Continuity is more than the thread that connects events; it’s the commonalities between species. In this volume of the Singita magazine, we explore this theme through the passing on of knowledge, traditions, and experiences across generations and between all forms of life. The ripples we leave as we move through the world, through life, through time.
continuation
volume 8
contents
welcome note
inspiration
bridging the divide
nature’s constants
it takes a village
experience
are we lost? picking up where I left off
where the water leads
wisdom the serious purpose of play
the fruits of future trees
the past lives on
human / nature
welcome
It’s important to look back,
to remember and learn
from those who inhabited this Earth before us.
And to look forward,
knowing that others will one day do the same.
What legacy do you want to leave for them?
Continuity is more than the thread that connects events; it’s the commonalities between species.
In this volume of the Singita magazine, we explore this theme through the passing on of knowledge, traditions, and experiences
across generations and between all forms of life.
The ripples we leave as we move through the world,
through life, through time.
We hope you enjoy, The people of Singita
as we move through the world
we all leave ripples
inspiration
inspiration
Borders are imaginary lines between places, reinforcing abstract divides
They separate by geography and categorise by place
bridging
the divide
Bound by barriers we cannot see,
we live our lives largely within them
But what if these invented boundaries were removed,
or, rather, suspended
in pursuit of something bigger? What would that mean for conservation?
inspiration
This question has been asked and answered in some ways by the Transfrontier Conservation Areas of Africa. These are bordlerless, transnational wildlife reserves that connect protected natural habitats across politically drawn lines, dropping fences, literally and figuratively, in the pursuit of furthering conservation across the continent. This future- and forward-thinking initiative, embraced by numerous countries, links tracts of protected land together through cross-national collaboration, which furthers conservation by allowing nature to revert to what it was before humans ever intervened. The Kavango Zambezi Transfrontier Conservation Area spans five countries — Angola, Botswana, Namibia, Zambia, and Zimbabwe — and is home to the world’s
largest contiguous elephant population (roughly 220,000 to 250,000 African elephants). The Great Limpopo Transfrontier Conservation Area spans South Africa, Mozambique, and Zimbabwe — a massive tract of nearly 100,000 square kilometres, encompassing private and communal lands, of which the Kruger National Park is a key component. But if these borders were abstract to begin with, why is this so important? The borders may have been constructed in theory, but the fences are real. They prevent animals from following ancient migration pathways, trodden into the earth long before man erected them. Their removal allows large mammals like elephants and zebras to traverse ancient seasonal grazing and watering paths without artificial fence lines,
Previous spread Transcending political boundaries in pursuit of a greater purpose, borderless parks prove the power of transnational collaboration. Above Removing fences allows migratory animals to resume ancient passageways.
inspiration
there is a future
in which borders
don’t divide
restoring patterns that had a purpose and a place. This, as it always is in nature, has multifarious, knock-on benefits beyond facilitating the freedom of wildlife to roam naturally. By connecting previously segregated populations of wildlife, genetic diversity is increased, strengthening long-term species robustness and, in turn, survival. Free to move, wildlife can also travel to different terrain in times of drought, softening the blow of climate change and an ever-shifting environment. This also places less stress on the landscape, as animals organically move from one to the next as needed, preventing overgrazing or habitat destruction. A unified approach to conservation benefits
more than just the wildlife and landscapes; it benefits those who work for their protection by expanding high-value eco-tourism and creating sustainable economies for communities in hospitality, guiding, and park administration, in turn directing conservation revenue towards funding local community infrastructure, schools, and health clinics. These vast, multi- country wilderness regions become seamless destinations, encouraging people to experience the beauty of an interlinking ecosystem of collaboration. This spirit of cooperation has the power to filter even further into the fabric of bureaucracy, encouraging partnership between governments, establishing trust, and building a future in which borders don’t divide.
Above Beyond the environmental benefits of transnational parks are numerous others that extend into human economies and systems.
ancient pathways,
somehow remembered
inspiration
nature’s
constants
Repeating themes and patterns across the world
remind us not only that there is infinite order in nature, but of the connections that bind all things
inspiration
Some things echo across
every corner of existence: the veins of a leaf seen in the tributaries of a river, the rhythm of ripples across water repeating as stripes across a hide, spirals in something as small
as a snail shell mirrored in galaxies.
While designed for efficiency,
with function at their core, there’s something infinitely poetic
about these recurring patterns in nature.
Constants across species,
surfaces,
continents,
dimensions.
Rooted in science,
and determined by universal forces,
evolutionary efficiencies, and mathematical rules.
But when we see and notice them, the feeling goes beyond simple rational appreciation. What we feel is close to familiarity.
Reassurance.
