Thursday, May 13, 2010

Out of Africa – by Ellen


Well. Here we are, back in sunny Sussex, bundled up in jumpers and scarves, shivering and unable to feel our toes. Even as we recount the tales of everything we’ve done and seen and experienced, and look through all the hundreds (thousands) of photographs, it still feels strangely as though we’ve not been away at all.

I think we can be pretty proud of what we’ve achieved on our epic adventure. And particularly chuffed that we’re still talking to each other! I can’t imagine many newly-married couples would be crazy enough to resign from work and go and spend four and a half months, twenty-four hours a day, in the baking heat, within a few feet of each other. So to do that, and to come out of it still laughing, and still happy to be within a few feet of each other, is no mean feat.

We’d successfully bought (and sold) a car, navigated our way around four Southern African countries, crossed some tricky international borders and not had a single puncture!

We’d read an article in Getaway magazine about a group of people who’d hired a convoy of fully kitted out 4WDs to cross Namibia – complete with tyres which cost around £1,000 each. The end of the article reflected on how important it was to have all the right gear, and how the tyres had most certainly been what had prevented them from getting a puncture, especially as much of the distance had been covered on gravel roads.

But we know better than that. We know that you can do the whole thing with very little preparation, only the bare minimum of equipment, and even less mechanical know-how. And we know that you can do the whole thing, in a 2WD Corsa with fairly old tyres, without getting a puncture – just so long as you have that shot of brandy at the Dop Steek.

Homeward Bound – by Ellen


We spent our last night trying to squash the things we wanted to bring home into our bags – which I’m sure have shrunk. Attaching a ‘please give me a home’ note to the things we couldn’t bring with us, we set off at dawn.

As if helping us with the acclimatization process, the weather presented us with torrential, blinding rain and a drop in temperature to 11ºC. We did the drive to Jo’burg in good time, and didn’t get lost at all! Not even round the tangle of fly-overs and road works near the airport. Perhaps in their rush to get the roads in place in time for the World Cup, they’d put a few of the road signs up in the wrong order:

Jo’burg 53km
2 kms later
Jo’burg 40km
2 kms later
Jo’burg 38 km
2 kms later
Jo’burg 40km

The Icelandic volcano hadn’t managed to spew its ash far enough into Europe to stop us flying, so we were soon speeding home.

At the airport we’d bought a cuddy elephant for Josh and Renee’s highly anticipated and newly arrived daughter, Maya. I decided I wanted to take a photo of the ellie on the plane, and as I sat there with it on my lap (ok, I might have been cuddling it – it’s sooooooo soft) an air stewardess came up and presented me with a kiddies activity pack. Ha. Ha. Ha.
Oh yes please, can I have a beer with that?

Adventure Stats


Number of countries: 4 (South Africa, Namibia, Zambia, Zimbabwe)
Number of kms: 11,978 (in Toto – there were a few in the hire cars as well)
No of nights in a tent: 64
No of nights in a room: 62
(Camping wins, yay!)
Favorite camsite: Dias Point, Namibia
Least favourite campsite: Okakuajo, Etosha, Namibia
Best braai: Dias Point, Namibia
Best experience:
Ellen - Running down the sand dunes in Sossulvlei, Namibia
Evan - Sitting by the watering hole watching the elephants, Hwange, Zimbabwe
Campsite to come back to: Ngweshla, Hwange, Zimbabwe – it’s actually a picnic site in the middle of the park, looks amazing
No of birds on Evan’s list: 190
Number of trees we can recognise: 35
Number of constellations we can recognise: 11
Favourite picnic: 2 minute noodles and cold beer in the middle of the desert driving through Namibia
Favourite view:
Ellen - Sea of sand dunes, Soususvlei, Namibia
Evan - Oliphants, Kruger, South Africa
Favourite drive: Up to Nyanga, Zimbabwe
Most stupid thing we did: Drove down a closed road and got stuck in the mud in Etosha national park
Best thing we bought: Storage containers. Not only useful keeping us tidy day to day, but the lids are great if you get stuck in mud...

