ZAMBIA.
What we know:

FORMER NORTHERN RHODESIA. VICTORIA FALLS. CECIL RHODES.

British need a visa 50$, car insurance 36$ and an hour of form filling we are on our way.
Stopping in Livingstone (renamed Maramba) we visit its small museum dedicated to a Scottish born doctor –missionary and explorer extraordinaire David Livingstone and his wife Mary nee Moffat. David, as you might remember, was one of my fantasy ferry acquaintances on our crossing to Africa from Europe. A forerunner of European Imperialism eventually converted to African Nationalism he had come a long way from Shuttle row in Blantyre eight miles outside Glasgow to be the first white man to see and name the falls on the 16 November 1855: Victoria (Known to the Kololo people who lived up-stream as smoke and thunder)

The museum does little to prepare us for what lie’s ahead the world’s widest expanse of falling water. It does, however, leave us with some appreciation of the determination of Livingstone. To put Livingston time in context the light bulb had just been invented one year before he was born. When he first laid eyes on the falls the bicycle still had iron wheels. Sparrows had arrived in the USA and it would be another thirty-nine years before moving pictures were invented. It’s only a year since the charge of the Light Brigade. There can be no doubt that he must have being gobsmacked as his canoe floated towards the lip. It’s no wonder he could not resist the temptation of some twenty-century graffiti carving his initials and date on a tree.
Indian smoke signals of white clouds are like him our only warning that the Zambezi waters are going to nose-dive headlong into a gigantic void. Will we be as gobsmacked? Not yet.

Our first view from the riverbank is restricted. White clouds of spray and dazzling rainbows block any clear view. The awesome power and majesty that captured Livingstone will have to wait till tomorrow. For us, it’s shower time at the Rainbow Lodge. Approaching the Zimbabwean border Victoria is coughing up a cloud every few minutes. Most are crossing in our direction. That is from Zambia to Zimbabwe. Over 95% of tourists arrive at Victoria on the Zimbabwe side. Formalities to cross over with Williwaw are a bit of a nightmare. As always calm, some good humour and the might of the dollar work’s wonders with the car papers causing most of the problems. Stamp, Stamp we over. Our one-day stay in Zambia is over.

ZIMBABWE.
What we know:

FORMER SOUTHERN RHODESIA. IAN SMITH. UN SANCTIONS. MUGABE. WHITE FARMERS. VICTORIA FALLS.  

We disappear one after the other into the tumbling hot water. Heaven in Africa is not difficult to find it’s a hot shower. How give a fuck about one millions of litres of tranquil Zambezi water that plunge over Victoria > Up to 650 million every minute in the rainy season. At this very moment in time for all, we care it might as well be a dribble. Situated right on the river edge just above the falls edge Rainbow Lodge is well named. Reborn we venture down to have another look.
David clean-shaven, sporting a moustache with long sideburns and a receding hairline found the falls while he navigated down the Zambezi in the hope of finding Gods Highway into central Africa. He first saw them some distance further down the river from where we are now standing. In another ten thousand years Rainbow lodge will have to move one and a half kilometres up river if it wants to stay from falling over the edge.

Disturbing two youths who are having an evening wash we emerge onto the very lip of the falls. The view across the leading edge is mesmerizing. Sheets of water reflect a canvas of the setting sun posing for a split second before, spilling over in long vaporizing blocks of water. One can follow individual chunks of water till they break into white drops right in front of your eyes. Further out the falls, the water disappears into large cracks where it gathers energy to make the jump into the unknown void below.

Twice the height of Niagara and one and a half times wider it impossible to get an overall view across the 1.6km width of the falls. Victoria is in fact made up of four falls: Devil’s Cataract, Main Falls, Rainbow Falls and Eastern Cataract. From its highest point at 108m water sprays up to 500m into the air creating a factory of perpetual white clouds that glide up into the sky. The only unquestionably unchanged caricature of the falls since David time is that the Zambezi River now dammed has changed its spirit utterly. On arriving at the edge as a smooth slow flowing river it changes in a wink into the rage of nature that David must have seen.

Returning to the Lodge under a full moon we are treated to a lunar rainbow, dinner and a deep sleep with water on the brain.

By the time we emerge next morning after yet another long shower session the sun is already poaching the land. Armed with some local knowledge the best way to get truly saturated is to head for the Chain Walk a pathway that descends down into a gorge called Devil’s Cataract on the Zimbabwean side of the falls. To fully understand the falls one has to realize that it is forever on the retreat. The present falls is the eight to appear on the river over the last million years. Each falls forming where the river finds a fault in the lava bed of the river. Devil’s crack is the latest and it is already 300m below the main fall line. Eventually, over the next few thousand years, the whole lot will pour down this crack to form the ninth site for Victoria.

Donning some wet weather gear we set off. The unremitting spray of Victoria gives the place its own microclimate. Just as in David’s time the falls are surrounded by lavish rainforest remaining both dramatic and dignified. Not so the hinterland, which has turned into a gold mine bastardized by the ever-increasing tourist commercialization. Now a major world tourist attraction with a population of 72000 living in and around its sides I am sure his Victorian constitution would take a turn for the worst.

Feeling somewhat strange dressed up in rain proofs we pay our entry fees. (Top TIP: Bring a waterproof bag for your cameras.) A trail through deep vegetation leads down to a jutting rock outcrop with many vantage points. Each stop taking ones breath away as the falls make’s public its claim to one of the world’s natural wonders. After the Sahara, the Kalahari and Namibian deserts we find it tricky to get our heads around so much water. God knows the way we are polluting the world drinking water it could be the source of many a forthcoming coming African war.

Around here you eventually realize that all paths lead to craft centres or craft villages and only a promise made at Danger Point overlooking Boiling Pot of lunch in the Victoria Falls Hotel saves the credit card from taking a pounding. The Victoria Falls Hotel is one of the few remaining old colonial old world hotels. Built in Edwardian style 1904 when the Cape to Cairo railway reached the falls it now caters to the well-heeled tourist.

For the second time in our voyage, we feel inappropriately clad in shorts and tees shirts. In the splendid Livingstone Room, they don’t go with linen tablecloths, fine glassware, and an array of forks and knives to tax one’s dining table etiquette. This is made more than obvious by the standing waiter with a tray that is dressed in whites, gloves and red fez. “Madam” “Noilly Prat gin Martine please,” says Fanny “Would you like it served here or on the Stanley’s Terrace.” “Sir” “On the terrace; s’il vous paît; with a large Gin and tonic if you please. Perhaps the craft shop /village might have turned out more lenient on the plastic. To hell with it, this marks the starting point to the second half of our journey. With drinks in hand we watch a bungi jumper launch himself from Over lunch I sign up for a one-day rafting trip in the morning down what called the Botaka Rapids.
7am the next morning “ Please sign the handed out forms.” Indemnities against all accidents and loss of life. Next the safety talk. Long swimmers. Hold on to the ropes on the side of the raft. Do as your raft leader requires and everything will be honkey dorey. Pay now drown later. My group consists of Dutch couple, an Aussie, a brother and sister, two employees of the rafting company and a black skipper. “OK, mount up.” I am sitting beside David our accompanying long swimmer canoeists. He hands out maps of the day’s river decent > Twenty-three rapids in total.

Looking at the map all the rapids are all suitably named to put the fear of God in those who have never done white water rafting before or who will never again. Rapid no 6 Devil’s Toilet Bowl. Rapid no 8 Midnight Diner > consisting of a choice of three runs. On the left “Star Trek” with a hole of 5m reserved for the brave, or down the middle called “Muncher Run”, or the right “ “Chicken Run.” rapid no 9 “Commercial Suicide”, “The Mother” rapid no 13, “Terminators One and Two” rapids no 16 and last but not least “ Oblivion “to name just a few.

Our converted Dutch army truck takes an hour to arrive at our launching pad so I have plenty of time to speak to David. Long swimmers turn out to be a bloke who has been swept some distance from the raft. It’s David’s job to go and fetch the drowning dude in his canoe i.e. long swimmers that are about to stop swimming. Short swimmers are those that pop up beside the raft. They are usually deal with by those who have not fallen out. If there is no left in the raft they should grab hold of the rope and climb aboard whether the raft is upside down or not.
The truck comes to a halt. Our first surprise is not long in coming. To get down to the river there is a long descent down the side of the gorge. Not by a track but step by step on a rickety ladder made from tree branches. With no handrails, it’s a true test of balance. The Dutch couples in front of me are making heavy weather of the decent. Our black captain raising his hand’s skywards in acknowledge of their difficulties. It looks like he has resigned himself to spending more time in the water than out of it. I can’t help sympathies with his premonitions. The Aussie brother and sister are attempting the descent by stepping in-between the ladder rungs. The inevitable happens. Crash! Down goes the long-legged sister chick ripping the ass out of her flimsy shorts exposing two juicy cheeks separated by a pink G-string. The panoramic view of which is not lost on our captain.

One hour later. Issued with life jackets and paddles we are assembled on the Rocky River shore. Raft places are allocated with two moons the sister getting the place of honour in the bow. Our rubber raft tethering on its painter in a backwater pool is then fitted with its steering oar. Twenty meters out from the shore the river boils. Pressure bubbles float into the backwater in long columns to explode like flashbulbs. “All aboard.” “Weil going to go twice around there for some practice.” Tayto > the captain announces indicating the circle with his hand.
OK! “When I shout full steam ahead you are all paddle to getter.” “Good.” “When: I shout on the right.” “Those on the left are to paddle backwards and those on the right are to paddle forwards. “ On the left” those on the right paddle backwards and those on the left paddle forwards.” Good! Good! “High five all the paddles in the air like this.” He holds a paddle in the air over his head with his two hands. “Got It” “All aboard.” Around we go twice. ON THE RIGHT producing a clatter of paddles and ON THE LEFT producing a new command from Tayto, “All together please.” Round two. Not much better. The view, however, has improved with our bow lady throwing herself enthusiastically on Tayto command face down over the bow.

Hitting the main flow with paddles thrashing, Tayto’s legs muscle tense as the current takes the raft. Our first sight is David surfing upriver on a never advancing backwater wave. High five shouts Tayto we have just navigated our first rapid of twenty-three. The high-five apparently is also a team signal of our achievement. Neither of the Dutch Edams got wet. On we go. The next rapid presents no problem or the following three. Smiles with Orange Juice, all around.

