Rock Shandy Safari
Tales and Tracks across Northern Namibia
7th – 23rd November, 2003
Author: Keith Martin.
55 Belmont Road, Twickenham, Middlesex TW2 5DA, U.K.
keith@borsuk.clara.co.uk keith.martin@rhul.ac.uk
Introduction
Why Namibia? I am surprised by the number of time
we have been asked that question. The bottom line for us was that we had left
our holidays until November and there are not that many parts of the world
where November is a good time to visit. We had never visited any part of Africa
before and had heard of several people making self-drive trips to Namibia. It
sounded easy to get round, likely to be quiet, and more importantly stable and
safe. We bought a guidebook, did some reading and the idea just grew and grew
until there was no other place we could possibly go.
Part I: Introduction
Planning
The October shelves of Foyles in London were not
particularly well-served with Namibian guides. We were successfully tempted
away from the ubiquitous Lonely Planet by a Bradt Travel Guide, which seemed
detailed and well written (or perhaps it was the Meerkats on the cover). This
proved an apocryphal purchase because in an unusual case of capitulation to
clever marketing, the Bradt Guide had been written by the director of a small
independent travel agent called Sunvil who operated out of Isleworth (just up
the road) and who wrote enough to convince us that they might be worth talking
to. What we eventually did was to book our rental car through Sunvil (they
offer an attractive insurance package where cars are insured in the U.K.),
booked our accommodation through Sunvil (primarily to save time – we chose the
venues and got them to arrange the booking) and booked our flights
independently (we got better fares on the Internet). Although we had to chase
them a bit to firm everything up at the start, our decision to use an agent
twice paid huge dividends later on the trip: firstly, when our bags failed to
arrive in Windhoek we immediately had a local ground representative who did all
the chasing for us and arranged to have them forwarded; secondly, when Avis
tried to rip us off at the end of the trip we were able to use Sunvil to sort
it out and get our money back. The only thing I was a little bit disappointed
in was that Sunvil seemed reluctant to provide an itemised bill that explained
all the costs – we were able to work out what the bill represented and hence
determine their fee (which was reasonable) however I don’t understand their
reluctance to be more transparent. Anyway – we’d recommend them heartily and
would use them again.
Namibia
Namibia lies in the southwest corner of the
African continent, propped up by South Africa, hemmed in by Botswana to the
east and Angola to the north. Contrary to the image portrayed by natural
history programmes, Namibia is not a country entirely made up of shifting
orange sand dunes covered in desert spiders that curl up in balls and spin down
cliffs of silica. The Namib Desert in fact only occupies a fairly narrow
coastal strip that runs the length of the country. It is a testament to the
diversity of Namibia that having been attracted to the country by the images of
said spiders, we ended up not even going to the desert, and left it for a very
certain “next time”. Instead we wanted to see a more “African” Namibia of rocky
Karoo, arid and moist savannah, and we definitely wanted to sit on a deck and
listen to hippos grunting. All our dreams were fulfilled.
People and Language
There aren’t many of the former and surprisingly
many of the latter! Namibia itself is split between the largely pastoral centre
and south, consisting of giant farms that appear to consist of nothing but bush
as you drive through them, and a northeastern corner of freehold small village
Africa. Outside of the small capital Windhoek, a spacious city set snugly in
the hills, the only other towns we passed through were small and homely. The
small white population of Namibia consist mainly of a mix of German and
Afrikaans speakers, and seem to still be the “owners” of most of the private
infrastructure that we dealt with as passing tourists. The whites were still
the bosses and the blacks formed the staff, with the notable exception of the
government- owned national parks. However everyone we met was friendly and
seemed keen that we enjoyed our trip. With a diversity of languages operating
in the background, English has become the common (and official) national tongue
and worked fine everywhere, although in fact few people that we met seemed to
use it as their first language.
Conditions
November is the tail end of the Namibian dry
season, which means that it can be hot and the landscape looks very parched.
However this makes good game viewing conditions as animals gather at permanent
waterholes. We were slightly concerned that it would be too hot in November,
but these fears proved quite unfounded. It did warm up in the middle of the
day, but never intolerably, and so we just relaxed through the hottest hours
and otherwise found the temperatures very pleasant. The other fear in November
was the rains might break. However despite a few downpours in Etosha, most days
featured swirling building clouds that had the locals staring up more in hope
than in any real expectation.
Politically Namibia was stable at the time of our
visit. The most sensitive area that we visited was the Caprivi Strip, which was
both the front in the Angolan War and more recently subject to guerrilla
activities. The Caprivi had calmed down and tourism was re-establishing itself,
with a real hope amongst the locals that there would be lasting peace.
Elsewhere the only political tensions appeared to mount from possible pressures
relating to government intervention in private land holding. This raised itself
mainly in concerns about the long-term future about some of the lodges and game
parks rather than any immediate problems.
From an environmental perspective we were
impressed by some of the initiatives in Namibia to secure wildlife, with an
apparent genuine recognition that wildlife represents a significant economic
asset. The conservation area established around the Erongo Mountains is a
recent initiative to secure habitat for Black Rhino, and there was talk at
Hobatere about the possible impact of extensions of Etosha National Park. On
the Caprivi, however, the land use pressures of an expanding poor population
has led to a denuding of forest areas and there were real fears about the
future of Mahango Game Reserve. It does not seem sustainable in the long term
for Namibia to maintain the line demarked by the Veterinary Fence, especially
as the tensions north of this fence are only going to exacerbate in the future.
Whatever happens, we wish all Namibians the best of luck – they have a country
worth working hard to protect. It is big and beautiful and there should be room
for everyone.
Irritations
None of the fears that we had beforehand actually
materialised. The biggest one was weather, and we managed to escape both
significant rains and any excessive heat. The Caprivi was largely devoid of any
mosquitoes (note that we were there at the tail end of the dry). We were not
subjected to any human hassles. We faced the usual dilemmas about getting
chased by groups of kids demanding pens, sweets etc. After taking a hard line
at the start, we melted and did give away a few pens and a few sweets to kids
on the access roads that we drove regularly – it somehow only seemed fair as we
were ploughing back and forth along their front yards. In Windhoek we did have
problems finding a pharmacy open on a Saturday afternoon – and even that was
only a hassle because people kept giving us incorrect advice about where we
could go and what would be open (including the hospital). I guess that could
happen almost anywhere…
Itinerary
We were constrained to a two-week visit and so
were keen not to try to do “too much” and to make sure that we stopped at most
locations for more than one night. There is a fairly natural first time visitor
northern loop that many people seem to follow. We deviated from this in two
ways. Firstly we decided not to visit Swakopmund and the Namib Desert, as this
area looked like it would be worth taking a further five days to cover well and
so would need a third week. Instead we chose to visit the western Caprivi,
which really needed a day of driving to access. We also extended our Etosha
visit by going to Hobatere, to the west of the park. The itinerary was thus:
7th - 8th Nov Windhoek (Daan Viljoen)
8th-10th Nov Erongo Wilderness Lodge
10th-12th Nov Hobatere Lodge
12th-16th Nov Etosha
16th-17th Nov Rundu (n’Kwazi)
17th-20th Nov Mahango (Ndhovu, Popa Falls)
20th-22nd Nov Waterberg
22nd-23rd Nov Windhoek (Avis Dam)
There were no regrets about any of these decisions
and we hope that a future visit will allow us to spend carefully rationed time
elsewhere. Our four nights in Etosha proved wise – it would be hard to imagine
spending less time there. The distances up on the Caprivi also meant that our
decision to base in Mahango for three nights and not push further into the area
was a good one. We had wondered about whether it was necessary to spend the
first and last nights in Windhoek. Our “no show” luggage made the first night
decision an exceptionally good one. Staying the last night there also made
departure day much more relaxing (as well as being surprisingly productive for
birds).
Transport and Accommodation
We arranged our car hire through Sunvil, who used
Avis. We had requested a Corolla, but ended up with a Polo, which proved to be
absolutely fine. Road conditions throughout Namibia were good and the dirt
tracks rarely corrugated. The Polo even
performed well on the short sandy access tracks to several of the lodges on the
Caprivi, although when gravel had built up on some of the dirt roads we did
have to watch our clearance – certainly not enough of a problem to have
required four-wheel drive. Driving was easy and roads were well signed. We
carried a spare jerry can of fuel, but did not need it in the end.
We reserved accommodation through Sunvil, having
reviewed information on the Internet and in the Bradt Travel Guide. Information
on the lodges are include in the narrative. Prices were extremely reasonable
from a U.K. perspective (expensive from a Namibian perspective) with most
nights at half/full board not costing us much more than a bed and breakfast
would in the U.K. (Hilltop House was an excellent (and very scenic) Windhoek
base from which to enter and leave Namibia, although cheaper accommodation can
certainly be found there. Erongo Wilderness Lodge was stunningly beautiful and
restful. Hobatere was a great adventure and very good for wildlife. We stayed
at all three Etosha lodges (all of which had their own charms). We overnighted
near Rundu at n’Kwazi, which was beautifully situated on the river. We chose
Ndhovu lodge for its proximity to Mahango, but it proved almost as good a
wildlife spot on its own. Finally, we stopped over at Waterberg, which was the
most comfortable of the government camps and a special place in its own right.
We ate most nights in the lodges and carried our own portable larder for snacks
and lunches, hiring (free for Sunvil clients) a water carrier and an eski from
a garage in Windhoek.
Relevant Reading
[1] Sasol
Birds of Southern Africa, Third edition, I. Sinclair, P. Hockey and W.
Tarbolton, Struik, 2002.
[2] Field Guide to Mammals of Southern Africa, Third edition, C. and T. Stuart, Struik,
2002.
[3] Namibia:
the Bradt Travel Guide, 2nd
edition, C. McIntyre, Bradt, 2003.
[4] Namibia
Map 2003, Namibian Roads
Authority, 2003.
[5] Road Map
of Etosha National Park, Ministry of Environment and Tourism, 2002.
[6] South African Birding: Birding Resources
for Southern Africa, http://www.sabirding.co.za
[7] C. Hines, Namibia’s Caprivi Strip,
Bulletin of the African Bird Club, Vol 3.2, September 1996.
[8]
Various trip reports (P. and C. Benstead, K. Shepherd and A. and C. Hall), http://www.birdtours.co.uk
[9] D. Hanford, Trip Report: Namibia, October-November
1996.
[10]
C. Buckton, Namibia 14-30 September 2000, http://www.homepage.virgin.net/cliff.buckton/birding/Namibia
[11]
R. White, Namibia-the Living Desert 19th December 2002 – 8
January 2003.
[12]
C. Wagner, How to find the Namibian Endemics, http://www.BirdingGermany.de
After some deliberation we decided to just take
one field guide, and have no regrets about choosing the Sasol guide [1]. It was
easy to use, was accurately illustrated and did its job of carefully navigating
us through an unfamiliar avifauna. Despite reservations about photographic
guides, we also can thoroughly recommend [2] as a guide for mammals. This is a
very informative book and we didn’t see anything better of this size, even in
the bookshops in Namibia. The book that initiated the trip was [3] and it
proved a faithful companion even if it has a rather frustrating organisation,
which left the index the most well-thumbed of the pages. There is even a
compact and useful little wildlife guide at the back. The maps [4] and [5] were
more than sufficient for our purposes – there aren’t many roads out there, so
you don’t need any more sophisticated maps unless you are going off-road. By
far the most useful Internet site was [6] as an introduction to birding areas,
and [7] is a good introduction to the Caprivi. There are a plethora of Namibia
trip reports on the web. All are worth reading, mainly to get a flavour for the
country rather than for detailed advice. The mammals in particular are quite
mobile, so where one person saw an elephant is unlikely to be where you will
see one! As always these reports vary from diehard twitch reports to the rather
more leisurely, but a few of those that we read in advance are listed [8]-[12].
Guiding and Effort
We were self-guided for most of the trip. We
concentrated on quality rather than quantity, so moved around a little less and
rested a little more than some of the trip reports that we read! At Hobatere
Lodge we used guides for a morning walk and the night drives (there is no
option) and found them to be excellent – they knew their calls and taught as
quite a few (especially Orlando). Steve Braine was very useful to chat to and
gave us quite a few tips for Etosha (most of which we blew!) Roy at Ndhovu was
also able to tell us quite a bit about the birds in his local patch. As first
time visitors to Namibia we discovered that it is one of these countries where
all you have to do is get to a few good parts of the country and let the
wildlife come to you. You don’t need to try too hard at all.
Nomenclature and sequence
The nomenclature and sequence in the rest of the
report follows [1] and [2].
Acknowledgements
On planning, thanks are due to Chris and Chantal
at Sunvil for responding promptly to our queries and fixing our bookings. On
the ground in Windhoek our biggest thanks goes to Sabena at Wildnerness
Safaris, who as Sunvil’s local rep did all the chasing to retrieve our missing
luggage. Thanks also to Alan at Hilltop House for trying his best to help.
Steve and Louise at Hobatere were very welcoming and were our favourite hosts,
and the staff at Hobatere all deserve thanks for running such a great outfit.
Similarly Roy and Jake made us welcome as the only guests at Ndhovu, and Ceclia
and her staff absolutely excelled in the kitchen there.
Part II: Diary
Friday 7th November
Having left behind a gloriously mild autumn afternoon in London, we took our seats in a baking overbooked aircraft and were propelled into the sky for a night flight to Johannesburg. We sat next to a Puerto Rican called Manuel who bore more than a passing resemblance to Bill Clinton. Manuel was an entomologist in the business of malaria prevention, and was en route from a health conference at the United Nations in Geneva to Zambia. Anita was just recovering from a bug, and I felt I might have the beginnings of a slight fever. So the ensuing discussion of world epidemics, incurable diseases, DDT poisoning and pervasive mosquito problems was perhaps not the perfect travel conversation. Manuel cautioned the limitations of malarial treatments, but simultaneously the need to take them. He then informed us that he no longer bothered himself. Had he had malaria? Yes – twice - and it had been awful. I toyed with my airline dinner, listlessly turning it with a plastic fork…
Morning broke over Zambia and Africa finally emerged from
the low clouds above Johannesburg, a surprisingly green city from the air. And
cool on the ground at just twenty degrees, not that we had much time to
experience it as we made a mad dash across the terminal, squeezing past queues
at the x-ray machines, to make our connection to Windhoek. The connecting
flight was almost empty and had the atmosphere of a short commuter run. We
dozed above the Kalahari Desert, and woke as our plane spiralled down towards a
seemingly remote landing strip. However, the landing strip had a smart modern
terminal building, and all the trimmings of a bigger busier place. A welcoming
party stood by the aircraft to greet some burly officials in military uniforms.