Thing we could have done without: Skottle braai
Things we didn’t use: Fire extinguisher, tyre weld, tow rope, jerry can (probably a good thing!)
What we’re going to miss the most:
Ellen - Warm outdoor living and all the animals
Evan - Sounds of the night
Favourite night noise:
Ellen -Hyena
Evan - Lion
Most time consuming check in: Etosha
Number of photos taken: I lost count at 3,500...
What to do next time:
Ellen - See Wild Dogs!!
Evan - Proper 4x4ing
Casualties of the trip:
Tent poles – snapped
Tent pegs – bent
Potjie leg – fell off
Potjie stand – left it somewhere
Oil, salt, cheese, crisps, kettle box – taken by jackals
Marshmallows – got wet
Ellen’s new iPod – oops
Enamel mug – trapped in the car door
Egg – broken into the cooler box
Car window – got stuck
Back left tyre – hit a pot hole
Starter motor – needed brushes!
% of 2010 spent in Africa: 97%

Funny Things Along the Way


ZIMBABWE

Shops/hotels:
Meat Market and Pet Shop
Burial Society, General Store and Bottle Shop
Little Swallow Hotel

Road Signs:
Deadly Hazard!
Road Failure Ahead

Schools:
Dumbo School
Yorkshire Primary School
Wankie Secondary School

Places:
South Downs (just outside Gweru – there was even a 27a bus!)
Hove Farm
Bubi River

SOUTH AFRICA

Jack-up “nutrition” club

Bathroom Bizarre

Gavelotte Skool

Missing P: Rice Busters (Who you gonna call when that rice needs busting?)

Errant L: Swimming Poo, Residents Onlyl (Kruger NP official brochure!)

Eleven thousand, nine hundred and seventy eight kilometres – by Ellen

After adventuring together for 11,978 km, we sadly handed the car and the keys over to a dealer.

I hope he’s happy in the garage with the other cars (I think there was a nice lady car he had his eye on). Considering that we’ve hammered that poor little bakkie for almost 12,000 kilometres over the last 10 weeks, and most of that was on shocking gravel - with an unhealthy amount of sand and mud thrown in - it’s a wonder that a) he’s not fallen apart completely and b) we got someone to give us some money for him!

He really was a super little car, and an integral part of our adventure. As we drove back in our nice shiny new hire car, with air-con and power steering, and no ominous rattling noises coming from anywhere, and a back left tyre that didn’t need worrying about/pumping up every few days, Toto’s Africa once more came on the radio.

If in doubt, go on safari – by Ellen

On the Monday, we managed to get through to Emirates, who told us the earliest flight was over 2 weeks away. So, what to do in South Africa for two weeks with no money? Hmm.

On the plus side, Toto was ready to be collected. Thankfully, the bill wasn’t anywhere near as scary as we’d convinced ourselves it would be. The problem, it turned out, was that Toto didn’t have any brushes. Or needed new brushes. Or something. Apparently cars need very special brushes, not hair brushes, tooth brushes or dust pan and brush brushes, all of which we had.

Anyway, that drama over, we decided to try and sell the car before something more expensive broke. Surprisingly enough, we found out that we weren’t going to get as much for it as we’d hoped (!). Two new tyres, work on the exhaust and the scary number of kilometres it had been driven were all noted after a cursory inspection by the dealers. I dread to think what screws and nuts and bolts had been loosened by rattling along for thousands of kilometres on gravel roads, and then there was the small matter of all the Etoshan mud in the engine...
We decided, after much deliberation and a couple of bottles of wine, that if ever in doubt, go on safari. Our other options were to sell Toto before the wheels dropped off, hire a car and go and spend 10 days on the beach in Mozambique, or drive down to Cape Town and sell the car there, where we’d possibly get more money for it. The former seemed too expensive, and the latter too sensible. The other bonus of going on safari was that we’d not be in Polokwane for Freedom Day. We’d been seeing news reports that there was text message going round suggesting that blacks should kill as many whites as possible on Freedom Day. Nice.

So, safari it was.

Once again, Evan’s African accent (which rivals Leonardo Di Caprio’s in Blood Diamond, and certainly beats Matt Damon’s in Invictus) paid off. We were given local rates for Kruger – which works out at about £4 per person/day rather than £16 per person/day. Not bad!

It was great to be back in the bush again, and, once we’d opened the second roll of Duck Tape to hold the poles together, we even managed to get the tent to stay up. A gang of hornbills invited themselves to lunch. Disgruntled at being shooed off, they started attacking the windscreen wipers with their enormous beaks and pooing on the bonnet. Evan - the great bird lover – retaliated by turning the windscreen wipers on. Ha ha ha!

Kruger is very different to Hwange. The roads are tarred and pothole free, there are at least 20 cars queuing at each major sighting and accommodation gets booked out even during the week. It all felt a little...zoo-like. But nonetheless, it was great to be back, and we saw some great stuff including lions...erm...making baby lions, and even got close enough to a cheetah that we could hear it’s claws clicking on the tarmac as it walked past my window. It’s going to be odd being back in Sussex, where there’s a distinct lack of wild elephants roaming along the side of the A27.

