Night Camp – on the ground in Singita Kruger National Park

It’s not often you find yourself in the middle of nowhere, in the dead of night, surrounded by a clan of hyenas – all glinting eyes in the blackness beyond vision. And when you do, it’s only natural to wonder how you got there.

Luckily, for me, it wasn’t through blunder, ignorance, or misfortune – quite the opposite. I was on a Night Camp deep in Singita’s Kruger National Park concession. As far from everything as I’ve probably ever been, scratching an itch I can only hope to soothe again someday: a yearning for total, stripped-back reclusion in the wild.

After our morning game drive and lunch beneath the watchful gaze of Sweni’s resident simians, we set out with our guide, Bernard, to an area known as the Central Depression – a large, flat expanse dotted with shrubs and trees, ideal for wildlife sightings. Elephants, buffalo, warthogs, and impalas roamed the tall grass, and we saw birds, bugs, and antelope so numerous I can hardly recall all their names. It was so pleasantly overwhelming, and we drank it in along with the last of the winter sunlight.

Our last stop before camp was at a stretch of dry, patchy dirt littered with tracks and bones, and the occasional mineral or rudimentary axe head, chipped from ancient rock. Holding one in your hand is a reminder of how unaccustomed we’ve become to fending for ourselves – and how recently we stopped. It’s a freeing, fearful feeling to be so removed from civilisation. Way out there, so exposed, there’s nothing of modern comfort to shield or distract you. It really puts things into perspective.

At dusk, we drove a short stretch to our campsite, hidden in a copse of thornbush and leadwood trees. Our arrival was heralded by a chorus of croaks, chirps, and cracking twigs, and our other chaperone for the evening, Otto, who was waiting to welcome us.

The campsite is simple: three canvas tents arranged in a semicircle, a table and two game vehicles completing the loose loop, and a firepit with low camping chairs in the centre. The only artificial light came from a standing spotlight by the table, used to prep and serve dinner, and there were unlit lanterns. But the night sky, more diamonds than darkness, and the glow of the fire were enough for us to see each other and the silhouettes of distant hills and trees.

I was there on a photographic trip, and we’d been busy over the past few days, scouting and shooting across the concession. It sits in the Krugers’ southeast, on South Africa’s border with Mozambique, which we’d walked along atop a ridge the previous day, looking out, like Mufasa, at all the light touches. Aside from lodges Sweni and Lebombo, there are no signs of human life or settlement, save for the fence that delineates this land from that. And it’s enormous – 33,000 acres in total, which means very little as numbers and words, but alludes to how there's always something new to see and somewhere new to explore. Raw and lush with life.

We eventually settled around the fire for some much-needed stillness. At first, it was uncomfortable, but the bush has a way of breaking down walls, and as we thawed in the warmth, so did our reservations. We spoke deep into the night, laughing at Otto’s accounts of birding trips with his friends, whom we also came to know, transfixed by Bernard’s tales of his travels across cultures and continents, his deep knowledge on just about every topic, and the contagiously dry wit and passion for nature they share.

Dinner was a delicious oxtail stew followed by malva pudding, a local type of sticky toffee pudding, served with cream, prepared by the lodge chefs and warmed over the fire, and it warmed us from within.

Now and then, we’d hear a grunt or groan, or roar or trumpet, and quickly turn to ask the guides what it was. “Elephant,” they’d say, or “leopard.” Or some other magnificent creature, anywhere from a few hundred metres to several kilometres away. The whole night, a Pearl-spotted owlet sang its sweet rising song above us, like a staircase of high-pitched, drawn-out whistles. We took turns to emulate it and, inspired by Otto, pledged to start birding.

Later, with eyelids too heavy to hold open, we reluctantly sauntered off to bed. As I walked to my tent, I forgot that just a few steps behind it, the hyenas were still waiting in the hope of polishing off any scraps left behind. I stood for a moment, staring out into the dark, humbled and smiling. With the guides around, I felt completely safe.

I hopped atop my stretcher – one of two in each tent – in a thick, warm, enveloping sleeping bag, with a small headlight, a bottle of sparkling water, and bug repellent on the table beside me, and I remembered where I was. Not just in the wilderness, but in a Singita wilderness. Even out in the sticks, they hold you so thoughtfully. I wish I could say I stayed awake to listen to the sounds of the Kruger, but I fell straight into a deep, deep sleep.

When I stumbled out of my tent the next morning, the fire was going again, a pot of coffee brewing over it. Breakfast was a simple vetkoek jaffle, a closed toasted sandwich with a curried mince filling. We all fought for the last one, then sat in silence for as long as we could, not wanting to leave and break the spell. Just about all anyone said before we headed back to the lodge was, “Can’t we stay another night?” And when we had to accept the answer, “When can we come back?”

I’ve been a camper all my life, in remote mountains and desert stretches where you can’t see or hear a thing of the world we know. The further out, the better. But nothing has ever come close to Night Camp.

Maybe it was the company, or the liveliness of our surroundings. Maybe the food, the care, the comfort – offered even in the middle of nowhere. Or maybe it was simply the realness of the experience: the excitement, the joy, the connection; the fear, peace, novelty, and thrill. I’d never felt these things so clearly before. And maybe that’s the wildest part of it all.