From Hadeda to Heartbeat: Raising Wild-Aware Children in the South African Way
Long before we teach our children the word “wildlife,” they know the Hadeda. It’s not something we plan—it just happens. That raucous, unmistakable call at dawn becomes part of their world before they even understand what a bird is. Here in South Africa, nature is not a novelty. It’s not a curated, boxed-in activity. It’s the backdrop to our everyday lives. That’s why the idea of a “safari” can feel strangely foreign when spoken about in international terms—as though it’s something you have to fly halfway across the continent to experience. For many of us, it’s simply the way we grew up. Dirt roads, cooler boxes, the dusty smell of summer storms, the thrill of spotting something moving in the bushes before anyone else sees it. It’s memory, it’s rhythm, it’s home. When you become a parent, the world reshapes itself. Suddenly, you’re not just looking at wildlife—you’re watching your child look at wildlife. You’re seeing, through their small and curious eyes, what it means to encounter wonder for the first time. And while it might seem daunting to take a toddler into a game reserve or national park, the rewards are immeasurable. These early years are where the roots of connection to the earth are planted. It doesn’t have to be dramatic. In fact, it shouldn’t be. A slow drive through a quiet reserve, a pause to watch a dung beetle roll its treasure across the path, a moment of stillness as impala flick their ears in the long grass—this is where the magic lives. There are places across South Africa that truly understand what it means to travel with small children. They’re not trying to make the bush fancy or fast-paced. They allow for naps, for early dinners, for flexibility. In the Eastern Cape, the Waterberg, the vast quiet of the Kalahari—there are malaria-free areas where toddlers are welcome, not just tolerated. Some lodges even offer little explorer programs with soft-footed rangers who speak gently and know that wonder can live in a feather, not just in a lion’s roar. But perhaps the most beautiful thing is that you don’t need luxury to create lasting memories. Some of the most heartfelt moments happen in self-drive parks, with picnic eggs and flasks of coffee, where the kids fall asleep in the backseat, and you just sit, watching the bush breathe. It’s not about ticking boxes. It’s about watching your child learn to be patient. It’s about showing them how to be quiet—not because they must, but because something is approaching and you want to honour its space. It’s about pointing out the difference between a hornbill and a hoopoe. It’s about waiting for the giraffe to step fully into view and seeing the quiet awe on your child’s face when it does. And yes, sometimes they’ll fall asleep just before the elephants cross the road. Sometimes, they’ll cry because they’re hot or hungry. But they’ll also laugh when a monkey steals a roll off the table and squeal with joy when they spot zebra for the first time— “stripy horses!” they might shout. And you’ll laugh too because, for them, it’s all new. We raise children not by shielding them from the wild, but by guiding them gently through it, by letting them experience both its power and its peace. And while the brochures might talk about game drives and lodges, what you’re really doing is giving your child the chance to fall in love with something greater than themselves. Safari doesn’t have to be far or fancy. Sometimes it’s just a long weekend away with sticky fingers, binoculars, and a shared sense of adventure. It’s a small hand reaching for yours as a bird of prey circles overhead. It’s watching your child squat down to look at a track in the sand and whisper, “What made this?” It’s something sacred. Because long after they’ve forgotten the names of the reserves or which lodge had the best pudding, they’ll remember how it felt to be outside with you. To listen for sounds that didn’t come from a screen. To be still enough that a butterfly landed on their sleeve. And they’ll always remember the Hadeda. The bird that welcomed them to the world of the wild from right outside their bedroom window. By Kelly Eyre, Quality and Pedagogy Lead, Dibber South Africa