Good morning Namibia.
|
A Tale of Arrival All
that ends well does not necessarily begin well. It is around 09.00 at Hosea
Kutako International Airport, the visitors’ gateway to Namibia. The sun glares
down from a perfect sky onto the concrete buildings and swinging palms, both of
which are something of a surprise amidst an arid plain speckled by low thorny
shrubs that is enclosed by a ring of low desert hills. A small man with a
severe limp is scrupulously compiling a list of tiny chips and scratches on the
otherwise immaculate paintwork of our rental car. He marks them on a detailed
line drawing of a vehicle. It seems an unlikely vocation - to spend your days
in search of such minor imperfection – and even unlikelier that there is any
point. We are tired and I am feeling a bit long-haul worn and sick. We also
have no luggage. One bag is apparently still in London; of the other there is
no trace. The computer does not know of it, therefore it no longer exists. One
bag has our clothes, the other has our medicine. Which one no longer exists?
When will the other come? Nobody knows today - but we can always call again
tomorrow. We expected a Corolla, we have a Polo. The Polo is bigger than a lion but smaller than a rhino. They are
both white and have four wheels, so this is probably the least of our current
worries. We might as well leave this frustrating place of no answers in our car
of minor imperfections, and drive the 42 kilometres to Windhoek. So we do. The
road is straight and empty. The sky is azure and vast. The hills are old and
thorny, folding back from the edge of the Kalahari, hiding a small city.
Strange birds perch on wires. It is a new place and we almost feel like new
people, momentarily unburdened of personal things, relatively naked, driving
into Eden. We leave the car in a dirty lay-by next to a sign to Avis Dam. It is
harsh and hot, and the dusty track quickly drains us of our energy. Some women
move in the distance towards the edge of an almost empty reservoir, plastic
water containers carefully balanced on their heads. A drab brown and cream bird
makes an ugly noise from a dense acacia. It’s all too oppressive and we return
to the car. As we enter the spacious city a smart traffic policeman sweeps us
like vermin from our desired route. In the rear mirror a cavalcade of flashing
lights and black limousines sweep an anonymous dignitary (who turns out to be
the Brazilian President, or one of his cohort) into town. The back streets go
up and down, hairpin around, first gear, handbrake, turn around. A road crew
stare at us, temporarily downing pick and shovel. The steep street smell of
baking tar. A thick metal gate is scraped open. Sanctuary - a house on a hill. |
Our decision to spend the first night in Windhoek certainly paid off as we were able to employ the full facilities of telephone and local travel representative to begin the hunt for our luggage. Delayed luggage is a frustration, but missing luggage a concern, especially as we were not sure exactly what it was that we might need to replace before heading out into remoter parts. We relaxed, probably too much, once we had made contact with Sabena from Wilderness Safaris, who promised to take up the case with vigour. This allowed us to make a small shopping trip to Windhoek, buying a few emergency pieces of clothing and some basic supplies. The capital had a very laid-back atmosphere, busy with Friday shoppers and only a few tourists. It could have been almost anywhere in the world, but perhaps most likely a small country town in southern Australia. Windhoek's main sight, the Lutheran Christus Kirche, was open for viewing, but we got the distinct impression that the rotund host lost almost any interest in showing us anything as soon as he realised we were not German speakers. Instead we amused ourselves chasing yellow-headed Namibian Rock Agamas around the large Equestrian Statue, dedicated to some Germans for some acts of historic colonial heroism that it is probably not prudent to contemplate too closely.
The veranda of Hilltop House offered an impressive birds' eye view of the eastern suburbs in the late afternoon, white buildings with red roofs, nestled beneath a barren ridge, the valley pocketed by in scattered suburban greenery, the dry river bed marked by tall feral eucalyptus trees. Little Swifts, Bradfields Swifts and Rock Martins soared high above the city, occasionally sweeping low over the roof of the house, and in the case of both the former and latter, dramatically dropping in with breathtaking deceleration to feathery nests in the balcony rafters outside our room. The scene was just as interesting after dark, when lights dotted the valley below and the distant rumble of traffic was accompanied by the high pitched chirping of cicadas. With no news of the bags, we dined at the nearby Joe's Place, where all of white Windhoek appeared to have gathered under the thatched canopies of a spacious outdoor bar, drinking German style beer and eating from a menu that bore more than a passing resemblance to my field guide to the mammals of Southern Africa. It was beneath the stuffed baboons and dim lanterns of Joe's Beerhouse that Anita sampled our first Rock Shandy - an icy drink with a slightly medicinal taste, whose ingredients we had yet to pin down. Joe's Rock Shandy quenched the thirst, soothed the pains of the day and set a benchmark for the trip.
Saturday 8th November
|
Breakfast Sunlight
streams into the airy bedrooms, illuminating the frameprints of elegant
antelopes, shining the wooden floorboards, casting sharp shafts of light onto
the jars of natural soaps and reed basketware in the bathrooms. Outside by the
pool an elegant woman in the prime of middle age drinks a cup of coffee by the
small pool, etching in her diary, pulling her sunglasses disapprovingly down
her nose when some guests of lesser quality intrude briefly onto their veranda.
She returns to her writing, rising from her chair only when a tall dark man in
the uniform of a safari guide arrives in pressed shorts and flannel shirt and
requests her bags. Alan, the host, rushes between the kitchen and the rooms
with trays of muesli, yoghurt, fresh fruit, jam and coffee. Some of his kitchen
staff have not shown up again, and he's feeling slightly harassed, which is
exactly not the reason why he chose to make his living here. The mechanical
scratching of weaverbirds emanates from the dense shrubbery beneath the local
summit on which the giant house stands, gazing down on the waking city. The guests
in number two have lost their bags. It happens all the time. No doubt they'll
turn up by lunchtime, as they usually do. It's getting hot and Alan looks
disappointedly at the sky, where tiny fluffy clouds show no indication of rain.
It's been so very dry this year and Alan needs rain. Namibia needs rain. His
prize Germans Shepherd's need fed. The dishes need to be collected. He needs to
phone the airport. Someone else has to pay their bill. Hilltop House is at its
busiest first thing in the morning. |
Of course the bags had not turned up by the morning. Everyone believed that the delayed bag would be in Windhoek by about 11.00 and that hopefully the bag that did not exist would do the same. Maybe we should have gone shopping, but instead we went to Daan Viljoen.
There is a sense in which much of Namibia is carved into a series of small zoos. These are mostly referred to as "game parks", and it is a matter of somewhat subjective judgement as to whether any animal that you encounter in these parks is truly "wild". Daan Viljoen is a state-owned game park to the west of Windhoek, and basically allows easy public access to a small tract of land that is very typical of the rocky ranges surrounding Windhoek. We arrived at the gates of Daan Viljoen at perhaps a little too late in the morning for it to be at its best. We had to complete an impressive amount of paperwork for a large and jovial woman, heavily pregnant, before being admitted to the grounds, and soon tested out the Polo on the 6.5 kilometre track marked "game drive". Still feeling slightly under the weather, and rather anxious about the fate of our luggage and indeed the rest of the trip, this rather dramatic ascent and descent of some of Daan Viljoen's rocky ridges in blinding sunshine, was probably a little more than we were expecting from our first proper outing in the Polo. We learned a few rather worrying things about the Polo's clearance on this drive, and undoubtedly added a number of new minor imperfections to the well documented list, however what we did not realise at the time was that this drive was to be by far the most challenging of our travels. The test of nerves and distinct lack of birds on the hostile ridges of the game drive rather dominated the pleasure of seeing our first southern African large mammals. Although these were generally sighted singly and at a distance on this lofty track, they were all species that we would later see closer, wilder and in greater peace of mind.
In contrast to the high adventure of the game drive, the heart of Daan Viljoen was a very civilised small dam and reservoir, with ample parking and a series of small accommodation huts and braai sites. It was here, in the shade of the trees overhanging the water, that our Namibian bird list lurched off the mark. A leisurely stroll along the reedy bank provided an excellent introduction to many of the birds that we would see throughout the later stages of the trip. Meanwhile the stream of weekend trippers steadily increased, with groups of teenagers in matching brightly coloured uniforms and hats assembling around smoking fireplaces and loud cassette recorders. The small swimming pool proved to be the main attraction, and distant screams of laughter from the large concrete tub carried across the open camping area, where a Lilac-breasted Roller swept in a flash of colour between the fence posts and a Crimson-breasted Shrike blazed above us in a tall acacia.
We returned to Hilltop House at lunchtime, in full expectation of almost any type of news, including no news at all. It was the latter. Nobody had heard anything, Alan was gone, Sabena's phone engaged. A large pile of new bags lay in the hallway, but all belonged to new guests and not to us. Eventually we reached Sabena on the telephone, who told us that she had a man in Johannesburg Airport currently searching the basement for our bags. It all sounded rather unpromising and we paced around the veranda of Hilltop House, scarcely enjoying the view or the cup of tea. Should we stay or should we go? Would they come or would they not? Why were my anti-malarials not in my hand luggage? Why had Anita opted for a prescription malaria treatment that nobody in Namibia had heard of? Did we even need these drugs at all? And then at last there was a breakthrough. My bag had been found in Jo'burg and would be delivered on Sunday. It was the bag with the clothes - not the bag with the drugs...
And so began a somewhat fraught and utterly unsuccessful attempt to find a pharmacy open in Windhoek on a Saturday afternoon. Just don't get caught the way we did with Saturday lunchtime closing. Nothing was open. Nobody knew anything that would be open. Even the hospitals didn't know if the pharmacies would open. We found a pharmacy that opened at 5pm, or maybe 6pm or maybe 7pm. Sabena urged as to go rather than to stay, which meant that we really had to leave half an hour ago, with no medicines, no bags, off into a wilderness where one bag may follow the next day and another would be increasingly beyond our abilities to search for. To stay? To go? The coin was only ever going to land one way up. So we left.
Sixty-six kilometres north, sixty-four kilometres west, seventy-three kilometres north-west. The first two legs on fast bitumen roads, passing a few trucks and a bright blue pickup carrying about 20 laughing men, then nothing but the occasional car speeding past us on its way to the coast at Swakopmund. First the ridge of Windhoek hills to the east, and then increasingly a flat landscape, just miles of thorn bush. Baboons by the side of the road, hornbills and Purple Rollers perched on the tops of taller trees. The third leg was on a smooth dirt track, broad and only slightly ribbed, requiring occasional careful negotiation of ridges of sand, but otherwise easy but relatively slow driving. However, looking ahead was an ominously darkening sky, dusky streaks indicating scattered showers ahead on either side. Then occasional flashes over the distant Waterberg plateau, while a creamy light shafted divinely between a descending sky and the boulders of the approaching Erongo Mountains. We briefly rejoined a bitumen road before tracking west for the last few kilometres, enjoying the increasingly dramatic cloudscapes. A line of motorcycles sped past us, headlights penetrating both the dusk and dust. Finally we crossed a manned conservancy checkpoint and immediately turned off into a small car park, disturbing a huge Black-chested Buzzard-eagle from its perch, and were met by a smiling guide in an open truck. He delivered us the final half kilometre, driving improbably up, and over, a steep granite boulder that formed the entrance to a narrow pass into a little gorge, which cut between two massive granite outliers. The gorge was only two hundred metres long and opened out into a broad bowl surrounded by rocky hills, at the front of which nestled the discreet village of huts that formed Erongo Wilderness Lodge. We reached it just in time, as heavy droplets spattered from the sky and smashed onto the wooden boardwalk that weaved between the huts and the road.
The shower did not last long, but its passing marked a change in our fortune. When we climbed up the narrow path to Erongo's panoramic restaurant we were greeted with great tidings from the south. Our bags had both now been located. One was in Jo'burg, the other in Windhoek, and they would be delivered the next day. The lone spotlight illuminating a distant drinking pool (an eye into the Namibian night) never looked brighter, the wild whooping of the nightjars never sounded purer (whup whip), the Rock Shandies from the bar never tasted fresher (one part lemonade, one part soda water, several ice cubes and a dash of Angostura). Relief is the sweetest of emotions.
Sunday 9th November
We awoke to an astonishing roar, echoing two, three, maybe four times around the walls of the gorge. Baboons, acknowledging the light of another day. At first light everything was ochre. The massive granite cliffs of the gorge glowed early orange only at the summit. The bush at the mouth of the gorge was gently touched by shafts of morning spreading steadily over the land. Strange jerky bird calls squeaked from the thorny acacias, lovebirds rattled from trees high up the gorge wall and a tiny Klipspringer antelope bounded across the entrance track and vanished amongst the boulders. Damara and Monteiro's Hornbills were amongst the early risers, as were the sprightly Rockrunners, sprinting between grassy thickets across the stonework of the gorge entrance.
At 7.00 we joined a number of other guests for a morning coffee and early walk. From the commanding viewpoint of the restaurant veranda, the bushveld seemed alive with hundreds of birds pouring to and from a tiny waterhole, some one hundred metres distant. The bulk of these were drab Larklike Buntings, which seemed to gather in significant flocks wherever there was water. A Dwarf Python was spotted, coiled around a dead tree. It quickly vanished into a thicket, but was later relocated beneath the surface of the waterhole, hiding, waiting for the right bunting to come in to drink. Our guide regaled various anecdotes (some bordering on the unpleasant) concerning the laxative powers of native plants, while he took us along a series of indistinct tracks. These lead first around the back of the lodge buildings, then through the scrub and up onto the spine of one of the granite ridges, steadily ascending for increasingly impressive views over a moonscape of rock and thornveld. Dassies were the main mammal highlight, rather amusing rabbit sized animals who mostly basked on exposed rock ledges, occasionally scampering across the rocks or even clambering amongst the branches of the larger bushes. Higher up the ridge we came across several solitary rounded boulders, with tiny fig trees protruding improbably from seams in the rock. A small cairn stood on the summit. There was little evidence of human settlement in any direction, save for the straight lines of bush roads and the distant iron rooftops of Omaruru township. Alpine Swifts reeled overhead and Rock Kestrels hunted over the lodge beneath us. Breakfast was in the end a late meal, but one exceedingly well earned.
Back at our hut we found one bag! (And not the one we had expected either.) Anita's bag had shown up, ending the medical crisis (if not the clothing crisis). All sorts of useful treasure appeared, including camera lenses, contact lenses, anti-malarial drugs. Feeling a bit more comfortable, we relaxed on the veranda. The huts at Erongo were beautifully designed: a combination of thatch, mesh and cane, attached to stone bathrooms built into the slope of the gorge. A shower with a view, even a scenic sink, and a veranda to die on. If we were better at relaxing we could have spent the whole day sitting in the cane chairs, watching the clouds build up above the canyon...
At midday we foolishly attempted a walk. It was hot, but not impossibly so. The sand was dazzlingly bright, shadows were short and cicadas piped louder than any birds. Two Grey Hornbills perched close to the trunk of a small tree, eyes lolling and beaks panting apart. If they couldn't hack it, what were we doing out there? We supped our water regularly, but this was an astonishingly saturating atmosphere, which sucked the moisture rapidly from our bodies. We beat a retreat to the shady security of the main lodge, and watched animals better equipped than us struggle equally. Bright orange and navy agamas hid under the rocks and made selective darts between protective crevices. A strangely cute Dassie Rat also boldly crept out from cover and reached up on its rear legs to nibble delicate shoots. Meanwhile Laughing Doves, Cinnamon-breasted Rock Buntings and Rosy-faced Lovebirds briefly drank from the salty lick that overflowed from the main lodge building. Supping a cup of tea we let the main heat pass.
|
The
Tail End of the Day It
is late afternoon when we all pile into a bizarre three-tier truck and set off
to explore the back roads of Erongo Wilderness Lodge. First stop is a fairly
freshly deceased Kudu, but the tracker cannot make up a sufficiently exotic
tale of predation (it had a disease apparently) and so we move on. Now we are
hurtling through open scrub at a speed somewhat in excess of ideal game
viewing. A small party of warthog scatter to the right, a group of Kudu gallop
to the left. We stop for some Ostrich, although the large German at the rear is
somewhat scathing and suggests that anyone who has been to Etosha could not
possibly find the birds worth stopping for. We pass waterholes full of pigeons.
