Tag: wilderness

They say it takes 10,000 hours to master something. I spent four years at Londolozi learning that mastery in the bush isn’t about hours or knowledge—it’s about presence. About being so completely where you are, that time both stops and rushes forward.

Four years. Two roles. One lesson: the art of being fully present.

But perhaps more remarkably, I learned that childhood dreams don’t have to fade if you’re present enough to recognise the door when it opens.

In a world where everyone says “life got in the way” of their childhood dreams, I got the chance to say yes. Twice.

I arrived at Londolozi as a camp manager. The seven-year-old inside me who’d dreamed of being a game ranger was still there, tucked away quietly, but I’d learned to be practical. This was close enough. Working in the bush, even if not in the way I’d imagined.

What I didn’t expect was how deeply I would fall in love with hospitality. Being present not for animals, but for people.

As a camp manager, presence meant everything. Reading a room like I would later learn to read the bush. Anticipating needs before they were spoken. Holding space for other people’s joy, quiet griefs and lifetime memories.

I learned that creating space for others’ experiences is sacred work. That sometimes the greatest gift is simply being fully, completely there. Every moment was preparing me for what came next, teaching me that presence is a practice. One that would serve me whether I was hosting guests or tracking leopards.

And then Londolozi opened a second door.

An opportunity. A feeling inside of me.

I could train as a ranger.

The seven-year-old inside me was nervous, not in fear, but in recognition. This. This was what I had always known.

In a world where people tell you that childhood dreams are called childhood dreams for a reason, that practical adults make practical choices, that life gets in the way, here was Londolozi offering something rare: the chance to honour my seven-year-old self. To prove that sometimes, life doesn’t get in the way. Sometimes life shows you the way.

The training was a brutal learning curve. People dropped out. I stayed, not because I was the strongest, but because that inner seven-year-old wouldn’t let me quit.

But staying and succeeding are different things. This process broke me in ways I hadn’t anticipated. I’d removed myself from an established role that I knew I loved and that I was growing in. I threw myself into the unknown. Yes, I could follow my childhood dream—but at what cost? I’d lost all my confidence. I felt disconnected. I had made regrettable mistakes that made me question who I was. I had lost myself in the doubt that whispered I wasn’t good enough to join the team of incredible guides that Londolozi has. And often questioned, “Was I in too deep?”

The gruelling training period (even after I had qualified) forced me to confront these questions daily. But it was the mentorship, the effort poured into us, that changed everything. It forced me to reflect on who I was fundamentally. And what I discovered was a family that cares more about the development of their people than the individual roles. A place that asks you to be unapologetically yourself, not a copy of anyone else, not fitting into some predetermined idea of what a ranger “should” be.

Once I realised that, once I understood that being myself was not just enough, but exactly what was needed. Something inside of me clicked. Things started to feel right. All those hours as a camp manager, reading people, creating space, being of service, suddenly made perfect sense. I wasn’t abandoning what I’d learned; I was building on it. Still in service, just in a different vehicle.

Guiding taught me a different language of presence.

Silence during the golden hour, trusting the land to speak. Knowing when to track and when to sit still. When to explain and when to simply point.

My tracker, Geshom, has become one of my greatest teachers and my brother for life. Hundreds of hours together in focused silence that said more than words. We learnt to understand one another without the use of words. He taught me that presence isn’t just about being there, it’s about being so attuned that you and the moment become inseparable.

Through this, I’ve learned to read the bush the way I’d learned to read people. Both roles teaching me the same thing: radical attention.

There was one moment during my guiding career where every thread of what led me to Londolozi in the first place proved that I was exactly where I needed to be.

By complete chance, Gesh and I were allocated to drive a particular guest who had a significance that was unmatched.

When I was sixteen, I had to write a report on a book of my choice. I chose “My Life with Leopards’’, a book set entirely at Londolozi during the early days, written by an author who had never actually visited. She’d crafted an entire world from a guide’s stories, imagining the magic of Londolozi and the leopards that graced the land.

That book was my first real introduction to Londolozi. It planted something in me. A seed of longing, a sense of recognition I couldn’t explain.

