Mhudi

by Sol T Plaatje

  Press the re-wind button.

  As a young schoolkid in suburban Johannesburg, I would take every opportunity to get out into the veld. Thankfully, in those days, the urban sprawl was still contained and in under a 15-minute walk from my home I could be in my version of ‘Big Game Country’. This piece of savannah bushveld, studded with conglomerate outcrops created by ancient lava flows, resulted in a richly diverse habitat which was home to a healthy number of endemic wildlife species.

  Grey duiker, hyraxes, guinea fowl, mongoose and the occasional jackal were common. As if this wasn’t enough, in the back of my mind was the old story that the last leopard was thought to have been shot in that area in the early 1950s. Having only recently read Turnbull Kemp’s book on leopards, I knew these enigmatic animals were notoriously secretive, so they could be living undetected in my back garden. This added spice to my forays, as I nurtured the thought that, possibly, one or two might still be lurking about. I still wonder now how many large dog paw prints that I saw were rounded off and enlarged slightly, becoming leopard pug marks in my young imagination.

  Of course, with such potential for dangerous encounters, I needed to protect myself, so I was armed to the teeth on most occasions. This was serious stuff, so a BSA air rifle and a pocket knife were the bare bones of my armament. The more time I spent in this area, the more I began to understand the basic workings of nature. I learned how and where to find certain animals and plants and would always volunteer to collect animal or plant specimens for school projects. Not surprisingly, I soon became a firm favourite with my biology teachers. One in particular was young and relatively fit and she would often join me on my outings. I will say no more and leave you to paint the picture of student and teacher and youth and nature and …

  These expeditions took me out of the confines of the classroom and into the open air. This was not my only means of escape, either, for in the days prior to TV, videos and CDs, I found much of what I was looking for in the pages of books, which I consumed at a rapid rate. Living in those pages, I would visit other remote areas and learn about their wildlife. I recall that even then I preferred reading factual adventures and experiences by naturalists, explorers and primitive hunters, rather than fiction. My literary taste remains unchanged.

  In my imagination, I explored the wildest parts of Africa and far beyond. I went on safari to East Africa with Robert Ruark and there I learned about the horrors of the Mau Mau. I also learned of the arrogant elegance of the Masai whose domestic dogs would later be responsible for transmitting the diseases that completely wiped out the wild dogs Lycaon pictus in East Africa.

  I followed the Elsa saga and nursed orphan lion cubs in Kenya with the Adamsons. When the weather got too hot, I would monitor a pack of wolves in Siberia and study their social lives, then cross the Bering Straits into Alaska following the caribou migration into the Yukon. Living with the Inuits, I kayaked with them through the pack ice hunting seals while avoiding polar bears. I also learned that the Inuit did more to survive in their environment than the San Bushmen do in theirs. Even today, I read everything I can on Arctic anthropology.

  Despite the adventurous life I was leading in the wild world of my imagination, it was back in the cold reality of the classroom, during a lesson called Vocational Guidance, that I realised what I wanted to do and where my future lay.

  They say a picture is worth a thousand words. For me, there is much truth in this.

  It was the illustration on the cover and not the contents of a journal that grabbed my interest. The journal was loftily titled ‘My Loopbaan’ (‘My Career’), a cheaply produced publication, thin on content and invariably promoting some technical career opportunity. It was distributed on occasion during vocational guidance and one issue really caught my eye. The cover illustration was strikingly different, promoting a career in nature conservation by picturing a helicopter daringly manoeuvring a group of giraffe in a capture or census operation. The background depicted the typical umbrella thorn savanna of the Serengeti. I’m sure you get the picture and can imagine how deeply it became imprinted on my heart and soul.

  As I recall, the artist used blue, beige and white, not exactly the most dynamic, imaginative or attractive colours one would choose to portray a wildlife scene, but somehow the mood and the message was vivid. I knew there and then that someday my future would be in nature conservation.

