The cry of the Kgalagadi
Two lions in a grassland close to Kwang
The word Kgalagadi originates from the Setswana word "Kgala," which means "thirst." The name indicates "a waterless place" or "the great thirst." Like the Makgadikgadi, the name refers to the region's extreme aridity, its lack of surface water, and the challenges of living in such an environment. Indeed, before humans colonised these parts, animals coped with the harshness of the habitat by migrating with the rain — something that’s impossible now, with farms, homesteads, villages and vet fences dotting the landscape. Like it is for the animals here, the Kgalagadi Transfrontier has evoked an unsatiated thirst in me for a long time.
Many years ago, I came across a striking image of a Kgalagadi lion taken by a southern African photographer. In those days, luminosity masking was a new concept, and the photographer had brought the colours in the image to life using this technique. I’ve seen plenty of lions since I saw that image, but something about its wild, untamed spirit kept the Kgalagadi at the back of my mind. It remained, for the better part of a decade, a habitat I wanted to visit, but didn’t know how to. Mata Mata, Rooiputs, Nossob, Polentswa - these were names of places in the transfrontier that confused me. I didn’t quite understand the map of this massive wilderness. Was I to visit the Mabua area or the riverbeds? How would I navigate the park? Could someone take me around? The questions were paralysing. As a pampered Indian boy, I chose more comfortable, guided African safaris instead.
Then, about seven years ago, I began to self-drive in Southern Africa. Showing myself around opened up a whole new world of possibilities. Suddenly, I didn’t need a guide. I could follow my instincts, lean on my knowledge of natural history and bide my time for sightings. Suddenly, I’d found a new way to enjoy myself in the wilderness.
The most famous sociable weavers’ nest along the Nossob
Over the years, my relationship with photography has changed. I have a relatively small audience for my photographs: friends, family, and the occasional visitor to this website. I have zero interest in photo contests. Photography is merely my means to engage with the wilderness. My priority isn’t to collect snapshots any more. I want to collect experiences. So, yes — I enjoy guided, photographic safaris. But there’s something about the investigatory reflex that camping and self-drive safaris trigger that makes me prefer self-driving over sitting in the back seat. Michael Easter describes the feeling perfectly in his book, Scarcity Brain.
Michael Easter, Scarcity Brain
“Sleeping in the dirt, being cold at night, eating crappy backpacking meals, and experiencing deep boredom all afternoon for something that may not pay off, although uncomfortable in the moment, makes the process more rewarding.”
Back to the Kgalagadi, though. After a few self-driving trips to Southern Africa, a visit to the Kgalagadi was once again salient in my mind. But as I’ve noted earlier, booking a trip to the Kgalagadi, especially as a foreigner, is a mission in itself. While my heart was always ready, my mind wasn’t.
Finally, three years back, I made up my mind to visit the Kgalagadi. I decided it’ll be part of my grand, post-15-year sabbatical from my current employers. My friend and colleague, Anil, was also set to join me. But then, the plans fell apart, and we decided that I’d spend my sabbatical in India and Southeast Asia instead. In 2024, Anil and I took a shorter trip to Botswana with my best friend, Anuroop, and my wife, Gayathri. As I was wrapping up that Botswana trip, I made up my mind that, come what may, 2025 would be my Kgalagadi year.
And so it was. I’ve never planned a trip as meticulously as I’d planned this trip. I learned about the characteristics of every campsite, every lodge, every riverbed, every wilderness camp. My phone had GPS locations of every special tree, each possible den or roost and every calcrete ridge. I read about the movements of leopards along the Auob and the Nossob. For a whole year, starting September 2024, I finetuned my plan to make the most of what would be three weeks in the park. In fact, I even booked activities outside the park to keep myself in the thick of action. As far as trips go, this would have been my magnum opus.
Meerkats at Kalahari trails
A ground agama
For a short while, the trip was everything it had promised to be. I’d planned to be on this trip with my friend, Nag, but he had a family emergency to attend to, and couldn’t join me at the start of the trip. Nag’s absence at the start of the trip meant that I had to embrace solitude for a few days — something my friends and family were apprehensive about, but I enjoyed.
Solitude and loneliness are two different things, though we use the words interchangeably. Loneliness is something that happens to you. Solitude is something we intentionally seek. Much as I enjoy being alone, I’ve not had prolonged spells of solitude where I could talk to myself, be free of influences and marinate in my thoughts. Back in 2019, I’d spent a couple of weeks by myself in Namibia. It was one of the most emotionally enriching trips I’ve made — away from the internet or any sort of connectivity, walking around with a camera in hand, or by myself at the steering wheel.