The walls of the cannon tower on either side of us. Zambia on one side and Zimbabwe on the other. Next up is Morning Glory our first major rapid. On the bow, cheeks tighten. Toto’s voice disappears as we hit a hole and are swept towards the canyon wall to be dumped into another big hole. While those in the stern of the raft end up in the bow cheeks is catapulted head first into the drink. Toto’s black hand pulls her aboard revealing to all that she has lost the remaining tatters of her shorts. Stairway to Heaven is upon us before there is time for a short change even if she had a pair.
The Stairway is a class five rapid very steep and powerful with heaps of massive waves and holes. From where we are sitting it is an amazing spectacle. Its size and volume distract all eyes from the bow. Over we go in more ways than one. I surface beside the raft, which is upside down. A trusty Black Hand heave’s me out of the water. With some effort we right the raft. All are salvage except the Aussie our first long swimmer. Predictable being an Aussie he arrives aboard thanks to David with stories of never surfacing; see his life in a flash, escaping the jaws of a croc. The Devil’s hole shuts him up.
I am now well into the ride (Top TIP: Don’t miss it). With Toto working hard we enter Gulliver’s Travels the longest rapid. This is the most technically demanding rapid of our decent. Cheeks are in and out over the bow like a Yo-Yo. Accelerating the raft is like a bucking bronco. How we got through without turning turtle is all down to Toto skills. High five’s all around.
“All out here please.” “With this amount of water the next section is too dangerous.”
“You can stay Bob if you want.” Man what a buzz. The Zambezi’s most infamous rapid. This one is a river wide pour-over with a narrow slot less than a meter wide. Well named it is indeed not for the non-tutor. Commercial Suicide. Toto lines the raft to be spat out like a cork out of a bottle. The words, Awe-inspiring and humbling go a long way to describe the next few seconds, from beginning to end. A surge of acceleration a boom of exhilaration it’s no wonder mighty rivers of the world are the blood vessels of nature.
Safely through we pull in to pick up the waiting crew. Toto smile he can’t wait to put Cheeks back in the bow. The raft is given a few extra pumps of air. We pass Gnashing Jaws of death and Overland Truck Eater with on mishaps, other than Cheeks, whose cheeks begin to glow. Now over halfway the whirlies and squirts don’t seem so intimidating. We watch David spinning like a top in a whirlpool popping out to ride some more surf as we go at a speed through the Three Sisters and on to The Mother a massive wave train. Super. The Washing Machine then another wave train leads into Terminator one and two which are also wave trains but on the bigger size.
Toto reminds us all if we should turtle to look around when we surface. “There is always air under the raft if you need a gulp.” “ The Terminators are gigantic. I tell myself if anything is going to happen this is where it is most likely. Toto warns Cheeks to go to watertight. She grabs the lifeline with both her hands and feet.
He was right. The raft goes skywards depositing all in the lap of the River Gods. Toto like the waiting wave has already anticipated two hours previously that his luck would run out. With the agility of a Velvet monkey he somehow or other puts in a backwards somersault like as if he was taking the high jump. He lands on the upturned raft.
I have also seen it coming. There is no way I am going to be sucked into one of those boiling pressure points and burst an eardrum. I had also taken a firm grip on the rafts lifeline.
While two are manhandled aboard a black hand once more heaves me on to the raft. The Aussi surfaces right in front of me. Panic has set in. Looking in the wrong direction he is trashing the water like a hippo tail taking a dump. Luckily I still have hold of my paddle. There is nothing for it but to give him a smack of the paddle in the kisser. Now facing the right way he grips it. David gives the thumbs up sigh. I roar High Fives! No one seems to enthusiast as we plunge out of control in a crescendo of noise and foaming water towards Terminator number two. We whistle through the nearest to whistling down a warp hole in ao Flash Gordon book. Intensely > Spine-tingling > Call it what you want. It’s a hell of a buzz.
The raft flashes over Double Trouble with no trouble to coin a phrase. Oblivion makes it self-heard the last rapid of the day but not the least. This rapid is made up of three waves the last of which is responsible for more raft flips than any other in the world. Only about one in four attempts succeed. Not to worry Toto has it all worked out? We get fucked in the raft flips over we go head first to be flushed out into tranquil waters of a large backwater pool. “Never mind the crocs” “Right the raft.” Toto last instruct.

Righted the raft is now towed ashore where it is deflated by three waiting employees. It is then hoisted shoulder-high and carried at running speed up a similar ladder to the one we descended a few hours ago.

Before our long haul out of the gorge, a small waterfalls flowing over a smooth rock face into the pool catch the attention of a brave few. It inflicts a few extra sore bums to join Cheeks she preferring to stand in the cooling water rather than in the sun. (Top TIP: If you do it > make sure you plaster yourself with waterproof sun lotion and smear your lips with lip-gloss.)
Emerging from the long climb out we now treated to a cold buffet and a few tubes of Mosi a Zambia beer named after the local name for Victoria Falls. The beers go straight to our Aussie friend head he slurring to all in sundry who he was saved by his sister from Davy Jones locker. I did not have the heart to tell him that his sister had balls and it was I who gave him a whack of the paddle in the gob.
Several whiskeys later it is I who has verbal diarrhoea describing to the girls who I had spent the day in the fury of a giant tumble washer.

That evening we move I rather stiffly from Rainbow Lodge to Maramba River Lodge in the Mosi –oa- Tunya National Park and spend the next few lazy days swanning around somewhat reluctant to recommence our travels The Question is do we go around Lake Kariba on Zambia side or the Zambezi. A ferry up the lake from Saba to the Kariba Dam costs over 400$ one-way for two adults and a child with Williwaw. The trip takes over twenty-two hours to cover the 250 odd kilometres that are if the Ferry is running. On enquiring it’s no surprise that the invisible Ferry has not being seen for some time and that it is full. On consulting or maps and Oracle books, we opt for the Zambezi side.
First, we visit a small village outside Victoria. While I was in the Batoka Rapids cycle the girls had got wind off a village where there are excellent woodcarvings. Mad dogs and English men go out in the noonday sun. That is just what we do. Not for the first time or the last time. After several dead ends, wrong villages and near divorce proceedings we arrive. What we find is not wood carvings but an English Educated village Chief.
Parking Williwaw in some shade we are ushered into a large compound housing a large traditional African thatch house. On the clap of hands from inside, we bend on one knee and enter the Royal Chamber. Here we are greeted in perfect public boy school vernacular by his lordship. I have often heard of many a tribal Chief –tee working as a porter in Waterloo station. Here we have one for real, smirks and all. I take an on the spot dislike to his Highness. What follows is surreal. Here is a well-educated bloke exploiting his situation. Out the back of his time-honoured house are parked two top of the range 4×4 and a modern bungalow. You remember our village Chief back in Senegal who ripped off any willing tourist with a tour of this village and his four wives’. He at least had taught himself and providing for his village. This fat bastard was pocketing the lot. Tea and a Royal chat for a small fee if you please.
“What will happen if China invades Africa?” “Why did you not turn down your royal duties and stay in the UK?” “Is there a fee to walk around the village?” I can’t wait to escape this specimen of hip critical African. I leave the girls and take a wander. They emerge shortly after me with two wood carvings a Rhino and a Hippo, which I have to admit, are of exceptional quality but tainted by all he symbolizes.

(To be Continued)

Donation News: Like Victoria Falls they are flowing in. Zero. Be the First.

R Dillon Account no 62259189. Ulster Bank 33 College Green Dublin 2

Sorting Code 98-50-10

(Continuation)

The village awakes to the trundling of our convoy crossing the wooden bridge. We stop at the gate where our entry tickets are scrutinized to see if any more Pular can be squeezed out of us by the Gate warden.

He is unable to give us much information on the route up to Chobe other than no one has come down it this year since the rains. However, he warns us that there is no camping allowed between here and Chobe.   According to Warthog, we will have no option but to camp, as it will take more than a day to get across.

At first, the going is painless.

Slowly the track narrows into a deep v rutted narrow corridor.   The Ford driven by Warthog has one wheel in the rut and the other up in the edge of the bush.

The Germans with high ground clearance crawl along from one bump to the next bump fighting the steering wheel. While Williwaw in low range second gear wonders what all the fuss is about.

The ruts grow deeper. The Ford takes to the bush till she hits a root and puts his steering out of kilter. A halt is called. Straddling the ruts is not possible for the Ford so it’s back to one wheel in one wheel out.   I suggest that the Unimog should open his driver window and keep an eye on his front wheels. He would find it easier if his wheels were straight rather than battling the steering all the time. I am very much appreciative of our protection plate (A heavy metal shield attached to the underside of Williwaw to protect her engine sump.) (Top TIP: Don’t go to Africa driving without having one fitted.)

The track eventually flattens out onto a dry sandy ridge called the Magwikhew Sandridge. The going gets easier and we all arrive after a few elephants and pee stops at the southern gate to Chobe called Mababe. 

A stone-faced park warden welcomes us with the words that the camping site is fully booked out.   This appears to be a normal Botswana park tactics in order to squeeze a few extra dollars out of the visitor. “We are not stopping.” “All we want is a transit permit.” A few minutes pass while our man takes a radio call. He returns demanding our exit tickets from Moremi. Warthog has pulled a fast one back at Moremi when we were leaving. He had told the gate warden that he and his Aussie friend were on our Park permit. The Chobe gate is now demanding that I should pay. I blew a fuse and gave Warthog a verbal rollicking.

I can tell from his eye contact that he has not the balls to strike back if I were to lay one on him. They both cough up and all is settled African style. Some shouting, some foreign exchange a transit permit and smiles all around have us once more on our way into Savuti (Chobe National Park) a remote landscape embracing sandvelds, rocky outcrops, and acacia savanna, mopane forest that are highly vulnerable to fire and dry marshlands.   It used to be famous for its high intensity of wildlife. The current long dry spell has more or less put pay to that we seeing little sign of anything on four legs.

Twenty kilometres into the park we stop for the night.   With a transit permit we are not supposed to stop so we pull well off the track into the bush so as any passing wardens will not spot us easily.

Pitch no 86, shows the tell-tale signs of Elephant Activity. Everything is dry as tinder. The slights spark would be whoosh for sure. Unexpected Warthog volunteers to make dinner and more amazingly show off some bush knowledge.   The construct a safe campfire avoiding a bushfire. .

First digging a deep hole he then digs a trench away from the hole at about half the holes depth.   He then inserts the grill of a barbecue into the hole above the trench depth.   Borrowing my machete he cuts some grass and kindling. When lit a large branch is then placed in the trench and pushed along it till the end of the branch is over the fire. More branches are fed down the trench till a good hot amber base is built. It is then covered to form an oven.