A startling cackle at the edge of the road is a colourful Black Korhaan, tiny
proud bustard. A francolin runs across the road, a Steenbok stares out our
passing, nervously. Is this what some call "safari" or just a drive
in the bush? The sky is almost black, yet the sun shines on, a golden, wild, end-of-day
sun. The track crosses a broad sandy river bed and ends. We continue on foot,
winding between rocks to a small cave where ancient rock art featuring
recognisable animals can clearly be seen. Frank claims two people are having
sex in one sketch, but we are less than convinced. Someone has etched a German
name deep into the rock - not so ancient, and not so art. Low light catches the
boulder-clad hills to the north as a pair of Verreaux's Eagles soar away from a
fiery sunset to the west. Cameras try to capture the last rays of light. Frank
produces a bowl of peanuts and cold drinks. Beer, rocks, sunset, sky, breeze,
silence, breathe in... It is hard to absorb, this magnificently fragile moment.
We know we will remember. But we know we will forget. |
Back at the lodge was bag number two. The luggage trouble had been sorted (thank you, Sabena). The clothes were here, as was tripod, diary, several books, insect repellent, sun hat, travelling stuff. Did we really need all this? And strangely so was an unfamiliar camping mat - strapped to the backpack. From having almost no possessions, we now had more than we had left with...
The evening atmosphere at Erongo was strangely affected by the arrival of four British birders on a commercial Birdquest tour. They arrived in a combat unit, quickly taking out a Freckled Nightjar with their tape recorder and then marching up to dinner, capturing and occupying the restaurant without as much as a passing greeting to any of the other guests. They talked loudly and ad nauseum over dinner about the state of farming in Britain, the world fuel crisis, South American birding locations and albatrosses. Their conversation could have been interesting had it not filled the entire lodge, percolating all other conversations, saturating the still evening, frighteningly devoid of passion or joy. It was clear that they were not on a holiday, but on a campaign. Namibia would be conquered and the Hartlaub's Francolin would fall. When they retired, the other guests audibly breathed with relief and shared some serene minutes on the veranda overlooking the bush. The cicadas took over the rhythm of the night, and peace was restored as the birders slept.
Monday 10th November
|
Dawn Chorus 05.00 A pale glow creeps silently, stealthily filling the interior of our hut. An unknown bird pipes feebly. 05.05 A gentle droning, quickly gathering momentum and becoming a powerful hum, building into a frantic crescendo. An invisible orchestra of insects, stringing like there is no tomorrow (which is probably the case for many of them). 05.20 The orchestral performance abruptly ceases, conducted by an invisible command. The guttural roar of baboons greets the dawn. 05.25 Whirrs of wings, some cheeps, a clicking noise. 05.30 Human voices, the rumbling of a car engine, a door slams. 05.45 Various assorted bird noises. A distant vehicle. Rustling of acacias. Footfall in the hut, the crinkling of a plastic bag, running water, 06.00 The wooden echoes of footsteps on a boardwalk, a crunch of gravel. A weaverbird grinds, suspended from its half-built nest. A silent hornbill drifts like a paper aeroplane across the gorge. 06.10 Hush. The gorge is cool and still dark inside. The flutter of Pale-winged Starlings landing on the ledges. 06.20 At the smooth granite lip that marks the entrance to the gorge, singing voices from two guard huts. Light spreads across miles of acacia. A dusty road stretches to the horizon. |
As we prepared for an early morning walk,
something unexpected happened. From a relatively cloudless sky came some light
rain: a fine mist at first, but soon becoming steady. It slackened, and we
hoped had passed, but it then returned in earnest. The four English birders
trekked back down the track, looking somewhat forlorn, weighty tripods on
shoulder. And then as suddenly as it had begun, it ceased, leaving a great grey
pregnant sky and the sweet scent of humidity. After following the main track
into the bush for a few kilometres, we left the road, and cut across a small
plateau, weaving around the low “wag 'n bietje” bushes that clawed at trousers
and exposed skin. So now we were doing some real bush walking in Africa! Would
a Leopard spring out from behind those granites? A python drop down from that
baobab?
We aimed for a low ridge where the silhouette of
some Kudu had been seen, but soon realised that even short distances were not
quick distances, and that disorientation was rapid when the path tacked so
severely around the acacia thorns. Rather than hike on, we just stood and
soaked in our surroundings. It was indeed a wilderness of rocks and scrub. All
around the "wumpah wumpah" of courting Damara Hornbills could be
heard as they earnestly bobbed to one another from the tallest trees.
White-tailed Shrikes zipped low and straight between the thickest of the
shrubs. At a small waterhole the Larklike Buntings gathered in noisy crowds and
a Hartlaub's Francolin scuttled for cover. As we turned back the clouds finally
parted and a punishing sun made up for lost time by rapidly burning up the
humidity and hastening our return to the shade of the lodge.
Omaruru was a hot town. Just after crossing the
river, following our departure from the lodge (car packed with luggage for the
first time) we visited the woodcarving factory that was marked from the road by
a massive tree/giraffe. The sculptors were sitting in the shade of the yard,
dressed in blue overalls, in various stages of preparation of what I thought
were rather ugly representations of animals and people of the region. The
German-speaking boss clearly did not think so, and obviously made good trade
from passing tourists (in fact a large scale exhibition of their work was on
display at the main Etosha camp). An albino sat on the shade of the veranda,
working on his own carvings in his own corner. The high street of Omaruru was
devoid of shade and I melted in the car while Anita made a quick shop for
supplies. The flow of pedestrian traffic down the street was steady, occasional
trucks roaring up the road and Herero women gathered on the street corners in brightly
coloured dresses. Life was passing in an ordinary country town. In contrast,
the garish new tourist cafe sold cappuccinos, beads, mirrors, expensive
basketry, Etosha guidebooks, and minerals. The large American owner bustled
through on his mobile phone to Calgary. Perhaps less ordinary.
North of Omaruru the landscape again flattened
out as we left the granite hills behind. Acacias to the left, acacias to the
right. Cars passed by roughly every ten minutes. The air-conditioner brought
heat relief as Lappet-faced Vultures circled above the road. We cut a corner by
taking a dirt road for 80 kilometres to the northwest. This one was very
smooth, allowing us to carve a long dust trail in our wake as we ploughed past
Pale-chanting Goshawks and tall termite mounds, somewhat freudianly kinked at
their summits in the direction of the sun. We passed nobody.
At the dead town of Outjo, where only the
blooming jacarandas and the distant smile of the pregnant pump attendant
indicated any form of life, we rejoined bitumen for the long 150 kilometre leg
to Kamanjab. This road was fast, and empty, and straight. Slight adjustments in
the angle of the road became highlights, the necessary minor adjustment to the
steering wheel a welcome neural exercise. Bush and cattle. Thousands of Barn
Swallows, freshly arrived from Europe, lined the wires. A few cars passed per
hour. Some stockmen stood by the side of the road next to a dirty pickup, doing
something.
The road north of Kamanjab was more eventful.
White and rocky, with peaks and troughs, and ever changing furrows of gravel in
which to steer the Polo. Hills appeared once more. On a steady incline through
a cutting, two Black-breasted Buzzard-eagles sat on the road. A Landcruiser
recklessly overtook us in a cloud of billowing dust and flying chips (more
imperfections) and then pulled over at a bend. We wondered if it was a hold-up,
but the white driver with a dusty moleskin hat was simply watering the side of
the road, unashamedly (hey - there is a
lady present here...). Sixty-six kilometres of this road later and we were
beginning to wonder if we had missed the entrance drive to Hobatere. The fence
to the east marked the western boundary of Etosha National Park, the fence to
the west was surely now the Hobatere limits. It was, and we turned through the
imposing stone gateposts and commenced the last 16 kilometres of the journey on
narrow and very pleasant winding track, at times rocky, but mainly of good
sand. It passed though a garden landscape of shady creeks, flowing savannah
grassland, low hills and mopane woodland. There was little sign of wildlife
except for one solitary Gemsbok and a Tawny Eagle on its nest (juvenile on its
old nest we were later corrected by Steve). The lowering sun cast pleasing
shadows on this Namibian Rivendale. It was the kind of place where every
journey should end.
Hobatere Lodge consisted of a handful of small
cottages, set in a woodland grove next to a dry creek. The cottages surrounded
a stylish main building with a small landscaped garden. Steve and Louise
welcomed us to their enviable home. Louise served the drinks, and Steve
apologised for being bit "munty" after a session in the garden. We
enjoyed a refreshingly cold post-road shower and settled down to watch dusk
descend from the lodge wall, which overlooked a small waterhole. Some 200
metres away, the main Hobatere permanent waterhole was protected by a low dyke
wall, along which the murky silhouettes of Helmeted Guineafowl were scuttling.
Directly in front of us were a couple of ancient Ana trees, whose spreading
branches sheltered a Giant Eagle Owl that swept onto a low branch and perched
motionless, barely visible in the retreating daylight. Red-billed Francolins,
fresh from a last drink, raced for cover. Then in the last moments before dark
our first experience of one of those classical African moments commenced, with
small flocks of Double-banded Sandgrouse sweeping in from the dry lands,
circling the dam and gathering in numbers on a small bank, before edging
cautiously in hasty little steps towards the lip of the waterhole. Barely audible bubbly calls could be heard
as the sandgrouse jostled for position. Suddenly something disturbed them and
they whirred into the air, whistling over our heads, before swinging around and
repeating the procedure once again, this time from a bolder starting position,
closer to the water. A nightjar flapped silently over the lodge swimming pool
as we turned and made our way to dinner on the porch, where a large party of
German tourists were already making good work of the hearty buffet.
We eagerly joined the after-dinner night drive
at Hobatere, which was very productive. African Wildcats were seen almost as
soon as we left the lodge and great views of the Giant Eagle-owl were enjoyed
by the dam. Several Small Spotted Genets were noted slinking off into the
scrub, and a fascinating Springhare was seen bouncing across a bare sandy
plain. On our return there was a Spotted Dikkop at the dam. Kept awake purely
by the adrenaline of the hunt, we retired to our hut in a state of amiable
exhaustion.
Tuesday 11th November
During the night an enormous animal left some
huge footprints the diameter of a basketball very close to our corner of the
lodge. It came and left in silence, long before the dawn.
The rays of sunlight of a new Hobatere day were
slow to reach the lodge, hidden as it was beneath the shady surrounding hills.
A Pearl-spotted Owlet whistled from the tree in front of our hut, francolins
scattered between the buildings and Damara Hornbills and Bare-cheeked Babblers
raked at the muesli in the cupped wooden bird feeders in the lodge garden.
Orlando, our guide for a dawn walk, slung a rifle over his shoulder and led us
off into the bush. As he admitted to us, the armoury was more for show than for
necessity, but it added a certain drama to the occasion. The most dangerous
animal that we encountered was actually already imprisoned in a matchbox in
Orlando's pocket, and he released the little scorpion by the side of the track.
Orlando's knowledge of birdcalls proved useful, as we heard more than we saw on
the short walk around the immediate lodge environs.
The first stretch took us along a sandy creek
bed, stamped by elephant tracks and piles of dung, with Grey-backed
Sparrowlarks overhead and Rattling Cisticolas in the thick sedge. Next we
meandered through the open mopane woodland of the dry river margins, listening
to the trim phone ringing of Brubru Shrikes and distant call of Violet-backed
Woodhoopoe. A highly familiar wisp of Willow Warbler song briefly drifted from
the upper canopy. The morning breeze turned rather gusty, which was nice for
the temperature but less productive for the birds. Climbing up the slopes of
the long shallow valley behind the lodge we entered open rocky country, where Golden-breasted
Buntings perched on exposed limbs and a Shikra shot briefly overhead. Returning
down the torrent smoothed boulders of the gully itself we flushed a Spotted
Eagle Owl, which got a hard time from the local White-tailed Shrikes as it
stole away to a secluded rocky perch further up the hillside. Orlando was a
good companion and treated us to a lesson in Damara click language, producing
improbable noises that didn't seem possible from the human voice. He sketched
the Damara click punctuation with a long stick in the dry sand. Try saying
this... and that... b-click-p-pop-ch-kan... or words to that effect.
After breakfast we arranged to be dropped off at
the hide overlooking the main waterhole. The sun was now high in the sky and a
gentle breeze made viewing from the stilted wooden hide a highly pleasant way
of passing a morning. A peaceful procession of game made its way down to the
waterhole, which was only a few metres wide, enclosed in a protective casing of
jagged rock. The handsome Gemsbok were always present in small numbers,
sometimes filing off into the distant bush, but always returning in a line to
jostle for position at the hole. Sleek Springbok attended in small numbers and
a little group of Kudu sheltered beneath a small acacia, only once coming in to
drink. A Warthog trotted in from some distance away, seemingly carrying a head
too large for its stocky little frame. Several small groups of silent
Hartmann's Mountain Zebra visited during our three-hour watch, but they were
incredibly wary and made the process of coming in for a drink more agonising
and stressful for the viewers than it probably was for them. The large open
area in front of the hide started to shimmer in the heat. Two distant raptors,
high in the thermals of the giant sky, were nothing more than tiny fuzzy blurs
in my telescope.
The afternoon was warm, or perhaps more honestly
hot, despite a breeze that rustled the fresh emerald leaves of the mopane
trees, gleaming in anticipation of the oncoming rains. The pool was only safe
for a few minutes of sun exposure and the concrete paving stones branded the
skin. We were the only guests during the day and had the sunloungers to
ourselves. Madagascar Bee-eaters joined flocks of swifts, hawking above the
small waterhole next to the lodge. The Pearl-spotted Owlet continued to call
from the lodge grounds throughout the heat of the afternoon and a Gabar Goshawk
hurtled overhead and perched high on the Ana tree. Three Springbok bravely
stepped out of the shade for a quick cooling drink. It was simply a wonderful
place to relax and soak in a hot Namibian afternoon. There is nothing like
doing nothing.
At afternoon tea (colonial style on the veranda
in little cups with attendants embarrassingly standing to attention) there was
a big surprise. The group of Germans who had stayed with us the previous night
were unexpectedly back at Hobatere with a tale to tell. While travelling in a
convoy of two vehicles, one driven at high speed by a local guide and the other
by a less experienced member of the party, the chasing car had lost control.