Those early days of Kgalagadi solitude felt like such a blessing. One day, I bumped into lions walking by a red dune. On another day, it was a brute of a leopard walking through the riverbed. I spent unhurried hours at waterholes, watching sandgrouse and cape turtle doves descend for a drink and then fly off. Stopping for common creatures yielded unexpected rewards. A pair of ostriches with a brood of chicks. Two strapping gemsbok bulls disrupted the calm of an otherwise peaceful herd by locking horns with each other. I got to spend a delightful morning with meerkats and a lazy, but fun afternoon with ground squirrels and eagle owls. Solitude, not loneliness. Something about being out there, with no connectivity, made me feel more alive, more connected to everything around me, more happy.
The classic Kgalagadi roadblock
A leopard walks down the Auob riverbed
There's surely something about the African wilderness that brings joy to my heart. I feel like I belong there. It doesn't matter what I see; it just feels like home. It’s one of those places where I can savour the true reward - being out there. Interestingly enough, solitude peaks my social skills. I enjoy being a loner. But in Africa, I initiate conversations when I meet people. I'm unafraid. I talk to strangers. I embrace obstacles and wrinkles in my plans with a “hakuna matata” (no worries) attitude. When I'm in the African bush, I'm probably the best version of myself on most days. It’s a privilege, I don’t take lightly. The first few days in the Kgalagadi gave me space to reflect on this privilege.
Soon, my friend, Nag, was also able to join me. Together, we headed to the most remote location of our journey - Grootkolk. This is a cabin in lion country, overlooking a floodlit waterhole, and a view of the plains. On his first afternoon, Nag and I saw a black maned Kalahari lion. The next morning, it was lions and a beautiful leopard. The busy afternoons at Polentswa and quiet nights at Grootkolk felt like a curtain raiser for what could be the most action-packed legs of our Kgalagadi adventure.
But a third of the way through my trip, tragedy struck. My father had been ill before the trip, but I’d seen him discharged and ensconced safely back home before I set out for South Africa. A few days into my journey, though, he got admitted into the hospital again. But I still wasn’t worried, because from the family’s perspective, it was only precautionary. The doctors would soon shift him into a private room, and he’d be back home, too. My wife said that she’ll handle the home front, while I can focus on the trip I’d emotionally invested myself in. That wasn’t to be. On the night of 7 September 2025, my father breathed his last, after having slipped into a coma the previous day. His body awaited me in the hospital’s mortuary.
My last night in the Kgalagadi
My dad’s passing brought a premature end to my time in the Kgalagadi. From planning game drives, my focus shifted to returning my rental car safely and getting on the flight back home. From counting lions, I counted hours to get back home, and to say goodbye to my dad’s body, hold my mom, hug my children and kiss my wife. Did it hurt like hell to leave a trip I’d planned for so long? Of course it did! But, as you may appreciate, I had other priorities overnight. I had to square the proverbial circle of life. I had to balance two kinds of sadness.
A part of me remains in the Kgalagadi, though. There’s an unfulfilled dream that I’ve left behind. The red dunes, the dust, the sour grass plains, the camelthorns, the waterholes - they aren’t academic concepts anymore. They’re a part of an incomplete love story. But some lovers are hard to get, aren’t they? Some endeavours aren’t meant to be easy. I reckon visiting the Kgalagadi is one such endeavour for me.
The Kgalagadi was once known as the Gemsbok National Park. Fittingly so.
Solitude is a great teacher. It helps you recognise the companionship that you enjoy the most. On the days when I was alone in the Kgalagadi, or enjoying a particularly special sighting in the park, I missed sharing the moment with Anuroop, Vihaan (my son), or Gayathri. Braais taste different with your loved ones. Campfires come alive with stories to share around them. Perhaps this curtailed trip was only meant as a prelude — a rehearsal for an even richer adventure, one where I return with Anuroop, my son Vihaan, Gayathri, or perhaps all of them. If something truly matters, it deserves patience.
I travel to places like the Kgalagadi, not because they provide the most photographic opportunities. If photos were what I was after, five days in the Maasai Mara would afford me more images than three weeks in the Kgalagadi. But I’m a glutton for punishment. I chose the blue and gold of the Kgalagadi over the greens of the Mara for a reason. As I mentioned earlier, I no longer collect photos. I’m collecting experiences.
So, I will wait. I will wait for the day I can return, better prepared and perhaps in the company of those I love. The cry of the Kgalagadi is still calling me. And one day, I know I will answer.
PS: I probably still have loads of images to process from the Kgalagadi. But somehow, I still experience a tinge of pain each time I look back at those photos. So, I’ll cut myself a processing rain check and slowly add more images as I feel upto it.