(Top TIP: Bush knowledge weights nothing. How to tie slip knots and a bowline is useful. Webbing strap knots > Double sheet bend knot > Splicing > How to read a compass. Buy one of those little SAS Survival Books. An off-road vehicle needs a high jack. You need to know all its applications. Winching and lifting > How to construct different ground anchors > the use of snatch pulley block.)

After an excellent dinner we all sleep soundly, but not before Florence and Fanny’s minds are put at rest about the possibility of any Jungle Trumpeting Patrol crashing out of the surrounding bush.

Chobe is divided into four distinctly different ecosystems. Where we are the Mabane Depression is Elephant land during the dry season. So we were lucky not to encounter some of Botswana’s population of over 120,000 some of which are the largest in body size in the whole of the African.

With the fire hole filled in so there is no chance of creating a bush, we bounce back out onto the track. Late afternoon after a hard drive we arrive at Chobe main port of entrance Sedudu gate.   On the requesting a visiting permit we are informed once more that the park is full.   “Full of what.” “We’ve just driven across the whole god dame park without seeing another human being, never mind an Elephant or for that matter any of its original inhabitants the San people otherwise known in Botswana as the Basarwa.”   It is obviously time to ring the bell and close the park, as the two park wardens are not willing to enter into discussions on the absurdity of their statements. We are marshal to the other side of the lowered barrier pole and told to come back in the morning.

A few miles outside the gate we arrive in Kasane a small town that is situated not more than an hour from Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe. Pitch No 89 is in a private house garden. Warthog run foul of me, getting this second bollixing for helping himself to my gin and other items without asking if it’s ok. Not another word is heard till morning when last night’s reprimand is still smouldering. It’s time to go our separate ways before it comes to blows.   Warthog and Rickey roar off in the direction of Livingston while the Germans none the wiser shake hands as we depart our ways.

Returning to the Gate we decide to give Chobe a chance. Once more welcomed with the words, “the Park is full. “ Transit Permit please.” “ Please sign here.” We drive in and when out of sight we duck down a track onto the Chobe River. If there are any animals in this park they got to be near water. Not even a croc stirred. Perhaps they right the Park is full of sweet fuck all. We drive to Serondela campsite, which is supposed to be fully booked. There not a campsite occupied so we choose the best sit overlooking the river. 

Pitch No 90 is under some large trees with the tell-tale bark of Baboons.

Out of the twilight arrive two uniform park wardens on foot. Permit. “This is a transit permit,” I reply pointing to both sides of us. “I know back at the Gate there are no Visiting Permits to be had as the Park is full as you can see.” “You fellows look thirsty it’s a long way back to the Gate.” A drink is accepted and a half an hour later we have two friends for life. It’s agreed that I must return to the gate in the morning and get a permit. A bottle of whisky later our cards are marked as to where all the animals are hiding. With no sign of another bottle appearing they eventually get the message that we wished to retire for the night. Off they swagger into the darkness disturbing the resident baboon and monkey rookery that continues to bark its head off for hour after their departure.

We awake to a cold morning. Florence and I warm up with some monkey/baboon zapping. (Top TIP: A Widows Memory Catapult is an effective weapon against Hyena/Baboons and unwanted camp guests.) I eventually set off back to the Gate by the main track. Not far from where we are camped I pass a ramshackle of a building. It is from where our two friends of last night arrived.   No sign of either of them. I am not surprised. Once more my request for a visiting permit is met with the park is full. With what, I inquire? Fresh air. “You will have to move from site 5.” “OK, anything not to upset the other vacant sites.” On the way back, Williwaw develops a stiff gear change and seems to be overheating.

By the time I get back I am fit to leave Chobe to the maddening crowds. Florence has gone on a rooftop game drive with safari groups who have moved into site four. Fanny is feeding a real Warthog until I remind her that just because it is in a park does not mean it is not wild.

Warthog tusks can rip a lion belly open. They live in small family groups called Sounders; have no sweat glands so they wallow in mud to cover their bodies to keep cool. They have poor eyesight but an excellent sense of smell and hearing.   Run with erect tails up to 50km/h.   When under danger they scarper one following the other into their dens. The youngest ones go in headfirst while the male stands guard. When all are safe and sound he shuffles in backwards so his tusks are always facing any potential predators.  

We stay put on site 5 for the day. I brood over the cost of a new clutch while watching the medley of invisible campers going about their business. Fanny attending to some badly overdue house chores repacks our various boxes > Florence’s, books and education material box > our book box, medical box, herbs and flour, condensed milk and other goodies box. (Top TIP: Make sure that whatever boxes you take are waterproof.)

Manfred and his wife Julian take site 3 out of the thirty odd remaining sites. He turns out to be a German dentist and a keen motor mechanic. A few pushes of Williwaw clutch pedal reveals that it is clutch fluid or the lack of that is the problem.   (Top TIP: Make sure you carry spare transmission/brake/clutch fluid.)   With my gloom lifted we board Manfred Nissan for a short game drive. Three hours and five visits to locations supplied by my two whiskey-swilling wardens, we throw in the towel for a cold beer back at base.

 Before the final splash of the evening, color glistens on the river below us the heat of the days begins to vanish from the land without a trace. The silence is broken by two of Africa’s most recurring sounds, the early evening cricket chorus with the odd forlorn twit to woo of a distant plover. Both are a sure warning that darkness is not far off. Florence arrives back reporting not much more success than us. It seemed incomprehensible with the park so full of visitors that is has lost all of its animals.

A large full moon promises a chilly night. Long shadows in contrast to the ultraviolet rays of the sun that consume one all day long now turn every bush, every tree into ambush hides. In this sort of light, one gets a weird feeling that every sound announces the heartbreaking end to some animal’s life. You cannot help the edgy gut reaction to the slightness Crunch   Even when one take’s a pee you see eyes or movement where there are none.

By the time the girls hit the sack the bush TV is almost out.   We’ve all come to the conclusion that we are all still novices when it comes to spotting large herds of Chobe animals or people.   It’s time to pick up the bagpipes and follow in the footsteps of Doctor Livingstone 1831-1873 to one of the main attractions in the area Musi-oa-Tunya, the Smoke that Thunders, Victoria Falls.

In the bush when there is nothing much going on, one is prone to retire early with a book. I am just going to quench the last of the fire when out of the corner of my eye my two ranger friends are approaching down a long shadow. One looks as pale as the moonbeams, the other gibberish holding a plastic bag full of beers. I am silhouetted both by the moon and flickering bush TV. There is no escape.

It’s not long before eerie stories of Ghosts, Banshees, and Men turning into snakes and off your rocker beasts attacking gullible tourists is in full flow. The piece de resistance comes when I was asked if I believe in Magic. “Of course I do.” Well tell him encourages the gibberish one. Pale face announced that the other night when he had staggered back he had laid an egg. It is hard to keep a straight face as I enquire if it was hard-boiled.   By his looks of summoned up pain on his pale face, there is every chance he had indeed passed a gallstone. I feel somewhat sorry for taking the mic.

Before I surface Mr. and Mrs. Warthog have paid an early morning visit. Fanny takes one look at me calling off our departure. Chobe gets one more day to make public why it is so overcrowded. Due to my fragile state we hold fire until late afternoon to venture forth > Florence opting out.   Another fruitless excursion with Williwaw overheating does nothing to endear me to my loved ones. We arrive back at camp to find Florence has being holding the monkey population at bay. They had already done a job on the tent breaking one of the poles and ripping the foot of the tent. There is one male baboon that has been bearing his teeth at her, the clever little darling taking refuge in the jeep.   I give the bastard a ball bearing in the ass that sends it scarping.   Investigating Williwaw’s radiator for a leak I notice that the Universal joint on Williwaws back shaft needs replacing.   Down come the ammunition boxes off the roof rack. Tools and spares.

(Top TIP: Ammunition box are great for storing spares and tools. Make sure they have strong handles, and padlocks. I passed a chain through the handles padlocking them to the roof rack for security against theft. Buy padlocks that can be opened by one key (bring a spare). There is nothing more irritating than having a different key for each and every lock. Each vehicle needs its own spares/tools. What to bring and not what to bring is the question. The answer lies in many excellent publications on the market or talking to someone who has done a similar trip. The aim is to be self-sufficient as possible. One thing for sure you need your head in gear before tackling problems.)

The leak turns out to be controllable with a dart of Radweld but the Universal joint with a hangover is Another matter: (Top TIP: Like some bush crafts some tricks of the trade can make the difference between you arriving or not. The odd raw egg or curry powder in the radiator to seal a minor leak works.   If the leak is bigger remove the radiator cap to release the pressure. This requires regular topping up so not recommended where there is no water. There are hundreds of others tricks here are a few that are well worth noting. FUEL: Always take more than you think you will need. Use a filter when topping up from jerry cans. Sunlight soap can seal a hole in the fuel tank. If you can’t stop the leak put a Jerry Can on the roof connect with a pipe.   Know how to bleed you systems. ) 

An hour later I have uncoupled the shaft. A rummage in the spares discloses that my head is far from in gear. There is no spare. It’s a case of look before you leap. Nothing for it > Refit the old one and drive into Kasane.   The Four ways garage can’t help; there is a spare parts shop down the road. Eureka!   > Back to Four ways. Two cut knuckles, a throbbing head and the certainty that Murphy’s Law is waiting in the long tall grass blurs my recall of African mechanics. “Can you fit it for me?”   It takes all of three hours with a bill of 600 Pula. (Top TIP: Never leave your vehicle unattended. Mechanics are inclined to use excessive force. Never retighten bolts of nuts properly. Replace your new spares with old. Fry everything when electric welding (Forget to disconnect battery/alternator.)   I’m in no humor to suffer another Botswana rip off. A heated argument followed. “You’re not dealing with a raw prawn.” “I didn’t arrive in the last shower.” “I’ll call the police” have little effect.

Down the road to the spare parts shop > Back with the owner.   There is another half an hour of verbal diarrhoea before my headlights pierce the darkness for home 100 Pula lighter. The gate is closed and locked to keep the hoards in. I make short work of the Chinese lock. With every intention not to wake the girls or more importantly last nights storytellers, I drive the last few kilometres by moonlight.   Straining eyes are examining every bush in expectation of startling some critter. Not a soul moves. With no lights, there are no luminous eyes to be seen.

OK let’s hit the road Central Africa is calling. Zambia, Zimbabwe, Tanzania, Kenya, Uganda, not to mention the Democratic Republic of the Congo.   No one is very enthusiast. Some of Africa’s best-known names apart from Lion, Zulu, Famine, Aids, Coup d’état, and Tribe and the like receive a lukewarm reaction. OK! OK! How about? a decent hotel with a hot shower overlooking Victoria falls.

