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My brother, Phillip, in reaction to my petrol ramblings, sent me this photo to remind me of a petrol miracle we had once lived through together. It happened on the way out from the far north of Mozambique, near the border with Tanzania. As must be expected of experienced wilderness wanderers, we had stashed some petrol in the bush to get us back to Lichinga, which was where we hoped to find a filling station with some stock and a functioning pump – a reasonable assumption at best. As it turned out, the stash was no more than a...

You can listen to the voice narrative or read through the text below. Enjoy!   The petrol raced down the syphon pipe and sloshed into the tank below like it was having light-hearted fun. For me it was deadly serious. I glanced past my leg to count the containers I had left. Four. Eighty litres. Depending on how heavy the terrain is, between three hundred and five hundred kilometres. I have been meandering quite a lot, and the nearest refill point now lay some eighty kilometres of heavy bush driving back. Ahead was untamed wilderness. I dare not venture...

On the way in we passed here, down this ancient elephant path through the ravine. Old Kgalilaga had looked away and shook his head wordlessly at my foolishness when I said we’d go down without spending time working on it first – he did so again when we stood looking at it from the other side.  But the fires were flaming high on adrenaline then, and I ignored him. It had been a close thing that could have gone badly wrong – a heart-stopping drop over the lip,  then a gasping slide down over the rough surface. Of course,...

Journeys back are meant to be nostalgic meanders along the faded tracks of the past weeks, filled with second chances to enjoy all that went unnoticed in the eager excitement of going deeper, further, into the unknown. They are meant to be a slow ease-out from the enchantment of the bush. They ask that you chose the easiest and least risky ways, because they are sad and without the energy of the way in. And so, journeys back like open spaces even more than journeys in. Open spaces mean very little or none of the fury of chopping or...

A dawn comes when thoughts need to be sternly told, “Thou shalt no more ponder the ways further, deeper into the bush.”  On that morning, when the sky brightens, the sounds are different – crisp instructions, containers banging onto metal and scraping into position… The senses are turned away from the bush and hurried along to lists and space and time and checking and cleaning and loading. And the thoughts are sad, but there is some joy too, in the slow meander back along the faded tracks of past weeks, and in the bright faces and warm embraces of...

It is not written, but it is a law of the bush: If you do not know the next source of water, at peril of death do not venture from a known source further than you can return with the water you are able to take with you. One might add: and if you find a good source, drink as much as you can hold and fill every container you have to the brim. This is a good source, and after carefully checking for signs of a resident crocodile that may have ventured this far and made its lair...

When you have left behind the last hints that can somehow be traced back to civilisation and you start to dare deeper into the great wilderness, you distance yourself from the familiar undertakings and sensations of existence. What you now need to prevail are different kinds of skills, ingenuity, resilience, and perseverance – and luck. You have to make use of what you have with you, or can find around you; stitch them together in ways that will keep you going. Your vehicle with your equipment represents about the last of the familiar ploys, but one can take only...

You can listen to the recoding, or read through the text below. Enjoy! We sat on the veranda early this morning and I thought, today, I will write more about the trials of moving the vehicle through the bush to a new place from which to wander. But the morning unfolded so subtly, with young light and a delicate mist among the trees and birdsong echoing in the stillness, and it seemed to tell me to write about something else; something less pragmatic. So, I paged through my old diaries and let them choose this. The photo was taken...

The idea is getting “closer” – the vehicle.  Closer to an area that begs further exploration on foot. It sounds so obviously sensible. But before that “closer” happens, there is a lot of slow, hard work. Dragging the vehicle along through the bush is mostly brutal, and hardly made up for by the few extra comforts in attendance. When moving through the bush I am always careful to select the best going with the lowest risk of damage or getting stuck, even if it means frequent stops and gettings-out to inspect on foot. That, is a lot quicker and...

You can listen to the voice narrative or read through the text below. Enjoy!   Being back at the fly camp after days of drifting through the bush is like being six years old again at the sweets counter in the corner café. There is suddenly lots to partake of – remnants of wine and snacks, a comfortable chair, a table (the food box lid),  shower water warmed over the fire, if you want, clean clothes (washed by the camp attendants and smelling of sunlight), even different clothes for sleeping in – and tweezers, for finally pulling out that...