Recognition.
inspiration
frac.tals (noun)
infinitely complex,
self-similar structures
Zoomed in, the veins of a tiny leaf carry what’s needed to all parts of the plant, in the same way as the veins of an insect’s wing, or the branches of a tree. On a grander scale, complex river systems carry water to landscapes in need of satiation. The forks of lightning crack across the sky, striking the ground at random, balancing the Earth’s electrical circuit and converting atmospheric nitrogen into compounds that feed plants. Patterns that echo across the world at different scales are a lesson in stepping back to see the bigger picture.
where smaller parts
mirror the same structure
across different scales
tes.sel.la.tions (noun) gapless arrangements of shapes
that tile a flat or curved surface
completely
In nature, gaps mean weakness and wasted material. Tessellations provide functional solutions through geometry. The structural solidity of a tortoise shell that expands in strength — hard, enduring, and yet intricately decorative. Beehives that maximise material use are both smart and visually soothing. Earth cracks as it dries, distributing stress across the surface and minimising energy. Efficient and yet steadying in its visual repetition.
spi . rals (noun)
curved patterns that expand
or contract
around a central point
Artists have been inspired by the Fibonacci sequence for centuries. The golden ratio. Rooted in efficiency. Optimising growth, space, and defence. A physical and geometric solution to the challenges of expansion and motion. But also endlessly beautiful to the eye. A glimpse of the eternal, a line that continues on, expanding outward to infinity. A snail’s shell grows with it, maintaining its integrity and proportional strength, so it never has to find a new home; plants arrange seeds and petals in intersecting spirals to ensure equal exposure to light. A pattern in perpetual pursuit of balance.
rip.ples (noun) disturbance patterns that transfer energy
through fluid or solid surfaces
over rhythmic intervals
Waves across water, and skin. Energy in motion, never lost, merely moving. Wind creates waves across water and sand. The pattern on a zebra’s coat forms through much the same process as a ripple — one is chemical, one is mechanical. A simple formula that gives rise to complex biological patterns. Science, but also art.
energy in motion,
never lost,
merely moving
inspiration
it takes
a village
Having a child is perhaps the greatest act of hope for the future.
Singita Lowveld Trust is committed
to ensuring each has the opportunity to grow, thrive, and realise their full potential.
inspiration
Humans in the Lowveld The area of South Africa we now call the Greater Kruger Region has a long human history. Our early ancestors lived here well over a million years ago, and ancient hunter-gatherers left traces in stone tools, bones, and rock art. Later, Bantu-speaking Nguni farmers migrated into the region, bringing livestock, agriculture, and ironworking. Over the past few hundred years, VaTsonga and Shangaan peoples have become deeply established across the Lowveld and remain central to its communities today. This is only a glimpse of a rich and fascinating history, and the details of individual lives are largely lost to us. But even this brief glimpse shows that human and natural history have always been intertwined. We have depended on this landscape, adapted to it and, in turn, changed it. Conservation here, therefore, cannot focus solely on wildlife and wilderness. To care for an ecosystem is also to care about the people who live within it — their histories, aspirations, and the conditions in which future generations will grow. This understanding sits at the heart of Singita’s approach to community collaboration.
The Soil of Prosperity Having a child is perhaps the greatest act of hope for the future: a belief in what is possible, and an opportunity to bring new ideas into the world that will shape the path towards change. Yet across much of the continent, and in many of South Africa’s rural areas, limited access to funding, resources, and support can hinder the potential of younger generations. The foundations of prosperity and progress are often laid in the earliest years, shaped by education and environment. Research suggests that the first five years of life are a period of extraordinary brain development. During this critical phase, executive functions like self-control, working memory, and cognitive flexibility develop rapidly, supporting school readiness and future learning and development. Today, many children lack the early learning opportunities they need to thrive. Recognising the crucial role Early Childhood Development (ECD) plays in shaping children’s futures, Singita Lowveld Trust (SLT) is committed to expanding access to it.
inspiration
From Whence We Came & Where We’re Going Founded in 2009, SLT’s ECD programme supports the physical, nutritional, developmental, health, and safety needs of children from birth to age five in the communities neighbouring Singita’s Sabi Sand and Kruger National Park concessions. As of 2026, the programme supports 27 ECD centres across 13 villages in the Greater Kruger Region, reaching just over 3,000 children each year. But this work isn’t only about what happens inside the ECD centre. It’s also about what happens around it. A Model of Shared Custodianship “We want to understand the spaces where we work so we can learn and make sure what we’re doing is actually impactful,” says Linky Nkuna, Singita’s Community Partnerships Programme Manager in the region. “When we started the programme, we wanted to help children but completely overlooked their parents.” If a child receives early development support for a few hours a day, but that support isn’t extended into the home or falls away after graduating from the programme, where does that leave them? For the practitioners working within these centres, parental engagement is therefore an important part of the picture.
