If you’ve spent enough time in the bush, you’ll know that there are few creatures as infamous, or as fiercely admired, as the Honey Badger. Around Londolozi, their reputation precedes them. Tougher than they look, elusive as shadows, and as intelligent as any predator, honey badgers command a kind of hushed respect among guides, trackers, and guests alike.

I vividly remember my first honey badger sighting at Londolozi. It was just before dawn, that hour when the bush is still and quiet, before the chorus begins. Tracker, Advice, spotted a stocky shape moving with purpose along the road ahead. At first, I thought it might be a young hyena. But as we drew closer, the distinctive black-and-white coat came into view, along with that low, confident swagger. Advice grinned and simply said, “Ratel”, meaning honey badger.

Honey badgers belong to the family Mustelidae— a group that includes weasels, otters, and wolverines. That lineage alone should give you a sense of what they’re made of. Mustelids are known for being strong, clever, and often disproportionately fierce for their size. The honey badger (Mellivora capensis) may be the African branch of this family, but it has earned a global reputation for fearlessness.

Their body is built for battle and survival. Short, powerful limbs end in formidable claws, ideal for digging into burrows or tearing apart tough ground. Their skin, especially around the neck and shoulders, is unusually thick and loose—nature’s armour against bites, stings, or even snake fangs. They can twist around and fight back even when a predator has them in its jaws. It’s a design perfected for a life that demands resilience.

Despite their sweet-sounding name, honey badgers are not particularly fussy eaters. They’re opportunistic omnivores, consuming just about anything edible they encounter. Termites, beetle larvae, scorpions, small rodents, lizards, birds, eggs, and even snakes, nothing is off-limits.

And yes, they do love honey. In fact, their scientific name Mellivora means “honey eater.” They have an extraordinary tolerance for bee stings, which allows them to raid beehives that most animals would avoid. I’ve watched one tear into an underground hive before, undeterred by swarms of angry bees, using those long claws to dig deep into the comb. Once they break in, they feast on honey, honeycomb, larvae, and the bees themselves.

They’re also known to use their intelligence in astonishing ways. Old bush tales speak of honey badgers following honeyguides, a bird known for its namesake, that leads mammals (and sometimes humans) to beehives. The story goes that once the badger has eaten its fill, it leaves some scraps for the bird as a reward. While the scientific community still debates how often this happens, it’s one of those stories that feels entirely fitting for such a cunning animal.

With the sound of the vehicle approaching, a honey badger peeks out of a burrow it had been foraging in to give us a closer inspection.

Honey badgers are solitary by nature. Unlike lions or wild dogs, they don’t form social packs or family groups. Each individual occupies a large territory, which it marks with a pungent secretion from its anal glands—a scent potent enough to deter rivals. Males have bigger ranges than females, and their paths sometimes overlap, but encounters between adults are usually brief and businesslike.

When it comes to breeding, males may roam far and wide in search of receptive females. After a gestation period of about six months, a female gives birth to one or two cubs in a burrow she’s dug herself or taken over from an aardvark. She is an intensely devoted mother, fiercely protective of her young. Cubs remain with their mother for more than a year, during which she teaches them everything they need to know about foraging and survival. I’ve only ever been lucky enough to glimpse a honey badger with a cub once—late one evening near the Sand River. Watching the small cub mimic its mother’s digging was a rare and heartwarming moment amid the usual drama of the bush.

Honey badgers are mostly nocturnal here at Londolozi, especially during the hot summer months. Under the cover of darkness, they move with an astonishing blend of stealth and determination, covering vast distances in search of food. However, in the cooler winter season, they sometimes become more diurnal, taking advantage of the milder temperatures to hunt during the day.

They don’t follow a predictable routine like some animals do. Every night is an adventure—a new path, a new burrow to investigate, a new meal to unearth. They use their sharp sense of smell to locate prey beneath the ground and can dig down with astonishing speed. Their resilience means they can thrive in a variety of environments, from arid scrublands to dense woodland, as long as there’s food and shelter.

Honey badgers are relatively small and diminutive creatures; seeing them in the long grass is often very difficult. As a result, it is often their movement in the long grass that gets our attention.

The Honey Badger Spirit

What makes the honey badger such a legend in the African bush isn’t just its ferocity, it’s its refusal to yield. Lions have been seen backing away from an enraged badger. Leopards have learned that they’re more trouble than they’re worth. Even venomous snakes like puff adders and cobras often end up on the menu rather than the other way around.

And yet, despite their fearsome reputation, there’s something profoundly admirable about them. They embody self-reliance, adaptability, and a kind of determination that resonates deeply with those of us who spend our lives in the wilderness.

Whenever I think of the honey badger, I think of the bush itself—unyielding, beautiful, and endlessly surprising. You might go weeks or months without seeing one here at Londolozi, but just knowing they’re out there, moving under the cover of night, is somehow comforting. The bush always has its secrets, and the honey badger is one of its most tenacious guardians.