Chobe 11,000 sq kilometres of reserve waits until the final curtain call to show some of its huge elephant and buffalo population.   They have evidently learned that the outer limits of the park are the place stay. Well away from human meddling.   Not expecting to see anything, we drive into the middle of a buffalo herd. The Chobe bouncers. A mute silence surrounds them as they gawk at us as if savouring the moment. Not even the yellow-billed oxpeckers on their back move. It’s a stand-off.

There is no question as to who has the right of way. Standing 1.7m at the shoulder, with massive horns ‘Syncerus Caffer’ to give them their scientific classification can weigh up to 800kg.   Close up these fellows are not to be messed with. Williwaws bull bars don’t look like much of a match against the fifty or so enormous horns all now turned towards us.   After what seems a never-ending period of time we slowly begin to back up only to become conscious that we are now surrounded.   Out of the bush to our rescue has come the Jungle Patrol.

A large bull elephant accompanied by aunties and young are now also disputing the right of way.   Ear flapping, making no distinction between us and the offending buffalos it not long before we receive a mock charge that tests our bodily functions.   Such charges make dramatic footage on TV wildlife programs here for real, it freaks the girls and exposes a definite yellow streak in my upbringing.   This is not the time to be hanging out the window offering bread buns.   Raw nature makes your hair stand on end in more ways than one. Panic!   All advice say’s “Hold your ground it’s only a mock charge.” The ground trembles. The spook buffaloes add an extra shuddering to terra firma. We turned a whiter shade of pale in a bat an eyelid the moment vanishes into the bush. We are left with a sense of sexual pleasure little shudders running up our bodies.   The exit gate to Chobe arrives and goes without us noticing.   For the first time in months, we are back on tarmac.

An hour later at Kazangula still charged with excitement, we wait our turn to cross the Zambezi –  the forth-longest river of the Continent. (3,540 km) it drains an area of 1,300,000 sq km. Rising in northwestern Zambia it flows through eastern Angola crosses western Zambia, along the northeastern border of Botswana, forming the border between Zambia and Zimbabwe. Creating on its way the world’s famous Victoria Falls and man’s largest made lake – Kariba.   Giving its name to Zambia it crosses central Mozambique to become the only major African river to flow into the Indian Ocean.

Kazangula is one of those places on a map that exudes the idiosyncrasy of colonialism boundary making. Namibia, the Caprivi Strip, Botwswana, Zambia, Zimbabwe, all having shares in the dot.   As with all ferry crossings, it is a hive of activity, a gaudy mire of passing news, buying and selling, eating or drinking opportunities. A pickpocket’s favourite hunting grounds.   For us, it is where we leave Botswana, although the frontier crossing is another seven kilometres down the riverbank on the Zambia side of a mile wide rock rim that forms world’s widest expanse of falling water. (To be continued)

Donation News: No change: Be the First. R Dillon Account No 62259189. Ulster Bank 33 College Green Dublin 2 Sorting Code: 98-50-10

( CONTINUATION)

Banked by barren hills on either side the Kunene River widens to accommodate as few small lush islands before plunging down over twenty odd falls all combing into a gaping geological fault which creates the Epupa Falls. Compared to Victoria Falls it is small but its location is breathtaking.   This is a hand on waterfall with Jacuzzi baths pools on it’s every edge deep enough not to be swept over the side.   What more could one want after a long day in the blistering sun than to sit in a natural bathtub? Let the heat flush from our pores to the sound of cascading water, birdsong, all kissed by the setting sun. We can’t wait for the morning.

Back under the trees while darkness mutters too itself without pause our fire glows. The fall’s noise is designated into second place long before the sun peaks over the trees by insect song.

Morning comes with a din of feathered excitement amplified by the valleys vaulted walls. The bird population is having their morning bath> A twitches paradise. The Kunene River at this spot is characterized by dense reed banks and tall trees its life-giving perennially waters attract feathered friends of mind-boggling verity.

Our bird book receives many ticks. Blue-cheeked bee-eaters, Yellow-bellied bulbuls, Spectacled and Golden weavers, Giant and Grey-hooded kingfishers, Goliath heron, Martial and African fish eagles, White and red-billed hemetshrikes, not to mention the Rufous-tailed palm thrush and the Cinderella waxbill two of the rarest birds in the whole of South Africa. This is one of Namibia’s prime beautiful destinations.

As the sun cast its intense gaze from corner to corner the night’s air loiter on our nude bodies, fresh sparkling water pours over our heads into our private bathtubs pools.   We are reborn in an aura of adventure and discovery. Long live the needs for a four-wheeled vehicle to reach Epupa.

Up the bank from the falls, we find a swimming spot with no need to watch out for crocks.    They have a dislike for fast-moving water. We swim surrounded by plants that suck the colour from the rocks. Waving Makalani palms, Baobabs, and wild fig trees soak up the colour mist that wafts up from the gorge that is displaying three to four small rainbows.

Up from out campsite we find the first signs of the desecration to come.   A small luxury under canvas establishment offers visitors who fly in all the comfort of home from home.   Over a very expensive lunchtime beer, we learn that there are plans to dam the river below the falls. The death knell for the Himba and the falls are already in the balance. Epupa isolation sadly is under attack.   Like many an Amazon tribe, the need for protection has been sacrificed for short gains. The Himba need isolation to maintain their cultural vibrancy. Regrettable all the sign of another way of living and dying with or without ancestors is in the process of being consumed by world materialism.

It is a known fact that most visitors to Africa, never see further than the tarmac roads. Millions live in villages to which no roads lead but the current thinking about values: the way we view the world around us and how we behave how we measure costs are influenced regrettably by short-sighted roads without much symbiosis.

For us, the way north is blocked

The prospect of crossing over into Angola and making up to Cameroon crossing the Democratic Republic of the Congo, never mind the Republic of Congo and then Gabon not to mention the last stumbling block getting through Nigeria, is far from reality in the bounds of arriving home safely. We will turn us east and run the Caprivi Strip.

With breathtaking views, the rest of our day is spent climbing over rock washed to a silky and shiny texture exploring the Gorge. We return to our swimming spot for a late evening soak before dinner. A few elderly Himba women wander into camp to sell the family jewels and some home-made Himba dolls.

The power of trade is greater than the iron fist. Beads for gold, oil for dollars, land for peace, grace for heaven, sin for hell.   I wonder will the world end up trading drinking water and air for life or are we already doing it under the camouflage of the World Bank and its like.

The depth of darkness beyond one’s campsite is always a test in Africa. You never know what watching, waiting, is it >  a sting, a bit, a blow, a fright. Here in Kaokoland apart from the man-eating Kunene crocks sadly there is little hope of any animal disturbed your day or night.   Our bible say’s there is a chance of seeing black rhino, giraffe, and ostrich, lion. During our three weeks, we had only one magic moment when we came across in one of Colin Britz isolated spots five or six Hartman’s.  As for the rest, we fear that they are long in the cooking pot or god forbid hanging on some wall. We remember seeing a TV program on the Desert Elephant and can only hope like the Himba that they will both survive.

Morning brings a surprise. We wake to find two groups of South Africans camp on our doorstep. We are baffled as to why they have chosen to pitch camp on top of us when there are lashings of beautiful spots available. Maybe they are afraid of the dark, not the night dark, but the skin colour dark. An after breakfast polite request that they might consider giving us some breathing space is met with boar fuck you from a Burt Reynolds type.   We have long learned to step over dog turds, so rather than argue the toss we decide to pack up and leave the next morning. That night’s rowdiness confirms our wisdom.

Our Colin map shows a track that follows the Cunene up to Ruacana Falls the direction from which our new South African friends came from. We decided to enquire at the encampment as to the conditions of the track. “It could take anything up to three days to make it as far as Ruacana and then there is no certainty of you getting any fuel”.

As if we needed any further confirmation the banging and cursing of tire and wheel changes that last all morning with the look of the South African hired Toyota confirms that it is a long way around by way of Opowo.

Arriving midday the girls visit the only shop to replenish our dwindled stocks as best they can. I in the meantime struggle with a welding torch.   Eventually finding the proper mix to get the torch alight I use one rod after another till the exhaust is sealed with a weld that looks like a loaf of bread. (Top TIP: If you don’t have a clue re-welding a few hours learning might come in handy.)

We camp some twenty kilometres outside Opowo Pitch No 80.

We break camp early. Colin had advised us before leaving Walvis Bay that he would contact his old friend Steven Briane who runs a private small game park on the western side of Etosha called Hobatere Lodge. He would ask him to open the western gate to Etosha, which would save us some considerable dust time.

Heading south we climb over the Joubert Mountains.   Covering 144 kilometres we swelter by Otuzemba, Otjondeka, Okatijura, Okonjota till we eventually at Otikowarbe and are driving down the western boundary of one of Africa’s most famous Game Parks

A hundred and forty clicks off pisé in one day in soaring temperatures takes its toll. We are grateful to arrive and open the gates to Hobatere Lodge. Steven turns out to be less than welcoming. He is in bad need of some PR training. He has heard from Colin but it is obvious that he has made no effort to get the Western gate open. He does not even have the grace to offer us a drink. We return down the track somewhat peeved but notice on the lodge’s entry gates reads – 15 Rand charge to any day visitors should have forewarned us of his unwelcoming attitude to us. Driving out the gates we are tempted to leave the fifteen Rand with a note to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine.

With the sun casting its evening palettes of red we turn off at another sign marked camping.   Up a fifteen km track, we come on another lodge. “Sorry the camping is full but we do have a lodge vacant.” It’s late and I can see the girls have had enough for one day. “What for dinner”?   We stay the night.

Prior to dinner, I spend a most agreeable hour in a small bird hide. Dinner is with our host and hostess and a hunting guest in the form of an overweight boring German cop and his wife. After dinner, Florence finds a new friend a Bat- Eared Fox. Grayish-brown with enormous ears it has little trouble in winning Florence’s heart.   Our host tells us that they mainly eat termites, and mate for life. This one they found injured and it is now a house pet.

With the girls tucked up in bed I have a long chat with our host over a few whiskeys. In his late forties, he has been farming the surrounding land for over fifteen years. It is hard living but it has improved with the establishment of Etosha in 1958.   Now all around the park, there are guest farms lodges to cater for the large tourist population that visit Etosha.   He knew the layout of the park like the back of this hand and is pleased to mark the best spots to see the big five the sole ambition of American Tourists > Lion, Elephant, Rhino, Cheetah and Leopard.

