The newly refurbished andBeyond Phinda Forest Lodge in KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa. In the foreground is its library and art gallery, connected by a walkway to a communal fire pit inspired by a bird’s nest. Photography courtesy of Phinda Forest Lodge. There’s a notable stillness in the bush on our first morning game drive through Phinda Private Game Reserve, in the province of KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa. Thick fog blankets parts of the 30,000-hectare reserve, making it easy to miss the animals lurking in the dense thicket. But fog is no obstacle for our tracker, Mr T (his full name, like the man himself, is a mystery), in his seat atop the bonnet of the open-top Toyota.
Mr T exudes an enigmatic allure. All I’ve managed to learn about his backstory is that he has been working at Phinda for longer than I have been alive. The specifics were left unsaid, but during those 30 or so years, he has acquired a sixth sense for the bush, first made apparent the previous night when he spotted three chameleons with just the beam of a torch. I notice this again as I observe how he silently surveys his surroundings. “For Mr T, reading the tracks in the morning is like reading the newspaper,” guide Josie Romer-Lee says. “He looks for any footprints, a sign of where the animals might have been overnight. What he discovers then dictates our day.”
Romer-Lee is from Van Reenen, a small town about five and a half hours’ drive from Phinda. She has been working as a guide for the past two and a half years, yet generously shares her enthusiasm like someone on their first day of the job. Her passion for and innate knowledge of the bush were instilled in her from a young age, she says, as her mother was also a guide. Romer-Lee skilfully identifies the various bird calls around us: the tinkling sound of a bushshrike just waking up and the harsh cackle of the hadada ibis.
“Flying chilli,” Mr T abruptly interjects, pointing to a southern red-billed hornbill perched in a tree above. It’s the first time he has spoken since we left earlier this morning. Romer-Lee and the rest of the travellers discuss the bird’s role as Zazu in “The Lion King”, but my attention drifts to the landscape.
The fog begins to thin and a hazy orange glow ascends from the horizon. We pass an earthy aroma of sage and wormwood that belongs to the curry bush, then duck our heads to avoid being pricked by acacia thorns. Suddenly, Mr T’s arm jolts up as the car comes to a halt. This time, there is no flying chilli. Rather, we are face to face with a startled lone bull elephant. Our tracker and guide exchange nothing but a brief look, signalling Romer-Lee to slowly roll the car back to allow Mr T to climb into the passenger seat inside. He radiates the same calm he had when he boarded the vehicle earlier, despite the two-ton mammal watching his every move. There’s a stillness again as we observe the now comfortable elephant take a morning dust bath.
While it feels like great luck, encounters like this aren’t rare at Phinda, they’re expected. The reserve is renowned for its diverse habitats, which span savanna, woodlands, wetlands and about a quarter of the world’s remaining sand forest, the last in Africa. This diversity provides a rich breeding ground for wildlife, supporting more than 900 species of plants and animals, including 436 bird species. According to andBeyond’s conservation manager for South Africa, Dale Wepener, these numbers are growing. He tells me that a scientist who specialises in fungi was at Phinda the previous month and discovered what could be a new species of mushroom. “It’s the first time it has been spotted growing on our reserve,” Wepener says.
Discovering a new species is one of the most significant markers of achievement for the conservationists at Phinda, Wepener says, citing 2018’s discovery of the Phinda button spider as among the most exciting finds. As the name suggests, the spider is exclusive to the area and is believed to be the largest widow spider in the world.
The growing ecosystem makes it harder to believe that just over 30 years ago, before Phinda Reserve existed, the landscape had been degraded by pineapple plantations, cattle, sisal growing and game farms. Phinda was established in 1991 by a group of conservationists associated with Conservation Corporation Africa (CC Africa), which later became known as andBeyond, their aim being to conserve the land by reintroducing native wildlife believed to have roamed the area a century prior. CC Africa’s strategy was to do this through a low-impact, high-yield tourism model. Walter Zulu, a staff member who had royal lineage, worked with the team during its early stages to build trust within the local communities of the Umkhanyakude region, which incorporates Makhasa, Mnqobokazi and Nibela, as the country transitioned away from apartheid. Part of establishing this trust was ensuring that the communities would benefit from the conservation and tourism model. In 1992, the group established a non-profit community development partner named Africa Foundation to oversee the planning and management of local projects and fundraising efforts. These ongoing projects focus on health, education and employment, based on needs expressed by community leaders. Africa Foundation achievements include the establishment of Mduku Clinic, a dedicated 24-hour healthcare facility; Nkomo Ark, a safe haven for more than 500 children affected or orphaned by HIV/AIDS; and Nkomo Primary School, all of which border Phinda reserve. Last month, the foundation rebranded as Wild Impact, to mark its expansion beyond Africa into Asia and South America.
