Whispers on Stone | What the Land Teaches

A PAINTED LEGACY

Among sandstone cliffs and tucked-away shelters, the San left their stories. Not as written words, but as symbols, visions, and spiritual echoes. Their rock art is more than historical curiosity. It is living testimony to how deeply they listened to the land.

To the San, life was not divided into sacred and ordinary. Every footstep, every animal encounter, every star in the sky formed part of a single, connected whole. Their paintings were not created for beauty. They were memory, ritual, and record. Wisdom passed not through speech, but through experience.

When I guide guests to these sites, I am often struck by how the silence in these places speaks more loudly than any explanation. Yet sometimes, a story from one’s own life helps others feel what words alone cannot express.

Above picture: Brown Hyena Profile in the Sand, next to the road

LEARNING TO READ THE LAND

I was Eleven or Twelve years old, growing up partially on a farm in the Kalahari, when I first began to understand what it means to read the land.

Jan seasonally worked on our farm. He was quiet, lean, and deeply observant. Another Mentor on the farm, Danny once said he came from the old Bushmen, and though Jan never spoke about it, you could see it in how he moved through the veld. He seemed to understand the land not as something separate, but as something he belonged to.

One day, I walked out with my small .22 Mauser rifle. A large springbok appeared. I took a shot. This is after I stalked it for long time, sharpening my hunting skills. The animal turned and ran. I ran too, believing I needed to finish what I had started. At that age, I didn’t yet understand what the land itself could reveal.

Jan caught up with me not long after. Calm, as always, he looked at me and asked in Afrikaans, “Hoekom hardloop jy agter hom aan, seun?” “Why are you running after him, boy?” 

“I thought he was getting away,” I replied. He gave a small smile and said, “Het jy nie gesien hy lig sy stert nie?” 

"Didn’t you see his tail lift? That’s a heart shot,” he explained. “You must observe.”

His words stayed with me. What mattered was not the act of hunting. It was the act of noticing. Jan wasn’t teaching me how to shoot. He was teaching me how to observe to the language of the wild.

I must also mention that I have shortened the story of the hunt. I was an avid hunter when I was young, and I believed that hunting gave me the opportunity to learn from the veld. With time and growth, I have replaced my gun with a camera.

I learned how to track or trail animals that were wounded. By following their tracks, sometimes confirmed by traces of blood. I could be sure I was on the right path. As you gain experience, you begin to see from the way each animal moves whether you are following the correct spoor. It takes time, and you need to do it often to become truly skilled.

To give some context as to why I ran after the springbok. I knew that if I did not recover the animal, it would be wounded and suffering. And I also knew my father would find out. Technically, I had not been given permission to go hunting that day. I was a naughty little boy, acting on impulse. That is why my father had asked Jan to keep an eye on me

Above picture: Jan and Koen in the Kalahari 2002/3

THE NIGHT SKY AS A MAP

That evening, we sat under the vast sky. No lights. No noise. Just firelight, dust, and the slow turning of the stars.

Jan pointed upward and said,

“Dis die Suiderkruis.”

That’s the Southern Cross.

Then he shared stories that had clearly been passed to him from long ago. They were not told like lessons. They were fragments, spoken with wonder and quiet certainty. To Jan and his ancestors, the stars were not distant objects. They were memory and meaning. The Milky Way was the backbone of the sky. Orion’s Belt was not just a line of stars. It was part of a great hunt. Venus, the morning star, marked the moment of new beginnings.

The San knew the sky like they knew the earth. The constellations helped guide movement, mark seasons, and shape stories. They believed the stars were the eyes of the ancestors watching over the people.

THE QUIET OF KNOWING

Jan never said goodbye. He simply gave me the kind of smile that holds many layers of meaning.

Years later, while guiding in the Waterberg, Makuleke and Babanango, I would find myself beneath rock overhangs, pointing out San art to guests. But always, somewhere in the back of my mind, I would see Jan. Not because of the hunt. But because of what he showed me that day. He taught me that there is a deeper way of walking through the world. One where silence teaches, and stories live in tracks, in stone, in starlight.

That is why their paintings still pulse with life. They did not see the world through division. The natural and the spiritual were the same. Their knowledge was quiet, but it was complete.

MORE THAN A WALK

At Tsala Trails, our walking safaris are not about chasing sightings. They are about returning to a rhythm that still lives in the land. A rhythm that speaks when we slow down. A rhythm that people like Jan, and the San before him, knew how to observe.

When we pause in front of San rock art, we are not stepping into the past. We are returning to something timeless. Sometimes, it comes through paint. Sometimes, through stars. Sometimes, through a voice that once said, “That’s where the hunt begins,” and meant something far deeper than the chase.

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