The car had skidded, the driver applied the brake, and the Land Rover had ended
on its roof, squashed like a can. They were very lucky. Both passengers had
escaped with little more than blood and bruises, although Andreas the driver
had a suspected broken finger and was shaken to the bone. Kathy the talkative
passenger was also a nervous wreck, although was pleased to report that her
little lion mascot had survived unscathed. Amazingly it turned out that Andreas
was originally Polish and so he ended up benefiting from a native consultation
and a bonus pack of medicines from our first aid kit. It was more drama than
anyone had expected of the day.
Late afternoon shadows were reaching across the
lodge grounds when we took up station once more at the waterhole to watch the
evening return of the sandgrouse. This time there was another surprise in
store. Anita was first to spot the mammal that slipped quietly in for a quick
drink and then stole away, trotting purposefully into the dusk: the long
liquorice colours of a Honey Badger.
|
The Earth Pig's
Tale We're off again. Perched high on the back of the Hobatere jeep, we are searching the night. A gust plays with branches and whips up the dust. Orlando raises the spectre of a barren trip - wind is apparently not our friend. Weak headlights, but a strong searchlight, probe the bush at speed. No owls, no cats, no anything. Treetops are scanned, the bush lights up, the motor of the jeep drones on into the night. At last a genet and a distant springhare, but yesterday they would have been our fourth and second. It is exciting though - this is a hunt. We are where we would not normally be at this time of day, and we may see what we would not otherwise see. But it is too quiet for full satisfaction. We reach the wide sandy creek where we must turn around. At least the Giant Eagle-owl still sits on the branch of a distant tree, like yesterday, and no doubt tomorrow. It is waiting, but not for us. Now we're heading back as another genet steals away. We pass a rocky slope and in the beam is half an animal: dark, hairy, alsatian-like, running over the hill. The guide cries "Brown Hyena" and we shake into gear, clinging to the handrails as the jeep accelerates. The driver madly tries to cut it off by heading for another track on the other side of the ridge. Again they see it - it's there! (Where?) The beam swings around: bush, a red eye, a shadow, and then gone, for good this time. Did you see it? (I only saw the shaggy half.) And now a "Bat-eared Fox"! The light beam freezes: it's in the middle. We stare - at nothing - and stare again - at nothing again. But then our eyes adjust and indeed the ears are huge. How did we miss it? Scratching away at the soil, glancing up, scraping away between low bushes. Bat-eared Fox: “nacht dier, nacht animal”. So it is not bad, we've done alright in the end. And there's a nightjar on the track as well, which Orlando picks up and stuffs into the glove compartment (he later gets into trouble for this). Home time, and Orlando picks up the speed. And then, in a diamond moment, the torchbearer cries a word that we never really dared to dream to hear: "Aardvark!" The brakes are slammed, the heads spin around… And there, indeed, is a tail, two twitching ears, a long back, a perky snout: a magnificent beast. It shuffles off fairly spiritedly, but not far, for no danger posed by the light appears to exceed the lure of food. Did we watch it for a few seconds or a few minutes? It does not matter at all, as the moment had a timeless quality. We’re stunned, we’re blown away… And now we're really heading home. Aardvark, Earth-pig, nacht dier, digging all night in our dreams. |
Wednesday 12th November
We enjoyed a leisurely breakfast and departure
from Hobatere, with two recovery trucks present in the parking area, preparing
to retrieve the remnants of the Germans' Land Rover. Impressively their travel
company had dispatched a new vehicle and they were continuing their journey
after just 24 hours delay (mostly thanks to their decision to take the most
generous of the insurance packages). Our first giraffe stood by the distant
waterhole, its lofty head comfortably above the roof of the stilted hide. I
imagined what it would be like to be sitting in the hide, watching a slice of
neck pass by the slatted window...
The jumbo tracks were present once again, this
time clearly demarked in the dust of the fringes of the Hobatere entrance road.
We followed for a couple of kilometres, whereupon the tracks vanished into the
scrub. At a rise over a small ridge three Springbok appeared, scampering away
from us and pronking spectacularly into the air: an amazing leap from a dead
start on the road. A pair of Violet
Woodhoopoes perched on a dead tree that poked out from the savannah. Crossing a
creek we stopped the car to look at some hornbills, and found ourselves briefly
in a European summer: Spotted Flycatchers hawked from exposed limbs, Willow
Warblers sang from the high canopy and an Icterine Warbler combed the lower
branches in a restless hunt for insects. A truck squeezed past us on one of the
narrowest and most rocky sections of the trail, packed with miners who were
prospecting for gold in a messy open cast mine just inside the Hobatere border
fence. "We're not happy that they are mining" said Steve, "but
we can't do much about it - we just pretend they are not there..."
We retraced Monday's route as far as Outjo,
where we turned north and joined the Etosha highway. The vegetation became
greener and thicker, but still almost devoid of signs of human habitation.
Sitting by the side of the road for a picnic lunch, using one of the regularly
supplied white concrete picnic tables, we watched an armoured "boundlessadventures.co.za"
transporter grinding by, an indication that we had rejoined the more
established tourist trail. A plethora of signs to bush retreats preceded the
guarded gates to Etosha National Park, where we completed the necessary
paperwork and entered.
Somewhat ironically for the entering of the
largest contiguously protected zone of land in the country, the most noticeable
change on crossing the boundary fence was the replacement of endless relatively
luxuriant bushveld with flat barren plains, with little vegetation except for
brittle bushes under which groups of scrawny Stark's Larks huddled in the
precious shade. But the other related consequence was that wildlife was visible
and everywhere. Plains Zebra grazed oblivious to our presence by the side of
the road. Each isolated acacia tree seemed to have its own Giraffe, merging
with the trunk and canopy, utilising the trees for both shade and sustenance.
And Springbok in their hundreds, the most evident life form in a parched
environment.
Okaukuejo Camp stood out from the surrounding
plains like a formidable desert fortress. Tall fencing protected the modern
marketplace within, where 21st Century travelling nomads from the
surrounding plains came to trade for food and lodgings. It kind of lived up to
our fears, but was at least not below our expectations. Rows of vans and tents
occupied corners of the substantial camping ground, while a variety of sturdy
vehicles were parked in front of basic huts and terraced motel style
accommodation. It looked like a holiday camp, which of course was exactly what
it was. You could never call it attractive. The reception had the atmosphere of
a social security office. A large man in uniform typed our booking code into
his computer and stared into a void of networkspace. You still have to pay your tax - but we already paid it - no you haven't, and you have to pay it
every day you are here - but it says here it is included in our overnight
charges - you have to pay your tax -
but we were told it was inclusive - the
rules have changed - when did they change - <long pause> - last month. Tick tock, government clock.
Whatever. We checked in to our rather rundown room, which at least had a large
fridge, had a quick shower and headed back out into the harsh afternoon sun.
The western perimeter of the camp looked out onto a small waterhole, protected
from the camp by a sturdy wall and a substantial drop. Numerous small waders
and anonymous larks were feeding at the water's edge, alongside three Giraffes
and some zebra. Then a stocky animal appeared stage left and waddled slowly
down to the pool to drink. It was a Black Rhino! Perhaps this was not your
typical holiday camp after all.
To the north of Okaukuejo a dusty road skirted
the western fringes of Etosha Pan. The gravel track blistered white as it
crossed a landscape of ankle height bushes, stunted by hot winds and nutrient
poor soils. Capped Wheatears and Rufous-naped Larks flew from the side of the
road and a small banded plover or courser of some sort rested in front of a
bush, but when we reversed towards the spot it had gone, lost in the haze and
dust. A little further we came across a sight so evocative that it remained our
abiding memory of our days in Etosha. In the middle of a relatively treeless
plain, two acacias had sprouted in the runoff on either side of the road, one
large and one small, both casting long narrow shadows perpendicular to the
track. A single file of Springbok stood along this thin strip of shade,
traversing the road and just beyond, broken only in the small gap where the
shade of one tree failed to reach the shadow of the second. It was a
breathtaking sight, this gate of animals, which slowly pulled apart as our
vehicle approached, to allow us through.
We followed the road as far as Okondeka
waterhole, where a cluster of four-wheel drive vehicles was strewn haphazardly
across the road. The reason soon became clear. A small pride of lions were
pacing around the vehicles as they made their way across the road. We pulled up
slowly and switched off the ignition. A huge lioness strolled leisurely right
past the car, while two more lounged by the dried torso of a long-dead zebra.
Unfortunately the moment was inevitably spoilt by a backpacker tour truck that
suddenly appeared behind us, and far from following the courtesy of the earlier
visitors, pulled out in front of everyone and jostled for top position for
their punters next to two male lions to the right of the road. The males were
suitably unimpressed and strolled off in the direction of the rather distant
waterhole, where they eventually rolled over and went back to sleep. We were
however able to put the telescope to good use, watching the wildlife around
this very open muddy waterhole, vegetated only by some clumps of saltbush.
Silhouettes of wildebeest, giraffe and ostrich stood out on the distant
horizon, shimmering against the vast salt plains of the Etosha pan, a lone
Ludwig's Bustard strutted past the dozing lions, a Lanner dipped its talons in
the shallow pool and a flock of Namaqua Sandgrouse whistled over the roof of
our car on their way in for a late afternoon drink.
It was 18.30 and the Okaukuejo gate was
scheduled to close at 19.10 sundown. Quite what the implications of missing
this deadline were we never did establish, but it seemed prudent not to test
it. As we returned to the camp a low sun backlit the arid flats. Etosha simply
glowed in the late light, soft shadows stretching across the baked clay pans. A
massive Kori Bustard wandered by the edge of the road and an Ostrich shook its
feathers as it ran from our path. On the edge of the track two Plains Zebras
stared out at the sinking sun. They glanced around but briefly in our direction
before resuming their dusk watch, tails flicking one way then the other.
Another car goes by, another sun goes down, the zebras’ tails swish on...
|
After Dinner Okaukuejo Camp 20.30. The main canteen dining hall is still busy. Cutlery clatter, clanging kitchen noises, piped music. Tall waiters in patterned jackets glide around the floor, unsmiling, looking like a sinister Mafioso of the service trade. Outside, a group of government officials are being entertained by some local schoolchildren. Drums beat and hands clap. The children dance and shout. Tourists in Hawaiian shirts lean on the outdoor bar, cocktails with umbrellas, clinks of ice. A pervasive smell of barbecue, an amber glow of coals. Moving away from the restaurant area, the camp is darker, but no less busy. In front of a large hut, a tour group are erecting folding tables, unpacking salad bowls and drinking beer. Their dinner sizzles on the grill to cries of laughter and fatigue. Far away, the sparks of fires from the camping area and a faint chord of guitar. Beyond the huts lies the waterhole, basking in the gentle yellow of artificial illumination. Other people have gathered here, post dinner. A crowd lines the wall, sitting in a makeshift stand, relaxing on low benches, leaning on the wall. A quiet murmur of different tongues is all but drowned out by a self-enforced silence, the hushed intake of many breaths. The strange noise of humans being quiet. Four rhinoceros stand in the glow of the lights, bathing in the pool. The sound of water rippling as they move. They take their time, slow messengers from another time. The crowd watches, maybe some are even listening. The rhinos leave slowly, gravel crunching, cameras flashing, as they amble into the gloom. A warm wind blows in from the wilderness, having swept over miles of desert bush, a traveller from beyond the lights. Red-necked Nightjars, launching across the pool in search of moths, are tossed aside and dance in the breeze before dropping onto the stones. A busy jackal scurries along the far bank. Looking carefully beyond the gloom of the furthest reaches of the lights, a holding queue of giraffes can be seen, tentatively edging towards the centre of the stage. A step, pause, a step, pause, looking around, waiting, a step, pause. As soon as one eventually reaches the water's edge, another one appears in the distance. Two worlds meeting at Okaukuejo. Is all that separates
them a wall? |
Thursday 13th November
|
Tales of Tails at Different Waterholes Okaukuejo Springbok
drinking. Giant Eagle-owl growling from a tree. Surprisingly early human
activity at camp. We thought we were up early, but most have already packed and
gone. Sociable Weaverbirds and a Pygmy Falcon, the classical cohabitants of the
massive communal weaver nests, one of which is propped up by supports in the
campground. Hoopoes and Yellow-billed Hornbills hopping on the lawns. Newbrownii Fresh
morning light (07.00). A grey place of few plants. The hole is in a dip,
slightly out of view. Behind it, the rocky plain is strewn with piles of dung.
Gemsbok, brightly marked faces and sweeping horns. Dainty Springboks and bulky
Kori Bustards. Some tourists are having breakfast in their van - it seems a
shame to disturb them. Common Fiscal on the top of one of the only bushes. Gemsbokvlatje The
hole, more correctly a long concrete trough, is in the centre of a vast rocky
flat that has been chewed bare for hundreds of metres in each direction. White
boulders the size of tennis balls litter the ground. There are scores of game.
A huddle of assorted antelope mingle: Gemsbok, Springbok, Kudu, Blue
Wildebeest. Plains Zebras and Black-backed Jackals are amongst the crowd.
Crowned Lapwings scurry between the mass of hooves. A Pied Crow lands by our
car and begs. Olifantsbad Another
throng of animals gathered in a rocky bowl, none of which are olifants. The
parking bay is elevated and offers good views of the visiting game. Impala are
the new ones, handsome two-toned antelope with crooked horns and a striking
black facial stripe. Zebra, Giraffe, Kudu, Red Hartebeest, Springbok, Gemsbok,
Black-backed Jackal, Warthog, all shapes and sizes. On a rise behind
Olifantsbad is a fenced off picnic area where we have our breakfast. The gate
clangs behind us. Namaqua Dove, Yellow Canary, Great Sparrow. Impala wander
past the fence. But who is in the zoo now? Aus We
could tell as we approached (the line of vehicles helped). Elephants. At first
around a dozen, then double that when another troupe arrive and join them. The
waterhole is set in a slight depression in a generous clearing, thick acacias
on all surrounds. The largest elephants crowd around the supply spring, sucking
the water as soon as it surfaces. Others drink at the edge of the pool. The
elephants are entertaining and we remain for an hour, watching the show. There
is always something happening. A tiny elephant is the only one to demonstrate
any aggression, trumpeting away any other animal that attempts to get too
close, the water splashing in his wake. Most intriguingly, there is a strange
background noise: a quiet rushing sound. Perhaps it is the flapping of elephant
ears, perhaps a pump. The really astonishing thing is how silent the elephants
are as they go about their business.
The enthralled watchers poke impressive telephoto lenses from their
cars. The car park fills. Some other counts: Kudu (10), Giraffe (2), Warthog
(3), Plains Zebra (50), Impala (6), Gemsbok (2), Ostrich (2), Shikra (1), Gabar
Goshawk (1), Wood Sandpiper (1). The ferocious sun shines directly through the
passenger window and is the only thing that finally, and reluctantly, drives us
away. Homob Late
morning. Baking hot. No big game, but several bee-eaters hawking over the
water. A bird of prey drinks from a particularly hard to view corner, but the
shimmering telescope view gives insufficient clues. Probably a Steppe Buzzard.
We leave before total meltdown. A Greater Kestrel is sitting in a tree on the
way out. Sueda Dry.
