Thursday 13 February 2025.
As I wake up, the sky stands tall above me, vast open, and full of promises. This is the trip I’ve been counting down for weeks. You see, word has just broken about the newest additions in the Mabuasehube region: a fresh set of lion cubs. My mission? To find these new additions. And on this adventure, I’ve invited André and Brenda to share it all with me.
Leaving the chaos of Johannesburg’s morning traffic, we briefly lost each other in the maze of lanes, only to find each other again somewhere between the busy interchanges. Soon enough, we settled into a westward rhythm, pointing our 4x4's noses towards the Kgalagadi. Past Coligny, the rain that threatened us since Johannesburg finally caught up, drenching the plains and narrowing the already tight N14 - wet, busy, and demanding.
Our first waypoint was Kuruman, at the well-loved Red Sands Country Lodge. This place is almost a rite of passage for anyone heading to the Kgalagadi. We arrived tired, set up camp, and let the heat and fire pull us into the first braai of the journey. Even with 40°C heat lingering into the night, the Kalahari sky gifted us a sunset so magnificent that words hardly do it justice. After a simple, satisfying meal, I wished my guests goodnight, knowing the day had drained them.
Friday 14 February 2025
As is tradition, I rose at 4am to have my quiet time with my heavenly Father, but the Kalahari had its own way of interrupting devotion. The sunrise spilled over the ridges, the earth stirred awake, and the birds offered a morning choir that felt like heaven brushing against the desert floor.
It was not long after, we hit the road to Twee Rivieren via Van Zylsrus. Shorter on paper, slower in reality. Dust clouds churned behind our tyres, forcing us into a staggered formation to spare the back vehicles. When the corrugations became unbearable, I called for tyre deflation over the two way radio, something every Kalahari traveller learns sooner than later.
In Askham, we treated ourselves to cake, tea, and coffee—well earned after two hours of dust storms. The hostess welcomed us with the warmth only these communities possess. Humble, heartfelt, and brutally honest. In my cup of tea, a small message waited: Job 23:10. After the last 18 months of difficult times and losing my corporate job after 17 years of faithful service, this verse struck deep.
Soon after, we arrived at Twee Rivieren. Both South African and Botswana border officials were flawless, fast, and friendly. With passports stamped, the excitement surged, we were finally entering the land of the black-maned Kalahari lions. The moment the gates opened, the heat hit us with a breath, like a person who had garlic the previous night breathing in your face: 40°C and rising, with a drought-stricken sky, stretching endlessly above.
Seeing the visible fatigue of my group, I encouraged them to rest for the afternoon. But my enthusiasm was impossible to contain. Like a five-year-old, I headed into the park alone, and the Kalahari rewarded me instantly. The dunes turning the sky into fiery red sheets of colour, it matches the perfect words why they call Mabuasehube in the east “red earth”, which is Senalonga langauge. Barking geckos sang their peculiar song, reminding me I had stepped into the ancient land of the Bushmen.
Near Leeuwdril, perched on a koppie, was one of the largest leopards I’ve ever seen. Majestic, unbothered, and overlooking the east towards Mabuashebe. For an hour he entertained us with his regal presence. Moments later, a female cheetah and her two cubs stalked a springbok herd, pure survival unfolding in front of us. Realising the gate’s closing time was creeping near, I reluctantly returned to camp, ending one of my most unforgettable days in the Kalahari.
Saturday, 15 February, 2025
I woke thid morning to thousands of birds singing. My body was tired, my soul even more so - but somehow the Kalahari knows how to strip away exhaustion in its own unique, sacred way. With scattered clouds, blue sky patches, and golden sun breaking from the east, we set our course for Nossob, our third waypoint before Mabua.
We left fairly early and stopped at Melkvlei for our first true Kalahari breakfast. As tradition dictates, I manned the breakfast pan. Peri-peri chicken livers, crispy bacon, cream-cheese eggs, toast, and homemade jam. A feast under the trees, but with a necessary warning: this picnic spot is unfenced, and lions often pass through for shade or water.
At Nossob, we arrived to a gathering of excited tourists at Marie se Gat, where lions had just been spotted. We set up a more comfortable camp, knowing we had two full days to rest before tackling the legendary Bosobologo trail. That night, the desert came alive. Roaring lions, jackals calling, barking geckos chirping, and ground squirrels with more attitude than size, wandering through camp saying hello to Overlanders . Walking through the white Kalahari sand, aware this land holds the highest puff adder population in Southern Africa, I was reminded of the Afrikaans singer Appel’s lyrics: “Afrika het ons nie nodig nie—ons het Afrika nodig.”
