin took effect, while a pied kingfisher hovered over prey. Cormorants and herons of various persuasions conducted fly pasts in tightly formed squadrons. Waders waded, while thick knees looked awkward. A Pel’s fishing owl kept its own company, out of sight. Hippos called to each other across the wetland and then one surfaced a few metres from the water’s edge like a podgy U-boat with teddy bear ears. We managed to silence the children for a few minutes of pure listening.

We passed a herd of elephants on the way back to camp. Again, we were afforded silence to marvel at these magnificent beasts, gently devouring a vegan evening meal on the hoof while moving through the bush towards a watering hole. They weren’t entirely comfortable with being ogled by the voyeurs in the steel box, so we moved on after a big male flapped his ears at us a few times.

We left, wishing we had booked for another night, warmer and calmer than we arrived, appreciating the salve of nature, though spirits remained high as we were heading for Zinkwazi, a village on the beach two hours south, a few kilometres over the Thukela.