6. designed by chaos

When we were renovating Milimani, we proudly showed friends and family how the lodge was progressing and monitored our success by their reactions. My favourite was when a friend exclaimed “Wow, who was your interior designer?” I humbly replied “Oh, it was designed by Chaos.” Being a typical Sandton girl, she replied, “Don’t think I’ve heard of him.”

Well, let me introduce you to Chaos. He was totally obsessed by his new project, has amazing vision and endless energy – and I’m married to him.

Before we moved from Kenya to develop Milimani, we dreamt of what we would do and how we would do it. 

I fantasised about the former and Ken worried about the latter.

We inherited an amazing set-up on the farm and aimed to revamp the accommodation to suit international tourism. I wasn’t particularly keen on the typical Zulu rondavels and wanted to build something easier to furnish, but finances put an end to that day-dream.

Friends from Kenya came to visit not long after we moved down and we told them about our concerns about being able to do something different with a round building. Over copious amounts of vodka, Lucy, our colourful Kenyan friend, grabbed a piece of paper and a felt tip pen and set out to design what is now fondly called “Vodka Cottage.”

During the haze of the evening it all made sense and seemed quite logical. And in the grim light of the morning, nursing sore heads, we found Ken, hammer and chisel in hand, working to the plans that Lucy had scribbled out. Vodka Cottage is our favourite room and became a template for the other three rondavels.

The next challenge was: what to do with the restaurant area?

I managed to throw ‘Feng Shui’ jargon at ken many times and it often got me my way – until he realised I actually didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. We’d devised a brochure before we started building and I’d written ‘….with a swimming pool built into a man-made cave…’  The brochure was printed and Ken looked at me in horror. Where was this man-made cave? I explained that we should build it over the small pool at the restaurant and put a game-viewing lounge above it. He challenged me with some engineering talk and I responded with ‘girlspeak’. But it was the brochure that decided the issue – I just love the power of the written word. So poor Ken and his able helpers carted in rocks and stones, and 12 tonnes of cement later, we had a cave over the swimming pool.

We’d also decided to make our own furniture. This time it was Ken’s turn to completely blow my mind. He scouted the bush for dead wood and brought back, what in anyone else’s mind, looked like firewood. This was carefully sorted and categorised outside the workshop. Inside, Nkoni, our capable carpenter, produced the most amazing pieces – beds, tables, dressing tables, chairs, lampstands – everything that was needed for the rooms. We have guests that drive through the bush now looking at dead trees, saying: “That would make an amazing table/ lamp/ etc.”

Despite our lack of plans and seeming chaos, we had a lot of fun putting the lodge together and the result has been rewarding. 

Mother Nature gave us plenty of inspiration and it is she who deserves most of the credit.

Published in Country Life, June 2002

Other blogs by Lois Kuhle:

SMOKE RINGS IN CUBA. A TWO WEEK JOURNEY FILLED WITH SALSA, SUNSHINE AND SILLY PEOPLE: http://smokeringsincuba.blogspot.com/2013/10/smoke-rings-in-cuba-journey-filled-with.html

COOL THOUGHTS. MUSINGS AND OTHER MAD MOMENTS:  http://loiskuhlethoughts.blogspot.com/2013/12/we-have-pending-nuptials.html

5. three little pigs

Helena says I was a pig in my last life. Helena is my mentor, my guru, and my guide when it comes to animals, so I believe every word she says. At first I was reluctant to accept that I might have been a pig, but after my experiences with a trio of hoggish ‘cousins’ I’m proud of the idea.

It all started with Eisbein. We offered to take this perfect, spoilt pig as his previous owners were finding him rather troublesome in their Durban suburban home, but his arrival was greeted with disgust by our dogs. They were totally confused by this creature whose back resembled his front.

Eisbein is a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig, and pot-bellied he is. Nusu, the German Shepherd, promptly took to some serious pot-belly bashing, whilst Callie, the border collie – delighted to have something to herd – nipped Eisbein’s ears to correct his movements.

When Eisbein’s ‘mother’ announced she was coming to visit Milimani, we panicked, thinking she’d be horrified at how the dogs have treated him. Some mad patching-up was needed to cover the superficial scars made by the dogs. Elizabeth Anne’s shampoo and some buffing hid the evidence and soon he looked as perfect as when he’d arrived. Poor Eisbein, he had a difficult time until the pecking order settled down and he’d established his position at the top.

