The men work quietly, untangling and feeding out the net. The sun's rays filter through the clouds. Black dragonflies dance over the grasses and a flock of darts stand sharply in a tree.

We take a spin along the water’s edge, in and out of the fingers – the small estuaries and promontories – that make this lake a maze to the uninitiated. The bush holds my eye with its myriad of shades of green and shapes. Creepers and growth smother the forest edge and tree-tops poke the sky.

Sep gives meaning to the shapes and form. Pointing to one inlet: “This is the way to the Khongan track.”

Passing a broad area of grasses: “The deer come down here in the dry season. I came hunting here once. It was dry. I walked all the way around, then, I swam across and hid behind this tree. Then I shot the deer.”

At another point: “Here we were going to put the GFRS camp. But it's a good hunting place. Didn't want to spoil it.”

I look at this land and wonder what it feels like to look at all of this and know, truly, this is my land, our land. It is in our care.

Today, they went early and checked the nets. We ate Saratoga, white flaky fish for lunch with rice. Fish fresh from the lake.