Nothing at all. Salvadore Looks
as if there is nothing here but moist mud. Blue Wildebeest and Springbok rest
some one hundred metres away, huddled in the only shade. We have a good view
over the hot and exceedingly hostile salt lake. Some movement, as a Red-capped
Lark and a Blacksmith Plover find something in the mud. Even closer, in the
grass, a tiny Desert Cisticola. The scanning telescope picks out distant
Secretarybirds, proudly stalking over the shimmering plains. Some dark raptors
in the only trees - god knows what they are. It’s too hot here. Rietfontein Midday. As we arrive a file of around a dozen elephants are leaving, a nomadic procession heading somewhere west. There is a lot of water here: in fact a small lake, with low sedge and an island of grass. The dark water ripples amidst the white-hot stones. This waterhole is a surprising favourite with birds of prey. Soaring low over the water, spiralling overhead, standing by the edge of the water, stooping to drink. Lappet-faced Vulture (the biggest) - 2, Lanner Falcon (the sleekest ) - 2, Tawny Eagle - 1, Red-necked Falcon (the cutest) - 2, Bataleur (the most vivid, the grandest, astonishing colours) - 1, White-backed Vulture -1. Halali Early afternoon. A beautiful location: the most scenic waterhole by far. Viewing is from the side of a small hill, where we sit on flat rocks, overlooking a broad tract of bush. It is a refreshingly green scene. The waterhole is fairly large, with one main pool, broken by an archipelago of smooth boulders. A turtle basks on a little island. Common Sandpiper bob along the shore, Guinea-fowl scream from the bush, a warthog trots down for a drink, swallows hawk overhead. It is cloudy, perhaps slightly still too warm, but quite serene. Goas Perhaps the most famous waterhole in Etosha, so we approach along a rugged track with a degree of reverence, park by the edge, switch of the ignition and wait. A large expanse of shallow water is only partly visible, the rest hidden behind a small island, covered in low reeds. Close to the car is a muddy channel. Silvery grey rocks and bleached dead wood provide astonishing contrast to the vivid green foliage of mopane trees. Some water birds: Ruff, Three-banded plover, Curlew Sandpiper, Common Sandpiper, Wood Sandpiper, Ringed Plover, Egyptian Geese, African Shelduck and Red-billed Teal. Few mammals here: some Zebra, Impala, Springbok and eventually Giraffe. Some impatient European visitors (illegally) stretch their legs outside their cars, and a little old man watches keenly from his tiny Fiat. The sun starts to descend, providing atmospheric lighting, but no further game. Something thrilling threatens to happen, a special wildlife moment, but in the end nothing does. Goas is a slight disappointment. The action must be elsewhere. Halali Sunset time. There is a human stampede towards the viewing area, with lots of bad behaviour, which can only mean excitement at the waterhole. Such crowds have gathered on the rocks that it’s hard to find a place. Right in front, our eyes at the level of their backs, are twenty elephants. That same noise as earlier in the day. The swishing of ears, the rippling of water, washing noises, slurping of mud. Another ten march in from the bush and there is much jostling and trumpeting. One large aggressive bull seems to be searching for trouble, and finds it. He leaves the water with an associate and there is butting and pushing and shoving. Meanwhile some animals leave, a new order is restored. It’s dark now and the gathered humans are engrossed in the floodlit show. So enthralled that nobody notices the arrival of a smaller mammal, appearing at the water’s edge to the rear of the pool. It is just suddenly there. It laps the water at a discrete distance from the sloshing elephants, occasionally raising a head and watching the other bathers. Silent and still. Spotted and feline. Big Cat. My heart skips a beat. It is an astonishingly beautiful (and exciting) animal. The show continues. A quiet pip-pip-pip-pip commences, getting louder and longer. Shadows at the back of the pool, birds dropping into the dirt, at first a few, then dozens. Double-banded Sandgrouse are pouring in. They must dodge elephantine feet on their careful approach to the edge of the water. And only now have most of the human watchers recognised the Leopard, its presence conveyed by whispers and turning heads. Fur ripples over its sturdy frame as it slinks back from the water’s edge and toys with a few sandgrouse, playing with the idea of a pounce, but the birds are too wary. The Leopard stalks off into the shadows and now two Black Rhinos lumber in from the gloom, mother and calf, skirting the pool in an effort to locate a safe route through the jungle of limbs. Rhinos have never looked so small. The Leopard creeps back into view, drinking and watching again. Red-necked Nightjars call from the bush, flitting into view on short passes over the water. Elephants, rhinos, leopard, elephants, nightjar, warthog, elephants, sandgrouse, elephants… It is absolutely captivating. It’s hard to leave. Walking down the track we keep glancing back. Is this real? Were we there? |
The 500 metre drive from the waterhole parking
area to our hut took longer than might have been expected, thanks to a
navigation problem in the poorly lit camping area. We circled around it about
four times, tantalisingly being able to see our cabin and yet not finding a way
through to it (although we did add Scrub Hare to the mammal list in the
process). Almost on the point of suggesting abandoning the vehicle until the
morning, somehow an exit to the maze was located and we were able to get to the
Halali restaurant just before closing time. During dinner the distinct rumble
of thunder was heard over the usual easy-listening music, and we were soon
digesting our Kudu stew from the safety of our hut, watching with nose pressed
to the flyscreen as the heavens wrenched apart and the rains broke. The dry
season was finally cracking in classically thrilling style. Thunder pierced the
night with deafening roars, sheet lightning flashed around the hill, and a wall
of water drenched the camp, running off rooftops, forming instant lakes and
streams. It rained hard for an hour or two at most, torrentially for maybe half
an hour. Serious African rain. Across the plains of Etosha nostrils flared and
twitched with anticipation, seeds stirred, roots moistened with relief. It was
the start of the rains that everything else was waiting for.
Friday 14th November
The rain brought a new Etosha. Under a clear
fresh sky we set off on the waterhole trail as soon as the gates opened, but
soon discovered disappointment. After decent overnight rains there was little
need for animals to expose themselves to the dangers of the well-known watering
points, and each one that we visited was all but devoid of mammal life. Goas
was home to the same waders as the evening before, but no signs of the
“Leopard, White Rhino, Elephant,…” reported in the camp log book just a few
mornings before, and we didn’t stay long. We readjusted expectations to just
enjoying being part of the post-rain environment, and indeed the changes were
interesting. The colours of the bush were fresher and more intense, pools of
water covered the road, some deep enough to provide challenging driving (frish,
splish). A Leopard Tortoise was drinking in a puddle in the road, a pair of
Double-banded Coursers and chick stood sentinel on the verge, Red-breasted
Swallows swept low over the track. We took our time along the narrower and
quieter road from Goas to the Etosha Pan lookout, meeting almost nobody. The
side road to Nuamses waterhole was essentially a lake in places, and involved a
bit of “heart in mouth” to see the Polo through the deepest parts. Nuamses was
deserted. In thick acacia country just short of the main road we pulled up
behind another car and discovered two male lions sleeping under a tree. One
occasionally raised its head in a very cinematic manner, profiled through the
thorns, mangy main and twitching whiskers. Closer to the pan we came across a
group of Ground Squirrels, standing alert by the verge, tails held like
parasols above their heads. It was impossible not to notice the impressive
gonad to body ratio of the largest male, proudly displaying his astonishing
burden, and extracting some wry grins from our car.
In the maximum light of late morning, Etosha Pan
stretched out before us, salt crusted mud merging with the sky in a blurred
shimmering haze. A surprisingly cool breeze blew in from the centre of the pan,
while the arm of a long estuary reaching landward appeared to contain shallow
water, although it was hard to determine true liquid from mirage. Game dotted
the margins, grazing wherever there was fresher grass, the distinctive profile
of Blue Wildebeest, the elusive shapes of Plains Zebra, always deceiving in the
distance with their striped hide confusing a distant viewer. A Yellow Mongoose
scratched at the rapidly drying soil, scampering back and forth between two
digs. We could almost begin to imagine this sight in a few months time, perhaps
with gentle wavelets rippling across the lake, crowds of pink flamingos and
rafts of pelicans as far as the horizon. For now, however, it was a baked and
barren plain, from here to everywhere.
We returned to Halali camp via Rietfontein.
Again the waterhole was poor on mammals but rich on raptors. Sheltered from the
cooling breeze, the car park at Rietfontein was sweltering. Small flocks of
passerines gasped for air in the bushes, making short and careful raids to the
edge of the pool. A large dark eagle circled low above us and then conveniently
dropped into the grass within comfortable range of the telescope, allowing us
to clearly identify it as Steppe Eagle, a fairly impossible task from the air.
However it was just too hot to sit in a metal can, so we forsake the wild lands
for a siesta back at camp, where a crowd of backpackers were playing in the
pool and some bizarrely over clad Japanese women were parading around the
restaurant terrace. A different, but almost as engrossing range of fauna...
|
After Rain Halali waterhole, dusk watch. Following dramatic Attenborough-esque wildlife spectacle of night before, we arrive at 17.00 for prime seat on top of the stone wall above the pool. Only a few other visitors are there already. Conditions: warm, sunny, patchy clouds. Expectations: fairly high, although aware that the overnight rains may have “dampened” the waterhole action. 17.01 African Cuckoo hawking over pool – drops down for a drink. Two Blacksmith Plovers and one Common Sandpiper present. 17.10 Turtle leaves pool for a stroll into the bush, completes a circuit, and returns to water. 17.15 Large flock of Barn Swallows overhead. 17.19 Grey Hornbill flying over trees behind waterhole. 17.22 Two Cape Turtle Doves come down to drink. 17.25 Massive flock of Barn Swallows and Common Swifts overhead. Purple Roller in distance. 17.30 African Cuckoo returns for another drink. 17.44 More swallows and swifts. 17.51 Swifts and three Cape Turtle Doves. One hour gone and not really much has happened. Very tranquil, lovely view and all that. Must be about time for a warthog. About twenty people now, including a bunch of American youths with an eski of beer. 18.10 Blacksmith plovers actually fly away – it’s getting even quieter. 18.14 Guineafowl start calling from the scrub. 18.20 Namaqua Dove drops down for a drink. 18.25 Grey Hornbill and Great Spotted Cuckoo hunting on the ground just to the right of the waterhole. 18.35 Red-billed Hornbill on a distant bush. 18.40 Plovers return. Laughing Doves by the edge of the water. 18.50 Swifts overhead. Definitely sunset time now. A golden orb drops through the layers of cloud. The special time of day is approaching. Surely now something will happen. About 50 people present, well behaved and full of anticipation. Night beckons. Cicadas start to sing. 19.15 Starting to get gloomy. Nothing happening. 19.30 Nothing. 19.40 Red-necked Nightjars calling from the scrub. 19.45 Sandgrouse arrive. Wonderful spectacle, as night before (without Leopard of course). 19.55 Nothing. Darkness. Night noises, but no mammals. Nothing has happened. Crowd reluctant to leave. Surely something will come. The night is still, and warm. A perfect night. 20.05 Scratching on the rocks – movement – maybe at least a mouse? It’s a gecko.. 20.10 Nothing. Consummate blackness. Nightjar calling. 20.15 Ten more minutes. We’ve been here three hours and seen no mammals at all. But the hopes for these ten minutes are still ridiculously high. Something must come… 20.16 Nothing. Nine minutes to go. 20.17 Nothing. 20.18 Nothing. 20.19 Nothing. 20.20 Nothing. 20.21 Nothing. 20.22 Nothing – if it is going to happen it had better happen soon. 20.23 Nothing. 20.24 Nothing. 20.25 Unbelievable – time is up. Slow packing away of tripod buys a few minutes. 20.26 Edging quietly away, glancing back. Nobody else can believe how foolish we are to leave just before it all happens. 20.27 Reaching the start of the exit track, looking back, nothing. 20.28 Is it still nothing? Maybe now they are arriving… 20.29 Nothing? Who knows? What are we missing? |
Saturday 15th November
After a much calmer night, weather-wise as well
as mammal-wise, we succeeded in making a prompt early exit from Halali, and set
off on the substantial drive to Namutoni camp, in the far east of the park.
Cool and cloudy weather made conditions very pleasant, and there was plenty see
along the way. Helmeted Guineafowl drank in remnant puddles that had
impressively survived a full 24 hours of intense evaporation, and a little
Steenbok slipped away from the track, vanishing into the dense bush between the
road and Etosha pan. Along the more open stretches of road, vast game herds
covered the plains. To the west of Sprinbokfontein the road crossed a narrow
causeway, and enough water had gathered on the surrounding flats to form a vast
lake that supported a small flock of Black-winged Stilts, while a couple of
distant White-winged Terns patrolled the margins. Our game viewing in Etosha
had been so successful that there were very few mammals remaining on our “hoped
to see list”. Thus we were particularly pleased to suddenly and unexpectedly
encounter three Spotted Hyenas lying about 50 metres from the side of the road.
We exchanged a prolonged distant mutual inspection, before the hyenas decided
to get up and bound off into the scrub.
The character of the park gradually changed as
we proceeded east. We encountered our first substantial areas of tall mopane
woodland in Etosha, were White-backed Vultures congregated on the treetops and
Eurasian Golden Orioles flitted between the trees. The vegetation soon reverted
to dense low acacias, with Giraffes burying their faces into bushes of thorns
and Brubru Shrikes ringing over the canopy. As the complex layers of clouds
burned off, the air temperature rose once again. We enjoyed a late breakfast at
the deserted Kalkheuwel waterhole, confusing several sets of disappointed
visitors who clearly thought we had special knowledge and were engaging in a
stakeout. Chudob was also quiet, save for some departing Impala and a lone
Gemsbok. This waterhole was notable for its depth and for the spectacularly
dense and compact clump of reeds that thrust skywards from its centre.
Reaching the white fort of Namutoni Camp too
early to check in, we set off along the short Dikdik Drive in the hope of seeing
the diminutive antelopes of the same name. At Klein Namutoni waterhole we were
greeted by a large vulture flock, circling in the thermals. At this barren and
hot waterhole we finally caught up with a classical African sight. On the far
shore of the waterhole the severely decayed carcass of a giraffe was being
picked apart by some Marabou Storks. It was a particularly bleak place to have
taken a last breath, and the line up of vultures and marabous demonstrated the
amazing transparency of the top end of the food chain in this environment.
Meanwhile, several fresher giraffes were splaying their legs and bending down
to drink next to the hungry hordes – life must, and does, go on. Dikdik Drive
itself was quite delightful. It was a single width dirt track that looped and
twisted through some dry woodland, highly reminiscent of Australian mallee.
Everything from the soil to the trees seemed brittle and bright. Impala
strolled past the car and unidentified birds called from unseeable locations
within the scrub forest. It wasn’t too long before we saw a Dikdik, a tiny
antelope the size of a small dog. Our first Dikdik crouched at the base of a
small tree, huge eyes bulging from their sockets, lying quietly in the shade.
White-browed Scrub-robins seemed to be the only visible bird species,
surprisingly vocal and active in the heat of late morning.