Then there are the warthogs. Outside our kitchen door we fall over two young males that have been with us since their tiny tails could stand on end. Their mother has kicked them out to make way for the new litter, but whilst their siblings went off into the big pig world, these two remained ‘mummy’s boys’. Fortunately a fence divides them from the dogs, but the bravado this encourages is sometimes forgotten and confrontations have been traumatic. The warthogs share their feeding spot with the chickens and Egyptian geese, who are often sent into involuntary flight. Compared with Eisbein, who never knows what day it is, the warthogs are far more energetic and have heaps of personality.

Finally there are the bushpigs. Of all my boarish connections, bushpigs are my favourite. We have parented several bushpigs, from young orphans to slightly older, rehabilitated ones, and despite the species’ terrible reputation they have all wormed their way into our hearts and touched our soul. Bacon, Beans and Hamlet were the first to arrive, followed by Picollo and Wig. Bacon, Beans and Hamlet have been released, but Picollo and Wig were mere babes in arms when they arrived and had to be bottlefed – which of course meant they stayed in the house. Picollo settled down well in the bathroom, but was soon booted out when Ken suffered from sensahumourfailure after tripping over her and her ‘late night messages' for the umpteenth time. Fortunately the dogs willingly accepted her, contrary to their attitude to Eisbein. They probably knew that this pig was going to grow up more dangerous than Eisbein could ever imagine.

Wig was only two weeks old when we got her and she spent many nights in the bathroom. When her nocturnal antics became too rowdy, she happily settled down in the shoe cupboard. 

Being a mere 10cm high, she knew all about feet and shoes, but not much else.

So, if Helena is right my combined personality should be fat, lazy and manipulative, with heaps of personality and a love of shoes. Wonder what I’ll be in my next life?

Published in Country Life, May 2002.

Other blogs by Lois Kuhle:

SMOKE RINGS IN CUBA. A TWO WEEK JOURNEY FILLED WITH SALSA, SUNSHINE AND SILLY PEOPLE: http://smokeringsincuba.blogspot.com/2013/10/smoke-rings-in-cuba-journey-filled-with.html

COOL THOUGHTS. MUSINGS AND OTHER MAD MOMENTS:  http://loiskuhlethoughts.blogspot.com/2013/12/we-have-pending-nuptials.html

4. bacon, beans and the bard

Bushpigs (Potamocheorus porcus), are known to be ‘aggressive, suspicious and dangerous’. I would be too if someone had lumbered me with a Latin name that I had no hope of spelling in kindergarten.

Sadly, the textbook description has done much damage to the bushpig’s reputation. So we were slightly anxious when we took delivery of Bacon and Beans, two hand-reared, eight-month-old bushpigs. They had been rescued from the clutches of people who were fattening them up for the pot, nurtured and then sent to us for release back into the wild.

We keep our animals for a three-week period for orientation prior to release. Every day I would feed Bacon and Beans mielies, scrambling through their pen to find their feeding bowl, that had been taken for a walk. During this daily ritual we developed a rapport and Bacon, Beans and I became best friends. So much so, that after each feeding time I looked as though I had just walked out of one of Ken’s mud-wrestling fantasies.

When their three-week period was over and it was time to release Bacon and Beans, I bade them sad and fond farewells and they slipped off into the bush without so much as a goodbye kiss. A month later we happened to be solving all the problems of the world over a bottle of red wine around the camp fire, when a scuffle in the bush delivered Bacon and Beans. Bin Laden and his mates were forgotten and the relationship between pig and man re-established. Their affection was overwhelming. Our manager was reduced to a pathetic mass of male sensitivity – overflowing with guilt for every bushpig he’d ever shot.

The following night, determined to prove to Ken that the vision of the return of the bushpigs was not due to red wine alone, I called into the night: “Bacon, Beans, here piggy piggy,” much to the amusement of our night-watchman. And, lo and behold, bolting from the bush came the pigs of my life. Stupidly I was wearing my best, white, long-flowing party dress and it bore the brunt of the muddy reunion.