Toto’s Near Death Experience – by Ellen


We had a potential buyer for the Toto (yes, we named the car Toto, and yes, after the band, not after the dog in the Wizard of Oz) in Cape Town, so we were up nice and early to leave Polokwane and head south.

But Toto wouldn’t start. Ten thousand and three kilometres into our epic adventure, our trusty car died – but fortunately not in the middle of a desert...

Despite the best efforts of some workmen to push-start us (into a wall), he still would not start. A friend of the receptionist’s came over to jump start him, but even after swapping batteries, still no joy. Oh.

Eventually we got there (without hitting the wall) and set off to buy a new battery. As the old battery was removed I could hear the tick-tock of his hazard lights faltering, getting weaker, and then...silence... I half expected to hear the long ominous beep of a heart monitor announcing a flatliner. (Sorry, I’m quite attached to this little car!)
As the new battery was hooked up, a feint tick...tick-tock...could be heard, then a full, healthy tick-tock, tick-tock. Yay! There was life!

We turned off the engine.
We tried to start the engine.
Nothing.

And then started the pushing of the car around the back yard of a back-street shop in Polokwane. It dawned on me – as it probably dawned on you car-savvy folk a while ago – that it probably wasn’t a problem with the battery. We decided that, seeing as the new (R550) battery didn’t make the car go, they should probably give us our old battery back. As, despite what they tried to tell us, we didn’t think that our battery was ‘f***ed up’.

We found a service centre who directed us an auto electrician who’d have alook at our started motor. But not until Monday. Today was Friday.

Deciding it probably wasn’t sensible to drive anywhere in a car that couldn’t be switched off (especially as we needed the ignition key to open the petro cap) we surrendered the car to the auto electricians who drove us to the tiny airport to collect a hire car.

We went to AVIS.
‘Do you have any cars?’
‘No.’

Oh.

We went to Europe Car
‘Do you have any cars?’
‘No.’

Oh.

By this point we’d exhausted half of the car rental options. Luckily Budget had cars, so we were back on the road!
It took us longer than anticipated to leave Polokwane (mainly as we were driving round in solid traffic trying to decide which of the three KFC drive-thrus to go to). So (much) later that day, as we were on route to Kruger along a road that had an 80k speed limit which took us up and down windy, misty mountain roads, we realised that we weren’t going to get to the park gate in time...and that I had forgotten my camera so I’d be sulking all weekend as I’d be camera-less on safari. So we went back to Polokwane and indulged in room service, beers and a film.

Beit Bridge Border: Touts, Robbers and Corruption – by Ellen

For three days we tried failed to get through to Emirates to see when we could get home. Eventually we decided to head back to South Africa regardless. I (foolishly) texted my mother to let her know we were going over the border the next day. Half an hour of googling later, she was sending me very informative texts about the touts, robbers and corruption at the Beit Bridge border post. As if we’d not heard enough horror stories already, ranging from ‘oh, nightmare, you’ll be there for hours’ to ‘just don’t go under any circumstances’. We got some advice at the hotel that 11am on a Thursday was the best time to brave the crossing. Super – that’s exactly when we were due to get there! Steeling ourselves for the worst, we set off.

Twenty-five minutes later we were back on SA soil, after possibly one of the easiest border crossings we’d encountered so far! Who ever had been spreading the rumours about the horrors of Beit Bridge obviously hadn’t ever crossed from Namibia to Zambia...

Just minutes after discussing how nice it was to have left the roadblocks behind, we were stopped at a roadblock. We resisted the temptation to point out our lovely new reflective stickers. It was at this point that the car decided not to start. It had been a little reluctant for the last couple of days, but this was a refusal. Third time lucky though. The policeman suggested that we needed to check the battery fluid. Vowing to find a garage as soon as we got to Polokwane, we set off.

Just minutes after discussing how, even though there was a police road block, there wasn’t any scary military presence around, a military helicopter flew very low overhead. As we approached the Toll Gate we saw people in bullet proof vests carrying machine guns, running in formation, and crouching and aiming and...oh, just practicing. Phew.

Great Zimbabwe – by Ellen


We spent a few days in a house (Aah! A house, an actual house! All to ourselves, with beds and a sofa and a kitchen and a dining table and lights and a fridge! Well, due to a lack of ZESA neither the lights nor the fridge worked, but hey, minor details) overlooking Lake Kyle just by Great Zimbabwe.