Like all farmers, he has a fully-equipped workshop with a car pit. In the morning my bread loaf welding is replaced with a professional job compliments of the house. We depart silent and refreshed.

We’ve not gone a half hour when it is about turn in our own dust and up another track with a sign market Cheetahs.   Flo and Fanny had heard from our overnight hostess that this lodge had several Cheetahs both tame and wild.

They are our first large predator and our first classical Africa animal could not be passed by with all the promises had made to Florence since we had visited the Mole game reserve in Ghana some months ago.   Driving into the lodge we are met by a tame mongoose or to be more correct a Meerkat.

The lodge is constructed in a most strange stone.   According to the owners, it is some form of fossilized algae 600-700 million years old. One thing is sure it makes the bar of the lodge agreeably cool.

Stroking a Cheetah is a large jump up from a Meerkat.   It is the first large cat of Florence’s life and she is more than hesitant to afford it the same affections as she did to Mr Meerkat down the road. This close without any cage bars stoking its back is like petting a stick of dynamite with the fuse burning. The encounter wets our eagerness to get to Etosha (The great white Place.) one of the many Noah Arks of Africa we are to visit.

One can’t help wondering where all the animals of the world will be in another million years. The man has followed them all over the world since time began. Will he ever be able to communicate with them?   If there is no drinking water or pure air will animals outlive man?   Share the world with them. Will there be animal’s half animal half man?   We still have a lot still to learn from them.

Back in the bar, we learn that both the Kowares and the Galton Gate into Etosha are closed. We head for the main gate named Andersson’s gate after John Andersson who discovered the saltpan (the great white place) with Francis Galton in 1851.

The first thing we are struck by on entering the gates and driving up to Namutoni (one of the three designated camping site in the park) is not an elephant but that we are entering a world of big business. Thirty minutes later we arrive at Namutoni a French Legionnaire fort established in 1851 it served as a control post during the rinderpest epidemic now the main complex of the Park. When the epidemic abated it remained as a trading post with the Owanboland.

Destroyed by the Owambos in 1904 it was rebuilt in 1906 when the German First Lieutenant Adolph Fischer took command of the resident German garrison.

He was later to become the first warden of Etosha. Originally named Omutijamatinda in Hero language to describe ‘ the strong water coming from a raised place’ it is now a national monument and a sanctuary for what remains of Namibia’s four-legged creatures who depend on the thirty or so man-made water holes and springs.

Pitch No 81 is under a large Mopane tree with all modern amenities at hand, power point, water tap, and a barbecue. A large communal block with washing basins, showers, toilets resides in the middle of the trees. There are about twenty other campers on site, not South Africans as they are all well spread out.

The Tourist shop photos have Florence more than annoyed that we have to wait until morning. But she is in for a treat as the waterhole near of campsite is floodlit. So after dinner, we join the waiting congregation. We do not have to wait long. Out of the dark, an Elephant lumbers down to a barrage of flashlights and hissing video cameras. Within a minute, another joins it. It’s to be the first of many more Elephants photos to bore our friends with on our return.

Standing on the concrete terracing with floodlights lighting the waterhole is far removed from seeing a wild free animal. It is a thousand times better than a visiting the Elephant enclosure in a Zoo or for that matter seeing an Elephant in one of today’s large extravaganza circuses but there is no getting away from the feeling of the contrived setting.

The waterhole has a magnetic hold on both animal and its human viewers.   Suddenly out of the blue or perhaps more fittingly out of two hundred kilos of vegetable matter with fifty gallons of water a methane bomb explodes. The larger of the two elephants has broken wind. It is a silent and deadly wafting over the terracing. It sends his admirers, tripods, video cameras, and still, photographer’s coughing for cover only a small black and white plover called a blacksmith plover stands its ground.   Pecking at the Elephants feet it defends its patch of territory without a gas mask.

Armed with the rules and regulations, a map, and the latest sightings of the big five we all set out for the morning hunt. To the sound of a bugle announcing sun up and the hoisting of the Namibian flag, we set off. Remembering that the gates to the compound close at sundown, we head west skirting the pan. We’ve not gone a few kilometres when we come across our first giraffe. Although we are less than fifty paces away we nearly missed them. The tallest of all four-legged animals standing at 5.3 meters it is hard to believe that one could drive by without noticing them. They are feeding on tall acacia.

With tongues of up to 40cm long, they pick off the early morning unfurling leaves. Giraffes can go without water for up to a month getting all the moisture required from leaves. This is one of the reasons that you can come across them a long way from water. They are non-migratory with a keen sense of smell and skyscraper sight. They are able to run a 56kmph not bad considering they can weight up to 800kg.

On the trot they look like as if they are in slow motion due to the hind legs reaching in front of the rear legs. Changing down to walking pace they switch to simultaneously moving the two legs on either side. It was the held thinking that the long necks evolved to eat high up but now it looks like they are sex symbols > The longer the better. During the mating season longer neck comes in handy to bash you rival suitors with > Called necking. Female’s necks are now also thought to signal I am the one for you. The female after 15 months produces one calf. The poor blighter all 2 meters of him or her is dropped from a high that would but off anyone having to stand up within twenty minutes. Stand they must if they are to avoided one of their few predators the lion.   They chew the cud like cows. Have valves to pump blood up to their brains, which are a long way from their hearts. Each has its own unique markings like the register plates of a car. These marking get darker as they age. In the wild unlike captivity where they are known to live up to 35 years they live to about 25/26 years. To drink or eat grass is a pain in the neck. They have to adopt a more compromising position – rather like doing the splits with their front legs.

Most of this we did not know until returning to camp and consulting a book called Africa’s Top Wildlife Countries: Mark W Nolting. (Top TIP: A good animal book gives one a far deeper appreciation of what you are watching.)

Our next encounter is a troop of Baboons > A powerful aggressive animal weighing up to 40 odd kg. Not to be tangled with.   There are many different kinds depending on what region of Africa you are in. Ours is a greyish-brown with a green tint along their backs > Known as pig-tailed baboons. They are one of the few animals that have a collection of calls each call signalling a different action. There is one to get up a tree and another to get the hell out of a tree depending on where the attack is coming from. Leopards have a liking for the odd baboon steak. They can distinguish colour and have good smell sense.   Live in large groups for social and protective reasons they avoid forests favouring open ground with wooded areas, rocky outcrops. They are not one of the girl’s favourite’s animals. A snarl, bearing those long teeth sends the heebie-jeebies up one’s spine.  

Etosha by African standards is a very large park originally 80,000k² has now been dwindled down to 20,700sq km of which quarter is a saltpan once a lake until the river disappeared. This Salt Pan gives the park a very unusual setting for its game. The shallow depression is in the middle of the park is classified as a saline desert.   Animals crossing the pan look like they are hovering in the thin air. With a total of over one hundred mammals and a rich bird population of which one-third are migratory, it is a photograph every minute of the day.

We move on towards Etosha middle camp called Halali. The word halali is of German origin. Used to signify that the quarry has been brought to bay and the hunt is over it seems somewhat to fly in the face of what the Park aspires to.   Just beyond the campsite, there is a lookout point that looks out over the pan. We stop here for a bit to eat after which we venture out onto the pan on foot. This is a no; no in the park rules. Only your head and shoulders are allowed outside the vehicle. In the shimmering heat of the pan surface, not a thing moves as far as the eye can see. How anything could live out here is mind-blowing. But we don’t venture far just in case.

We move on up to the last camping site called Okaukuejo the main administration camp.   Okaukuejo originally meaning “The woman who has a child every year.” is where the Ecological research centre has its headquarters. It directs the conservation projects of Etosha. Along with the compulsory tourist shop, there is a large stone tower built-in 1963, and a vast restaurant, swimming pool. It was once a control post to stop the spread of rinderpest disease> A contagious cattle venereal disease which spreads like wildfire. The very same disease decimated the cattle herd of the Masai. 

We return to our base camp visiting a few waterholes on the way. Not another animal do we see. After dinner, the floodlit waterhole is a must. This time armed with gas masks. Out of the darkness, a shape appears. With twitching ears, a Rhino approaches. Very bad eyesight makes it approach agonizing slow. Stopping to smell its surroundings after each step forward it looks like we will be asleep by the time it reaches the water.  This one sure knows how to pose for those waiting cameras. Fully frontal ten minutes, side right profile ten minutes, side left profile ten to twelve minutes. Advance a step and repeat. (Top TIP: Telephoto lenses are essential in games parks. Slow film is the better bet, and it is advisable to fit all lenses fitted with UV or haze filters. Bring plenty of Film and spare batteries. A blower brush, cleaning fluid, lens tissue. Keep uses film in a cool box. Digital great but watch out for dust)

Day two: This time we decide not to go charging from one water hole to another but to stake out one of the waterholes recommended by our farmer friend whom we had stayed with the other night. We head off north to another pan edge, drive to a man-made watering hole named Andoni.   What a day, our first Lion.   He is an old codger that has seen it all.  Not a bit fazed by Williwaw he proudly scents a bush beside us and meanders off with attitude.

Top of the food chain their roar can be heard up to nine kilometres. Standing at 1.3 meters high at the shoulders and weighing up to 250kg they can sprint at 50 to 60 km/h and eat at one sitting up to 44kg of meat. They are polygamous breeding every 18 to 26 months. In captivity, they live for up to 20 years in the wild 12 years. They live in prides or groups of more than one family of up to 35 animals. Some, however, live nomadic lives. When they conquer a pride they often kill all the cubs fathered by their rival.

With the excitement over we move on. Next is a small herd of black-faced impala skirts some problematic bush watched over by the male. Favorite fodder of lions they use scattering tactics to confuse their predators leaping up to 9m and as high as 3m. They can live in herds up to a hundred animals breaking up into smaller breeding groups after the dry season. Those males that are not successful in establishing a territory remain in bachelor groups.

In amongst this small herd, we spot a few Kudu a larger antelope than the Impala it has long spiralling horns of up to 1m. Like the impalas only the males have horns. A shy animal it sticks to the cover of bushland.

Our next waterhole produces nothing except a convoy of safari vehicles. Etosha sadly has a large dose of park language. “Have you seen anything”? “Yesterday we saw” “There is an ——- up the road.”   At waterholes, you are lucky if you have more than an hour on your own without someone arriving either to scare off what you are watching or park their vehicle in front of you.

We decide to leave and try another spot. Out on the pan in the mid-day blazing sun, we spot a group of Zebra. They say their stripes act as heat deflectors. We can only marvel that they can withstand the heat, which bounces off the pan making them appear and disappear in waves of shimmering vision. Their blurred outline standing in such hostile surroundings gives one a twinge of sadness.   We throw in the towel and head back for a swim.