Africa whispers if you’re willing to listen. She speaks in the wind through the camelthorn branches. In the crackle of a bushveld fire beneath the night sky.
In the laughter of families picnicking under old trees. In the farmer kneeling in gratitude for overdue rain. And she cries with the jackals when the sun sinks behind the dunes.
16 February - Last day at Nossop.
The next morning, I woke to one of the most spectacular sunrises I have ever witnessed—deep blue skies brushed with gold, the distinct smell form the camelthorn trees, who were soaked with rain the previous night, and it’s silhouettes standing like sentinels. In that moment, I felt overwhelmingly blessed to call this continent of Africa home.
As the day settled into evening, thick northern clouds rolled in like a warning, heavy with the scent of rain. Yet even under the brewing storm, the Central Kalahari revealed an unexpected beauty: wide carpets of yellow flowers glowing against the red earth, almost tricking the eye into believing we were in Namaqualand. After exploring the park and sharing a well-earned lunch, our minds turned to the real purpose of this journey—the legendary black-maned lions of the Kalahari.
17 February — The Boso Trail
Before sunrise, the halogen beams of the Ford Ranger carved through the dawn, silhouetting us against a growing orange horizon. We packed up, mentally bracing for the Boso Trail. We knew it would challenge us, but we had no idea just how deeply the Kalahari would test our grit.
Ninety minutes in, we stopped to fit seed nets, shielding the engine bay from tall grass. To the east, the plains opened, and André finally captured "the shot", the one he had dreamed of for years. But the dust billowing from the Ranger smothered the Grenadier behind us, and soon Brenda was coughing, her voice turning hoarse. The Kalahari was already taking its toll. The dunes thickened. Those towing trailers struggled hardest; André had to deflate his tyres to nearly one bar to crawl through. Boso is a two-way trail, and the thought of an oncoming vehicle hurtling over a dune at high speed stayed in the back of my mind. Fresh tyre tracks wove unpredictable new paths, evidence of others who had chosen instinct over the official route.
The trail soon drew blood from us too. My water tank began leaking very badly. On a route where you must be completely self sufficient, losing 60% of your water feels like losing gold. With André keeping watch for predators, I tried everything to save the tank, but it was futile. The mood darkened.
Four hours in, we stopped at the famous burnt out vehicle, a stark reminder to those who underestimated this landscape in the past. Opening the back of my vehicle revealed chaos. Supplies tossed around as if inside a tumbling washing machine. Then came the next blow, the trail had destroyed my DC-DC charger. No charger meant no secondary battery. And no battery meant no power for the fridges. Dark clouds gathered. The air thickened. And then the sky fell open.
Relentless, violent rain pounded the desert. The trail turned into a river of mud from the sand. We crawled forward through wind, water, and mud. We finally reached Mabua around 15:00, only to learn that MAB2 had been double booked also. We were moved to MAB1. No A-frame, no shelter, no facilities. Not ideal with a woman already exhausted from the day’s hardships, and now falling ill. The storm showed no mercy. Brenda’s cough worsened into a visible chest infection, the cold and damp tightening its grip around her. We prayed the next day would bring sunlight, but the night brought something else.
Trying to make a camp fire, the calls of jackal echoed through my soaked pans. The salt pans swelled into lakes, reflecting flashes of lightning. Every hour deepened my concern, my secondary battery near dead, what about my food, my charger destroyed, my water diminished, and the storm refusing to let up.
By evening, a cold front clenched the Kalahari. We gathered around a struggling fire, trying to hold onto our spirits as rain hammered the campsite. After dinner, we surrendered early to the night—exhausted, wet, and uncertain. All night, raindrops drummed on the rooftop tent. Lightning flickered nonstop. At 4 AM the storm finally eased, but the morning sky remained black and swollen. Our spoor had vanished in the flood. We had fought the Kalahari, but it was clear now that the Kalahari had won. For the safety of the group, we made the call. We packed up in silence, very deprresed and headed toward Tsabong.
At the exit gate we received the news:Botswana had flooded during the night. Seventeen lives lost. In that moment, every hardship, every technical disappointment, every sacrifice felt justified. We had made the right decision.
And what of the young, newly identified Mabua black maned lion?
No - we never saw him.
But the Kalahari isn’t finished with us. And we aren’t finished with her. February 2026 we return, to see the young cub no longer a baby, but a bold growing toddler of the Red Sand Dunes.
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