The old German fort that forms the main lodging
area at Namutoni camp seemed somewhat out of place in the vastness of the
national park. Glaring white beneath a peacock sky, it was hard to imagine the
motivation for building such a defensive structure in the middle of the bush.
The times have changed in many ways, and where Germans once sheltered from a
hostile world within its walls, they now paid handsome fees to gain admission.
We were pleasantly surprised to discover that our room was actually in the old
fort, and while it retained the basic functionality of all Etosha standard
rooms, the Namutoni fort was cool and particularly restful.
|
Afternoon Storm There’s a sweet scent in the air. We’re thirteen kilometres north of Namutoni, on our way to the Andoni Plain. The sky has been darkening since we left, and now it is ominously filled with gloom. We pull up at a deserted waterhole called Tsumcor. A scent of earth and dust. We can smell the land. It is a pleasant warm smell, but not entirely comforting. It is imposing. A mysterious light casts upon the dark still water and the surrounding ground, transforming zinc to pitch, chestnut to apricot. The canopy of the trees briefly glows silver, bravely defiant beneath the heavy sky. Compressed curtains of clouds, battleship grey, push down on the horizon. A scent of change. A sudden wind from the savannah tosses the acacias, whipping up orange dust. We feel a long way from home. The weather is coming. A distant zebra emerges from the scrub, standing motionless, waiting. The sky is moving, swirling, sweeping across the land. Together with the zebra, we sit in the only patch on sunshine left in the world. Things are changing. A scent of heaven. The light goes out and the wind stiffens. A shapeless shadow hangs from the sky, drifting in front of us, clawing at the land. The shadow is evolving, consolidating, fragmenting, falling away. Somewhere behind this spectre the sky splits open and flashes and grumbles, the sound rolling across the plains like an empty barrel. A light mist dampens the windscreen of our car. A scent of rain. Water is falling on Andoni Plain. We are caught, alone, exposed, in an afternoon storm. There is nothing to do but wait for it to pass. I look for the zebra, but it has gone. The lightning flashes, the thunder growls. It is the pungent scent of rain, but also of something less tangible. Not strong perhaps, but distinctly in the air. I don’t know what it is, but perhaps it might be fear. |
The storm paraded slowly across the sky in front
of us, always close but never quite reaching us. We feel its breath but not its
touch. After several false starts we decided to proceed cautiously forward
along the softened road surface, where shallow puddles had formed in the deeper
wheel tracks. The driver of a passing vehicle waved in solidarity, an unusual
event in Etosha. The retreating rain had, however, activated the local
wildlife, which emerged from the woodland on either side of the road to Andoni
Plain. Passerines were jumping on the roadside verges, drinking from the
puddles in the road: Kalahari Scrub Robins, Violet-eared Waxbills, Red-headed
Finches, Swallow-tailed Bee-eaters, Black-throated Canaries. Several Leopard
Tortoises were seen venturing towards the deeper rain-filled ruts in the middle
of the track. Zebra, Steenbok, Lanner and Gabar Goshawk, larger components of a
thirsty ecosystem.
Suddenly the road descended, steeply, and a
contrasting landscape opened out beneath us. A smooth golden plain, short grass
swaying in the breeze, and a vast distant horizon, peppered with the
silhouettes of game. This was Andoni Plain. Distant herds of Blue Wildbeest,
Plains Zebra and Springbok grazed all around us. Giraffes and Kori Bustards
strolled the flats, African pipits flitted by the roadside, vanishing amidst
the earth and stones. It was a compelling scene, an almost stereotypical
African landscape. A land where you could roam for miles without a landmark, where
big cats bounded after herds of scampering antelope, above which thunderclouds
gathered and expanded, all of which would be spectacularly animated by
time-lapse photography. And at Andoni Waterhole itself, a bare hoof-worn scrape
amidst the knee-high savannah, six lions lay on their backs, paws either
splayed to their sides or poking in the air, like playful pets rolling on a
settee. The larks pouring in to drink seemed quite unconcerned, as did the
Kittlitz’s plovers, pottering around the exposed mud like tiny clockwork toys.
The Plains Zebras stood cautiously on the other side of the water, drinking
warily, watching attentively. The sun emerged from beneath the clouds and
painted the plain in glorious gold, warm evening colours, accentuated by the charcoal
blue sky. Sandwiched between the corn savannah and the thunderstorms, and
somewhat distant from the cream cats lolling by the waterhole, a column of
Wildebeest had pulled up. Reluctant to proceed, reluctant to return.
Wildebeest, lions, weather, water, human watchers, setting sun. The pieces were
all on the board, who knows which way the game would end. Something had to move
first, and unfortunately it was us…
We had waited just a bit too long at Andoni
Waterhole and had to drive faster than was comfortable to get back to Namutoni
before gate closure. However the road had dried a little more, and the going
was generally firm, save for the odd dodge around a crossing tortoise. Just
short of the fort the weather closed in again and this time the torrential rain
caught us, if only briefly. The setting sun penetrated the sheets of moisture,
to breath-taking effect. Animals and trees stood exposed, wet shadows competed
with shafts of sunset. Fresh puddles shimmered in a golden sheen. Amidst a
small crowd on the top of the Namutoni fort tower we watched the proceeding
storm from a point of panorama. What had been fresh gold was now burnt amber,
dirty clouds slowly winning the war of light. A heavy black sky smothered the
land, flocks of small birds poured into the tall reeds of Namutoni waterhole,
spitting rain quickly gathered strength and we all hastily retreated down the
stone steps to shelter and to dinner.
Once again the neighbouring Germans totally
trumped our attempts to get value from the buffet, making four trips to the
table for our one. Even forsaking Rock Shandy for a refreshing beer, it was
hard not to want urgently to escape from the Namutoni restaurant, although it
was the only one of the three Etosha restcamps that appeared to be staffed by real
human beings. Beyond the deserted outdoor bar, and past another party of
braaing tourists, we thought for a brief moment that we had found a Bushbaby.
Up a tree, big eyes shining in my torch, long tail. However scale is a cruel
measure to determine at night, and when Anita returned with some binoculars we
were quickly able to identify that what we had was a large and quite cute Tree
Mouse. The Bushbaby’s time had not yet come. Cicadas sang, a Pearl-spotted
Owlet piped, and our warmest night of the trip so far closed in.
Sunday 16th November
A pleasant cool air stream blew in sometime in
the night, so by the time we were up and about in the early morning sunshine it
was fairly idyllic. The waterhole at Namutoni was dominated by a gigantic clump
of reeds, with water only visible on the outer margins. This reed bed clicked
with the sound of elusive warblers, and it was chasing them that I ran into two
Americans, the first birders that we had encountered since Erongo. We chased up
a Black Crake together and exchanged information before retiring for breakfast.
A party of around thirty Banded Mongoose were scampering across the lawns when
we emerged from the canteen, and a pair of Ruff were strutting opposite the
reception area.
Dikdik drive was strangely silent on our second
visit, although there were a few more Dikdiks out and about. Our last Etosha
mission was to drive out along the southern shore of the dry Fischer’s Pan in
search of some reported Blue Cranes. The big views across the baked mud flats certainly
offered the opportunity of sighting large birds but we only saw some distant
Secretarybirds. At the aptly named Twee Palms we scanned the extensive flats.
Nothing but shimmering haze, as if the horizon had been wired up to an electric
current. A party of Warthogs trotted past, tails erect like antennae. It was
easy to resist a feeling of disappointment because Etosha had in fact been very
good to us. The cranes we left to Peter Mathiessen, as it was time to go.
Leaving Etosha we proceeded east on a deserted
sealed road, which joined the B1 highway to Tsumeb, a pleasant but unremarkable
town where we picked up some fuel. From Tsumeb we headed briefly south-east and
then finally swung north-east at Grootfontein, which again was a somewhat
uninspiring small settlement. At least it failed to live up to its reputation
as a dangerous place for passing motorists, and the advice to keep our windows
closed was pleasantly unnecessary. From here it was 250 kilometres of road,
unbroken by townships or fuel stations. The landscape started to green up, with
stretches of thicker bush and occasional date palms. We settled in for a long
uneventful drive.
It would be fair to say that nothing adequately
prepared us for the arrival of the “Veterinary Fence”. About 100 kilometres
north of Grootfontein we knew there was a checkpoint, but we were not prepared
for the changes that lay beyond the fence. The fence marks the boundary of
Kavango region, where the huge properties, ranches and game reserves that cover
most of Namibia end, and freehold land begins. Suddenly we were in “Africa”.
Villages consisting of tiny thatched dwellings, corals of thin saplings, herds
of lean black cattle, and people everywhere. People on the road, walking with
plastic water containers on their heads, people sitting under trees, wobbly
bicycles weaving down the middle of the highway. Herds of goats, wood smoke,
staring eyes. It was hard to know quite how to feel. We were quite thrilled to
see the sterility of big farm Namibia replaced by vibrant roadside life. But we
were shocked by the poverty and simplicity. We drove through it like time
travellers, aliens in a metal box, speeding past lives that we could see so
evidently and yet barely comprehend.
For a considerable stretch before Rundu we got
even closer to the Kavangans, as twenty kilometres of roadworks saw us crawling
along a sandy and rough temporary road that scraped past the fronts of simple
dwellings. The huts were caked in white dust, obtaining fresh coats every time
a Landcruiser or truck roared past, well over the requested speed limit. It
seemed an added and unnecessary insult to drive so fast that everything these
people owned was sprayed with yet another layer of dirt. Then came the suburbs
of Rundu, shanty towns of iron sheet and bark, densely packed dwellings on the
edge of town. We didn’t enter Rundu, but instead drove east some ten kilometres
until a huge painted sign depicting a Fish Eagle indicated a road towards the
river, where several lodges incongruously housed themselves, green islands of
wealth in a sea of poverty and dust. The gravel roads were quite severely
corrugated, so we took our time bumping past groups of schoolchildren, some of
whom waved, some of whom stared, and some of whom were happy to ignore us.
Finally we turned down a narrow sandy track, quite the most exciting we had
driven on since the game drive at Daan Viljoen. Two wheel tracks cut through
deep sand and we had to keep the revs up as the car surfed and skidded along
the channels, slipping past a few huts and some shouting children. Indeed the
exact route was not entirely clear, and so as the sand got deeper it was not
without a feeling of relief that the rear of the car swerved one last time and
we skated onto a grassed parking bay behind n’Kwazi Lodge.
|
The Other Side of the
River She left the village and followed the narrow trail down to the bank of the river. It was late afternoon and a milky sky partially hid the sinking sun. Her daughter followed her, dragging an empty water container. The river was low, but a steady current flowed to the east. Her river. The same river that they must be able to see on the other side. She came here several times a day. In the early morning. Sometimes around midday. And always now, before the setting sun. Her daughter helped her fill the containers. Silty water sloshed around in the plastic box. A heron flapped lazily downstream, returning from its fishing grounds. Her daughter dragged the water up the bank. They never seemed to fetch water on the other side. She slipped off all her clothes and sank into the shallows. She slapped the garments onto the surface of the water, then drenched them and wrung them dry. Then stepping waste-high into the current she stooped, and scooped water over her head. Her river refreshed her. A moment of tranquillity at the end of a hard day. The sound of a man singing, a woman’s laugh, from along the shore somewhere. The smells of many dinners cooking. The big huts in the small green forest on the other side of the river seemed, as always, quiet. Nobody washed by the banks of the river on the other side. She dressed and walked slowly back to the village. The water was heavy. Her daughter struggled with the spare container. Soon she would be old enough to balance it on her head. The evening was coming. On the other side of the river strange lights appeared, strange voices, strange noises. It was another place over there, another country, more than another side of the river. |
The Okavango River flowed in front of our
luxuriously thatched A-frame cabin, sweeping around a broad bend, partially
hidden behind a band of reeds. The opposite bank, and the village set back from
the river that was just visible through the trees, was in Angola. We sat on the
steps and drank a cup of tea, watching the sun set and listening to the sounds
of singing and bathing from the far shore of the river. A whole community had
appeared, almost from nowhere. If it hadn’t quite before, it really felt like
Africa now.
Monday 17th November
We enjoyed a relatively slow start to the day,
as morning sun sparkled on the surface of the Okavango. The impenetrable sedge
adjacent to the reeds by the riverbank rustled and thrashed as sizeable, but
invisible, animals tunnelled their way through the aquatic vegetation. Only with
some patience were they eventually observed and identified as Giant Cane Rats,
large otter-like mammals. Little Rush Warblers danced furtively in the reeds
and on the far shore a stunning Malachite Kingfisher was glimpsed, as well as
two species of jacana, legs trailing as they made short flights between the
rafts of lily pads. From the small patch of jungle around the huts came the
electric calls of Swamp Boubous, and the beautiful White-browed Robin-chat
hopped around in the low vegetation. It all made a fine backdrop to breakfast.
We were slightly anxious about making a trip
into Rundu, the local provincial centre. However all fears proved unfounded –
Rundu was busy, but very relaxed, jacaranda trees lining the streets. The bank
was quite an interesting experience, full of people making small withdrawals,
most of whom used thumbprints rather than signatures to complete the paperwork.
Cashing some travellers cheques was quite a laborious process involving intense
form filling, but nobody seemed in too much of a hurry. We completed our chores
at the fuel station, where a friendly youth helped us fill the tank and check
the tyre pressure. “Where you heading?” “Popa Falls – you been there?”
Wrinkled nose. “Is it nice?” “Nothing much there…” That’s what we wanted
to hear.
The main road towards the Caprivi Strip, was
about as straight as man can make them. The Caprivi is a narrow strip of land
that pokes Namibia slightly further east than the neighbours Botswana, Angola
and Zambia are probably happy about, appearing on a map to be something of a
territorial infringement, which essentially it is. It has also been an
unsettled region, very much a front line during the Angolan War, and more
recently an area of guerrilla activity that all but closed tourism down just a
few years ago. However at the time of our visit the Caprivi had returned to
calm, and the residents were optimistic that a stabilising Angolan state had
the potential to bring a lasting peace to the region. There were very few
villages once we had left Rundu in our wake, but on either side of the road
there were clear signs of man’s impact on the deciduous forests that lay on
either side of the road. Much had been burnt and cleared, and some sections had
been reduced to dustbowls, under the influence of “slash and burn”. Once again
the paradoxes involved in harmonising immediate poverty and environmental
sustainability presented themselves all too clearly. For this region, solutions
must be found soon.
Just before the bridge at Divundu we turned south
off the main road, and negotiated some substantial roadworks, which were
certainly needed. Beyond the road gangs, the track was broad but considerably
eaten away, and passable navigation involved careful side-winding around
patches of deep sand, rocks and packed ridges of mud. Much more fun in someone
else’s car! The degraded forests continued all the way along this 12 kilometres
of track, almost to the border of Mahango Game Reserve. Just before the reserve
we plunged down another narrow sandy track, very much in the style of n’Kwazi,
and again surfed our way past small villages with children running after the
car and crying out for pens and sweets. At the end of the adventure was Ndhovu
Lodge. From white sand, baked fields, stunted bushes, to sprinkled lawn, a
broad arboreal canopy, and a big blue river. Home for the next three nights.
