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Kwa-Zulu Natal. Every syllable has a resonance as it rolls off your tongue. So it should. For this north-eastern province of South Africa, it represents the full circle of history after more than two hundred years of almost constant strife. Once again, the Zulu nation is in the ascendant.

Driving north from Durban, away from the Indian Ocean coast and into the interior of Natal, we passed through verdant countryside with deep valleys and hillsides cloaked in eucalyptus and pine. Mile upon mile of sugar cane fields are broken only by the occasional citrus orchard. It all felt very First World, speeding along broad highways amidst the rich agriculture. But as we struck further inland, deep into the heart of Zululand, the country changes, becoming more expansive and somehow rawer - more the Africa I had been looking forward to. Rolling plains are flanked by conical granite hills and escarpments. The valleys seem to plunge deeper, the hillsides ripple in waves of windblown grass, studded with occasional clusters of bee-hive huts. These Zulu kraals lend the country a soul.

Prior to the nineteenth century this region of Africa was relatively peaceful, inhabited by a variety of pastoral African tribes and left alone by the white man. But in the early 1800s all that was to change. Competition for land amongst the resident tribes led to internecine warfare. Amongst this disorder Shaka, leader of a previously relatively unimportant tribe, the Zulus, swept to power. With a determination and ruthlessness that crushed all opposition, Shaka drilled his warriors into well disciplined and highly effective regiments. He then launched a devastating series of wars known as the Mfecane or hammering, during which he subjugated or drove away all of the neighbouring tribes until the Zulus ruled supreme. In Zululand the pulse of the people still beats to the memories of Shaka’s drum.

With the sun slowly sinking over the distant hills we entered Itala Game Reserve, an area of staggering, wild beauty overlooked by towering rock outcrops. Wildebeest and zebra grazed the open grassland; a mixed herd of kudu looked back at us shyly from the safety of a thornbush thicket, the males with their majestic spiralled horns keeping their distance; two adolescent giraffe sparred together in a mock battle that was more ballet than warfare as, with great elegance, they courteously took it in turn to butt one another with long sweeping blows from their stubby horns.

Later, just as dusk faded to dark, we made out the lumbering form of a black rhinoceros. To see one of these great prehistoric creatures wandering unhindered in its natural habitat is both thrilling and a very special treat. Throughout most of the rest of Africa, rhinoceros have been wiped out by poachers. In those countries such as Zimbabwe which do still have rhino living in the wild, they have been forced to de-horn them in an attempt to protect the animals from their human predators. Without their commanding horn the rhinoceros present a forlorn image. Not so here in Natal, where the Parks are full of both black and white rhinoceros in their prime. One of the nearby parks, Hluhluwe-Umfolozi, is credited with saving the African rhinoceros, and now has an active programme of breeding and trans-locating rhinoceros to re-stock parks and reserves throughout Africa.

Continuing our journey westwards, we passed through Vryheid and then turned off the highway once more toward the Blood River. During the first two decades of the nineteenth century control of the Cape Colony passed to and fro between Afrikaners and British authorities but rested with the latter. By 1834, many of the Boers could no longer stomach what they saw as the repressive regime of the British. In-spanning their oxen and taking their families with them, they set out to seek new land in what came to be known as The Great Trek. As these Voortrekkers gradually advanced north eastwards they started to encroach on Zulu territory. Several parties of Voortrekkers were massacred before their newly elected leader Andries Pretorius led an armed force to take on the Zulus. On the 15th December 1838, 500 Voortrekkers formed their 64 wagons into a laager close to the bank of the Ncone River. Next morning they came under attack from approximately 15,000 Zulus. The battle raged for several hours but the Zulus spears were no match for the Boers’ rifles and artillery pieces. When the fighting was done 3,000 Zulus had been killed, giving the river its new macabre name, for only 3 Boers wounded. Today, a monument to the Voortrekkers and a replica wagon laager mark the battle site.

Although cowed for a number of years and forced to accept colonisation of their territory, the Zulus had by no means had their day. Just a couple of inches lower down the tourist map my finger traced over two of the most
emotive names from British military history: Isandlwana and Rorke’s Drift. On 23rd January 1879 in the first engagement of the Anglo-Zulu War, 24,000 Zulus surprised and overwhelmed the main British force who were camped at Isandlwana. 1,271 British soldiers perished to Zulu spears. The following day 131 British soldiers faced 4,500 Zulus at Rorke’s Drift. Eleven Victoria Crosses were earned that day, the highest number ever awarded for a single action. Modern weapons ultimately prevailed, but it took a further six months before the Zulu capital was captured, King Cetshwayo taken prisoner and the Royal Kraal sacked.