  The next step was to find out how one went about becoming a game ranger and what did one need to get in the queue? I asked everyone I knew but no one could offer a definitive answer.

  The broad consensus was that I needed the minimum of a science degree, and that preference was given to married men. Someone explained to me that nepotism was common, so family of those already employed in the Parks stood a better chance than outsiders. Well, that ruled me out. I was only 15 years old and hadn’t yet had the guts to ask a girl for a ‘real’ kiss, let alone approach one with a marriage proposal. Plus, none of my family were employed anywhere near conservation. Most importantly I would only be able to start a degree when I left school in two years’ time, which would mean at least another five to six years’ delay.

  To add to these depressing prospects, one of my siblings’ advice wasn’t much inspiration either. My eldest brother had just finished his BSc Honours and when I told him I was going to do the same degree, and then go into Nature Conservation, he laughed. He stated I should rather do something else, anything else. He told me that his best friend, who had also just completed his degree, had started working for ‘Fauna and Flora’ (Provincial Nature Conservation in those days) and the poor chap was sitting on top of a hill counting baboons.

  ‘What a ridiculous job, you must be crazy to do it,’ my brother told him. But, this ‘crazy’ friend of my brother’s went on to obtain his doctorate and become the head of the Department of Environmental Affairs and Tourism. The highly respected Dr Feltus Brand came a long way from counting baboons, though sadly he has since passed away.

  Some of you may remember an old radio commercial which went something like this: ‘Umfolozi, Hluhluwe, Mkuzi, when roads become river beds, what does a game ranger need in country like this? He needs a mind like a map, a four-wheel-drive and the sureness of Shell!’ It was broadcast in the early 1970s or thereabouts, and used to get me so choked up that I taped it and played it over and over again. Meanwhile, my more normal friends taped Deep Purple, Black Sabbath and Pink Floyd and played them over and over again. The walls of most of my friends’ rooms were decorated with photos of rock stars, sports cars, girls, more girls and mementos of their own sporting successes.

  These were all normal reflections of teenage fashions, tastes and emotional leanings of the time. But not where I was concerned. My aberration knew no bounds. On one wall I had painted an African sunset, with umbrella thorn acacias and a dead leadwood tree, complete with characteristically twisted branches. Under the one prominent tree, I had a blazing fire on the go with two men sitting by its side. Finally, to complete the scene, there was a short-wheel-base Land Rover parked close by, its unmistakable profile silhouetted against the orange glow of the sinking sun. In those days it was the only vehicle I wanted, and the bush was the only place I wanted to be. Those soft-top Landies cost exactly R2 080 brand new! I know, because every day for months I took the no 47 bus into town just to go and look at one.

  On the other wall was the pelt of an enormous white-tailed mongoose that I found on the side of the road in Zululand. It had no doubt been killed by a vehicle and the pungent musky mongoose smell never washed out of the fur. I didn’t care, I got used to it. But nobody else got used to it, and I was often on my own in my room.

  I have never allowed the grass to grow under my feet. This has resulted on occasion in my being accused of being impatient or impulsive or both, traits which are only now starting to mellow as the years pass. In my youth, however, it was difficult to control my natural tendencies as it just wasn’t in my nature to dream and wait for things to happen. I wa
nted to be a game ranger as soon as possible: tomorrow, preferably. I had to do something about it, so when I heard on the grapevine that Rhodesia (Zimbabwe) was looking for young tsetse control officers and that becoming a game ranger in that country was a more practical procedure, I bought a return ticket from Johannesburg to Salisbury (now Harare) via Botswana. I was 15 years old and the ticket cost R26. No cents.

  Armed with my new passport and the address of the Rhodesian conservation department, I boarded the train, went straight to my compartment and laid claim to the middle bunk. Filled with excitement at being able to look at the bush from this position, I lay on my stomach with my chin on my fist, as the train slowly pulled out of the station

  I didn’t know what to expect or how to go about my quest, but I needed to do this thing and find out exactly what the situation was. Waving goodbye to my parents, I got the distinct feeling my excitement wasn’t shared, as despite their smiles they couldn’t hide their concern as I left for a destination far further from home than ever before in my young life.