Day three our last and final day:   The girls decide to sleep in, so I take Williwaw out to another waterhole in a more isolated part of the park.   Nothing moves except the flies the tormentors of both man and beast.   An hour passes in silence. It’s like sitting in a block of time with your mind wandering up many avenues of thought but settling on none. Birds, mostly shrike, fuel up for the day. I am thinking to myself that any minute now something will appear and sure enough it does.   An American arrives with his private guide. Dressed in whites he is armed with a tripod and camera big enough to bring down a charging Rhino. We are fast approaching the hour of day 10am when most living things bugger off for the day to rest. I am just about to turn the key and scarper when I overhear him enquire from the guide as to what type of fox is that. Down at the water a mangey side-striped jackal is targeted in the lens of his camera. That is it for me I decide on the way back it is time to push on in the morning. Ark Etosha is a bit too commercialized for us but long may its work continue for there many an African who have never seen an Elephant, Rhino or Lion, never mind a Fox.

That night we witness the glorification of this commercialization with the arrival of an overland truck to dwarf all trucks > A land liner/cruise ship on twenty-four wheels. Out pour thirty ages tourists. God help the stars of the park tomorrow.

To be Continued,

( Continuation)

Long before one-armed Chris can cause any problems the convoy set off at the crack of dawn. We crawl up and over the rocky hill, I came down last night. Twenty kilometres into the day drive Williwaw blows her exhaust just at the sound box. In the silence of the desert, she roars like a tank. Temporary repairs reduce the noise.

The plan is to follow the Somadommi River and camp that evening at Purros.   The sun makes it difficult to hook up meaningfully impressions, with any scenery. Everything is warped, distorted. Shades of shale colour on the ground mingle into one block of a parched desert.

A midday stop brings to light that our new companions are two x Royal Navy captains. Robin and Robert with their perspective anchors Julian and Juliet.   It seems that Juliet daughter has marked a map, which is produced. My eyes read a note on the map < bare and beautiful sandy desert. > I make a mental note to veer to the right when we get going again.   The bare and beautiful can wait till mother and daughter are together. We have had enough sand for a lifetime.

A dust devil (mini tornado) passes over us lifting Williwaws sun canopy sucking Robin’s hat skywards.   Covered in a shower of dust it’s a sort of macho event as no one made a move even though we all saw the funnel approaching. I am sure that our two Captains as I had seen waterspout at sea. Mind you I had never experience been hit by of one. It gave us quite a wake up to take evasive action in the future and not to stand there with our mouth open.

After Purros, we push on to Orupembe our first Himba settlement/village. Not a Himba or Himbo to be seen.   Not to worry says the bible they are a nomadic cattle loving people who move from one location to another. We have a close look at one of their beehive style dwelling. Inside there are a few utensils and it is obvious from the number of empty bottles about that they are rapidly developing a liking for the daemon alcohol.

Juliet map has a campsite marked on their some ten to twelve kilometres to the north.   The lure of a gin and tonic, dinner with some British sarcasm and wit defeat any other course of action. However, pitch no 75 presents the first real test of 4×4 driving. The site is situated on an island at the source of the Somadommi River.

To reach it we are faced with a decent of a steep riverbank onto a sandy dry riverbed and an even steeper out on the opposite bank has to be negotiated. With Williwaw roaring I lead the way. The decent is no problem. The whole trick is not to get stuck in the soft sand and to have enough speed to attack the opposite bank. In low dif, we hit the floor a dart of smooth acceleration and we are across. Three car lengths from the out bank I whip her into high dif. We mount the opposite bank, doubling clutching I change her down as she drags herself out. We have just cleared the bank when Robin at the helm of their Toyota on their second attempt goes air born Dakar Rally style. Landing on all fours the Toyota bounces up and down on its suspension to the sound of Fuck my head. All inside hit the roof twice for good measure.

Installed in amongst the trees that night we all get to know each other better with Florence getting her first music lesson on the recorder.   Morning > my head won’t take another day of Williwaw blowing exhaust so with some effort I make a splint out of last night Heinz bake beans cans. Some wire and a substantial smearing of exhaust gum we once more have a silent Williwaw.

After a few slip up to find our bearings it is out with the compass. Gravel plains as far as the eye can see. Our target is a red drum about fifty kilometres to our north than another 80 or so more through the Mountains to the banks of the Cunene. The drive is rugged with striking topographical features. A craggy escarpment run’s parallel to the coast, dividing the interior plateau from the lower lying, semi-desert steppe, which gradually merges into the gravel, flats which we are on a haven for four-wheel driving.

Arriving at the red drum our high point we crawl down into the stunning valley of the Hartmann’s, named after Hartmann’s zebra which aew extremely agile, more adapted than gemsbok at digging for water.   The drive is gobsmacking. Open grassveld country called the Marienflues.   Trees and shrubs are mostly absent.   A sea of golden grass dotted with large and small circles of exposed terra cotta earth some time called fairy circles or hardpans depending on the theories of their origin.

Prof. Theron South Africa theory: Euphorbia plants once grew in these circles then died leaving poisonous chemicals in the soil. Prof Moll’s South Africa theory:   Tropical termites are blown in during the wet cycles but snuff it during the dry season. Another is that the hardpans are layers in the soil, which are waterproof making plant life impossible. We like the fairy one. Florence theory: Fairies practice ground for weaving their wands burning the grass.

On our right, the Otjihipa Mountain range comes into view and our first signs that we are approaching the Cunene. Birds:   Where there are birds water cannot be far. Furthermore we have been travelling downhill for some considerable time also there is a similar smell in the air as when you are at sea approaching an Island.

Our new bird book is in overdrive. There are ten species of birds, which are endemic to the Kokoland/Damaraland with two of the rarest in the whole of South Africa found only along the Cunene. They are the Cinderella waxbill and the Rufoustailed palm thrush.

We arrive at the banks of the Cunene full of the joys of the Kaleidoscope of Physical beauty. The landscape now changes from the dry Mopane savanna and the open grassveld to the dense riverbank vegetation almost tropical forest. Leadwoods >Sycamore fig> Boesmangif with a striking pink flower, Strangler fig, Makalani palms all too much for the amateur botanist.

Our campsite chosen by Colin is six kilometres beyond Otjinungwa just above some rapids. The water looks inviting but no one is in a rush to take the plunge.   Fourteen-meter crocs as large as fallen tree trunks slumber on sandy banks. With visions of one-armed Chris Pitch, no 76 is no the roof. Colin, however, has told us that far up the river there is a bend where it is shallow and safe for a wash. True to his word we find a sweeping bend. With Robin on croc watch, we strip off and soak the day’s heat away.   The sparkling crystal clear water has some little fish that nibble our bums or feet a Japanese treat in this unspoiled jewel of nature. In the true sense of the word an unforgettable day.

Morning brings a visitor. He appears as if out of thin air promising to return with some gemstones.   A lazy day with a spot of fishing is in order. (Top Tip: Bring a fishing rod and some tackle.)   I am obviously using the wrong bait for not a hint of a bit do I get. If only Chris was about I could have borrowed a morsel of his arm.

In the late afternoon, we the men drive down to the rapids. They are located down towards the Skeleton Coast. It does not take long before we meet sand.

Parking some distance from the river we walk past a dilapidated sign indicating mines. An old wreck of an army vehicle bears witness to the sign so our footsteps follow the leader till we reach the river. Across on the opposite bank set in dense tree cover the remnants of an army lookout post that add to our tingling hair sensation does not mention a dozen Goliath size crocodiles.

I know from Colin that many a poor soul was tossed into the river, as croc fodder during South Africa guerrilla war contra SWAPO (South West Africa People’s Organisation.) and later when a full-scale invasion of Angola to smash the Marxist-oriented Popular Movement (MPLA) who supported the UNITA which controlled much of the south of Angola. Angola is just a short swim.

The walk back is silent.

That evening our gems arrive. >Uncut garnets. My knowledge of gems does not surpass my knowledge of botany, but there is no need to worry thirty fingers around the campfire is vastly experience in these matters. The girls buy a bag full each.

Morning brakes with the news that Robin is suffering from heat exhaustion.   Not last night’s grog. There is no way up the river to Epupa falls located over a hundred kilometres to our east other than on foot. It is back to the red drum. For Robin’s sake, I suggest we drive it a night. In the silvery track of the moon, we lift anchor and are once more stunned into silence by the beauty of our surroundings. Other than the crocs we had not seen any large animals. No desert Elephants, No Zebra of any strips, No Rhino and no Himba. Arriving at the Red drum we camp looking back down the Hartmann’s valley. Pitch no 77

We awake to the sound of an approaching motor. One-armed Chris appears with another ranger. A cup of coffee rules out the Van Zyl’s Pass. It is a one-way system down not up from or side and anyway according to Chris the track is in bad condition after the rain. What a shame. It means a long haul over to Opuvio.   From Chris description of the Pass the girls are relived and to tell the truth so am I. Even though Colin map is in favor of this route there is no way with our English friends driving experience that I could attempt it.   There is one bonus to the Opuvio it is one of the two places in the whole of the Kaoko region that has fuel.

With a warning to watch out for Scorpions especially the one with a flat black tail deadly to all whether they be English or whatever.   Chris is not gone more than three minutes when a specimen turns up.   All look in horror. I decided to Caterpillar it with my Caterpillar boots. (Top Tip:   It is good advice to shake out one sleeping bag and one’s boots before putting them on.) It is not the last one we are to come across so we are not ungrateful for his advice. Before our meeting, we were pulling on boots without a care in the world and hopping into sleeping bags.

In the late morning, we start back to Orupembe.   Driving west from the drum we once more close the coast of Hell as the Portuguese seafarers knew it. Sculpted by the wind five hundred kilometres long it got its name after a Swiss pilot Carl Naver who crashed somewhere along it in 1933.

Twenty miles inland from the coast fog lingers till the sun burns it off usually by ten am when there is instantaneous sunshine. Turning south we run parallel to the coast over corrugated Desert floor.   The dunes on our right are said to drone when the hit by the East wind called Soo-oop-wa. The noise is caused by the slip face of the dunes collapse.   (Crumbling quartz)

It’s a hard drive in relentless heat, on the tiers; the girl, and on poor Robin who we are sure has had his fill of Namibia.

Its handshakes all around on reaching Orupembe. “If you are in Etosha on the first or second of May it is Robin’s birthday.” The Toyota is swallowed by the land and dust. We are never to see them again. Fully fueled we turn east at a more leisurely pace towards the Hoarusib River that forges a passage between the Tonnesen Mountains and the Giraffen Mountains to the sea when it flows.   We call a halt in one of most exquisite places of all our camping so far.