Later, I’d come across Londolozi’s marketing materials, and something would resonate deeply. The way they spoke about the bush matched exactly how I felt about it. An innate connection to the wild. Friends would later join the Londolozi family, leaving breadcrumbs. By the time I graduated from university, every sign pointed here. It felt like coming home to a place I’d never been.

And then, a year into my guiding career, there was that author’s name on the allocation board.

Her first visit to Londolozi. Her first time seeing the places she’d brought to life through pure imagination. As we drove out that afternoon, I could barely form words. How do you tell someone they shaped your life without knowing it?

In that moment, every invisible thread became clear. My very own “Full Circle” moment.

The sixteen-year-old was absorbing every word. The marketing materials that spoke to my soul. The friends who came before me. The camp manager learning presence through service. The ranger learning presence through the wild. The guest, seeing her imagined world made real. All of it woven together in that single afternoon.

I knew in all the chaos of life, in all the choices and chances, I had made the right decision. I was exactly where I needed to be. Present. Finally, completely, utterly present. The threads had been woven long before I knew I was holding them. I just had to show up fully enough to see them catch the light.

The animals of the land became further teachers in the journey of practising presence.

How to wait without anxiety, how to trust that what needs to reveal itself will, in its own time. That you can’t force magic, only be present enough to receive it. That presence doesn’t mean intrusion. That sometimes the most present thing you can do is give space, honour distance, witness without interfering. They showed me that family is everything. That strength is both fierce and tender. That we survive together or not at all. How every moment should be lived fully because there might not be another. How presence is also about pure joy. And the land itself that held me in cathedral silence, the rivers that taught me about flow, the sunrises proving that every day is a new beginning if we’re present enough to receive it.

To the guests who trusted me with their experience of the wild, you taught me as much as I could ever teach you. To those who returned year after year, showing me that Londolozi becomes part of who you are. To those who sat in silent awe, teaching me that sometimes the greatest gift is simply witnessing.

To Gesh – my partner in presence, my teacher in the language without words. Hundreds of hours together and I still learn from you every drive. You made me a better ranger and a better man.

To the staff who became family, who understood that magic lives in the details of our daily actions but also in the bond of community. Thank you for teaching me that presence shows up in every small act of care. It is a privilege to call you family.

To my fellow rangers and trackers who stand alongside me as custodians of this land, facilitating a sacred connection between our guests and the wild—making Londolozi feel like a homecoming for those who arrive as strangers and leave as family. This journey would not have been possible without learning from people who share this same deep reverence for the bush and for understanding what it means to hold this responsibility together.

To the Varty Family, Duncan MacLarty, James Souchon and Londolozi’s senior management team, thank you for providing a young and inexperienced 22-year-old an opportunity to be a part of something bigger than myself. Thank you for seeing the potential of someone who believed wholeheartedly in what Londolozi is and for providing a space for me to figure out and to grow into the best version of myself. Thank you for allowing me to be unapologetically ‘Reece’.

To everyone who has been part of this journey, you were all my teachers in the practice of presence.

In a world where everyone says “life got in the way” of their childhood dreams, I received something rare: the chance to say yes twice. First, to discover I loved hospitality – the art of holding space for others’ joy, of being in service to moments that matter. Then, to honour the seven-year-old who’d dreamed of being a game ranger.

But the rarest gift was learning that both roles taught me the same lesson: presence. That magic happens when you’re completely and utterly here.

So when you come to Londolozi, or wherever your own dreams take you, I urge you:

Don’t wait for life to get in the way. Don’t let the seven-year-old inside you fade. Be present. Show up fully. Say yes to the doors that open, even if they’re not what you expected. Especially then. Just be where your feet are.

Allow your environment to speak to you in languages you never thought you’d understand. Honour your inner child by being fully alive in the moment you’re in. And maybe you’ll discover what I did: that childhood dreams and grown-up wisdom aren’t opposites, they’re partners. That a book read at sixteen can lead you home years later. That the threads are woven long before we know we’re holding them.

Londolozi gave me that gift. The chance to serve and the chance to guide. The chance to grow up without losing the seven-year-old who knew, even then, where I could make a difference.

When that book calls to your sixteen-year-old self, when those signs point toward something that feels like home, when that door opens, say yes. The threads are already woven. You just have to be present enough to see them clearly.

Thank you for being part of this journey.

It’s not goodbye, its until next time.