By this point we’d made the – difficult - decision that it was time to head home. But as we ate our sadza by candlelight and listened to the BBC World Service on our wind-up wireless (no ZESA remember), getting home seemed a fairly remote possibility. The news was filled with reports of the ash cloud from the Icelandic volcano that had forced the closure of European airspace. Thousands of passengers were stranded all over the world, and businesses were losing billions. Reporters latched on to the idea that this may be a practice run for not only the inevitable, larger, secondary eruption, but also a world without oil and international transport links. Questions were being raised about the future of global trading, particularly the African dependence on exports to the West.
The next morning we headed into Masvingo to re-stock. Outside every bank were enormous queues of people, all obviously waiting to withdraw their money. The logical conclusion for Evan (the ex banker) and me (the one who reads too many crap books) to draw was that the country – and quite possibly the whole world – had collapsed financially.

Turns out it was just teachers’ pay day. How terribly boring.

Great Zimbabwe was, well, great! Despite the best efforts of Western historians and archaeologists to attribute Great Zimbabwe to anyone other than the Africans, it was actually built by...the Africans. Founded in 1200 AD, this great empire of ‘Zimbabwes’ (stone houses) soon became the biggest pre-colonial empire in Sub-Saharan Africa. It met its end in the 1500s, probably due to becoming overly successful and unable to sustain its population. Many of the buildings looked like an extension of the rocks around which they were built. The stone walls of hand-cut bricks curved round between the massive boulders. Steps had been hewn into the steep sides of the kopjie, leading through narrow gaps between smooth boulders. Around a million handmade bricks, made by heating the granite with fire then tipping cold water over the stone to make it crack, were used just for the Great Enclosure alone.
The small museum contains a surprising amount of information. You can only read it once your eyes have adjusted to the flickering of the lights; the small diesel generator does its best - and actually makes the place much more atmospheric. It’s also in here that the famous Stone Birds (like the one on the Zim flag) are housed.

As Evan had done his dissertation on Great Zimbabwe, I had my own very knowledgeable (and handsone), guide, who was not only an expert of the archaeology of the area, but was also a trained Field Guide. The latter meant that he only screamed a little bit when his flip-flopped foot nearly stood on a snake.

Mugabe and Evan’s Admission of Guilt – by Ellen

OK, that title may be a little misleading; it sort of implies that Bob may be admitting that he’s guilty of something. Can’t even begin to imagine what it could be...

Anyway, as we were driving to Vic Falls we were stopped at yet another road block. This time, they wanted a little more than just a glance at out TIP and driver’s licence.

‘Aha...I have found two problems with your car. You do not have the reflective stickers on the front of your car’.
WTF?!
‘Oh, sorry officer, we didn’t realize that you needed to have reflective stickers on the car. And what is the second problem?’
‘You do not have reflective stickers on the back of your car.’
‘Oh, I see.’


Once they’d found out that I’d been to university in Manchester (where the policeman had been born) and that my sister supported Chelsea (who the policeman supported) he decided to only fine us for the front reflective stickers.

‘Either you can pay me the fine or I can arrest you’ the policemen said, rather too gleefully.
Once the policeman had filled out his little book (in triplicate) Evan paid the $10 USD fine and signed the Admission of Guilt. Under the threat of arrest he signed that he was guilty of the heinous crime of not having reflective stickers on his car, and that the trial should proceed in his absence.


At the next roadblock, the policeman’s eyes lit up.

‘Aha...I have found two problems with your car...’


We (smugly) showed him the Admission of Guilt, and off we went.

At the next roadblock, we were stopped again. But this time we were asked to pull over on the side of the road and switch off the engine. Hmm. Not good. The policeman walked over to us, AK-47 swinging by his side.

‘The President is going to the airport so we have to close the road.’

Wow! Mugabe was about to drive past!

As we waited we overheard the policemen talking:

‘How old is he now?’
‘Too old.’
‘Ah. The evil ones live long.’


Interesting to hear such open opposition to the President – particularly from the very people who are protecting him.

Eventually we saw the lights of the convoy. Twenty-four black cars and bakkies sped round the turning to the airport. Once that excitement was over we carried on to Vic Falls to track down some reflective stickers for the car.

If you’re ever thinking about going to see the Victoria Falls, and wondering whether to see them from Zam or Zim, stop wondering: go from the Zim side.

They are even more staggering and overwhelming, and although you will get wet (unless you’re there in the dry season, in which case there won’t be much of the falls falling) you also get to actually see the falls! Once you’ve marvelled at the falls, follow the path down to Vic Falls bridge lookout point and watch the bungee jumpers. I’ve said this before, and I’ll no doubt say it again, but: no. No, no, no, no, no. I am NOT going to bungee jump. So there.