Despite Walter Zulu’s status and pivotal role in the early stages of developing the Phinda model, his name is not the most famous one associated with its inception. That distinction belongs to Zibane Mazibuko, a poacher caught with a dead nyala antelope on Phinda Reserve. Mazibuko was apprehended during the construction of Phinda Forest Lodge, a project that initially faced challenges due to strict environmental standards. When no construction company agreed to take on the project, andBeyond took matters into its own hands. Instead of facing legal consequences, Mazibuko was brought into the project by tribal decision. The construction was a labour-intensive process. Since vehicles were prohibited on site, everything had to be transported by hand or wheelbarrow, with concrete mixed by hand. Mazibuko’s role was significant: he produced more than 300,000 bricks for the build.
The lodge’s eco-conscious design blends Japanese-style organic minimalism with Zulu artistry, accentuated by a recent refurbishment by the multidisciplinary design practice Fox Browne Creative and architect Jack Alexander. Its treehouse-like suites, set in private areas of the sand forest, now feature wraparound floor-to-ceiling windows, allowing guests to watch nyala and tiny suni antelopes grazing below. Interiors were a big focus of the refresh, and each suite has been enriched by earthy hues and hanging lights inspired by traditional Zulu necklaces. Geometric Wolkberg bathroom tiles decorate the bathroom, where each of the original freestanding bathtubs has been wrapped in woven cane.
The refurbishment also introduced a serene spa, gym and infinity pool, along with a library and art gallery. The Zulu-Japanese design seamlessly defines the latter space, which has high beamed ceilings and hanging lights made out of traditional Zulu grass brooms sourced from the local Zamimpilo Community Market. The gallery showcases woodcuts and prints by the South African artist Cecil Skotnes, depicting the story of the Zulu king Shaka’s assassination by his half-brothers in 1828. From the gallery, a path leads to an expanded dining area, which includes a deck carefully built around torchwood trees (all of the buildings were carefully placed so that no tree thicker than a person’s wrist needed to be cut down).
On our third day, I pull up a seat under one of the tables in the shade, wary of the vervet monkeys above. I order a salad made with seared kudu, a large woodland antelope native to the area. It presents like beef and has a similar consistency. As I’m finishing, Romer-Lee arrives to share the plan for our next game drive. “The lion cubs we heard the other night have been spotted eating a kudu,” she says. “We’ll head straight there.”
On arrival, there isn’t much of the kudu left to see besides its spiral-shaped horns and the remains of a head. The presentation had been much more appetising when it was on a plate. One of the six lion cubs lay on its back, sleepily rolling from side to side, suggesting it had been a long afternoon of eating.
Later, we drive onto the open plains, eager to spot our first rhino. At Phinda, the rhino population is dehorned to deter poachers. “It’s not the answer, nor is it cost-effective,” Wepener concedes. To dehorn a rhino costs about $6,500, he points out, so at best, the practice is a temporary fix. And yet it has had a positive impact. A state reserve near to Phinda that doesn’t dehorn its rhinos is believed to have lost more than 300 of the endangered animals to poaching last year. The last rhino poaching at Phinda, on the other hand, was back in 2019.
As the sun sets, I spot a lone creature with a prehistoric-looking head that seems disproportionately large for its body. Against the backdrop of orange and peach hues, it appears almost like a mirage. As we approach, it looms nearly as large as our 11-seater vehicle. It’s a white rhinoceros, ambling through the knee-length grass, equally unfazed by us and the red-billed oxpecker catching a ride on its back.
Later in the evening, Romer-Lee parks under a Lebombo wattle tree to set up a picnic. She is busy telling us the story of how she once climbed this same tree years ago to escape a pride of lionesses and spent two hours perched in its branches until the coast was clear. Mr T listens quietly with a warm smile, although he’s likely heard the tale before. A rustle catches my attention. At first, I dismiss it as an intrusive thought, my senses having been on high alert since our arrival. We clink glasses just as two white rhinos appear near the base of the tree, mere footsteps away from our group. Instinctively, I move to run, but Romer-Lee calmly suggests we stay put. The rhinos, gentle and with relatively poor vision, graciously walk past. Then there follows an overwhelming stillness.
Overjoyed by the intimacy of the experience, we can’t stop talking about it on the drive back. Instead of retreating to our king-size beds, we arrive at a candlelit campsite to sleep under the stars — a popular activity offered by the lodge. As night falls, we huddle around the open fire, warmed by Amarula liqueur-spiked hot chocolate.
“So, how old exactly are you?” a familiar, soft voice asks. Mr T’s simple question opens a space for me to peel back layers. He speaks of his family, his son, who is the same age as me, and his grandchildren eagerly waiting for him in his nearby community. He reveals he was an anti-poacher before joining Phinda. I offer him a drink, but he tells me he doesn’t drink alcohol. Mr T isn’t shy, I realise. He is a product of his environment, not giving away too much until trust is established.
I stare up at the stars. Again, a stillness. But not a silence. I can hear a hyena in the distance and the pop and crackle of the fire. The stillness is more of a feeling, one so relaxing that the idea of being surrounded by deadly beasts deep in nature doesn’t stop my heavy eyelids from closing. And with that, I drift off to sleep.