“Parents value ECD Centres as a safe place where their children can learn, grow, and be cared for while they attend to daily responsibilities,” says Shirley Nkuna, an ECD trainer who supports practitioners through training, coaching, and mentorship. “One area the programme continues to strengthen is parent participation in centre activities and meetings, helping families become more active partners in their children’s early learning and development.” The challenge, then, isn’t simply to encourage parents to become more involved, but to shift the understanding of what an ECD centre is for: from somewhere children go to simply be cared for while their parents are busy, to a place where they learn, develop, and build foundations that can be strengthened at home. “We need parents to work with us,” says Linky — a realisation that’s beginning to shape how the programme thinks about its future. This means changing not only how parents participate, but where responsibility for early development is understood to sit. “It’s never just about the child.” “The biggest opportunity,” she says, “is to reconvene. Simple, basic workshops with parents, in practice. If we can get that right, automatically the ECD space will change. Then it will do what we believe it can do. We’re constantly piloting new initiatives and learning as we go.”
inspiration
The Path Ahead Early development cannot begin and end at the doors of ECD centres. It’s shaped by the people, places, and opportunities that surround them. The next phase is therefore about strengthening the people and systems around children in the ECD programme. This entails continuing to build strong networks of practitioners, mentors, and caregivers; encouraging local youth to see ECD as a viable career pathway; and developing the leadership, governance, and monitoring systems needed to sustain quality as the programme grows. At the heart of this ambition is an open-source ECD good-practice model that can be shared across the continent, allowing lessons learned in one community to inform and strengthen others. “We’re in talks with local communities and parents about how we can introduce the programme meaningfully in Rwanda,” says Angela Shillan, Singita’s Conservation Manager. More than a million years ago, people lived in this landscape. They moved through it, depended on it, adapted to it, and left traces of their lives behind. Generations came and went, cultures changed, and the relationship between people and the natural world continued to evolve. Today, we are simply another chapter in that long story, and the responsibility sits with us to adequately prepare those who will fill its future pages.
experience
experience
are we
lost? Zimbabwean writer Jackie Chikambure reflects on returning to a home she thought she knew
after years away
experience
“Are we lost?” I fought the urge to ask the polite driver from Singita who’d come to pick me up. He reminded me of someone from one of my favourite British TV shows, proper and poised, with a quiet knowledge behind his eyes. Surely, we were lost. I, a thirty-something- year-old veteran of Chiredzi, would know when we were lost in my hometown. To be fair, I hadn’t been home in six years, not by choice. This homecoming was special, and I had chosen to spend it at Pamushana , rediscovering the texture of the Lowveld. We’d driven for a while and were meandering into trails unknown. The dusty road was long and straight. “If we continue, we will get to Gonarezhou. We are now in Malilangwe ,” he explained. I nodded. “Surely there can’t be anything out here in this wilderness?” I thought. “Let alone a lodge?” The land was untouched, nothing resembling civilisation left or right of me. I didn’t say this out loud, but my eyes did. The driver, whom I later learned was my Guide and whom I would grow to adore, smiled at me, forcing me back into my seat. “G10, we are coming up the hill,” he whispered into his walkie-talkie. Then, without warning, a stone road. A tall wall that resembled Great Zimbabwe’s architecture. There was a sudden elevation.
I peered to my left as the landscape opened up below us, land as far as I could see. What caught me first were the baobabs, incidentally my favourite tree. Not one towering tree as I was used to. Not two, or even ten, but over 50 magnificent trees spread over the dry winter lands. Before I could stop gawping, the car stopped, and I was led to a golf cart. I left my luggage and stepped in. The cart then took us up a narrower, ascending road, lined with cobbled stones; mismatched, with no urgency or need for perfection. The higher we went, the more my heart lightened. My shoulders dropped, and I inhaled and exhaled the freshest air. I came in with expectations, but as this winding road led me further into the sky, it dawned on me that what I had expected was nothing close to this. We came to a slow but steady stop. I don’t even remember disembarking as I floated towards the entrance that called me. I couldn’t take my eyes off what lay ahead. Three well-dressed people met me with warm hellos. They had laid out a table with beautiful, dark water bowls, a heated scented towel, and a handmade handwashing paste. That greeting was incredible, but I couldn’t focus on them as I looked forward. My heart slowed. My breathing shallowed.
Previous spread People have inhabited this region for millennia, passing on an intrinsic memory of the land. Left To some communities in Zimbabwe, baobabs are sacred gathering places, believed to shelter ancestral spirits who watch over the living and protect the land.
Tet hilibus sinciis maximilit et doloreheni aut vel molupta volorrovid.
experience
I felt a peace like I had walked into a place I’d known all my life but had never been before. My Guide turned and grinned at me, watching my face closely. He didn’t even have to say it. The surreal, mist-green Malilangwe Dam had already said, ‘welcome to Pamushana’. “Have you been here before?” Takura, my Tracker, asked on my first drive later that afternoon. Had I been here before? Yes, but also no. The last time I had been to Malilangwe was when I was a little girl in primary school. I remember being amazed by the animals, excitedly capturing every moment before leaping to the next one. I couldn’t believe how overwhelmingly massive the landscape was. I tried to pay attention, no matter how it called to me, but my boundless childhood energy didn’t stop to listen. We didn’t have cameras back then, or I had probably lost mine, but the place left an imprint. Now here I was, over two decades later, yet it felt unfamiliarly familiar. The land I knew, the space, the dusty brown soil, the grey spindly twigs, the dry crackle of the branches beneath as our vehicle meandered into the wild. The wintry warmth, I also knew. I am, after all, a daughter of the Lowveld, but this time around, I was older, and the land continued to try telling me a story. I listened.