Back on the road we continued to be assailed by the region’s bloody history as we continued westwards onto the stage for the Anglo-Boer War. Entering Dundee, we passed the site of the Battle of Talana, the first clash between Boers and British in Natal which resulted in heavy casualties on both sides. The following day, 21st October 1899, in a second battle a few miles down the road at Elandslaagte, the British cleared the way back to their main base at Ladysmith where they were besieged for the next 118 days. Winston Churchill, who followed the course of the war as a correspondent for the Morning Post, described Ladysmith at the time as "famous to the uttermost ends of the earth: centre of the world’s attention, the scene of famous deeds, the cause of mighty efforts". A few days later Churchill was himself taken prisoner when the armoured train that he was travelling on was ambushed at Chieveley.

So vital was the relief of Ladysmith, that the General Commanding all British Forces in South Africa, General Sir Redvers Buller VC (his Victoria Cross was gained during the Zulu War) proceeded to Durban in personal command of the relieving force. All did not go well. The Boers had taken the high ground all around Ladysmith and were shelling the town relentlessly. Meanwhile they had adopted a defensive line along the Tugela River to block the British relief force. The first three major engagements at Colenso, Spioenkop and Vaalkrans all resulted in heavy British losses and withdrawals.

Wandering around the deserted battlefield at Spioenkop, you can picture the Boers nestled amongst the rocks on the summit of this commanding hill. Your eye traces the line that the British infantry took up the long spur that runs all the way up the hillside from the valley floor far below. Close your eyes and you hear the quiet advance of the British troops as they make their way up the slope under cover of darkness: a stumble here, a curse there as a man grazes his shin on a rock, the hissed rebuke of an NCO, the muttered instruction of an officer, the gleam of moonlight on bayonets, the sweat running down the inside of itchy tunics as the soldiers pick their way between rocks and cactuses. Suddenly the shouted challenge of the Boer sentry, an exchange of fire and then the bayonet charge and hectic hand-to-hand fighting to clear the summit. A brief lull after the successful initial assault and then, with the coming of dawn and the clearing of the mist and smoke of battle, the dreadful realisation that the position is overlooked by Boer artillery positions. The terrible ensuing hours of continual bombardment, pinned down by crossfire, unable to scratch a way down into the baked earth for protection; the appalling attrition.

The gravestones tell their own story: some have been raised to individuals, amongst them the British Commander. Several bear the legend "To a Brave British Soldier, Known unto God". Others, inscribed with Rolls of Honour whose terrible length reveal the true extent of the British losses, are memorials to regiments. How many supporters of Liverpool Football Club realise as they cheer their side on from the Kop, that the stand is named in honour of the local men of the Lancashire regiments who died at Spioenkop? How many could find the commitment, the valour or the resilience shown by their antecedents fighting in remote lands under conditions of appalling hardship, if called on to do so today?

As we drove away, our Zulu driver talked of a later struggle: the years of repression under apartheid, the euphoria of freedom after the elections of 1994 and his unbounded admiration, verging on veneration, for Nelson Mandela even though his natural tribal alliance should be for Chief Buthelezi. Now the dust has settled and South Africa faces the future as a nation of 32 million people, equal in status, undistinguished by colour or race. The country has come out of the political wilderness, but he worries about the corruption within the government, who could lead effectively after Mandela and more immediately, both the alarming crime rate and high unemployment.

We continued on our way westwards towards the Drakensburg. From Spioenkop, the Drakensburg had appeared as a high, flat-topped cliff-line which stretched across the entire horizon. Closer to, with the low-angled sun casting shadows that emphasised the physical relief, I could see that this formidable wall is far from regular. Contorted, faulted, raised in a succession of lordly peaks and with a smattering of snow on the crest, the Drakensburg glowed a deep amber in the evening light. Approaching Tendele Camp at the head of a remote valley in Royal Natal National Park, we gazed up at the towering form of The Amphitheatre. Next day we trekked along a steep mountain trail to reach the rim of this vast, embracing feature. Crisp air, soaring mountain faces, a scramble up a chain ladder that took us up a short cliff face and then a walk across the summit plateau brought us to what felt like the lip of the world. All of Kwa-Zulu Natal stretched before us. Looking out over this beautiful, fertile land, it is not hard to see why so many competing cultures wanted to claim it for themselves, and it is no great stretch of the imagination to associate the rich red soil with the blood spilt by those who died fighting for it.

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