Every night thereafter I would embarrass myself by yelling the ingredients of a breakfast menu into the night, only to be covered in mud and slobber.

However, this story does come with the warning: “Do not try this at home!” Bushpigs are dangerous and should be handled with utmost respect. If you do invite them around the campfire, hide all glasses and ice and don’t wear white. Bacon and Beans are half their potential size and will eventually grow to a metre tall and weigh up to 115kgs. Boisterous behaviour is not to be encouraged, especially if you are a pig lover weighing only 55kgs.

Most relationships are built around food, and Bacon and Beans’ love for me is based on the fact that attached to the long white flowing robe is always paw-paw.

Soon afterwards we released Hamlet, a four-month old bushpig orphan. These days, in the heart of northern Zululand, the echoing call of a Shakespearean breakfast can be heard!

Published in Country Life, April 2002

Other blogs by Lois Kuhle:

SMOKE RINGS IN CUBA. A TWO WEEK JOURNEY FILLED WITH SALSA, SUNSHINE AND SILLY PEOPLE: http://smokeringsincuba.blogspot.com/2013/10/smoke-rings-in-cuba-journey-filled-with.html

COOL THOUGHTS. MUSINGS AND OTHER MAD MOMENTS:  http://loiskuhlethoughts.blogspot.com/2013/12/we-have-pending-nuptials.html

3. a rhino, a donkey and a sexual muddle

When Ken and I bought Milimani last year, we recognised that one of the priorities would be investing in wildlife. Having come from Kenya, it was quite a novelty for us to go to a game auction and buy animals. In Kenya all the wildlife belongs to the government, giving the eco-tourism industry little control over one of its essential assets.

Our first purchase was at the Hluhluwe Private Game Auction, where we bought 20 blesbok. We were attracted to these animals by their rather ungainly manner and lopsided structure. We took delivery at the end of May and the whole exercise was painless. Having gained some confidence in this new venture, we approached the annual Hluhluwe 
KZN Wildlife Auction with gusto.

By now we had decided to go for the big stuff. A rhino would do. We’d also decided to name it Peggy, after Ken’s late mother. Our first choice was a 16-month-old male that was still being weaned. Ken has a history of dealing with orphaned animals and this young animal seemed destined to join us. Except that someone outbid us. It went for an unbelievable R120,000. Disappointed, I left the floor to speak to Dr David Cooper. I hadn’t turned my back for more than 30 seconds when Ken, in his willingness to wave his auction card about, bought the next rhino, a five-year-old male. Well, we couldn’t call him Peggy for fear that his friends would laugh at him, and thus he became Rafiki, which means ‘friend’ in Swahili.

As we’d bought a single rhino, Ken decided we should get a donkey to keep him company. Mildly confused and amused by this idea, we went through the motions of ‘interviewing’ the local donkeys on the banks of the Mkuze River. This proved to be a difficult task, and up to the day that Rafiki was due to arrive we still hadn’t found a suitable candidate. We’d built an electric fence around a three-hectare area in front of the restaurant to serve as a boma in which to keep Rafiki for three weeks so that he could become accustomed to us and the grazing in the area. Minutes before Rafiki arrived we managed to find our perfect donkey and it was rushed into the boma. We’d been told it was a female and so we promptly christened her ‘Peggy’.

Peggy stood absolutely unemotional in her new home, as donkeys are inclined to do, and I was sure someone had put her ears on back to front. Rafiki arrived and was literally tipped out of his crate. As he was still mildly drugged he explored the boma with no fuss, but Peggy took one look at him and legged it out of there through the electric fence. Two metres outside the fence she regained her unemotional composure. Fortunately for her, we accepted that this relationship was not going to work and she was taken to live with the horses.

Pleased that Rafiki seemed at ease and had already started to graze, we left him to settle down. The next morning at dawn Ken was up appreciating his new addition. Sensing an audience, Rafiki took one lunge at the fence and bolted his way out. The three days of hard work and great expense in building the boma hadn’t impressed him at all. Even the 5,000 volt electric fence wasn’t enough to keep him inside.


Shortly after our mismatched blind date between Rafiki and Peggy, I was putting the horses to bed. There was Peggy proudly displaying the fact that ‘she’ definitely wasn’t a female. Devastated that we’d got into such a sexual muddle, I prayed that Ken’s mum would at least see the humorous side!