“There is a dagga boy,” Takura announced as the car drew to a halt. He was pointing at a buffalo that stood still just 10 metres away, staring right at us. “They are solitary animals, often ousted from their herd. They are known to be grumpy and aggressive.” Now, I love a safari as much as the next person, but when he said that, I wondered why we weren’t stepping on it and moving. I’m black. Black African. A thirty-something- year-old woman. And not to generalise, but we’ve been taught to run from danger, not towards it. Yet here I was, driving metres away from lions, encountering elephants on foot, taking boat rides alongside hippos. I remember thinking, these are moments my mother will never experience. Instead of running, I asked the animals, the land, what it was trying to tell me. Listen. My Guide and Tracker spoke Shona, my mother tongue. The stories they told about the people, the history, the lore were shared in both Shona and English. We stopped by some black rhino dung, where Takura and I knelt on the ground, and he told me a fascinating story about how it’s used to ward off your enemies. In this case, a daughter-in-law who is unwanted in the house. You do this by burning it and making sure she throws out the ashes the next day.
Previous spread Open to the elements, Pamushana is alive with the ancient energy of the land. Left This is a place to experience the wild as it was.
experience
“ Pavanorasa marasha, vanozvirasawo — when they throw out the ashes, they throw themselves out too. ” Next time I’d remember to bring a dung bag to take home with me. The next day was even more incredible than the first. I thought I knew Chiredzi, but when I ventured out of the reserve to see what more Malilangwe had to offer, I encountered an entire world of conservation work being carried out by the Malilangwe Trust that I had no idea about. I visited Mwenje and Muteo Primary, two rural schools, and marvelled at their e-learning initiatives. I danced with the women at the Khomamani Garden , who showed off their crops and told me stories of the fish they sell. The programme coordinator, who was taking me around, pointed to the fish tanks. “They don’t let the fish get too big, you see,” he started. “It’s harder to share one big fish for a family of five. The father always ends up having most of it, so they sell five small fish instead to feed the whole family.” Brilliant, I thought. The following day, I went to the Kambako Living History Museum , run by a Shangani man called Julius. Respectfully, Mr Julius. I learned of a whole new way of living. How our ancestors did. He showed me how to start a fire without a lighter, how to divine salt, I shot a handmade bow and arrow, and I found water using a forked stick.
“These are the ways of our ancestors, and what I do here is preserve those skills, so we never lose the ways of our people.” That was it. That was what the land was trying to tell me. You see, I’ve been living what I suppose you could call a very modern life. Constantly busy, always online, and learning to measure days in meetings, messages, and deadlines. My value and quality of life are measured in performance and productivity; I feel at home when I achieve. Then, I came here. I allowed Pamushana to show me and to remind me what I had forgotten. I had forgotten what being Zimbabwean meant, what being African meant. The unhurried nature of our people, the soul in the ‘unnecessary’ chit- chat, the history etched in our language and traditions. The non-performance. Each day at sunset, we drove back in silence. These were also amongst my favourite moments from the trip. An exhale and slowing down after a series of life-changing experiences. Being here, I found a home I never knew. Or rather, I remembered a home that has always been. I had missed Chiredzi. I had missed home. I’d missed myself. On my final evening, I sat on the balcony overlooking the dam, with nowhere to be and nothing to do but watch the light move across the water. For the first time in a long time, I let myself simply be still. The land had told me the same story decades ago. This time, I was old enough to listen.
Right In the wild, everything unfolds at its own pace, unhurried by the passage of time.
to ‘sit pamushana’
means to sit
in the warmth of the sun’s light
experience
picking up
where I left off
A natural extension of your safari
A gathering place for life,
wild and human alike
A lodge that blends
into the bush
experience
Faru Faru is a resting place, but also a viewpoint. A vantage from which to watch wildlife at the watering hole or river nearby. Sheltered like a sort of bird hide from which to appreciate the coming and going of resident creatures. Returning here after a day out in the bush doesn’t feel like leaving the wild but rather remaining in its embrace. The first time I came to Faru Faru, I was struck by its duality. Open, yet cocooning. Welcoming, yet wild. Hard to define, yet deeply African. Calm and still dynamic. Coming back for a second time feels like continuation. A lovely feeling of returning to a place you loved, an equally strong wave of comfort and home, with
a sense of awe in no way reduced. This duality remains in the fact that it is familiar but still elicits wonder. Faru Faru is held by the landscape that grows around it, each space tucked into the foliage. Trees brush against the sides of the lodge, complementary in colour, both a source of shelter. For us, and for the monkeys who scramble up into branches and watch you from the roof. Walking along gravel, through the stone entrance and onto the threshold of the lodge, it’s much as it was the last time I was here, but small details look renewed; updates keeping it effortlessly crisp yet seamlessly familiar.
