Why do we love the bush the way we do?

The bush. Before those of you who fancy yourselves as connoisseurs of the pun bring forth your double entendres, I will state that there’s nothing sexual about this blog entry, or related to narcotics for that matter.

No, what I mean is the bush, that mysterious admixture of hardekool smoke and veld, days of dust and flocks of guineafowl, nights of stars and good-lord-deliver-us — that place that exerts a magnetic, hypnotic force on those of us who love it.

And it is love. How else to describe that sensation, that fullness in your solar plexus, that ever so slight increase in heart rate, when the mopane comes into view and the soft notes of the green-spotted dove are carried on a faint afternoon breeze. Whether you’re in the Lowveld, the Kalahari or the bushveld, the best of Africa — as evoked in the Coleman radio ad, with the lion roaring and the sound of a crackling fire — there is nothing like it anywhere else in the world.

Why does the bush get under our skin in this way? It is almost parasitic, the way it infects us, persuades us to long endlessly to be there wherever we are in the world, tugging at our hearts even as we depart these shores. The bush is, I think, one of the reasons why many South Africans who could leave choose not to.

I miss the bush most when I have just returned to the city and this time is no different. My husband and I spent the weekend in the Waterberg: for the first time ever, we I stayed in a five-star lodge, Shibula in the Welgevonden game reserve (the same reserve where Nelson Mandela happened to write Long Walk to Freedom). It was a wonderful experience, with the kind of superb service that must surely bring visitors from around the world; perhaps it was hardly surprising that one of the couples there, a charming retired pair from the Black Forest, Helga and Wolfgang, were spending fourteen nights there because it is one of their favourite places in the world.

Though jacuzzi baths and romantic four-poster beds are lovely, the bush requires little mediation in the form of modern comforts. It is special on its own. I have been lucky enough to have known the bush since I was a very young child, so that marulas and rooibok, hornbills and magic guarri seem like a part of my identity. So too the people I have known there, people I have known my entire life. I am happiest when I am in the bush. It is where I feel whole and where I return to recover my sense of self.

There are of course more pragmatic concerns. Love on its own is never enough, and it is just as well that the bush has economic value. It is something that is unique to Africa; nothing can compare with it. Hopefully, those who visit South Africa during 2010 will also learn to love it, and many of those South Africans who were denied an opportunity to get to know it during the apartheid years will come to love it too. All too often, visiting the bush can be expensive and difficult and while there are many programmes to educate school children about it, it remains out of reach for many.

We should treasure the bush, because if we do not, we will lose it. Once upon a time, the Kruger Park was threatened with copper mining; Lake St Lucia with mining for titanium dioxide by Richard Bay Minerals. The Wild Coast will probably be damaged by inappropriate development, while the Waterberg biosphere, untouched for so long, faces the awful prospect of being sullied by high-voltage power lines running from the new Medupi power station in Lephalale.

The decimation of wildlife in Zimbabwe is a reminder of how quickly things can go pear-shaped.

Love is a double-edged sword. The moment you love something, you are vulnerable to it, and the prospect of environmental destruction depresses me so much that there are times when I want to give up in despair. This is hardly positive or helpful, though. If we love the bush, we should do what we can to ensure that it thrives, so that future generations may enjoy the privilege of loving it, too.