07 Jul Growing Up Wild: Raising a Child in the Kruger Bush
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“Where do they all come from, Mom?”
Our first job as the new managers of Rhino Walking Safaris in late 2003 was relieving the chef and trails guide at Plains Camp while Rhino Post Safari Lodge was still being built.
School hadn’t yet started for the term and there simply was nowhere else for our seven-year-old son, Martin, to be. So, for a few precious weeks, he became the camp’s smallest – and most unofficial – human resident.
Strictly speaking, he wasn’t supposed to be there.
Children under twelve weren’t allowed to stay at Plains Camp. It is, after all, a walking safari camp. While Martin wasn’t booking in as a guest, I couldn’t help wondering what would happen if a guest, whose own child had been refused permission to stay, happened to see ours running around camp. I also remember thinking that if Martin ever decided to throw a spectacular tantrum, he would have the distinct upper hand.
Fortunately for me, he chose not to test my parenting skills.
He was on his best behaviour and took the instruction to be unheard and, when possible, unseen seriously.
While Gerrit disappeared into the bush each morning with guests, rifle over his shoulder, Martin would quietly occupy himself in the kitchen while I fried bacon and kneaded bread dough. He seemed perfectly content just being there, chatting away while I cooked. His stories were wonderfully important, and his questions endless.
When the guests were out on trail, we’d often sit with our feet dangling in the swimming pool while I peeled veggies in a stainless steel bowl for dinner and he swam lengths that were far shorter than he imagined. On hot afternoons we’d lie beneath the ceiling fan while I read to him until it was time for me to disappear back into the kitchen to prepare dinner.
Those are the memories that stay with me now.
Not the frantic days. The quiet ones.
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Every couple of days we’d drive into Skukuza to our office.
Calling it an office still makes me smile.
A converted shipping container hidden behind the administrative and technical hub of Skukuza, it had lights, air conditioning, a separate toilet and basin, a desk, computer, telephone, washing machine, tumble dryer and just enough room to keep Rhino Walking Safaris functioning. From that tiny container we interviewed staff, ordered food, organised building materials, tackled paperwork, did laundry and somehow managed the endless stream of jobs that accompanied building and opening a safari lodge.
Martin saw it rather differently.
His first great discovery was that he could climb onto the roof of the container and poke his head through the doorway to chat while I worked.
His second discovery was even better – a hole in the fence.
On the other side lay a maintenance yard full of graders, trucks and heavy earth-moving machinery.
Little boy heaven!
It’s probably too late for child welfare to come knocking on my door now, so I feel reasonably safe admitting that I did very little to discourage him. My instructions were simple enough.
“Don’t touch any levers.”
“Don’t press any pedals.”
“And definitely don’t turn any keys.”
Beyond that, he was left to conduct very important inspections of every machine in the yard.
It worked remarkably well for both of us.
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Almost every time we stopped outside the office gate, people would appear in numbers looking for work. Word had spread that a new lodge was opening and hopeful applicants somehow knew when we’d be there – or perhaps they were always there, watching and waiting. They’d arrive carrying handwritten CVs, certificates folded neatly into plastic sleeves, and enormous hope.
Martin watched this happening for several visits before finally asking,
“Where do they all come from, Mom?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” I answered. “I suppose they live somewhere around the park.”
He accepted that for a moment, then frowned.
“Yes… but how do they know we’re coming? They can’t just wait here all the time.”
I shrugged.
“Bush telegraph, I guess.”
At the time it was the easiest answer. Twenty-three years later, I’m still not convinced it was the wrong one. Even now, I’m not entirely sure how the bush telegraph worked.
Somehow, people just always knew.
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