Previous spread Not merely in, but part of nature, the lodge feels as if is one with the trees surrounding it. Left Perching places for birds, monkeys, and butterflies — a safe space for all species.
experience
open,
yet cocooning
welcoming,
yet wild
Different enough to feel fresh but similar enough for instant comfort. Some of the faces are new, but they have the same warmth, and I feel instantly as if the seven years since my last stay have evaporated. Outside my room, butterflies hover over the bushes that line the path down towards the door. Inside my earth- and biscuit-toned sanctuary overlooking the watering hole, I feel part of the landscape even while watching it through the window. They slide fully open to the side, and I’m suddenly connected even more closely. A warm breeze blows through
the window. The gentle buzz of insects outside harmonises with the hum of a slow-turning fan in a strangely soothing lullaby. An extension of the landscape in a way that feels rooted and grounded, it echoes the colours and textures of its surroundings. You come from the red earth roads and golden grass of the plains back to rough ochre walls and cool blonde tones of the architecture, the blown-out brightness of the sky with clouds reflecting in the pool. Faru Faru is an ode to its surroundings, and an extension of them. Wildlife draws close, because it knows, as we do, that this is a safe place.
Right Sheltered and yet open, here you feel cocooned but connected.
experience
where
the water leads
Safari specialist Mike Sutherland
reflects on time spent exploring Singita’s Okavango Delta concession
experience
I’ve spent 16 years in the safari industry, and the bush still finds ways to remind me how much I have left to learn. I began as a guide at lodges across South Africa, where early starts and long silences gave me a sense of belonging I hadn’t found anywhere else. That led to private guiding and, in 2018, to co-founding my own safari company . Nowhere has drawn me back like Botswana. I’ve returned close to 50 times in the last decade, and I still remember my first flight over the Okavango Delta in 2016: channels glinting between islands all the way to the horizon, the scent of wild sage as we stepped off the plane, the warmth of the people who met us. To me, the Delta is a place of reverence. There are no power lines, no concrete or hum of anything human. When you’re there, your mind is only there. So when Singita invited me to join Kokoano in July, a small journey across its NG26 concession, at a moment between what the place has been and what it’s becoming, I knew how rare an invitation it was. Kokoano means ‘gathering’. We were a handful: Jo Bailes, four fellow safari specialists, and me.
We flew in from Maun, spent the afternoon on a game drive, then boarded a boat for the last half hour. We reached camp in the last light. The water was still and golden, a fire was already burning, and its smoke drifted across the channel to meet us. The team waved from the bank as we glided in. The camp sat under shaded canopies along an ancient channel, which was filling with water that had travelled for months from the Angolan highlands. Everything was gathering around it: wildlife, birds, fresh green growth. In our own way, so were we. What I remember most is the time. There was no routine of morning drive, rest, afternoon drive, dinner, repeat. We walked, poled through the reeds in mekoro, crossed the channels by boat, and saw the concession from the air. One night two male lions roared behind camp until dawn. At first light we followed their tracks through the mist, found them, read their mood, and guessed they would cross the channel. We waited, and they crossed. Lions cross water in other places too. What felt rare was the freedom to give that moment as much time as it needed.
Previous spread Ever-shifting waters shape life in the Delta. Wildlife has adapted to them in both behaviour and form. Right Some were born here; others have lived here for decades. Our people know this place intimately. They are part of its flow.
batho ba lemogana loetong
people get to know each other
on a journey
experience
We visited the site of Elela , which is set to open in December 2026, and the new staff village. The village told me more. Building a world-class home for the people who will run the camp shows where Singita’s values lie. Decisions have been made alongside local people, building materials sourced using ancient methods, and menus will draw on local ingredients. Singita’s partnership with the Botswana Public Officers Pension Fund will benefit Batswana even beyond the region, and safeguard the land. Singita arrived without fixed ideas, and has built its blueprint around the people and the place. I’ve stayed at many Delta camps. Here, the people’s excitement was matched by a deep connection to the place. It felt different. It felt real. I left at peace, lighter and grateful. Grateful for the invitation, and even more for how it renewed my love for a place I thought I already knew. The invitation had quoted a Setswana proverb: Batho ba lemogana loetong, ‘people get to know each other on a journey.’ I came home knowing a few remarkable people better. I also understood the Delta a little more deeply, and I could see a future for it that honours its past.
Days were shaped by the people who know this place best. Our hosts were Wayeyi, Hambukushu, and Dxeriku, and their knowledge ran through everything. Our Guide, Nthopang Xani, or Tops, brought a passion and poetry I won’t forget. He once wrote that in the wild, “everything, from the ephemeral to the everlasting, is part of one great story made up of many smaller ones.” Around the fire, under a sky dense with stars, the Guides read the constellations through their own stories, and the sky became something I could understand rather than simply admire. One afternoon we all climbed into the branches of an enormous fig tree and meditated for over an hour. Nobody checked a watch. I don’t think I have ever been so still in the bush, or noticed so much. Jo was visibly energised to be there. Around the fire he spoke about what Singita hopes to do here: slow safari down, so that guests feel more, stay present, and become part of the place rather than spectators of it. Before the trip, I might have taken that as a nice idea. Now I believe it.
