Seven Years Living in the Wild: A Love Letter to Londolozi – Londolozi Blog

In the quiet corner of the African bush, a young woman arrived in 2018 with nothing more than a dream and a heart that beats to the rhythm of the wild.

I was 23—wide-eyed, tamed in spirit, and desperately searching for something… perhaps myself. My childhood dreams were as big and wild as the landscapes I hoped to walk: I wanted to live in the wild, save every animal, become a wildlife vet, and maybe even be the Jane Goodall of painted dogs.

 You see, I was never good in classrooms. Textbooks dulled me. I could not articulate my words well, making me hide in English class. The questions they asked didn’t interest me, but the questions I had while watching a bird build its nest, those were sacred. They said I had ADHD and needed Ritalin. I needed nature.  I felt most like myself when I was in nature. The questions that arose in my mind as I watched nature were far more fascinating.

My first best friend wasn’t human. She was a Staffordshire terrier named Shashe, named after a wild river in Botswana. Wilderness and best friend were synonyms to my six-year-old self. The garden was sacred, each flower a portal, each tree a keeper of stories. I believed in nature’s magic then, and after years of trying to grow out of it, I now understand: that belief was not childish. It was childlike. And childlike wonder is not something to mature out of; it is something to protect with your life. What I needed was an ocean. A mountain. A tree. What I needed was the wild.

So I followed the only compass I ever trusted, my inner wild woman. She had been hiding, camouflaged under the name Jess. But she was there.
Waiting.
And she led me to Londolozi…

For the past seven years, Londolozi has been more than a place; it has been a mirror, a teacher, a mother. I found my voice here. I found a brother in Advice Ngwenya, the tracker with whom I’ve spent countless hours following tracks and alarm calls in the wind.

I met strangers from every corner of the world who reminded me how fresh and powerful the wild can feel when seen through new eyes.

This place taught me more than I ever imagined. It showed me what it means to see, not just with eyes, but with soul. And though it breaks my heart to say that my time here is drawing to a close, I find myself reflecting on all the quiet moments that shaped me.

I wasn’t always this woman.

Once, I was the girl whose cheeks flamed red at the thought of public speaking. I stuttered. I doubted. I felt small. I arrived at 23, fresh out of a breakup, still unsure of my voice, but certain of one thing: I was meant to be here. I joined Londolozi’s notorious ranger selection course, a test not just of knowledge or skill, but of spirit.

It was brutal. No comfort. Just the African wild and your own endurance. Men dropped out.
I stayed.
Because the wild woman whispered: Keep walking.

Each night, I lay awake, not from the pain of my blisters or the threat of lions, but because I would have to speak. To strangers. To guests. With no script, no notes. Just me, and my voice I didn’t trust. But nature had always been where I was most myself. It was in nature that I’d never needed words.

And then two special moments happened—
The Leadwood forest and a lioness entered my life.

One morning in the Leadwood Forest, alone and quiet, I felt something shift. The trees stood around me like ancient mothers. The breeze kissed my cheek like a mother’s comforting hand stroke. A fish eagle soared overhead and cried out, and in that moment, it all clicked. I belonged here. I was nature. Not separate, not observing, but part of it. I was no longer just Jess; I was wild Jess. I was home. My spiritual connection with nature was awakening.

The Tsalala Lioness was my next awakening.

She had just lost the last of her pride, her aunt. She was alone. A creature who had known the comfort of family, now navigating the bush without backup. Scientists say not to anthropomorphise, but sometimes nature reflects our own life back at us with such clarity that we must listen.

I saw her grief. Heard it in her contact calls. Felt it in the weight of her solitary steps. And I knew her loneliness. Because I was alone too. And like her, I was not supposed to make it. But she adapted. She hunted by day. She learned to move like a leopard. She changed the way lions are supposed to live because she had to. And in her, I saw a mirror.

Her resilience became mine.

One day, she passed by our vehicle and stopped. She turned. Looked up. And stared into my eyes. Time stopped.

In that look, I heard every lesson nature had ever tried to teach me. My bones remembered who I was. My wild woman rose. It was not words I found that day, but something far more powerful:
a knowing.

Shortly after, I passed my final assessment. Not because I had mastered public speaking, but because I had remembered who I was: a vessel for something ancient and alive to move through. Guiding, I realised, is not only about performing. It is about presence. And presence is felt in silence.

The Tsalala Lioness would later give birth. Three cubs. Only one would survive, a daughter. That daughter lives on today, roaming Londolozi, carrying in her bloodline the resilience of her mother.

And I live on, too.
Not the shy girl who couldn’t speak in class, but the wild woman who walks beside leopards, who listens to trees, who speaks only when the earth has moved something through her.

So if you find yourself one day in the Leadwood Forest, sit down. Be still. Let your phone rest. Let your mind rest.
And feel.

There’s a wild woman in you, too. And the land will help you remember her. The wind will stroke your cheek. The birds will sing your name. And maybe, just maybe, a lion will look into your eyes and awaken something that was never lost, 
only waiting.

These days, I take mental photographs of everything: the light on bark, the soaring eagles flying over me, the silence before a lion’s roar. I’m crafting a bucket list without paper, just a gentle recording of sacred goodbyes. But this isn’t a sad ending. It’s a torch being passed to you, dear visitor, dear dreamer.

So, when you come to Londolozi… I urge you: feel the land, don’t just see it.

Walk barefoot. Meditate beneath the ancient Leadwoods. Let go of your camera for a moment and simply look. Look at the animal in front of you. There is a silent language; listen to it. Let the stillness wash over you like a gentle stream of water. There is no worry in that moment. Just presence. Just magic.

This place will change you—if you let it.

Laugh loudly. Dance under the trees. Ask questions. Be silent. Be awed. Be small. Learn the art of tracking. And most of all, be wild.

This land holds a rare kind of magic. One that called to a shy, uncertain girl from the city and gave her a voice, a purpose, and a place to belong.

Londolozi—you’ll always be my scared space.