But it does look amazing, as they leap into the gorge below, right through a huge rainbow. And then they reach the end of the bungee their bodies jerk, and it looks very much like their necks/back/legs will be broken in many places. And then they dangle, helplessly, upside down, waiting for someone to come down and rescue them.

There’s also a gorge swing, which looks much more civilized. But “sadly” we...erm...didn’t have enough money to do it. Ahem.

Back in the Bush – by Ellen


Confessions of a camper: we were two weeks into a trip to Zim, and we’d not put the tent up once. It was time to get back to the bush.

Before we left Harare we did manage to fit in a trip to the rock paintings at Domboshawa. As well as some great outline paintings of rhino and antelope (a style unique to Zimbabwe – most other rock paintings are solid colour) the rocks here are worth seeing. Great curved expanses of granite topped with balancing rocks and covered in the most extraordinary fluorescent orange and yellow-green lichen. (Also, if you put on a Zimbabwean accent you get local rates – Evan’s years of practicing have finally paid off!).

After a stop-over night in Bulawayo we reached Hwange (Wankie) Game Park. I’ll not bore you with the details of what we saw on safari; mainly because we didn’t see much at all. Because of all the unseasonal rain, the animals didn’t need to come out of the thick bush and down to the watering holes. We did hear some lions, hyenas and jackals in the night. The fence around the camp was...erm...sporadic. We’d been assured that the lions were not able to get into the camp. But based on the fact that an elephant walked right passed us while we were having a braai (bit of a shock in the dark), we weren’t convinced.

One great sighting was by a watering hole in the middle of the day. We watched a stately line of elephants make their way down to the water. We sat for over an hour just enjoying watching them splash and play and fight and roll in the mud. They weren’t happy at having to share the water with three ostriches which had come to bathe, and even less happy when the troop of baboons arrived. They soon gave up trying to chase them off and wondered silently back into the bush.

Lost in the Dark in Harare – by Ellen

Resisting the urge to pop over the border to Mozambique, we headed back to Harare for a couple of nights to stay at the Dewhursts’ home. They texted us their address and we agreed we’d come over about 7pm. So there was plenty to time to go and have a beer at Evan’s favourite place in the world – Harare Sports (the international cricket ground).

It then dawned on us that we didn’t have a proper map. All we had was the ‘map’ in the Lonely Planet Southern Africa guide book, which was no more than a few token squiggles on half a page of the book which represented probably every 4th or 5th road in Harare, and of the few streets shown on our map, only about half of them had names by them.

Not to worry – we’ll head to a petrol station to buy a map. Or not. In a country where a petrol station actually having petrol is a near miracle, expecting to buy a map is definitely asking too much. Not to worry – we’ll head to a book shop to buy a map. All the book shops we tried had sold out of maps of Harare (but if we’d have wanted a detailed map of Bulawayo or Mozambique we’d have been in luck). On explaining our predicament to the shop assistant, he said he’s go to the store room where he had one last, map of Harare – one which was to be returned to the supplier as it had a few pages missing. And guess which pages were missing...
We decided to set off anyway – we knew the vague direction of their suburb. Within 2 minutes we were lost again. As we’d accidentally found the street where Evan’s cousin lived (couldn’t have done that if we tried) we gave him a call on our about to run out of battery phone, to ask to borrow a map book. But he wasn’t home.

At this point is got dark. It’s not like England where you have a nice dusk to ease you into the night. Here, once the sun’s set, it gets dark. No messing about.

We then, somehow, ended up on one of the roads that was represented as a – named! - squiggle on our map. The odds of us finding a road that still had a legible, upright street name sign, and then that same road being on our map would have bankrupted the bookies. A helpful security guard pointed us in the right direction for the suburb we wanted, and we continued on our treasure hunt.

Originally we’d decided that driving round in the dark without a map was probably Rather Stupid. But it was starting to get quite fun. Essentially, we decided that, no matter what happened along the way, the ultimate ending to this tale would be ‘and then we arrived’. So it was best just to sit back and enjoy the ride. And avoid the potholes/other drivers/stray dogs...

Once we’d found the main road, we pulled in to a garage where a very helpful customer gave us extremely detailed directions to, not just the suburb, but the actual road! Once on the correct road (we assumed – it obviously didn’t have a signpost) we were a little shocked to find ourselves outside number 615 when we were looking for number 24 - how long is this road?! But of course number 615 is opposite number 18. So we bumped and bounced down the unlit road...and then we arrived.