Left There is a future that honours the past, and the past holds many futures.
wisdom
wisdom
the
serious
purpose
of play
The ritual of play is shared by many species
a rite of passage that teaches, guides, and connects
wisdom
Play is a universal act, seen across the divides of different species. It’s one of the many traits animals share with humans, in addition to offering extended care to their young and forming communities. To see an animal play is a reminder that the things we have in common are more numerous than it may seem. But it’s not for frivolity that the young of different species engage in play. This is how animals teach their young how to be adults. It’s an important way to learn the essential skills they’ll need for survival further down the line. It’s also how young animals build strength and come to understand hierarchies and social dynamics — how to be independent or a productive member of a group. Leopard and lion cubs remain with their mothers for up to two years. In this time, she
must prepare them for a world where survival depends on skill and strength. Through tumbling and jumping and chasing each other up trees and through grass, cubs build strong muscles and dense skeletal frames. Leaping and climbing over rocks and up into branches refine reflexes and expand spatial awareness, while swatting each other improves coordination and grip strength for the day they’ll need to handle prey. Stalking and pouncing in play fights isn’t only fun — it serves a purpose. Leaping and tackling help them practice timing, speed, and the physical force needed to bring down animals. Creeping up on siblings teaches the art of the silent approach and mimics the ambush actions needed to catch real prey, while chasing a moving target helps them learn to judge distance and speed in a safe setting.
wisdom
Survival in the animal world is also about social bonds. Play teaches young cats boundaries and communication, dominance and submission, and accepted behaviour within a group, while exploration further from the den builds confidence and prepares them for the adult lives that lie ahead. For wild dog pups, the mechanics of play serve a similar role. Chasing, darting, and running after one another helps build the endurance dogs need for long hunts. Wrestling, tumbling, and playing with sticks or skin develop muscle strength, balance, and physical coordination. As quintessential pack animals, wild dogs’ strength lies in numbers, and so coordination, cooperation, and anticipation are crucial skills for the next generation to learn. Games like
chase and tug-of-war mimic the cooperative tactics adults use to exhaust fast prey. Pups must also learn how to read each other’s movements and anticipate other pack members’ actions, laying the foundation for the teamwork that will help them thrive. A particularly strong hierarchy sets wild dogs apart from many other species. Pups learn canine body language, communication, and the importance of restraint during games. Playful wrestling and interactions strengthen social bonds and trust among littermates and older pack members. Like us, animals are social animals who learn from one another. And like us, their endurance depends on the passing down of knowledge and skills from one generation to the next.
play is preparation for
a world where survival depends on skill
wisdom
the fruits
Tracker Ruel Ngwenya reflects
on how the Tracker Academy
is preserving indigenous knowledge while nurturing new generations of conservationists, deeply attuned
to the natural world
of future trees
wisdom
At the front of every safari vehicle sits a steadfast figure, scanning the landscape, raising a tracking stick — an almost sacred extension of their hand — to point out what you otherwise would’ve missed: a chameleon, leaf-like and almost invisible in the dense bush; a leopard whose dappled coat becomes the branch and foliage it rests among; the path a giraffe took yesterday, traced to where it’s browsing now. Trackers are rarely talkative on a drive. They’re tuned into a frequency that requires total presence and focus. When the vehicle stops, they’re off, eyes on the ground, disappearing into thickets, circling spoor or scat in the dirt, stitching together the intangible threads of the ecosystem’s story for everyone to follow. Their art appears at first to be about noticing, but it’s really about understanding. What left a footprint, what broke a twig, what disturbed a patch of earth? An experienced tracker knows the answers and follows them to reveal
the wild’s depth. Much of this knowledge is inherited, then deepened through years of experience. “It all came from my father, Wilson” says Ruel Ngwenya, a Tracker at Singita Sabi Sand and an instructor at the Tracker Academy . “It was part of life. I thought everybody could do it.” His father kept a garden where he grew fruits and vegetables. Sometimes wildlife would slip past its fence of branches and help themselves. “We would see their tracks,” he says, learning to identify them from an early age. Utha, his village, lies between two wildlife reserves, and animals would sometimes wander into it. “It was a competition between us to see who knew more about them.” Wilson also had goats and cattle, and tradition meant Ruel had to help tend them. “When you’re seven or eight years old, you start to look after the goats, and you have to make sure they all come back at night.” That meant tracking
Previous spread The wisdom of tracking, like care for the natural world, endures when it is shared. Left For Ruel, tracking is simply a part of life. A way of being, passed down from his father, and from countless generations before him.
From within, we learn to understand the wild. And through it, come to understand ourselves.
wisdom
down those who wandered and bringing them home. “When you’re 12, you get a promotion to look after the cows,” he says. “Your brain is developing during this time.” This is when tracking becomes deeply ingrained. Ruel’s path to becoming a professional tracker was influenced by his brother, Julius, who started working at Mala Mala in the 1980s, before moving to Londolozi. “He would come back and show me pictures of guests, and I realised tracking was a way to put food on the table,” he says. “When I joined Singita in 2012, the Head Guide mentioned a tracking course. That’s when the fire started to burn in me. Every time they announced a course or assessment, I joined until I got a higher level.” Today, he’s a Level Four Tracker and shares that knowledge with new generations of aspiring and professional trackers. As urbanisation draws young people away from wilderness-adjacent communities, and
the legacies of spatial apartheid continue to shape access to wild spaces and livelihoods, knowledge like his is at risk of being lost. It’s what the Tracker Academy seeks to preserve. Founded in 2010, the Academy trains individuals from neighbouring communities in the traditional skills of tracking, both for ecotourism and wildlife monitoring and protection. Since its inception, more than 350 students have graduated, with over 95% now working in conservation-related fields. “There are two branches of the Academy,” says Ruel. One is the year-long Rhino Guardian programme, which equips 16 recruits per year with specialist tracking and bushcraft skills, alongside in-field anti-poaching and combat training. The Academy also takes another 16 students, focusing on wildlife tracking for ecotourism. This is the programme Ruel is involved in. “But I help with human tracking, too.”
Left It’s not what we find, but the act of looking that awakens wonder.
In some cultures, a feather in your path is a message from an ancestor, a sign that they are watching over you
wisdom
stitching together
the intangible threads
of the ecosystem’s story
With two campuses in South Africa, the Academy now welcomes students from Botswana, Zambia, Mozambique, and beyond. Since 2024, Singita Lowveld Trust has supported four scholarships per year. Each new tracker carries knowledge into another landscape, forming part of a network dedicated to understanding, sharing, and protecting Africa’s wild places. The tradition is evolving, too. In 2025, the Academy launched its first all-female tracking class, opening the field to a new generation of women and showing that knowledge passed down through generations need not remain fixed in the same shape. In this, the Academy is more than a way of preserving precious indigenous knowledge. It’s a means of keeping that knowledge alive by giving it renewed relevance in a changing world. One not driven by individual survival, but by collective care for all life.
By creating opportunities for people from rural communities to build livelihoods from what they know, it fosters a deeper ecological understanding of the landscapes around them — and, in turn, a greater sense of care for them. This understanding extends beyond the trackers, reaching the communities who live alongside wildlife and the travellers who come to experience it. “The main reason we’re here on Earth is to plant seeds that will grow into trees,” says Ruel. “Tomorrow, even after we’re gone, these trees will bear fruits that can feed those who can’t feed themselves.” Ruel and his peers are doing just that: passing on what was given to them, so that others can carry it forward. Knowledge becomes livelihood, livelihood becomes connection, and connection becomes care — new generations learning to read the wild, to look back, honour what was, and draw from it to move us all forward.
Right That we are separate from nature is a story we tell ourselves. And stories can be rewritten.
no path, whether dirt or tar,
ever truly ends
wisdom
lives on
the past
Not only in fossils and memory,
but in species whose remarkable forms
and adaptations
have endured through the ages
wisdom
Weather patterns shift, altering landscapes through stretches of flood or drought;
Whose endurance through immense changes in climate, landscape, and the cohabitants around it is down to its fundamental design. Whose eyes, ears, and nostrils are positioned high on its head, allowing it to float unnoticed beneath the surface while remaining vigilant of its surroundings. Whose ability to slow its heart rate and conserve oxygen allows it to wait and watch patiently for prey, and whose keen senses can detect the slightest changes in pressure and movement. Whose torpedo-shaped body, propelled by a powerful tail, allows it to launch itself out of the water to grab unsuspecting prey. Whose reinforced trachea and expandable stomach allow it to swallow large animals, breaking them up in need into smaller chunks, and whose highly acidic stomach can break down bones, hooves, beaks, and claws. Who swallows stones, called gastroliths, to help grind down the remains. And whose ability to regulate its body temperature using the sun and its surrounding environment allows it to conserve energy for when it’s needed most, enabling it to survive for long periods without food.
populations rise and fall, sending ripples through ecosystems; human
development obstructs ancient paths, forcing migration and creating new pressures over territory and resources. We’re bound to the reality that survival requires adaptation. Much of it plays out before us in small decisions shaped by cause and effect, risk and reward. Over generations, these pressures can cause entire species to diverge from what they once were, taking on new forms and behaviours to survive. This is evolution. Yet some species have endured for centuries, even millennia, their fundamental forms seemingly unchanged; so remarkably well suited are they to their environments and challenges. There are constants amid the constant of change. Like the Nile Crocodile ( Crocodylus niloticus ), one of Africa’s oldest surviving predators, who has inhabited the continent’s freshwater lakes and rivers, it’s believed, for somewhere between five and seven million years.
Previous spread Life reminds us of nature’s beauty, and its fragility. Left Rock, of its agelessness and the reverence it inspires.