Pitch No 78. Is surrounded on all quarter by mountains. Below us, a dry riverbed with large Palm trees sucking the last of the remaining waters captured in deep and shallow pools.   Next to us looking like large bee hives a Himba settlement stands silent and deserted. The greys and purple of the surrounding mountains make it a spell-bounding tender place in an unforgiving landscape.

To the sound of the gently swaying palms, our tent rustles in the evening breeze.   Over a few whiskeys, Fanny and I listen to Florence loving snoring. Namibia so far has shown us on many occasions, around many bends, and over many hilltops, there is a surprise waiting. Tonight is to be no different. To capture the moment on paper it is like sitting in an undiscovered painting by the master of all artists nature.

Here we are sitting in the haunted air of twilight, soaking up the unpopulated, unpolluted, pristine, natural surrounds when over the mountains Fanny notices a comet.   In the clarity of the ink coloured night sky it turns our surrounding into a surreal backdrop > A new world > A biblical scene > A science fiction movie. Halley’s Comet we cry the only comet name we know. Not so it is Hale-Bopp and won’t be back till the year 2400 unlike Halley’s which visits every 76 years or so. Over the next hour, we watch the captivating beauty of its bright tail and blue surround pass over us at 120,000 kilometres per hour. It is hard to believe that it is over 200 million kilometres away from, earth and a mere one million klms wide shell of gas.

The Majestic beauty of the earth and the far-off Galaxies gives us weird dreams.   We awake half afraid to open our eyes just in case it has all disappeared and that we will step out into what could be another world. In the silence, you could hear the grass drinking the water that ran deep in the earth.   Before breakfast, Florence and I explore the riverbed. There are many small animals’ tracks in the soft sand which fuel Florence desire to see a large animal, a lion, an elephant, anything. I assure her that when we arrive in Etosha we will see everyone from a dinosaur down.

Refueling before we depart calls us back into the real world. We cross our dry river past another larger Himba settlement, which we had not been aware of. No sign of any occupants.

Late afternoon we come on a sign declaring cold beers. We pull in to what can only be described as a container. Converted into a house it is owned by a German named Adi who grinds his false teeth constantly, and even more stridently after a few beers. As the sunset his alcoholic consumption increases.

Our host has a small shop and a garden full of basil. Watched by young faces through the wicker bamboo fence that surrounds his garden we discover that there is a village nearby.   Even more importantly I learn that he has a welding unit. He is all welcoming offering a hot shower. “Help your self to whatever you want.”   With an offer to weld Williwaw exhaust Pitch, no 79 is on his doorstep.

After dinner, Florence and I take a wander into the village.   Florence clings to me for there are many unwelcoming dogs. She spots a man tucking into a large bowl of caterpillars. Why caterpillar I don’t know as there is no sign of starvation. They must be some kind of out of the ordinary treat. I ask Florence would she like to try one. The look of horror on her face confirms that it will be some time before she will complain again about Mum‘s cooking.

Heir Germany is late-arising. In the daylight, he is a coarse sixty-five years or plus old. As to how he had come to be living in a container amongst the Himba out in the middle of nowhere there is no chance of finding out. To steady the hands and gets the teeth grinding he is already on the grog

Running out of gas and welding rods Williwaws exhaust ends up been riveted.   Several more beers are consumed to seal the exhaust after which he crashes out for an afternoon siesta. Before he passed out he has sent a young lad off to get a few Himba lassies to drop over and dance for us tonight.  Not exactly the ideal way we wanted to encounter our first Himba close up.   Three young Himba arrive. How young is difficult to say. At Adi command, they half heartily shuffle their feet and clap their hands.   It is a strange contrived encounter. Florence is spell-bound. Fanny and I are uncomfortable. Adi is drooling. They are the first partially unclothed Africans we have met.

The Himba still dress according to ancient customs and traditions.   They are a tall people characterized by their proud yet friendly manner. There are about ten thousand living in the Kaokoland (50,000 square klms.) broken up into 26 tribes each with its own headman. They arrived from SW Africa in the 16^th century after migrating from North East Africa and are closely related to the Herero.     Not unlike the Dinka or Masai in looks, they are nomadic travel from one kraal to another on a temporary basis. Their cone-shaped homes are fashioned from Mopane trees and plastered with cow dung.   They rub their whole bodies with a sour butterfat and red ochre mixed with the aromatic resin of the Omuzumba bush > A suntan lotion of factor 1000 with a forceful reddish shine.   Both the men and woman adorn themselves with hand and ankle bracelets made from beaten copper.   Every newborn baby is adorned with a pearl necklace.   The women wear elaborate hairstyles, loincloths and a large shell dangling between their breasts. Like the Herero, they tend a sacred fire, which constantly burns in the middle of their campsite. To walk between the fire and the headman home is a large NO, NO.   It is looked on as the basic ingredient between the living and the dead. Also similar to the Herero they were almost wiped out. Angola and Namibia used them as trackers. Hardcore tourism is now finishing the job turning them into beggars for alcohol and whatever while coffee table photo books continue to exploit their beauty while it lasts. 

Resisting clicking our heels we wave our departure with a sigh of relief. Three hours later on what left in the spare tank, we pull into Opowo. While I fill Williwaw tanks and jerry cans Florence discovers a swimming pool behind the Fuel station. Another offer to get the exhaust fixed our covering of a fine film of dust, a clean room and of course the blue pool has us check in for the night.

We wake to a Sunday morning with no hope of anyone looking at Williwaw exhaust we leave. Our roar wakes the sleeping dogs. We pass sad evidence of the Himbas future empty vodka bottles on the one-kilometre of tarmac road out-of-town in the whole of the Kaokoland. A long drive with numerous retracing our steps one of which is to recover Florence’s new bought tin Himba toy car which she had parked during a pump ship stop. Made from coke cans and wire it is guided on four wheels over any terrain by an attached stick without any fear of engine failure, puncher, or lack of fuel. As always the drive is intoxicating with many stops to take shots of flowering stones, lichen, deformed rock outcrops, flowering cactus, bird book consultations, and our first unpretentiously meet the Himba.

Epupa falls at long last becomes audible. With a seasonal peak flow of 50,000 liters per second, it bears it Himba name meaning falling water. We choose a well-shaded spot for Pitch No 79 in amongst tall trees of which the Ana tree; Faidherbia albida is the most dominant.

There is a sense of adventure and discovery when looking at a waterfall for the first time. The same feelings I am sure that many an early explorer had.   So we can’t wait to go and have a look.

( To be Continued )

Donation News:  Plenty of Free Likes. Nare a Tip.  Just in case there might be one reader or Publisher with a few bob. Robert Dillon. Account no 62259189 Ulster Bank 33 College Green, Dublin 2. Sorting code. 98-50-10

( CONTINUATION)

With a new hartebeest hide cover for Williwaw front seats, fully provisioned we depart. It’s until we meet again Time. The longing in Colin’s eyes sums up Walvis Bay. We turn off the tar road towards Spitzkoope.

Now begins a part of our journey where Christianity and Islam has been held a bay by the inaccessibility of the region.   Where we hope for the next few weeks there will be only the earth the sky and us. However, before we reach the Kaokoland there is arid Damaraland. Home to a massive mountain range that rises up out of the plains to a height of 2,570 odd meters above sea level called the Brandberg.

Williwaw seems to be running hot. Touch wood that we don’t have a repeat performance. The sun climbs higher and higher. Our shadows have abandoned us as with all other shadows long disappeared. The dreaded hours of the early afternoon are upon us. Fanny has her window draped with a black scarf. Florence is snoozing. The grey dusty road horizon is flat, empty, and lifeless.

We pull into a dry riverbed behind Spitzkoope.   Inspected by some long-legged beetles we set up camp.   Pitch no 71 looks out on two rock peaks that hang in the evening heat like Hover crafts.   Luckily our beetle friends are not good climbers so we all sleep on the roof thankful for the smallest breeze.

A quick water search in the village produces not a drop. The cloudless sky promises yet another sizzling day. So rather than waste time, we hit the road with some urgency to get as many kilometres under our belt before it becomes a joke to be out in the noonday sun. Two hours into the day’s drive we arrive at a bank of a dry river. Stuck in the middle of the riverbed sands are two Namibians > Telecommunication Men. By the look on their faces, it is their lucky day. They have been digging, stuffing rocks, and branches under their Toyota for some hours.   Mobiles don’t exist never mind work out here. When stuck you are stuck till someone happens bye, which is one in a million. Williwaw to the rescue to eternal gratitude.

Out of the stony landscape rises an eerie brown mountain range. The famous Brandberg’s with Konigstein the highest peak in Namibia. Standing at 2500 meters it might not be an Everest but against the blue, its burnt red-brown colour gives it a presence larger than its height. The range covers an area over nineteen miles by fourteen miles on first sighting it is somewhat like Alice Rock in Australia.   You can see it but it takes an eternity to reach it. Another hill, another dip, and another, and another till we eventually arrive at the sunset turns all in front of us to a rustic red.

As darkness begins to consume the Bergs magnitude our campfire under acacia crackles in a perfect silence. It is not long before new sounds of the African night fill our ears. Sounding like a machine gun fire the resident rock bunnies are in full communication till the moon rises and shuts them up.

Our campfire light dances on the Brandberg, Afrikaans for “burnt mountain.”   We are surrounded by total darkness. Not another light pierces our surroundings except the stars. Pitch No 72 is sensational in its purity of wildness.

(Top TIP:   Campfires. They attract attention. They fend off unwanted animal/ insect company. They cause bushfires. They have limited light penetration in heavy bush or jungles so don’t walk far away.   Use felled wood where possible. Always bury the ashes.)

After a game of Dominoes won by Florence, Fanny and I enjoy a glass of whisky to the night sounds. A lion roar, if there were any, would have capped our evening and made us jump out of our skins. The heat of the day releases itself from the Berg.

Morning > Not quite seven a.m. and the Berg is already reheating. The view from our pitch is a sea of golden savanna grass, dotted with blobs of green.   We treat ourselves to a hot shower. (Top TIP:   If you buy a solar shower fit it with a longer bit of piping.) Down below us, a cloud of dust warns us of an approaching vehicle.

A group of Over Landers arrive in a large truck almost before it stops regurgitating fifteen whites in various shades of sunburn. Without further ado, they evaporate into the mountains. We in the meantime over a leisurely breakfast are somewhat less than unenthusiastic to leave this first camping spot recommended by Colin. We remain undetected until I turn the key in Williwaw. Her coming to life rebounds of the rocks, startling the trucks tour guide from his siesta.   Daza the tour guide is a Mozambican of twenty or twenty-five years of age. He has one of those smiles that toothpaste manufacturers would die for.