Nyanga and Bvumba – by Ellen


Evan’s decided that he’d rather drink beer, eat biltong and read a Wilbur Smith novel than write any more about Zimbabwe – so I’m afraid you’re stuck with me again.

Once we’d exhausted the wonderful food and hospitality of the Wetton and Passiportis family, we set off again in our little bakkie to Nyanga, in the East of Zimbabwe. We stopped off at Halfway House for lunch – a place where in all likelihood Evan’s grandparents would have stopped for lunch with Evan’s mum and aunts as little girls, going off on holiday.

The scenery is stunning. Climbing higher and higher up the acacia-lined roads, the balancing rock formations get more bizarre and precarious. We arrived at Inn on Rupaprara to be welcomed by the Dewhurst family – friends of Evan’s mum’s from school – who run the hotel. We spent a few extremely relaxing days here (my excuse for staying in bed whilst Evan was marched up Rupaprara rock at 6am was that I had flu), with fantastic food and breathtaking views, and a pair of rare Black Eagles circling overhead.

From here we headed to the Bvumba mountains. Bvumba means ‘drizzle’, and it’s a very apt name indeed. From the veranda with a beer we watched the clouds roll in, and the drizzle start to fall. As the rain set in we moved inside to the double-height dining room, where we enjoyed our candlelit dinner from the prime spot in front of the open fire (but then we were the only guests). We fell asleep in our attic room to the sound of the rain and the smell of wet thatching.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Biscuits and AK47s – by Evan

Anyway, Zimbabwe was, for me, stunning. It is without doubt a very beautiful country, and the prettiest scenery I have seen in Southern Africa – the variety is also phenomenal, from tropical bush to, erm....Sussex countryside! At one point, it struck us that, when arriving in Nyanga, we had travelled thousands of miles by plane and then driven 10,000 kms to end up in a place that looked exactly like Sussex (rain included).

The people are, as has been written many thousands of times on various guidebooks etc, preternaturally friendly. But it is such a mess. Really. But not in a threatening, aggressive-towards-visitors way, but in every other way. The police roadblocks, for example, are not at all threatening – the police were – without exception – friendly, polite and almost uncorrupt (almost – see later) – but it just gets so annoying being stopped six times on the way to buy some milk, that you wonder why they spend so much time shooting themselves in the foot – when instead of making police stop people at random, they could be rectifying some of the crimes that have taken place over the past decades. One of the saddest things was passing the thousands of miles of barren farmland that we drove through, that was once all cultivated – greatly contrasted by the (currently) well organised agriculture south of the border – but more astute minds than mine have waxed lyrical about that at length elsewhere, so I have very little more to add. It just seems so needless.

In contrast to Namibia, everything tourist-wise was beautifully looked after, and scrubbed clean, with the meagrest of resources for those maintaining it – but there are clearly so many obstacles. Almost everything we consumed was imported, at great cost- cornflakes for 7 USD anyone! – and we came to wonder how people existed at all without thousands of USD to spend. And ZESA blackouts – for us they remained their charm as using candles to eat is still romantic, but you can only imagine how tiring it must be having blackouts day after day after day after day after day...

For tourists though, the place does remain fantastic – it’s heaps safer than South Africa, the Game Parks are incredible, cheap – and you’re the only tourists there. At one point we sat at a waterhole in Hwange – the biggest national park – watching Ellies, Baboons and other game gather in multitudes only a few metres from us, and in over two hours one other car visited (and weirdly, didn’t stop). Contrast this with Kruger where we were at a lion sighting with 20 other cars.

The infrastructure is still there to an extent as well, certainly in terms of the luxurious hotels – but at a much cheaper cost than anywhere else in Africa. We rented at one stage for example, a whole house with a big garden, and views over a spectacular lake, for 50 USD a night...

In short I fell completely for Zimbabwe, and it was a great shame we had to leave – but it wasn’t quite the right time yet.


We only came across corruption once in a month in Zim. A policeman stopped me for speeding (whoops) and after initial discussions of a fine in the region of 40 USD, we settled for 20 USD – on the condition that I wasn’t overly fussy about asking for a receipt. There were police roadblocks absolutely everywhere – and it is funny, after our first terrified encounter in Namibia with the police, after you’ve been through thirty roadblocks and been asked for various bits of paper by guys with AK 47s, you no longer feel even the slightest trepidation – it is instead replaced by a sense of real annoyance! Here’s my licence officer- NOW TAKE YOUR MACHINE GUN AND PISS OFF! Actually, they were really friendly and generally willing to have a bit of a chat. My goal of bribing a police officer with a biscuit was only partially successful (it was an armed guard) so I had to content myself with giving one at a toll gate a bottle of water instead.

