Yesterday afternoon, we climbed into the little car, still coated in a fine layer of bush dust from our earlier outings, and made our way along the uneven, rutted roads that have always felt like part of the experience here. There is something familiar about the slow pace required to navigate these roads, as if the land itself is gently reminding us to take our time and pay attention. But this time, the roads told a slightly different story. During the nine months we were away, Marloth Park endured severe flooding, the kind that reshapes the landscape in undeniable ways. Many of the dirt roads we once drove without a second thought now bear the scars of rushing water, carved out and shifted, forcing detours and patience.
There is only one tarred road running through the residential area, Olifants Drive, a stretch that feels almost out of place in a setting that prides itself on remaining as natural as possible. The rest, nearly one hundred kilometers of gravel and sand, has always been intentionally left untouched. It is part of what makes this place what it is. Still, as we turned off toward the river, we found ourselves rerouted, adjusting our expectations as we followed a new path to reach Seekoei Road.
The drive itself was worth every bump and turn. As we approached the Crocodile River, that sense of anticipation settled in, the feeling that something remarkable could appear at any moment. We made our way to Two Trees, one of those simple yet magical spots that seems to hold its own energy. The landscape opened up before us, the river stretching wide, the opposite bank close enough to study yet far enough to maintain a sense of mystery.
We sat there for a while, saying very little, taking it all in. A few animals moved along the riverbank in the distance, and birds called out in a way that felt both familiar and welcoming. This place has not changed in its essence, even after the floods, even after our long absence. If anything, it felt as though it had simply continued, waiting patiently for us to return.
Later that evening, back at the house, we prepared a simple dinner, nothing elaborate, just something comforting after the day’s outing. We carried our plates out to the big table on the veranda, a space that has always been our favorite place to be. As the light began to fade, the bush came alive. One by one, our regular visitors appeared, some cautiously approaching, others more confident, as if they remembered us just as clearly as we remembered them.
We paused often between bites, watching them, smiling at their persistence and their curiosity. It felt grounding, this simple act of sharing space with the animals, of being present without expectation. After so much time spent traveling and the recent challenge of recovering from pneumonia, this moment felt like a deep exhale.
Now, with everything unpacked and put away, there is a sense of order that brings its own kind of peace. We no longer feel like we are in transition. Instead, we are settled, anchored in this place that continues to give us so much. As we move through these days, still regaining our strength, we are reminded that healing need not be rushed. Here, it unfolds naturally, just like everything else.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, June 15, 2016:
