In the wild Karoo of South Africa, an explorer comes face-to-face with dangerous predators and forges a profound connection to the vast, unforgiving landscape.
The Toyota Land Cruiser trundled over rocky ground. Light spilled across the semi-arid landscape, slowly coaxing color from the earth as cool autumn air streamed through the game vehicle. Our guide, Roelof Wiesner, sat behind the wheel, his ears flushed as he scanned the bush, searching for the small herd of elephants that had retreated from the exposed river line into a gorge. The shady ravine that cut between two towering mesas was lush with foliage. Tightly packed jacket plum trees, common guarri, and a sprinkling of white stinkwood drew the herd here to feed. In other parts of South Africa’s Samara Karoo Reserve, beyond the gorge and riverbanks, forage for elephants was sparse.
I dismounted with two other guests and our tracker, Elroy Pietersen (known as Klippers), whose whooping laughter had stirred excitement in us earlier when we’d left Karoo Lodge. He was born on the land and had an intimate knowledge of every gully and jackal den, as well as of the creatures that thrived in this harsh environment. A few of us elected to cover a stretch of the climb up the mesa on foot, with Klippers, while others remained in the Land Cruiser. The vehicle crawled up the mountain pass behind us, and Roelof stopped periodically to share his knowledge of the fauna or point out leopard tracks. “It’s not surprising that there are leopard tracks on our dirt roads. Leopards, like other animals, often prefer the path of least resistance and use the jeep tracks at night,” he remarked.
It wasn’t long before Klippers’ keenly attuned eyesight picked out the elephants far below, camouflaged among the gray-green shrubs. A six-month-old calf was pressed tightly against its mum. The vehicle caught up to us and everyone stopped to watch. The sky had brightened and I glanced up periodically hoping to see the endangered Cape vulture. This mountainside would be a likely nesting site. After some time, our group of walkers continued along the dirt road cut into the side of the mountain. On our left was a wall of compact dirt with gnarled bushes and grass hugging its sides and on our right, a foliage-rich slope descending towards the valley. I lifted my head as we crested a rise in the road. I froze. A massive bull elephant stood just 30 meters ahead, blocking our path. His deep-set eyes locked onto ours, and my heart raced. “There’s an elephant,” I whispered urgently. The experience that followed was one I didn’t fully appreciate until later.
That evening, the memory of his imposing presence stayed with me as I sat near a crackling fire at the open-air boma. The soft, jovial voices of the cooks and waitrons carried on the night air, bringing comfort to this wilderness. I chatted with Samara’s owner and founder, Sarah Tompkins over dinner. She grew up in Johannesburg, Africa’s wealthiest city, and had lived in New York and Paris. Sarah never imagined that she and her husband, Mark, would one day settle and dedicate their lives to rewilding a portion of farmland in the semi-arid Karoo. This expansive region, characterized by scrub-filled plains beneath dolerite-capped buttes and mesas, spans roughly a third of South Africa’s land and multiple provinces.
Sarah spoke, in her effortlessly aristocratic manner, about the stories she and her husband Mark had heard of vast herds of springbuck that had crossed this semi-desert, in numbers that would have rivaled the wildebeest migration in the Serengeti. Her eyes sparkled as she recalled the stories that fuelled her vision for rewilding. South African writer Lawrence G Green referred to the phenomenon of these migrating springbuck (trekbokke) in his book Karoo.
“For three full days the trekbokke passed the village, and they left the veld looking as though it had been consumed by fire,” wrote Green. “Hunters thought the seemingly endless herds were infinite, so they blazed away. But the gun and the fence ripped the trekbok numbers to shreds before anyone could solve the mystery of their movements.
The last recorded migration was in 1896. But some Eastern Karoo farmers say there are still trekbokke, restless individuals that move from farm to farm. Maybe one day, in a time of unfenced mega-reserves, the great springbok waves will cross the Karoo again …”
These tales sparked a curiosity in Sarah. She and Mark visited a portion of the Great Karoo in the Eastern Cape province and said, “I fell completely in love with this land that I hadn’t known existed.” Shortly afterward, the couple purchased 11 farms, moved their family here, and began to work to restore the land to what it once was. “We started with this vision before the term ‘rewilding’ was coined.”
On the drive back to the lodge, I stared at the night sky alive with stars and thought about the elephant we’d come across that morning. At first sight, my mind raced to think of escape routes–just in case. Descending to the right would be no good, as the rest of the herd was there and the elephants knew how to move up and down. I dismissed the idea of scrambling up the slope on our left, although it may have been plausible. As we retreated slowly, Klippers radioed Roelof to bring the Land Cruiser. The male, known as Kahle, started moving steadily towards us. We had piqued his interest.
Roelof arrived. We quickly got into our protective metal cage. He began to reverse down a portion of the mountainside track in low-range gear with impressive skill. His gaze was steady as he looked over his shoulder. It was too steep to descend without the extra traction and the track was too narrow to turn around. For the first few minutes, Kahle kept moving towards us. He matched his pace to ours, making sure we kept moving back. “Even if we could go faster now, the worst thing I could do is race away, because elephants are more likely to chase you then.”
My knuckles were white as I gripped my seat. I remembered how a bull elephant in musth used his tusks to lift the front of a game vehicle in Pilanesberg Game Reserve. Roelof was exceedingly calm as he drove backward for ten minutes before the road widened enough to turn the Land Cruiser around. “Rangers need to be aware of subtle signs and body language and always err on the side of caution. Unfortunately, some rangers get too close to animals and don’t pay attention. That’s when there can be trouble.”