It’ll be a beautiful country again one day, just not quite yet – and not until their police stop accepting bribes from pink-faced tourists – they’re a danger, you know, and should be kept off the roads.

Hippo Fishing – by Evan


The next day I was taken out Tiger fishing on Kariba, which I had been hearing stories of since I was a young Zimbabwean-wannabe – alas we caught precisely no fish, but was still great fun with excellent scenery, and elephants wandering on the far banks. Having to avoid hippos when you cast the line out is something I am not familiar with from my previous fly-fishing exploits in Ireland. Apparently there are very few hippos in the wild in Galway now. Great shame.

The following day we all went to a nearby bream farm for a fishing competition – we had ten minutes to go into the bush to find a stick, and then we were each allotted a line, a hook and some worms – and the biggest fish wins! I had forgotten how much I love fishing, and how often I used to go with my uncle Michael – it all came flooding back as I not only managed to catch a normal, boring bream but a, erm, terrapin, thus winning ‘most unusual catch of the day’. Ellen caught a big fish, which had me secretly hoping she now has the fishing bug. We shall see.

I was also taken on a fantastic 5 hour bird-walk by Bob Hayward, a friend of the Passaportises and a very knowledgeable and experienced birder, who was not only great company, but managed to show me the following birds:

A Shikra; Common Scimitarbill; Lesser Honeyguide; White-crested Helmet Shrike; Orange-breasted Bush-Shrike; White-browed Sparrow Weaver; Southern Grey-headed Sparrow; Black-winged Bishop and a Yellow-fronted Canary.

Other points: car window now fixed at the not too bad cost of 44 USD (phew) and not-good sounding car noise has disappeared.

Zimbabwe-land – by Evan

After the crossing into Zambia, we were both a bit nervous about the Zimbabwe border – once we had actually crossed into Zimbabwe, however, we were amazed at the efficiency, orderliness, and friendliness of the immigration staff. In about 20 minutes we had all our necessary stamps and bits of paper to enter the country, and were only held up at the actual boom as the chap in charge wanted to see our receipt – he wasn’t particularly clear on which receipt we needed to show him, all he knew was that he wanted to see one or he couldn’t let us through. Unfortunately, we didn’t have one as I had arranged our visa in London, so didn’t have anything to offer. No matter that we had everything in order, stamped visas at the ready and Temporary Import Permits in hand, he wasn’t budging. After a very long time persuading him otherwise, he eventually relented after I promised to write my name in his little book, and he let us through into Zimbabwe.

Our first task was to find the house in Kariba that we were staying out, without a) an address or b) a map. This we did remarkably quickly for us, after developing a worrying knocking sound (turned out to be mud when taken to mechanic the next day) on the front left hand side of the car – by bumping into two fellow house guests at a nearby garage.

Once we arrived at the (enormous) house on the shores of Lake Kariba, we were immediately made completely at home by the Wettons and Passaportises, and beer in hand and braai on the go in the promised-land of Zimbabwe, I felt as relaxed as I had been for months.

Sunday, April 25, 2010

The Other Side of the Zambezi – by Ellen


Naïve socio-economic witterings done with, we pressed on to Livingstone where we found a Spar, a place to camp, somewhere to do our laundry for less than £80, and a nice cold beer. We had a braai on the banks of the river, watching the hippos and crocs float by. As the sun went down, the frogs got up. Soon the level and pitch of the sound was verging on painful, and it even managed to overpower the thunder of Victoria Falls that was just a few kilometres from camp.


The next day, we followed in Livingstone’s footsteps (not literally, as if you walk there you’re likely to get mugged) and headed to the falls. The size and the power of the immense body of water is staggering. The roar of the million litres per second crashing over 100 meters down a sheer cliff is deafening. The spray can be seen from several kilometres away, and, once you’re down there by the falls, you not so much next to them as in the falls. Despite our trusty ponchos, we got drenched. It was quite surreal seeing groups of dripping tourists wondering around a tropical rainforest draped in green ponchos, looking very much like lost extras from Star Wars.