  The train journey took me for the first time through the beautiful bushveld of the western Transvaal and then on through the mopane scrubland of eastern Botswana, where I spied numerous antelope from my middle bunk position. I think my neck has a permanent kink in it to this day from lying on that bunk staring fixedly out of the window. Finally, on the second day, we crossed into Rhodesia and were in Salisbury the following morning.

  I stayed with friends of a friend that evening and experienced the warm welcome and generous hospitality that was so typically Rhodesian. Very early the next day, I was given a lift into the central area of town near Causeway, where the head office of the Department of Wildlife was situated. Salisbury hadn’t quite woken up yet and nothing was open. To pass the time I hung around a nearby park that had incorporated some indigenous bush into its landscaping. I recollect being absolutely fascinated when I saw a common duiker in the middle of this small, spotlessly clean city. Later, when the offices opened, I walked straight in and along the corridor to a large door bearing the sign ‘Director’. I remember that it stood slightly ajar and as I knocked on it, I inadvertently pushed it further open. But I was too shy to walk in so I hung back until a man’s voice said, ‘Come in …’

  I went in, walked straight up to his desk and introduced myself, telling him without hesitation or pause where I was from and why I was there. He was very relaxed and smiled a lot, obviously having summed up my situation in a matter of moments. An intuitive and empathetic man, he listened to the words that tumbled from my mouth in an unending flow, until he felt it was his turn. He made me feel completely at ease, and proceeded with patience to explain that I would need to get my O-levels and then emigrate to Rhodesia.

  Redrawn by the author from memories of a bedroom wall

  Once these formalities were out of the way, I would then be taken on as a Cadet Ranger for two years, after which I’d probably get my own section. His only concern was that I may get lonely in the bush, as there were times when I’d be away from civilisation for up to six months at a time. That is when it dawned on me why married men get preference. Not once did he ask why I hadn’t made an appointment to see him or detail the expected norms of interview and assessment. I was so obviously completely naïve in the ways of accepted procedures, he understood that the desperately keen face in front of him meant no disrespect through lack of protocol. Hell, I was keen, and he could see that. But, the doors to my new life as a game ranger were going to remain closed for a while longer, that was obvious even through my heavily rose-tinted sunglasses.

  Returning to South Africa a few days later, much to the relief of my parents, I put my head down and focused on my schoolwork, knowing now there were no shortcuts, yet comforted by my new knowledge of alternatives. Political developments in Rhodesia at the time didn’t bode well for that country’s future, and I was soon to realise that emigration wasn’t an option. I wouldn’t be going north.

  My father remained worried about my all-consuming passion. As a restaurateur and chef, he never understood what I saw in the African bush, though my mother did, as she had grown up in the country. My Aunt Joan, who had recently visited and thoroughly enjoyed Mala Mala, had gained some firsthand experience of what was driving this fervour I had for the bush and extended a helping hand. Knowing full well I was far too young and under-qualified, she helped me compile an application for employment at Mala Mala, which was duly posted off. Bless her heart, she needed to do something to give me hope and to shut me up for a while. Nothing came of her endeavours and on many an occasion my father would take me aside and say, ‘You must-a open-a da ristorante, Mario; me, I teach-a you to cook-a da food.’

  All credit to my father, he did teach me to cook a little. But, as I came to understand the effects of the demanding work and late hours that running restaurants had on my parents, I also realised I had no desire to ‘open-a da ristorante’.

  I wanted to be a game ranger.

  I think that even then I had a glimmering of understanding that being a game ranger had its rewards in quality of life. I began to believe then, as I do today, that a great motivator in a career as a conservationist is the feeling of satisfaction that comes with knowing that in some small way, each day, you are making a difference, you are contributing to environmental conservation. Ultimately, you hope that through your efforts, you’ll leave the world one day in better shape than when you arrived. The responsibility as custodian of a precious wilderness can be weighty at times, but I find it fits nicely and is comfortable to carry, like the feel of a well-designed backpack with you on a beautiful hiking trail. I could not verbalise those thoughts when I was 15, but though immature in their formation, they were there.

