Or: “Where I Get the Photo, Name the Leopard, Nearly Cry, and Then Photograph a Lion in the Dark Like a Madman.”
I’m writing this second part of the leopard lunacy from a frozen Manyane, at the tail end of what can only be described as a near-perfect week — in the “did-that-really-happen?” kind of way.
In Part One, we covered everything up to Friday morning: lions disappearing like pension funds, cheetahs failing spectacularly at murder, and a leopard sighting so good it deserved Hans Zimmer and a slow-motion crane shot. But this, dear reader, is where the real story begins.
Let’s start with the leopard — and then circle back to what unfolded across Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Because yes, things escalated.
Olebile – The one who watches, take on Black Rhino Game Reserve
You see, this wasn’t just a leopard sighting. This was the leopard sighting. The culmination of a long-standing dream: a slightly obsessive, borderline unhinged ambition to name a leopard in the Pilanesberg. And believe me, this is not something you just do. No no. There are protocols. You need a clear, identifiable photo of the cat’s face. The leopard must be of age. And you have to be the first. It’s like Pokémon, but far less forgiving and inexplicably governed by a spreadsheet.
Now, for some context — and let’s be painfully clear — for over a year and a half that I worked on Black Rhino, leopard sightings were rarer than hens’ teeth. A fleeting glimpse here, a suspicious tail flick there, and then… nothing. Just enough to keep hope alive, but not enough to legally call it a sighting without someone from facebook calling foul.
But then, in the three weeks leading up to my return? Boom. Leopards everywhere. Phones overheating. WhatsApps dinging. People zooming into pixels and proudly announcing, “I think that’s an ear.” And where was I? Still in Pretoria. Wrestling with a suicidal printer and defrosting geysers. Typical.
Now, I began working with and for Debbie this year — who, bless her, not only understood my leopard obsession but actively encouraged it. We shared a mindset: if you can give someone a moment they’ll remember forever, why wouldn’t you? Add to that our mutual obsession with the Pilanesberg leopard population, and the recipe was set.
Every named cat has a backstory: Kgodisa, Motsamai, Serati. Getting to name one? Almost impossible. You need the timing, the photo, the sighting, and the patience of a Buddhist monk with a telephoto lens and the bladder of a camel.
Back to Wednesday.
We head out for the Shefari site visit. Debbie wants lions. I want… a miracle. I half-jokingly asked her to bring her Tokoloshe magic and conjure me a Black Rhino Ingwe like she’s summoning Simba at Pride Rock. She laughs. I pretend I’m joking.
Naturally, I was emotionally preparing for disappointment — because why wouldn’t the universe throw in one last twist of the knife?
Then, a call crackles in from one of the other guides. A two-second visual. A leopard. On the fence line. Watching cattle go by like he’s contemplating a career in agriculture. We follow the lead. Stalking rumours, whispers, tyre tracks — and three and a half hours later… there he is.
Same spot. Still watching. Still posing like he charges an appearance fee. He doesn’t bolt. He doesn’t flinch. He looks at us with the kind of calm that makes you feel like the intruder.
And just like that — after a year and a half of dust, disappointment, and badly timed power outages — I get the photo. The one. My leopard. My name.
We named him Olebile — which, in the local language, means “he is watching,” or more simply, “the watcher.” It’s a fitting title for a cat who sat with more patience than most corporate IT departments, quietly observing the cattle, the dust, and eventually… us. He wasn’t shy. He wasn’t bothered. Just curious. Alert. Still.
And I didn’t even burst into tears. Not publicly. There may have been a dignified sniffle. Possibly two. Let’s move on.
So yes. This week, I lived the dream.
Debbie — thank you. For the mentorship. The magic. The sheer bloody-minded obsession with finding cats. For reminding me what this job can be when you bin the itinerary and chase the moment instead.
And to those of you reading this: if you want to find cats, sit with them, photograph them, maybe name one if the universe is in a good mood — well, you know where to find us. This is what we live for.
The Weekend Escalates
Friday morning wrapped up with the final chapter of the failed Operation Find The Lions saga. By midday I was peacefully perched at the lodge’s waterhole, watching rhinos and snapping my favourite garden bird: the pearl-spotted owlet. A bird that manages to look both wise and perpetually annoyed — which, frankly, makes it the unofficial mascot of this industry.
A Pearl Spotted Owlet in the gardens of Buffalo Thorn Lodge.
Saturday morning: a solo mission. I was after a different lion. Not the three Western Breakaway lads — no, this was a lone male, loitering suspiciously around Black Rhino like he’d forgotten his keys. I tracked him for nearly four and a half hours and, by noon, knew exactly where he’d pop up that afternoon.
Then began the waiting game. I didn’t move. I didn’t blink. I didn’t breathe loudly. And just after 20:30 that night, the call came in. Jackpot.
Now here’s the problem: it was pitch black. And while most people might throw in the towel, I do this for a living. Photography in red light only? At night? On a moving subject? Challenge accepted.
This lion sighting was less National Geographic and more Mission Impossible: Canon Edition. But somehow, through stubbornness, hand steadiness, and several whispered prayers to the ISO gods, I got the shot.
ISO 20,000. Shutter speed 1/20. F5.6. If you’re a photographer, you know those numbers are borderline heresy. If you’re not — just know the camera was basically operating on hope and caffeine fumes.
A 20K ISO Photo of the Male Lion in complete darkness.
Still, the Springboks won, and I got one of the most hauntingly beautiful lion portraits I’ve ever taken. All in the red hue of ridiculous reserve regulations. Job done.
Sunday morning: return trip to Manyane. We took the long way through the park to follow up on reports of a leopard in a tree. Naturally, it vanished seconds before I arrived. Obviously.
To add insult to injury, someone in a Suzuki Jimny managed to get stuck. Revving it to 5,000 rpm like they were trying to summon the devil or restart the Cold War. And I just have one question: how do you get a 2kg car with four-wheel drive and diff lock stuck on a gravel road? Astounding.
So that’s been the week.
Next stop: Cape Town — a breakaway to visit the love of my life, return to Kirstenbosch with the energy of a man wronged, and make yet another pilgrimage to the penguins at Boulders Beach.
Catch you in the next one.
Coldest regards — literally — from a frostbitten Pretoria, where the only thing thawing is my coffee.