We were met by Jake, friend of owner Roy, who
had been visiting for the last week or so. Jake showed us to our tent, which
had its own little balcony and piece of river frontage. However there was no
doubt that the only place to be was the magnificent deck that pushed out from
the bank in front of the main lodge building and offered a vantage over a
gentle S-shaped bend in the Okavango River. To the west was a small grassy island,
which extended into a low sandbar. Beyond the island, the river could be seen
coming down from the north, and then turning east as it flowed past the lodge.
Directly across the river, some hundred metres away, was a substantial grassy
bank, behind which was healthy forest, in fact a protected game reserve. There
was simply no need to make another move. With the telescope mounted, the
sunloungers occupied, and a cup of Rooibos tea, we settled in for the rest of
the day.
The Okavango proved a substantive highway for
bird movement, particularly towards the end of the day, especially cormorants,
herons, skimmers, terns, bee-eaters, swallows and birds of prey. The sandbar
was a very lively spot, whose occupants were continuously changing. Small
waders, thick-knees, and wagtails were all seen, as was a small crocodile. The
telescope even produced a Rock Pratincole, almost half a kilometre away, atop a
rock in the middle of the channel. Woodland birds poured back and forth across
the channel, moving between patches, the lodge grounds being a particularly
popular location. Parrots, rollers, kingfishers, louries and hornbills. Finally
the lodge grounds held its own resident population: five species of dove,
Black-collared Barbets, Brown Firefinches and an African Wood-owl, flushed from
his roosting spot above the deck by a party of Hartlaub’s Babblers. Not a
moment of peace for the birdwatchers. In the meantime Jake told us about his
lodge down by Etosha that he was in the process of selling, following his divorce.
Without a job, without plans, he was a bit forlorn, but had been using this
deck over the Okavango as a place of therapy. Always changing – no two days
the same.
When Roy turned up, healthy bushman in his broad
hat, he told us some more about the bird life, identifying some of the calls
and enjoying an African Marsh Harrier that flapped downstream. Around five
o’clock a huge wind suddenly howled upstream, turning the channel into a choppy
sea and showering us with white blossom. It blew itself out just as quickly,
and gin and tonics were served as the sky began to glow and flocks of terns and
pratincoles headed for their roosts along the river.
Dinner was delicious. We had to combat the tiny
moths that descended on any undefended food items, but the food barely lasted
long enough for them to gain. Candles flickered and the Wood-owl occasionally
pounced onto the lawn beneath the porch light. And from the river came the
occasional substantial splash…
|
The Hippos’ Tale Between the lodge and the tip of the sandbar lie a flotilla of smooth grey boulders, protruding from the water. Round and wet, of varied size, they appear to be suspended in the river. Some of the rocks are joined together, protruding from the river like an ancient island chain, worn by years of floods and storms. Others stand alone, giant pebbles grounded in the sediments of the river bottom. Occasionally, however, a rock explodes. In a flash of pink, a roar and a spray of water, it erupts, and rises from the surface. The river ripples in reaction and nearby boulders tremble. The grey mass restores its form, sometimes bigger, sometimes smaller. The boulders return to a state of calm. Birds land on their surface and peck for food. The river flows quietly past them. Hours pass. The earth turns. The light is softer and warmer. Ochre spreads across the sky. One by one, the boulders start to move. Cast from their moorings, drifting free. Some float along the surface, others sink and vanish. Occasionally one resurfaces with a gentle splash. A violent snort and a thunderous low, resounds from one floating mass, echoed by another and another, further downstream. A vulgar and yet joyous river chorus. The urge to join in is almost irrepressible. The boulders sink with the light. It’s dark and only insects sing. During the darkest hours the water sometimes breaks and wild sounds are heard. Things happen during the night. At dawn all is quiet. The river flows past the sandbar, unimpeded on its journey to the delta. Then some hours into the morning, when nobody is watching, the rocks return. Smooth grey boulders, round and wet, protruding from the water, in a new formation to the day before. |
Tuesday 18th November
We rose with the light, to be at the gate of
Mahango at 06.15. We signed into the guest book, paid our dues and started off
along the two-wheel drive track. This wound itself through a variety of
habitat, beginning with fairly open bush. Mahango had such a good reputation
that expectations were very high and it was almost inevitable that frustration
soon set in. Many glimpses were had of birds flying away and game was very
scarce, with occasional shadows retreating into the scrub. Finally we caught up
with a Roan antelope, standing some one hundred metres in from the road. Around
the next bend the road followed the edge of an arm of the floodplain and in the
distance a lone Tsessebe was seen standing on the edge of the forest. A little
later we entered taller forest. Stopping the car next to a small glade, we got
out. Shafts of sunlight were now brightening the tops of the trees, and songs
and calls of many birds were heard all around. But once again only a quick
movement here, a flight there…
At last we had some more success at a break in
the forest, where a lookout could be had over a more extensive piece of
floodplain. This looked more like a dry meadow, but in the distance small herds
of Red Lechwe were grazing. A lone Hamerkop took off from the tall grass and
made a short flight before dropping down and disappearing, and a Woolly-necked
Stork stalked across the plain. From the sedge between the plain and the forest
came the reeling of Luapula Cisticolas and Arrow-marked Babblers chased one
another through the lower canopy. Suddenly we were alerted to a loud call above
our heads, and a couple of magnificent Southern Carmine Bee-eaters flew over.
These are stunning birds and the slow start to the day was instantly forgotten.
After crossing a short stretch of sandveld,
where Double-banded Sandgrouse scuttled for cover, we reached a parking area
beneath the spreading canopy of a large Baobab tree. Here there was an even
better view over a stretch of floodplain, which again seemed very dry. Various
plovers, geese and water birds could be seen in the distance and, beyond even
the range of the telescope, a vast cloud of unidentifiable storks could just be
made out, climbing the thermals. Several raptors soared overhead, most of which
turned out to be Fish-eagles in various stages of maturity. Little Bee-eaters
were almost tame here, and Blue Waxbills hopped along the ground, an outrageous
shade of turquoise blue, quite unexpected against the pale shades of the arid
sandy earth.
A few kilometres further on we were finally able
to see a good expanse of water. A short sidetrack ended in a grove of tall
trees that overlooked a small lagoon. A Goliath Heron stood like a sentinel on
the edge of the tall reed beds that lined the opposite bank. Crocodiles cruised
the waters and a small group of hippos were observed in the distance. This was
more the type of Mahango view that we had expected. By now the sun was a little
harsher, and we decided to turn around and follow the same route back to the
park entrance.
We were back at the lodge by 10.30, and tucked
into an excellent brunch, left out by arrangement the night before. Cereals and
yoghurt, cheese and bread, coffee and juice. We joined Jake and the hippos on
the deck, but only for a short siesta, as Roy had agreed to show us the less
accessible side of the park in the afternoon. Thus we were soon sitting high on
the back of Roy’s van, holding onto our hats as the jeep drove into a blasting
hot afternoon wind. Roy’s route followed a combination of tracks that circled
the back end of the park, passing through very different habitats to the
morning drive. Much of the rear of the park was scorched dry, with parched
Mahogany trees sitting out the season, waiting patiently for the coming rains.
Occasionally we would cross greener patches, where a recent thunderstorm had
quenched the roots of the trees sufficiently to encourage early growth. Other
sections had been battered by elephants, although we saw no recent signs of
their presence other than the destruction they had left behind. Very few
animals were seen at all, with the exception of some Vervet Monkeys, but the
scenery was fascinating. So much bush.
With the afternoon beginning to wane, we
completed the circuit by joining up with the floodplain track. Along the narrow
connecting track we started to see a lot of wildlife. Reedbuck, Roan and then a
small herd of Sable, striking black antelopes with sweeping curved horns. Our
first Buffaloes, grazing in the reeds, three rare Bushbuck feeding quietly on
the edge of a thick patch of acacia. Roy picked out fresh lion tracks on the
side of the road. We had a glimpse of the river, the late sun casting a
dazzling white sheen on the surface of the water as it penetrated a hole in the
building clouds. At the Giant Baobab even the floodplain was busier. Three
Wattled Cranes in the distance, ducks and sandgrouse sweeping over the plain in
small flocks. Fully satisfied with our Mahango day, we turned for home.
|
Dead or Alive? As we head for the exit gate of Mahango National Park, later than we are officially allowed, but earlier than the last hour that the patience of the friendly warden will tolerate, we see a small truck approaching. This is of some interest as we have seen very few vehicles all day, save for a jeep with four German youths (boys having fun driving through the sand, car sick girls slumped in the back complaining that there were “no animals”) whom we met somewhere at the back of the park. This new truck is entering the park, just short of dusk. As it approaches, passing a small troupe of Baboons with tiny young who are playing by the side of the road, we see that this truck is busy. Around half a dozen black Namibian men in khakis are clinging on to the edges of the small cage on the back of the truck as it rattles along the rough track. Directly above the driver and his assistant, at the front of the open cage, stand a substantial middle-aged couple, almost certainly German. Binoculars dangle from their necks. They are ready, but we are not. We are not prepared for this, after our wonderful day of nature drives. A sort of sickness creeps over us. Perhaps it is revulsion, maybe just the untimely reminder once again of how different we all are. It is amazing that wildlife tourism is generated by such contrasting urges. Those who want to see and those who want to kill… |
Wednesday 19th November
After a particularly loud hippo night, we again
woke early and revisited the floodplains of Mahango, calling in at the same
locations as the morning before. As is so often the way in places like Mahango,
the “same time, same place” resulted in different things to see. At the first
floodplain lookout a large Saddle-billed Stork was stalking across the open
meadow. At the next lookout, Carmine Bee-eaters flew into the top of a dead
tree and we were able to enjoy prolonged views of this astonishingly beautiful
species. A Buffalo emerged from the tall grass adjacent to the track and stared
us out, before dashing clumsily back into the reeds.
If we’d had a couple of camp chairs we would
probably have just settled down somewhere and let the day pass. However, the
camp chairs with our names on them were on the Ndhovu deck, so after four hours
in the park we decided to return and occupy them once again. On the way we
passed a small blue van driven by the same group of English birders that we had
seen in Erongo. Two of them grimly scanned the plain from the back seat of the
van, while another lolled in the front seat, neck strapped up in a brace. It
didn’t look much fun.
The overcast start to the day was over and a hot
sun glared down on the lodge. Strolling amongst the deserted tents we
discovered a colony of Golden Weaverbirds, and so we tried to stake out the
nests with the camera. However to get a decent shot of the birds involved
stepping out of the shade, but it was far too late in the day for that. We
retired once more to the deck, watching the Blue Waxbills and Brown Firefinches
drinking from the ornamental bird bath and a small Emerald Spotted Wood-dove
pecking quietly on the grains that Roy had scattered on the lawn by the pool.
In hindsight we should probably have just
remained lazily lolling on the deck like the hippos just offshore, but our time
was running out and we had yet to visit Popa Falls, a small government owned
reserve a few kilometres up river from Ndhovu and Mahango. So mid afternoon we
set off back down the rugged road towards Divundu and tossed some coins to one
of the small boys who patiently manned the gate to Popa Falls reserve. The
place was almost completely deserted, apart from a couple of rangers in the
office, a man creosoting the wooden cabins, and a German couple sleeping in
their van in the small shady camping area.
We were quite excited about the thought of
following the network of trails that criss-crossed the reserve, which itself is
made up of a number of tiny islands separated by narrow channels (some of which
could be crossed by stepping stones, others needing bridges) but soon found
ourselves totally confused by them. After crossing the small stream that
followed the edge of the camping area it became very unclear which way to go, and
indeed where there was to go. The name “Popa Falls” conjured up a definitive
sight of some sort, a cascade perhaps, even just some notable rocks. However we
were instead faced with a network of little twisting paths that led, maze like,
in circles and squares, and often back to where we started. The mesh of mixed
habitats in the reserve was interesting: lush, cool swamp; an open forest
glade; a reed bed; a dense groves of trees, some with fruits that looked like
bunches of giant parsnips dangling from the canopy. At times we had distant
views of the river, and even emerged on the bank of a small backwater on which
a couple of boys paddled an open wooden canoe, opposite an area of
pasture.
It soon became clear that we were not going to
find the “falls” without help, and almost simultaneously we blundered into a
small carefully set trap, when a small boy who had clearly been watching us
finally made his move and offered to guide us to “the falls”. Rather
reluctantly accepting his help, we were taken across a series of channel
crossings (some of which we had made before) until we arrived at a pile of
rocks, next to which a narrow arm of the river flowed purposefully. It was far
from clear that this was “Popa Falls” and indeed the boy indicated that to see the
“main falls” we would have to swim across a crocodile infested channel and
embark on some further scrambling. We weren’t sure how he would have reacted if
we’d asked him to take us there but, fearing a positive answer, we coughed up
some coins and returned to the start of the maze once again, still a bit
disappointed.
Returning to a track on the main island that at
least offered river views, we were able to ascertain that we were indeed here
looking at the back of “Popa Falls”, which at this stage just looked like a
long causeway of boulders stretching out into the main channel of the Okavango
River. Quite how dramatic a drop the falls involved was unclear because the
causeway was covered in bushes and other vegetation. It was enough of a view to
determine, however, that this was not going to be one of Africa’s most
breathtaking natural water features. Instead we set up the telescope and
successfully hunted for Rock Pratincoles, which occasionally launched off on
short flights across the river, but more often were either seen scurrying
across the big boulders like nimble rodents or standing, perfectly camouflaged,
between the stones.
Having had quite enough adventure for one
afternoon, we returned to savour our last sunset on the deck at Ndhovu Lodge, watching
the hippos sinking with a grunt into the river, fish-eagles crooning like
Herring Gulls from the tops of the trees on the opposite shore, Grey Louries
creaking from the canopy and then flying clumsily across the river, small
flocks of terns beating downstream and, as dusk gripped the river, the shadows
of crepuscular herons flushing from day roosts and commencing their hunt. We
were the only people at dinner, tucking into a heaped bowl of spaghetti
bolognese, washed down by an icy Windhoek lager. We were going to miss this
place.
|
Okavango Night |
Thursday 20th November
Dawn broke over the Okavango in a blaze of amber
and pink, imperceptibly softening to lemon and gold as a cool and refreshing
morning slowly unfolded. The early bird traffic on the river incredibly
included yet more new birds, with a Rufous-bellied Heron emerging from the
thick cover of the river island and crossing to another secluded location on
the opposite shore, while two Comb Ducks flew downstream. A Malachite
Kingfisher shot beneath the deck, and even the Ndhovu garden revealed more
treasure, with a Terrestrial Brownbulbul noisily drawing attention to itself
from the depths of the bushes behind our tent.