We didn’t reach the top of the mesa that day. A few days later, we returned to explore its unusual topography. I expected it to be barren. Instead, we found a grassy plain, alive with zebra and wildebeest. One wildebeest had met its demise the night before and was being slowly feasted on by a pride of lions. Seeing these members of the Big Five was impressive. However, this didn’t lessen my love for our other sightings and encounters. Watching baboons scuttling across a riverbed, giraffes feed nonchalantly on thorn trees, or a red hartebeest canter off, before stopping to look at us from over its shoulder. I’d seen a flock of flamingos flying against the backdrop of mountains and a kori bustard–Africa’s largest flying bird–take flight in the evening light.
In the Karoo, there’s an intangible stillness that runs deeper than the relative quiet found elsewhere in nature. This is particularly true during the heat of the day when creatures hunker down and wait for the evening cool. During this time, visitors often retreat to their suites or balconies or head to the lodge’s pool, library, bar, or billiard room. I was drawn to the pool and dipped in before a late afternoon game drive. I gazed across the lawn where a family of warthogs were grazing in the shade and thought about this area’s distinctiveness. Samara is situated in the Maputaland-Pondoland-Albany Hotspot, one of the world’s most biologically diverse regions with a unique climate, geology, and vegetation, which differs from the more familiar game landscape of the Kruger National Park, where open savannahs and dense woodland is common.
Although Samara has reintroduced all of Africa’s Big Five – lion, leopard, buffalo, rhino, and elephant – the reserve is perhaps best known for its work with cheetahs. In December 2003, a female cheetah named Sibella, along with two male cheetahs (all three rescued from conflict with farmers) were brought to Samara. These were the first to roam the Karoo in 130 years. Later we’d be going on a guided cheetah-tracking walk. Hopefully, we’d find one of Sibella’s granddaughters with a litter of cubs.
We drove from the lodge to the plains side of the reserve, spotting an endangered black rhino in the distance. A herd of springbuck galloped across the open ground at a terrific pace. Their mid-run leaps were full of vitality and made me smile as we watched. The sun was starting to dip as Klippers slipped off the front of the vehicle where he’d been positioned in the tracker’s seat and trotted ahead to see if he could spot the cheetah. He’d had the aid of radio telemetry to pinpoint the general area that they were in, however, that was no guarantee of success. They could be lying under a bush, well camouflaged, right under our noses.
The light washed the land with a warm, syrupy hue. Klippers searched with determination. All we could see was the expansive Nama Karoo veld (field) with scattered clumps of renosterbos (rhino bush). As the pale pink of dusk began to settle, Klippers motioned that he had found them. We followed him eagerly on foot. In single file, we walked as quietly as we could across the ground. We wove between dry, prickly shrubs. The light was fading quickly.
The ground dipped a little and we entered a clearing where Sibella’s granddaughter lay with her offspring. A slight breeze tugged at my hair as I stood in awe, feeling privileged to be here. The mother had her back towards us and was unperturbed by the clicking sound of camera shutters. One of the cubs watched us carefully, his tail twitching. He sat up as his sibling pressed its body into the mother’s face. She began grooming the little one’s chest in a soothing, methodical manner. Fascinated, I stood still wishing I could pause time and the coming dark. The cubs played for a while before the mother got up. She stood, sniffed the air, and listened. Then she made her way into the thicket, cubs in tow.
It’s not only its cheetah conservation but Samara’s entire 25-year journey that showcases a remarkable commitment to conservation. “We have a 100-year plan,” said Isabelle Tompkins Pieters, daughter of Samara founders Sarah and Mark. Isabelle lives on the reserve with her husband and manages Samara’s strategy. We were sitting on the stoep (veranda) of Karoo Lodge, which was once her home. As ceiling fans swung lazily overhead in the afternoon heat, we chatted about Samara’s journey to becoming part of The Long Run—a global organization upholding rigorous ecotourism standards. Other members include EcoCamp Patagonia in Chile’s Torres del Paine National Park and Nay Palad Hideaway on Siargao Island in the Philippines.
“Samara has always had a focus on impact and doing things right,” explained Isabelle, her porcelain skin and blonde hair belying the fact that she lives in such a harsh climate. “When we found out about the Long Run it was quite a revelation for us because it pulls all these ideas together and puts them into a framework known as the ‘4Cs’, namely conservation, community, culture, and commerce.
We considered how we can ensure that this lodge has a positive impact on the community, rather than a negative one. Ditto for the cultural perspective. For instance, we didn’t build a lodge that would be more suited to Mexico.” As a result, the lodge design reflects the Karoo heritage, with features like locally made woodwork and outdoor showers crafted by an 80-year-old stonemason passing on his skills to his son. Historical findings, such as Stone Age sites and San rock art, also enrich Samara’s cultural story. “You can’t have true sustainability if one aspect falls over. If you don’t have community buy-in or you don’t have commercial sustainability, you can’t fund the conservation.”
That evening, I reclined on the four-poster bed in my suite. My feet brushed gently over the colorful mohair blanket at the foot of the bed. It was made locally, from the fine fleece of Angora goat kids. Its soft, yet ticklish, texture was a comforting reminder of my childhood. My grandmother had owned one of these that she’d throw over her lap as she crocheted. I sipped tea from a Mervyn Gers’ mug as I thought about my experience here. The game drives had been extraordinary. However, the guided game walks had left the deepest impression on me. The scent of fynbos, the crunch of the earth beneath our feet, and the thrill when Klippers discovered a tuft of lion hair—connected me to the land intimately.
Witnessing cheetahs thrive again in this wilderness after a century of absence filled me with hope. I felt a profound respect for the people working to restore balance to a fragile ecosystem. The Tompkins family and those like Roelof and Klippers dedicate their lives to intimately understanding and working with, rather than against, the natural world. I felt a sense of gratitude and the belief that, perhaps, the Earth’s wild places still have a chance.