Published in Country Life, March 2002


Other blogs by Lois Kuhle:

SMOKE RINGS IN CUBA. A TWO WEEK JOURNEY FILLED WITH SALSA, SUNSHINE AND SILLY PEOPLE: http://smokeringsincuba.blogspot.com/2013/10/smoke-rings-in-cuba-journey-filled-with.html

COOL THOUGHTS. MUSINGS AND OTHER MAD MOMENTS:  http://loiskuhlethoughts.blogspot.com/2013/12/we-have-pending-nuptials.html

2. teething problems

Taking on a new ‘baby’ in the form of a game sanctuary tends to expose one to unexpected perils…..

Along with Milimani, we inherited six adult crocodiles. Having been a city dweller before this experience, the thought of being responsible for something that was desperately in need of repackaging and marketing, with a mouth that houses the most awesome-looking teeth, was rather daunting.

But crocodiles are pretty low maintenance, especially during the winter, at which time they don’t even flinch when you throw R7-a-kilo meat at them. At this time of year it’s even safe to fetch the meat back for use on a day when they might be more receptive. But this decision has to be made with care as deception is one of the croc’s key qualities.

During the early days of summer, mating takes place – a boisterous and often quite dangerous affair. By early December, eggs are laid up to 30cm deep in sand nests. As this was our first year of breeding, we decided to send the eggs to Durban to be incubated and hatched. We persuaded a croc breeder to come and take the eggs, more for the entertainment value of watching him dodge snapping jaws than anything else.

The eggs went off along our bumpy road and in early February it was announced that I had finally become a ‘gogo ngwenya’ or granny crocodile. Which of course made my mother ‘great-gogo-ngwenya’. As grandchildren are lacking in our family, my mother has no option but to become excited about such titles.

Three weeks later we took delivery of 12 of the babies, which were rudely referred to as ‘geckos’ by the breeder. He had never seen such small crocs. They probably were geckos and I was none the wiser. Being novices at this whole game, we lovingly settled them into their new home with its specially built pool, in a cage to stop any raptors from having them for lunch. Little did we know that these little critters are the Houdini’s in the business and within three days four had gone AWOL. Work was stopped and the staff were sent on a hunt, but the crocs/ geckos were never found. They will probably reappear at the front door in five years’ time, three metres long and with an attitude that will keep us indoors for life.

As part of the hatching deal, we’d decided to take four larger crocs, as their survival rate is higher. I went down to Durban on a shopping spree and collected the new additions on the way home. The crocs were presented to me in a flimsy, 20cm deep polystyrene box. Having frequently embarrassed myself by my lack of knowledge, I meekly asked if the box would be strong enough. “Of course it is,” came the reply, followed by a smirk that I will never trust again.

The four-hour journey home was uneventful – until we reached the dirt road. The inability of my small car to cope with the corrugations unsettled my travelling companions. I heard a rustle in the back and stretched to make sure the lid was still on the box. All seemed fine. Five minutes later I looked down to see a 500mm croc at my feet heading for the pedals. Yanking up the handbrake and my feet, I had a long and meaningful discussion with this very unresponsive crocodile. Eventually I persuaded it that it was going to a good home, that I’d saved it from becoming a handbag, that it would see sunshine for the first time, food and room service were provided and all bugs were free. We reached a level of trust and I gingerly drove home with a croc under my knees.

The next trick was to persuade someone to get it and me out of the car. We called our manager, whose job portfolio is to handle dangerous animals, including my husband and myself.

To this day, I swear he winks at me every time I feed him.

Published in Country Life, February 2002

Other blogs by Lois Kuhle:

SMOKE RINGS IN CUBA. A TWO WEEK JOURNEY FILLED WITH SALSA, SUNSHINE AND SILLY PEOPLE: http://smokeringsincuba.blogspot.com/2013/10/smoke-rings-in-cuba-journey-filled-with.html

COOL THOUGHTS. MUSINGS AND OTHER MAD MOMENTS:  http://loiskuhlethoughts.blogspot.com/2013/12/we-have-pending-nuptials.html

MILIMANI GAME SANCTUARY

In 2002 I was lucky enough to be given a column on the back page of the South African 'Country Life'. 