Reluctantly we had to leave. We breakfasted and
packed, leaving some spare clothing with Cecilia for distribution amongst the
locals in need. It wasn’t much, but gestures were really all we could offer. We
bumped along the entrance road for one last time, crawled past the road works
and finally joined the bitumen. Destination Waterberg. It was at this point
that we recalculated the day’s drive and realised that it was 750 kilometres
rather than the anticipated 550 kilometres. This was initially a bit alarming,
but with high road quality, minimum stops and a cruising speed of 120/130
kilometres an hour, we did not have any problems. We settled in for a long
drive.
|
On the Road Girl with baby selling baskets, wants $5, big smiles, no negotiation, no deal. The butcher’s shop, dry meat suspended from two wooden poles. A crowd sitting in the shade of a spreading tree. Temminck’s Courser on the verge. Forest. Forest. Overtaking a small truck with at least ten men standing on the trailer. Rundu. Road works. A landcruiser speeds along the new road surface, men laughing in the back, while we squeeze along the official detour, buried in the dust trail of a lorry. Villages. Stick fences. People on the side of the road. Wooden four-wheel drive trucks for sale. Water carriers. A man guides his flock of goats casually across the highway. A shower. Rain. Heavy rain. Deserted villages, nobody in sight. Steady drizzle, dark clouds. We give the last of our handout sweets to three little girls walking with a carton of water - they stuff their faces with them on the spot. Lashing rain. The veterinary fence: “what’s in the box in the back?”. Thornveld, thornbush, bushveld. Swap drivers. Sandwiches. Acacias. Grootfontein. Low hills, granite boulders, a narrow pass between the low hills, a big view over the plains. Agricultural land. Small country Otjiwarango, evening shoppers spilling out of the supermarket, busiest place in town. Escarpment looming in the east. Signpost to Waterberg. |
Turning east off the highway, we joined a
straight bitumen road that descended gradually, with views of the Waterberg
Plateau in the distance. We were astonished to see a small group of Eland
feeding just inside a tall fence, which presumably marked the edge of a large
game preserve. In fact we had seen so much wildlife on this trip that although
we called “eland” as we passed them, it took a good few seconds before we
appreciated that these were in fact the first that we had really seen. Hence a
sharp braking, a reverse, and there they were, briefly entertaining our
presence before slinking of into the scrub.
Much more excitement was to come however, as the
last few kilometres of the road to Waterberg were on a broad dirt track, which
glowed orange in the late afternoon light, but which was extremely greasy in
several sections following the day’s rain. This was particularly true on a
series of smooth bends, where several larger vehicles had ripped up the surface
of the track leaving it quite Polo unfriendly. Fortunately the track
straightened, dried, and improved in quality as it penetrated deep into
marvellous bush. Out of the corner of the driver’s eye a small animal was
glimpsed dashing across the track. It appeared to stop at the edge of the road,
and so we did too, as suddenly as the road allowed. I was strangely certain of
the identification of this mammal, although I had no right to be as the glimpse
had been fleeting and the distance substantial, but what else could it be? The
dust settled, and amazingly there it was, crouched on the verge right next to
the passenger door – a Bushveld Elephant-shrew! We were simply enthralled by
this chunky mouse-like creature, with a tiny elongated snout, which made it
undoubtedly the cutest beast we had seen so far. It scampered off, but not too
far, and we successfully pursued it to a large pile of dead branches, in which
it played hide and seek with us for a few minutes, before retiring triumphantly
to the centre of the woodpile where victory was assured.
Waterberg National Park was just a few more
kilometres along this road, up a grand entrance drive that led straight to the
reception area, and then twisted up to the foot of the escarpment, where the
rows of semi-detached red brick cabins were largely unoccupied. It looked
rather like a rundown housing estate, but what a backdrop the estate enjoyed…
The pillars of the escarpment towered over a lush green layer of forest, which
grew exuberantly, watered by the run off from the steep range.
The moment the car finally reached its destination
a crime was committed. Collecting bags from the back of the car I swept a bag
from the seat by accident and it landed on the ground with an ominous cracking
sound. It was, unfortunately, the small ceramic jar that Anita had purchased
from Ndhovu, and it was now in several pieces. As marital thunderclouds
unleashed themselves, the fragments were carefully collected and promises of
reparation made.
Tired and emotionally drained (after both the
drive and the jar incident), we opted for a scratch dinner from our lunch
leftovers and an early night. However the post rain evening was cool and clear,
and seemed perfect for a Lesser Bushbaby hunt. Waterberg had a reputation as a
good place to see them, and it was effectively our last chance. It took less than
a minute of flicking a torchlight around the acacias surrounding the cabins to
pick out two glowing orange eyes. We lost them for a short while, but then
picked them up again as they moved around the top of a thickly foliaged tree
with astonishing speed. There could be no doubt that a mammal capable of
projecting itself so spontaneously from branch to branch could be anything
other than our target, and eventually we persuaded it to rest in the fork of a
branch for a good view. A short way down the road we found a much more open
tree, where at least three bushbabies were active. They sprung from branch to
branch, evading the torchlight and putting on an impressively acrobatic
performance. Great animals and genuinely thrilling to see in the wild. But were
they cuter than the Bushveld Elephant-shrew?
Friday 21st November
The Waterberg escarpment glowed in the early
morning sun as we woke to a new orchestra of squeaks and chatters from the
surrounding bushland, while Red-billed Francolins, Helmeted Guineafowl and
Damara Dikdiks grazed on the lawns outside the huts. We ate breakfast in the
restaurant, which was at the end of a short but steep descending bush trail.
The ubiquitously piped “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” and the sausages did little to
steal the satisfaction of a huge pile of eggs and strips of bacon, followed by
melon and papaya slices. Outside on the concrete terrace blew piles of moth
wings, presumably left over by compatriots of the grey gecko who had
dismembered flying ants on our patio the evening before.
We spent the morning hiking the network of short
trails that weaved around the foot of the escarpment. These appeared to be
little used and some were surprisingly adventurous. The first that we followed
started to contour along the base of the escarpment, twisting and turning
around the acacias that clung to the foot of the crags. From time to time an
exposed rock could be climbed, revealing giant views of the plains beneath us
and of the vegetation that hugged the base of the escarpment. The sounds of
hornbills echoed up from the bush below and a pair of African Hawk-eagles
soared overhead. Strange bright red spiders that looked as if they were made
from velvet, speckled the rocks. We expected this track to loop back round to
the camp, but instead it seemed to go on forever, and we decided to turn back
around in order to find the track to the top of the escarpment.
Just before the camp a small trail branched off
towards the cliffs, and this soon began to climb closer and closer to the foot
of the rock face. We entered a relatively lush band of vegetation, almost like
a mini rainforest, and the path climbed steadily and improbably upwards,
without sight of a possible break in the sheer rock wall. Dassies were
particularly tame here, and watched us almost contemptuously as we scrambled
past them, with a birds eye view of the camp now possible through the canopy of
the trees beneath us. Unexpectedly the path forked apart, the leftmost route
tacking upwards and into the entrance of a fairly narrow, but pleasingly
accessible, crevice in the escarpment. It was now a matter of minutes of upward
climb through this passage until we were able to step out onto the edge of the
Waterberg Plateau. Beneath us the plains unrolled in a carpet of acacia,
streaked by the faint lines of dirt tracks that cut grids through the bush. O
the other side of the narrow gorge, some baboons were soaking in the unbroken
views. Behind us were the first ridges of the plateau, frustratingly
inaccessible without permit or guide.
We washed off the dust of the morning walk in
the very pleasant swimming pool, where we were the only occupants until a group
of athletic Germans arrived and decided to convert the pool into a stadium for
some sport that involved throwing a ball around and trying to drown female team
members. This seemed the right moment to seek some quiet shade back at our hut
and take siesta.
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The Baboons’ Tale It starts with a furtive shadow, glimpsed on the patio of our hut, as a small figure steals away, guiltily. He scampers across the lawn, dropping onto the roof of our car. The lookout man. A bin lid rings and more figures emerge from the edge of the bush. The bin man lifts the lids, checks the contents and then noisily drops the tops back on. A group of adolescents are rolling around on the lawn, punching, kicking, chasing. A large female stoops to drink from the sprinklers, her baby clinging to her underside. A tiny child, sits on the lawn and stares into the end of a hose pipe, willing water to emerge. There is action everywhere. A lone male is checking windows of a hut on the other side of the road, shaking the latches, rattling the flyscreens. Eventually a loose window catch is found and for a moment he disappears, dropping into the interior, but is quickly back with nothing. A team effort on our neighbours’ hut is in full swing. Small figures chase along the ledge checking windows, testing, trying, dropping down onto the lawn. Some screams, some chatters, but generally it is a silent raid. Soon it’s over, the intense energy of the event drains away. They gather by the road and casually saunter off into the trees in little groups. Later, perhaps half a kilometre away, we hear an almighty clanging noise. Afternoon crime has resumed. |
The Waterberg escarpment looked its best in the
late afternoon. Walking back along the entrance road, distant raptors could be
seen circling in the thermals above the stunning sandstone. Approaching the
cliffs the orange and red surface was visibly augmented by green and yellow
moss, adding texture as well as colour to the rocky pillars. The whole camp was
much busier, with weekenders from Windhoek heading for the larger cabins, cars
packed with provisions for braaaing, and groovy music beating our from their
car stereos. In the campground proper, the tents of a small overland expedition
and a couple of long haul tourist vehicles, fully equipped for a few months of
African travel, were rather stark reminders that our adventure was very close
to ending.
Under a clear night sky we ate some native
wildlife in the courtyard of the busy restaurant, before retiring. The distant
sounds of partying thumped quietly from the direction of the cabins on the
other side of the camp, and the steady barking of an African Scops-owl beat out
from the depths of the forest. We looked, but tonight there were no bushbabies.
The show was almost over.
Saturday 22nd November
It was another beautiful morning, and in fact at
Waterberg you get the distinct impression that most mornings probably are. A
last unsuccessful attempt was made to locate Bradfield’s Hornbill around the
escarpment. We then enjoyed a leisurely breakfast before setting off for
Windhoek. The conditions were quite idyllic on the drive out of the park, with
a big blue sky bursting with puffy white clouds contrasting with the sandy
colour of the road and the subdued olives and browns of the acacias. We stopped
to photograph a weaver colony by the side of the road and glimpsed a Slender
Mongoose scampering towards its burrow.
The drive south was fairly uneventful, delayed
by yet more extensive road works, which led to regular crossings of the road
onto rough hard shoulders, or occasionally onto recently set bitumen. The
countryside became more topographically diverse, with flat-topped hills and rugged
granite ranges. A giant Kori Bustard flew high overhead, an almost surreal
reminder that we hadn’t quite left the wild lands.
After a slow steady descent we arrived in the
small town of Okahandja, famous for its tourist markets. This proved to be a
good place to bargain for crafts, mostly from the Caprivi districts. It was
hard to avoid the various hardwood products, although olive wood was quite
popular, and Anita engaged in impressive negotiations for basketware. It seemed
incredible that so many people could make a living from selling the same goods
in such close proximity, and we were left wondering exactly how much the
original weavers and carvers from Rundu got paid for their skills and
workmanship.
We intended to pass a few hours at Von Bach Dam,
the main water supply for Windhoek, which lay in a hollow in the hills just
south of Okahandja. We did visit, but the dam was rather bleak and barren, with
a scattering of fishermen settled down by the shore. While driving across the
narrow causeway at the back of the actual dam we were harassed by a carload of
testosterone-pumped Afrikaner teenagers. This was in fact the most nervous
moment of the trip, far exceeding close encounters with the likes of snakes and
lions. The battered car stopped just beyond us and we could hear the pleas of
girls in the back apparently trying to talk the lads out of an activity that we
were glad we did not experience. We are still grateful to these anonymous
girlfriends for preventing whatever it was that they didn’t want to happen. We
left before the car returned.
By the middle of the afternoon we were back in
the relative civilisation of Windhoek, returning the borrowed goods to the
Total garage, and booking back in to Hilltop House. The view from the
pleasantly breezy veranda at Hilltop House was certainly not the worst of the
trip, and Little Swifts regularly whisked over our heads before decelerating in
time to drop into the tidy nests in the rafters of our room. However despite
the view of rugged mountains beneath a pale but puffy sky, instead of the
barking of baboons and beating of hornbills, we could distinctly hear the drone
of traffic in the valley below.
The sun dropped away and we headed out for an
early sitting at the wonderfully named Luigi and the Fish, where we ate some
crossover Cajun / Namibian style dishes and toasted the end of an excellent
couple of weeks on the road. On the way there a drunken man staggered along the
pavement euphorically clutching a large St George’s Cross. We had almost
forgotten all about it, but the evidence seemed all too clear – England had
just won the Rugby World Cup.
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Africa The lights twinkle in the valley beneath the house. A cricket chirps intermittently from the garden. A gentle night wind buffets the veranda. Over the hills lies a continent. We could walk down the hill, cross the valley, traverse the range and just keep going. Angola, Uganda, Zaire, Nigeria. Savannahs, jungles, deserts, forests. People are sitting by campfires, in tower blocks, in refugee camps, in suburbs. By oases, rivers, lakes, the sea. Eating, drinking, laughing, making love. Sleeping, watching TV, singing, dancing. Hippos are grunting, lions are stalking, owls are hunting, aardvarks are digging. Beyond the valley, over the hills, Africa lies in front of this veranda. The cricket chirps again, and again, and again, and again… |
Sunday 23rd November
Breakfast was again late at Hilltop House, but
his time we were in less of a hurry and were happy to enjoy our last morning of
peculiar weaverbird rattles and buzzes. We weren’t sure how we were going to
pass the hours of the morning before heading for the airport, but in fact made
a wise decision to visit Avis Dam, just on the outskirts of the city. Although
relatively busy with the same types of Sunday morning leisure activities that
you might expect from a suburban water source in almost any part of the world
(dog walking, strolling, fishing), Avis Dam was also wild enough to provide
some good hiking and birding opportunities. We walked around the margins of the reservoir, which was
particularly low, and enjoyed good views of a few new species, including Great
White Pelicans, and an out of range Black Heron, performing its classical
umbrella-winged fishing technique on the margins of the reservoir, and relatively
unperturbed by the regular need to change location as a bounding dog strayed
too close.
After circumnavigating the reservoir we headed
for the airport, chasing some last baboons from the side of the road and being
lazily waved past the armed checkpoint half way along the airport road. We
checked in the car, and then ourselves, at the airport, and passed the last
hour in frustrating negotiations with Air Namibia about compensation for the
delayed baggage (which was eventually coughed up and then spent almost
simultaneously in the airport shop!) Amazingly the four English birders made an
appearance once again. One of them was at the airline office to collect his
ticket, which had either been reissued or handed in as a lost item, and another
was slumped in the lounge bar watching highlights of the Premiership football.
Oh to come all this way to see Everton against Birmingham City…
|
Making Tracks The little jet takes off and banks steeply. Landing strip, buildings, car park, road, trees, rocks, hills are soon all a blur. The airport becomes a faint scar in the vast landscape of the Kalahari, which stretches beneath us. The “desert” is almost featureless except for strange pocket marks and occasional radiating tracks, which converge on sources of water or shade. We try to imagine what it must be like on the ground, what noises, what smells. It’s a big and gloriously empty country down there, which epitomises Namibia itself really. We stare longingly at all that space as the dark shadows of thunderclouds drift over the surface of the sand. |