  Remember my ‘Big Game Country’ close to home? Well, though somewhat smaller nowadays, it enjoys formal status and is known as the ‘Klipriviersberg Nature Reserve’. I’m pleased to say that even though some 35 years have passed, it is still one of the most naturally beautiful areas around Johannesburg.

  Overlooking this stretch of wilderness near the suburb of Linmeyer, lived a man who was my mentor when I was a young eager beaver. The last time we spoke, which was a number of years ago now, I was glad to hear he is still living there. Desmond Prout-Jones was an honorary nature conservation officer at the time and is credited for his extensive work on large birds of prey, particularly the African fish eagle, on which he has published two books. His passion for wildlife was infectious, which of course rubbed off on me. He was one of very few people in the country at the time permitted to capture and ring wild raptors, and it was a privilege to have been allowed to go along with him when he did. We spent a lot of time together ringing various raptors, in and around Johannesburg. I will never forget those trips; they were some of the most wonderful learning experiences for me, particularly with regard to raptor identification and their conservation. I owe a lot to his patience and guidance, for which I am ever grateful.

  Desmond took me under his wing, so to speak, and recognising my commitment to pursuing a career in nature conservation, wrote my very first reference.

  Seven years after my Aunt Joan wrote my first apparently abortive application, I re-applied to Mala Mala. By then I had worked as a ranger at Thornybush Game Reserve, and had hunted professionally for Magna Fauna Safaris on Letaba Ranch under the legendary Steve Kruger. The telephone conversation in response to my written application went like this.

  ‘Hello Mario, this is Tim Farrell from Mala Mala head office. How are you?’

  ‘Well, thank you, and yourself?’ I replied.

  ‘Fine, thanks. Mario, I just want to let you know that I have your application here and want you to understand that it is against our policy to employ rangers who have worked on other reserves. We choose to mould our staff around to our way of doing things and so prefer to start with raw material, so to speak.’

  My heart dropped.

  ‘However, seeing as your application to work with us when you were
15 years old is still on record … when can you come in for an interview?’

  Mala Mala. I spent over two of my happiest working years at this world-famous destination, gaining valuable experience dealing with people from all corners of the globe. Rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous was a far cry from what the media hype leads you to believe. Mala Mala humbles all but the most arrogant, and out in the bush the social playing fields were levelled, bringing out the best in people, whoever they were.

  I have often been asked how Mala Mala compared to some of the other reserves that I went on to visit or manage. Everybody was curious to find out what it was that made this game reserve so particularly special. In my opinion, it is simply this: Mala Mala is the closest you will come to experiencing what I imagine Hemingway’s Africa to have been like. There’s nothing pseudo about Mala Mala.

  Mala Mala does not pander to political correctness in its décor or its style of operation. Nor is there any embarrassment, real or posed, for the colonial African influence, or the fact that Princess Alice shot her first lion there in the ‘old days’. Mala Mala is as close to the real African experience as you will get in a two-night experience. They have managed to create a perfect balance between rugged comfort and luxury, slap bang in a natural, wild environment. Visitors to Mala Mala almost invariably empathised with the formula and loved it.

  Having said all this, I realise it has been a long time since I worked there, so some of my fond recollections may be tainted with nostalgia. I have no doubt, due to market pressures, that some things may have changed a little. But, what won’t change is that Mala Mala will always remain the yardstick or barometer by which all others are measured. Forget the chocolates on your pillow, invisible staff, gleaming overpowered 4x4s or the superficial trappings of so many of the modern wannabe lodges that use cosmetics like these to cover their blemishes. Mala Mala has never needed any make up. She’s just one of those uniquely natural real beauties.