He is more than mildly surprised by our appearance as if by magic out of the mountains. We learn that his group had gone to see the White Lady a rock painting.   We were going to do the same till he told us that it was a waste of time. Apparently, it is over one hour hike to see the old girl.   She is covered in graffiti and now rests behind a wire-protecting cage. Bowing to Daza knowledge we decide to push on the Twyfelfontein where the most far-reaching collection of early Stone Age art and engraving in the whole of Africa awaits our viewing. According to Colin the Louver of Africa rock art and one of Namibia best sites for camping.

Armed with what is best and stay away from that information, Daza waves us off promising a few beers on our next meeting.   In the coming weeks, he will be driving his group after they have visited Fish Cannon back up into Etosha, across the Caprivi Strip into the Okavango so our paths might cross again.

Our stay under the Brandbergs, with Daza metaphors, has lifted our Walvis Bay despondency.   The day’s drive is full of chat of expectancy. The orange ball of the setting sun is just visible on the horizon as we arrive in Twyfelfontein campsite named after Ada-Huab River, which is dry as a bone. There is a funny fact about driving after dark in rural Africa. Drivers avoid it like the plague because they speed up rather than slow down. The potholes, ruts, landslides disappear, while your eyes search either side of the road for the daemons of the night.

The campsite is peaceful. Pitch no 73. Rather than the usual ugly concrete synthetic round huts with thatched roofs and a utility block, it is at one with its surroundings.

The washing out the girls find a wonderful shower in a clump of bamboo worked by pulleys. We all sleep like bricks. Tomorrow seven kilometres down the road it is the Louve of rock art and engravings and around the corner the Burnt Mountain itself.

Arriving at high noon we find that a guided tour is unavoidable. Florence takes a fancy to an older guide sporting a Crocodile Dundee hat and very smart whiskers. There is no cover so hats, water, and a heavy smearing of sunblock and we on our way not before the formal welcome with a well-rehearsed speech. “This is the biggest concentration of rock engravings in Africa, dating back thousands of years there is the picture of lions, elephants, rhinos, giraffes back in the Stone Age.” “We will also visit the Lion’s Claw.” “First my fee.” As we are his only punters the fee parley is agreed without much argument.

Unlike the Prehistoric art of the Vallee Vezere or the Dordogne in France, all housed in caves this art, is hands on. > Exposed to all.

After two hours of crawling over rocks, the heat is crucifying bouncing back of the polished rocks each engraving get the odd shower of our perspiration. The engravings are of animal’s long gone, eaten bearing witness that they once meandered in these parts. There is one of a whale somewhat out-of-place considering our surroundings. Our guide explained that some of the pictures are bushmen’s art but it still requires some imagination that a little bushman had gone to the coast and spotted Mobi Dick.

Under the unforgiving sun, the lion’s claw rock formation is of Picasso quality but is our limit.  For the sake of some cooling air, we drive on to the Burn Mountain.   A complete waste of effort as it turned out to be just a large mound of barren basalt shale and rock with one section somewhat like the giant causeway in Sligo in Ireland.

On we move arriving at Khorixas where the Michelin map has all but given up the ghost. Luckily we have Colin detailed map of the Kaokoland. There is a Petrified Forest marked nearby which we give a miss. Hallelujah, his map has a waterfall marked that fills a deep pool.  The promise of a swim kills the stoned trees a thousand times over.   We push on to Ongongo. Dusty, hot, tired, and grumpy we are lost in less than fifty miles. The pressure is on. Can you read a map or can’t you type hassle. A small broken board lying in the dust with an arrow is my only salvation. “How do you know it’s pointing the right way?” “I have a feeling.” Another few minutes and doubting Thomas would have taken over. A Hero saves us not the Hollywood type but a real Herero.

With two people to ever-square mile of Namibia landmass of 824,269 sq km the chances of meeting someone out here is like winning the Lotto. (Four-time the size of the Britain 27 times the size of Belgium)

We who know nothing about Herero people are totally flabbergasted by the vision of a woman dressed like a Victorian lady sitting in the middle of nowhere. She sporting an enormous crinoline dress puffed out by several petticoats down to her ankles.   On her head she is a horn-shaped hat or as Florence observes a corkscrew made from rolled red cloth.   Patently hearing the Jeep coming for miles she is not in the least fazed by our sudden appearance she. All we can think is that she must be steaming in gear like that. God forgive the puritanical missionaries that did penetrate this Wasteland to con them into wearing clothes.

Fanny who has a good grip of the language enquires after the waterfall.   Bob your uncle. In a jiffy we are alleviated of fifteen rands, engage low differential and disappear over a rocky cliff.  What that? > A stream.

Rather than subject our bodies to any more torture we settle on the side of the stream > A mistake. The insect life beside the water is overbearing. We move back up precipice to a spot under a large Acacia. Pitch No 74. Florence and I go on a reconnaissance trip up-stream. We not had gone more than a few minutes when we discover Colin’s pool > A sparkling diamond of crystal clear water fed by a small waterfall.   No invitations needed for us to drop our drawers. The resident terrapins dive for cover a Wilderness experience of a lifetime.

The Herero are believed to have arrived in Namibia from east Africa lakes some 350 years ago. There are about 100 000 in Namibia found mostly in the central and eastern parts of the country.   They are divided into several sub-groups > The Tjima, the Ndamuranda the Mahereo and the Zeraua. Around the town of Gobabis once known as Hereroland, there is another group named Mabandero. The word Herero may be derived from Okuhara, meaning to throw an assegai. (A slender hardwood spear with an iron tip)

They are unique among South African indigenous people to recognize their descent from both the mother’s and the father’s families. Residence, religion and authority are taken from the father line, while the economy and inheritance of wealth are passed on via the mother clan. They believe in a Supreme Being called Omukuru the Great one, or Njambi Karunga.   Like the Himba, they have a holy, ritual fire, which symbolizes life, prosperity and fertility. Most are converted to Christianity although their church the Oruuano, combines Christian dogma with ancestor worship and magical practices.  

Traditionally they are nomadic pastoralists. There is no private ownership of cattle since they belong to the lineage of the mother‘s tribe.     An heir is expected to share his inheritance with his brother’s and the sons of his mother’s younger sister.   He must also now take care of the wives and children of the deceased.   However, this system is changing and nowadays more children inherit cattle from their dead father.  They fought the Nama people who were migrating northwards.   The Nam descended from the Khoi-Khio groups (Hottentots) came from the South.   The Nama were responsible for the gradually displacing the San (Bushman) and the Herero in there turn displaced the Nam and what was left of the San.

They prospered till the colonial period. Namibia been colonized by Germany.   The Herero attempted to preserve their Independence rebelling in 1904. The response was genocide in which 80% were wiped out. Those that escaped fled to Botswana. The Herero gave the now named Kunene River its name from which the name Kaokoveld derived. When they arrived the river was on their right hand so they called it Okunene meaning big or right hand. They hold that their right hand is larger than the left. The land on their left they called Okaoko meaning exactly what it describes on the left.

It has now been several weeks if not more since we spotted a cloud of any description. The hard blue sky is almost touchable. Every Acacia, every hill slice opens its blueness. An early morning swim, a good breakfast, a leisurely braking of camp, we climb aboard wet and fresh. Damaraland gives way to the Kaokoland at Sesfontain.

Sesfontain gets its name from six perennial springs that have their source near bye.   A small Lawrence of Arabia style fort once manned by German police that had it signal hill outside its walls where a heliograph was erected by German soldiers. It is now owned by Sean Marshall a friend of Colin who has turned the fort into a hotel.   For us it is the thought of a cold beer, crisp sheets and good food, not forgetting the swimming pool that attracts us like a strong magnet.

Gone are the days it was a desert oasis called Nani/ous with date palms, enormous fig trees and the ubiquitous Bushman who were ousted by the Bergdama who in turn were subjected by the Herero cattle nomads.

Now a day’s it all adds up to a spot of but who cares credit card bashing with a splash of Florence breaking the blue waters of the pool.   We decided to stay the night.   One beer leads to another. Florence is in conversation with the only other poolside occupant > a young red-haired clutching a beer with his only good arm. “What happened to your arm” “It was bitten off by a crock.” The pool looks less inviting. “Did it hurt?” “The Croc.” “NO!”   “You.” “Florence ——– dinner.”

A dusty friend who has just driven in for dinner joins Chris our one-armed, red hair, Croc killer.   I am invited over for a pre-dinner drink. Fifteen minutes into Who, Are you, Where are you going, Where, have you come from the type of conversation dinner is served. It is a dismal affair. German chicken al la the new German manageress with whiplash all washed down with some highly overpriced wine.

Chris turns out to be a ranger as is his dusty friend. They live in one of the twenty-odd houses up from the fort. He points it out to his friend and me up on the hill. “Drop by for a few beers when you are finished here.” The girls call it a day.

Armed with two six packs and the light of the moon it is not long before we spot the light in the window. “Hy it is us”, shouts Dusty through the window” Like a Springbok, a large breasted naked woman jumps out of the bed and starts yelling like a dog. Within a split second every dog within yelping distance has joined in. Whoops! > Wrong house. We stumble on up the hill towards a fire.

Croc Chris scar tissue looks the part in the flickering light.   The story goes that he went he was in the South African army he went for a swim in the Cunene River. A Lot of bodies were dumped into the river during those times. Apparently, he was watching a croc on the opposite bank when he entered the water and had not noticed a younger croc lurking underneath the bank he was standing on.   He was seizing by the arm. In the struggle not to be dragged into the river, he lost his hand from the elbow down.   He has nothing against crocs but after a few more beers some very warped views come to the surface. The English are not worth pissing on.   Might is the only thing that black understand. The banning of the word Kafar is a tragedy.   Apartheid was correct. He is proud of what he did in Angola. All lead to a heated discussion so by the time I staggered down the hill to the safe haven of the fort I was glad the croc had bitten his hand off.

Ironically overnight a group of British turn-up. They have a permit to enter the Kaokoland but have very little off-road driving experience and need to be accompanied under their permit. We agreed to team up for a few days. I will take them as far as Otjinungwa up on the Cunene River. 

(To Be Continued)

News on the Donations/ Tips. It’s not too late to be the first.

R Dillon. Account no 62259189. Ulster Bank, 33 College Green Dublin.

Sorting code: 98-50-10.