I submitted 12 articles about the life and times at MILIMANI GAME SANCTUARY, and the adventures we had the privilege of experiencing upon our arrival in South Africa in 2000. 

Sadly, the new life we chose was short lived, as in 2005 Milimani Game Sanctuary was bought by the government under a land claim and handed to the Gumbi community. It was the same year that Ken died of a heart attack.

As a tribute to Ken Kuhle and the amazing animals we lived with in the heart of the Zululand bush, I am re-publishing these stories.

ACCIDENT WITH A CHEQUE BOOK

Being catapulted into a whole new life in the KZN Bushveld calls for an ability to keep one’s cool – and a sense of humour! 

 A friend of my mother’s once said to me, ‘Better to be an old man’s sweetheart, than a young man’s slave'. Following this sound advice, I married a man 22 years older than myself. For his part, Ken had this philosophy that a man should marry a woman half his age plus seven. I was in my late 30s and he was nearly 60 when we married just over four years ago, so I slotted right in.

Ken is Kenyan born and bred. I was raised in Kenya and went back in 1995 on a two year contract. After falling in love with Ken, I was quite content to make Kenya my home again.

We had a good life. Ken was supposed to be retired but he’d spent many years committed to wildlife and conservation projects and became totally involved in a wildlife charitable trust. I was the managing director of a media broking agency. Then Ken had an accident with a cheque book. A piece of land came up for sale in South Africa and, to our total surprise, his offer was accepted. We now sat with 10,000 acres (3,000 hectares) of land in a country we did not live in. My parents are in South Africa and naturally had something to do with ‘the accident’.

So there I was, forty something, having survived the traumatic twenties, fought my way through my thirties, finally reached middle age, established a career, considered myself an adult who was taking life seriously, only to find my sixty-something husband prepared to abandon everything he’d lived for, leave the country he’d been totally committed to for his whole life, and settle in a country he knew absolutely nothing about.

Ken’s impression of South Africa had been sugar cane, shopping malls and white people, but he’d bought a gem of a place just north of Mkuze in KwaZulu-Natal and, without looking back, shifted his whole being to what he now considers the centre of the universe. In the 18 months that we’ve been on the farm, which we’ve named Milimani Game Sanctuary, he’s gone into town less than six times. His old haunt in Nairobi, The Muthaiga Club, never even gets a mention any more.

I was sent back to Kenya to pack up 62 years of someone else’s life. I had always sworn that if we had to move house we would sell it lock stock and barrel, as there was so much clutter in our home that I couldn’t bear the thought of going through it all. But somehow my threats went unheard. This was to Ken’s disadvantage, as my mother and I went from room to room going, “don’t like, can’t like, won’t like’, and many items mysteriously disappeared to be replaced by more acceptable recent purchases. Naturally, without fail, all the things that were ‘forgotten’, or ‘left behind’ happen to be the things that are constantly asked for. Blank stares and confused looks are wearing thin. I didn’t even know we had a cupboard in the kitchen, never mind a floor polisher that was at least 100 years old.

Back in South Africa, with an enormous amount of energy, we set out to develop a tourist lodge. In our enthusiasm to get going we adopted a ‘design by chaos’ approach. This is not recommended if you want to sustain sanity or maintain a peaceful marriage. We’ve had to deal with language problems, learning to understand different cultures, living in the bush whilst trying to develop a business, and many other mind altering experiences.

But the biggest challenge of all has been trying to survive a husband who has down-aged about 40 years, found a new lease on life and has this abundance of energy that leaves us all standing. For my part, I’ve aged about 20 years in the past 12 months – and so have completely destroyed his theory of ‘half his age plus seven.’

Published in South African Country Life, January 2002.

Other blogs by Lois Kuhle:


SMOKE RINGS IN CUBA. A TWO WEEK JOURNEY FILLED WITH SALSA, SUNSHINE AND SILLY PEOPLE: http://smokeringsincuba.blogspot.com/2013/10/smoke-rings-in-cuba-journey-filled-with.html

COOL THOUGHTS. MUSINGS AND OTHER MAD MOMENTS:  http://loiskuhlethoughts.blogspot.com/2013/12/we-have-pending-nuptials.html