wisdom
Or like the Leopard tortoise ( Stigmochelys pardalis ), whose design is so economical and protective — in almost every sense — that it has endured for thousands of years in the harsh, often arid grasslands and savannahs of southern and East Africa. Whose horned skin and high-domed shell protect it from the relatively few predators capable of threatening it and shield it from the heat of the sun. Whose sturdy, paddle-shaped rear legs and pigeon- toed front feet allow it to manoeuvre across rocky terrain and negotiate surprisingly difficult ground in search of food, guided by a keen sense of smell. Whose shell and large lung capacity make it buoyant in water, allowing it to swim when necessary — the only tortoise species that can. Whose slow metabolism means it expends remarkably little energy, while its diet of grasses, succulents, and fallen fruits provides
Or like the dung beetle, whose remarkable design has made a living from something that, in nature, is unlikely ever to be in short supply: dung. Who gives back to the ecosystem by helping to reduce the spread of disease and recycle nutrients and minerals into the soil, laying the foundation for future growth. A design perfectly suited to a world in which other animals continually create the resource on which it depends. From the largest animals on the continent to some of its smallest, the same principle applies: when a design works, evolution can spend generations refining it rather than replacing it. But the world in which these designs evolved is changing faster than many species can adapt. The constants are no longer surrounded by natural change alone; they are increasingly confronted by change of our making. And if these remarkable survivors are to endure, the question is no longer simply whether they can adapt to their world, but whether we can adequately protect the world to which they are adapted.
much of the water it needs to survive. Who retains this precious moisture extremely efficiently.
Right The smallest forms of life often have the most to teach us about resilience.
wisdom
human / nature
A reflection on a consequential divide
of our own making
wisdom
The elements that make up Earth, the fundamental building blocks of all life and matter, are virtually finite and continually recycled. Across aeons, through biological, geological, and atmospheric processes, they’re broken down, rearranged, and reconstituted into something new. The calcium in our bones may once have belonged to some ancient, extinct creature. It may have formed part of the Earth’s crust. It’s the same calcium found today in the bones of elephants and mice. When they die, it returns to the soil, where flora and fungi may take it up again. Who knows what it will be next. The oxygen in our bodies may once have moved through the veins of an early ancestor, or someone on the other side of the globe. It has passed through countless trees and plants, themselves grown from soil teeming with billions of organisms,
all made of the same elemental matter, all part of the same cycle. The water we drink becomes part of us. It moves through rivers, soil, roots, clouds, oceans, blood, and time. Drinking it, we temporarily become composed of the same matter as where we are. Change where we are, and our constitution changes too. Everything on Earth, living or not, is made from different combinations and arrangements of these elements. Our connection to the world around us is therefore not merely ecological, philosophical, or spiritual. It’s fundamental. Beneath the extraordinary diversity of life on Earth — the millions of forms, behaviours, adaptations, and ecosystems — is also a common imperative: to survive. This drive, like our constitution, and our home, is shared.
wisdom
we are temporary arrangements
of ancient matter
The lion is a predator; the impala is prey. They look different, behave differently, and occupy different roles in the ecosystem, but we instinctively recognise them both as part of nature. So how is it that we, in a vehicle, observing the chase, are not? The answer seems obvious: we’ve built cities, invented machines, altered landscapes, cultivated crops, constructed institutions, and developed technologies capable of transforming the planet on an unprecedented scale. But none of this makes us less natural. Every organism alters the conditions around it simply by existing. The vast distinction we make between ourselves as humans and the rest of nature is, at its core, an illusion. The atoms that compose us are indifferent to the boundaries we draw between them. They move endlessly between soil and root, ocean and
atmosphere, organism and earth, death and life. We are temporary arrangements of ancient matter. Brief configurations in an otherwise continuous cycle of becoming and transference. This perspective may be humbling, but maybe that isn’t a bad thing if it means we think twice before killing the spider, because we see ourselves in it, and it in us. We are born with a wild intelligence that predates knowledge. It is felt. It’s the reason we feel home in wild spaces. The divide between humanity and the rest of the natural world exists only in the stories we tell ourselves about where we end, and where it begins. Stories can be rewritten. Atoms don’t recognise this distinction. Other life doesn’t recognise this distinction. Why should we?
the story of humans
and the rest of nature
is still being written
With thanks to our collaborators Angela Shillan, Elsa Pallett, Emma Jude Jackson, Jackie Chikambure, Jessica Robertson, Julia Freemantle, Lindsay Couper, Linky Nkuna, Michael Schapiro, Mike Sutherland, Ross Couper, Ruel Ngwenya, Shirley Nkuna, Tamlyn Anthony, Tatenda Chidora, Trent Boden, and LOOKBOOK Studio.
Click here to subscribe to the Singita magazine
Page 1 Page 2-3 Page 4-5 Page 6-7 Page 8-9 Page 10-11 Page 12-13 Page 14-15 Page 16-17 Page 18-19 Page 20-21 Page 22-23 Page 24-25 Page 26-27 Page 28-29 Page 30-31 Page 32-33 Page 34-35 Page 36-37 Page 38-39 Page 40-41 Page 42-43 Page 44-45 Page 46-47 Page 48-49 Page 50-51 Page 52-53 Page 54-55 Page 56-57 Page 58-59 Page 60-61 Page 62-63 Page 64-65 Page 66-67 Page 68-69 Page 70-71 Page 72-73 Page 74-75 Page 76-77 Page 78-79 Page 80-81 Page 82-83 Page 84-85 Page 86-87 Page 88-89 Page 90-91 Page 92-93 Page 94-95 Page 96-97 Page 98-99 Page 100-101 Page 102-103 Page 104-105 Page 106-107 Page 108-109 Page 110-111 Page 112-113 Page 114-115 Page 116-117 Page 118-119 Page 120Powered by FlippingBook