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ONE of my fondest childhood memories is of being in the South African bush. From Johannesburg, the southern end of the Kruger National Park, along the border of Mozambique, is only a 4½-hour drive away. Twice a year during school holidays, my family and I would hop into our minibus with cooler boxes filled with snacks and drinks—or padkos, as they’re known in Afrikaans—eagerly anticipating the moment when the modest urban landscape of the city’s suburbs eased into ramshackle townships, small towns and, finally, the wild, open bushland.
I no longer live in South Africa, but, as a travel writer, I have been fortunate