Chapter 10

Sirheni bush camp.

The last part of the approach into Sirheni always required a bit of patience. The camp was tucked neatly into the trees along the Mphongolo River, almost deliberately hidden from the air. From above you saw the river first—a broad, muddy sweep of water curling through the bushveld—and only when you came lower did the dark thatched roofs of the buildings begin to appear between the jackalberry and leadwood trees.

I brought the helicopter around into the wind and eased the collective down.

The landing area was nothing fancy—just a flat clearing a short distance from the ranger station—but it did the job well enough. Dust lifted in a swirling cloud as the rotor wash kicked up the fine Lowveld sand. Mopane leaves rattled and flashed silver-green in the downwash while the helicopter settled gently onto the ground.

Once the skids touched, I lowered the throttle and let the rotors spin down.

The sudden quiet after the engine wound down was always striking. After nearly an hour of rotor noise the silence felt almost too big. Only the distant call of a hornbill and the steady rush of the river broke it. The river was still in flood, although the water level had already begun dropping.

As Kait and I climbed out, we were met by three figures walking toward us from the direction of the ranger station.

They were smiling broadly even before they reached us.

These were the three men who had remained behind to keep Sirheni Bush Camp running despite the flood damage and the isolation.

Leading them was Hlengani, the head ranger of the camp. Everyone called him “Socks.” I never did get a completely straight explanation for the nickname—something about an early incident involving mismatched uniform socks—but the name had stuck.

Behind him walked Vhonani, known as “Google.” He was the camp’s tracker and field guide, a quiet man with eyes that seemed to notice everything. If an animal had crossed the road three hours earlier, Google could probably tell you the species, direction, and mood. The nickname “Google” fitted him well because he knows everything in the bush. He could answer almost any question about the bush and the animals as he could read the bush like a newspaper.

Then there was Thulani, the man responsible for keeping the entire camp functioning—generators, plumbing, vehicles, tools, and whatever else decided to break in the bush. His nickname was “Spanner.”

If something mechanical had a problem, Spanner had usually taken it apart and put it back together again before most people had even noticed.

The three of them reached us just as I opened the cargo compartment.

Their smiles widened when they saw the supplies we had brought with us.

But when I pulled out the large plastic-wrapped packs of toilet paper, their expressions transformed completely. Each pack held thirty-six rolls of the seriously needed item.

It was like Christmas had arrived early.

“Oh, thank you, Mister Grobler and Miss Fourie!” Spanner exclaimed, shaking his head with relief. “We were down to just four rolls. It can become a serious problem.”

He held up four fingers to emphasise the severity of the situation.

Kait laughed.

“You’re welcome, Spanner,” she said warmly.

“You have saved the camp,” Socks added with a grin. “You don’t even know how important that is.”

We started unloading the cargo from Jessie, the Bell 222. Every pilot ends up naming his aircraft eventually, and this one had carried that name long before Kait climbed aboard.

Within minutes everything was carried across to the ranger station.

Once the practical business of unloading was finished, Socks clapped his hands lightly.

“Come,” he said. “Let us show you your rondavels.”

Sirheni Bush Camp was built in the traditional style—simple, practical, and perfectly suited to the environment.

Kait and I were each assigned our own rondavel.

(Author’s note: A rondavel is a round, traditional Southern African hut usually built from mud or brick with a thatched grass roof. In modern camps they often resemble the original shape but are adapted for guests, containing a lounge area, one or two bedrooms, and a bathroom.)

From the outside they looked exactly like the classic African huts: circular walls, thick thatched roofs sloping down like straw hats, and small shaded verandas facing the bush.

Inside, however, they were surprisingly comfortable.

With the help of both Socks and Google, we carried our bags inside and got settled quickly. The interior was cool and pleasantly dim after the weak sunlight outside. The thick thatch did an excellent job of insulating the room from the heat. Although the sun was mild, the humidity from the rushing river and scattered pools of floodwater hung heavy in the air.

Through the small window I could see the river glinting through the trees. It flowed steadily but with urgency, still carrying the storm surge back downstream.

There was a peacefulness about Sirheni that was difficult to describe. It felt remote, almost suspended outside normal time. No roads, no traffic, no distant vibration of civilisation—just bush, river, and the occasional call of birds.

Once Kait and I had unpacked the essentials, Socks appeared again at the doorway.

“Coffee is ready,” he said.

That was an invitation nobody refused.

A few minutes later Kait and I joined the three rangers on the patio of the ranger station.

The patio was a simple wooden deck built slightly above the riverbank, shaded by the wide branches of an old jackalberry tree that had probably been standing there long before the camp was built. From the edge of the deck you could look straight through the trees and see the Mphongolo River sliding past in a broad brown ribbon.

The flood waters had dropped a little since the storm, but the river still ran full and restless, carrying branches, reeds, and the occasional floating clump of grass downstream.

On a small gas stove near the table a dented kettle steamed gently, the lid rattling softly as the water boiled. A row of enamel mugs—white with chipped blue rims—waited patiently beside it. They were the sort of mugs that seemed to exist in every ranger camp and bush station in the country.

Spanner poured the coffee with the careful concentration of a man performing an important ritual.

The midday air hung heavy and damp around us. The storm had washed the dust out of the atmosphere but left behind thick humidity that clung to the skin. Somewhere behind the ranger station the low rumble of the generator kicked in, and moments later the faint hum of air conditioners drifted from the buildings.

Even in the shade there was no breeze.

The leaves hung motionless in the trees, as if the whole Lowveld had paused to catch its breath after the violence of the storm.

For the first time since leaving Skukuza, the mission slowed down enough for us to simply sit, drink coffee, and take in the quiet wilderness around us.

Kait sat forward slightly in her chair, cradling the enamel mug between her hands. Once she started explaining her purpose at Sirheni, the professional side of her came out immediately.

She told the rangers why she had prioritised the camp for inspection. Without a road there was no supply line, no maintenance crews, no tourists—and without tourists the camp couldn’t function.

The access road had to be restored first.

That was step one in getting Sirheni Bush Camp open again.

The three rangers listened in silence while she spoke. They sat there like weathered statues, drinking their coffee slowly, eyes fixed on Kait as she outlined the situation.

When she finished, Spanner was the first to speak.

He leaned forward slightly and rested his elbows on his knees.

“Miss Fourie,” he said, “we first need to drain that pool of water back to the river. Only then we can see the real damage to the road.”

Kait nodded immediately.

“I am totally in agreement with you,” she replied. “There’s a drainage ditch along the side of that water pool. It’s supposed to drain the overflow back into the river, but right now it’s not doing anything. I need to find out why.”

Spanner scratched his chin.

“The ditch is blocked,” he said. “Rubble and debris from the 2013 flood. That same flood that damaged the dam wall.”

Kait’s eyes narrowed slightly as she processed that.

“Then we must investigate the best way to clear that blockage,” she said. “If we can open it up, the water pool will drain naturally. Much faster than trying to pump it out.”

Socks slowly shook his head.

“We need a bulldozer or a backhoe to clear something like that,” he said. “And that is out of the question right now.”

He gestured vaguely toward the flooded landscape beyond the camp.

“With the roads like this, no heavy machinery is getting in here.”

Google, who had been quietly watching the river while the others spoke, finally turned his head.