We left Livingstone for Kariba early on the 27th of March - the day before our visas were to expire - leaving plenty of time to get up to the Zim border post at Kariba. An hour and a half later we’d managed to cover a measly 50kms. Between the police stopping us for driving licenses, import permits and triangles, and the extensive stoppages at, and detours round, road works, we were convinced that we’d be stuck and visa-less in Zambia. And then there was my panic about whether we needed a carnet de passage (very expensive ‘car passport’ that we’d have needed to obtain in Cape Town) to get the car into Zimbabwe, if, of course, we ever made it to the border...
Soon, however, the road works stopped and we found ourselves cruising along the brand new and shiny, pot-hole free road, which not only had white lines down the middle, but even had yellow lines down the edges. Luxury! And evidence that our road tax had been put to good use... Oh, and we’ve found out why camping is so expensive in Namibia and Botswana. We met a convoy of 4x4s at our campsite in Zambia – they’d been planning their 3 week trip round Botswana for over a year, and were more than a little shocked that we’d done no more planning than buying a map and a guide book and then set off in a 2WD with only a spade, a tow rope and a can of Tyre Weld for all conceivable emergencies. They were even more shocked when they found out that we only had a cooler box, not a plug in/gas powered fridge...


They explained that so many South Africans drive up in their fully kitted out 4x4s, and bring with them the majority of their gear, fuel and food, then race round Namibia/Botswana, trashing the roads and putting very little money into the local economy. As an – understandable – response to this, the governments have decided to increase the cost of camping as a way of getting a decent amount of money from these tourists. Sadly for us, this happened after our guide book was written, so the – in some cases tripled – price hikes were a bit of a shock.
After several hundred kilometres the road split, one turning going to Lusaka, the other to Zimbabwe. This is the main import/export route, and so there main traffic is lorries. The problem for the lorries is that the road takes them up and down many steep hills – with the added excitement of the rock falls that scatter themselves across the road. Overheating engines and brake failure were the most common demise of the lorries that had collapsed by the side of the road. Although one unfortunate trucker had lost his entire container on the way up the hill – the cab section had happily carried on without it, no doubt at quite a speed, and finally stopped halfway down the other side of the hill. As a child I’d always been terrified that lorries could snap in half like that, despite placations from my mother. Ha! I knew it was possible.

Where does all the money go?! – by Ellen

We drove through Sesheke, the town to which we had just paid our district council tax in the rotting caravan. Sadly, there was no evidence that any of the council tax was being put into that town. With each person crossing the border paying about £4, I don’t think it seems too silly to assume that the Sesheke council should have quite a bit of money coming in each month – money earned by taxing tourists, not Zambians: essentially, money for nothing. And yet there was no evidence that any money had been put into maintaining, let alone developing, the town. The roads were in shocking condition, by far the worst we’d encountered so far. Not only were there more pot holes than road, but there were speed humps situated directly in front of deep and unavoidable pot-holes; the front of the car still bears the scars from that encounter. The streets were lined with litter, buildings were crumbling, and there seemed to be a general feeling of despair and tragedy about the town.

So where does this money go to? And the carbon tax? Not on any sort of ‘cleaner exhaust’ campaign, for example. And the road tax? Certainly not on the roads. Seeing the money crossing the border it is hard not to think that, just perhaps, a lack of money is not the issue in Africa. But rather the infrastructure and guarantee that the money will be put where it is supposed to go, and put where it is needed. And then, if money is not the issue, then does this extend to aid money? For decades money has been pouring into the developing world, and yet there is still poverty. With this self-generated money coming in and going seemingly no-where, can the answer really be more money?

Answers on a postcard please.

NAM - ZAM - ZIM – by Ellen

The Caprivi Strip is sandwiched between Angola (look left when driving east through the strip along the Kavango and that’s Angola), Zambia and Botswana, with the Zambian border being at Katima Mulilo and the Botswana border being a little further south. The eastern edge of the strip is only a few kilometres from Zimbabwe, but does it share a border? Of course not, that’d make our lives too easy. After the Zam vs Bots debate (which happened over breakfast the morning we were supposed to be leaving Namibia - now there’s forward planning for you) we decided to head to Zim via Zam rather than Zim via Bots, which, although cheaper, would have involved driving an extra few hundred ks out of our way through Zim to get to Kariba, our first calling point in Zim.

After managing to coax some money out of an ATM and exchange it for US$ we set off for the border. The Namibian immigration building was efficiently run, and housed in a new, clean building. The Zambian side was, well, none of the above.

After driving through no-man’s land we were presented with two options: 1. drive straight over the bridge to Livingstone, 2. turn left and try and track down the Zambian border post. We eased our way through the pot-holed car park, and entered the first ramshackle building where we filled out our visa application forms. Part of the form was ‘how long are you intending to stay’...well about 3 days. And so we were granted a visa for exactly 3 days – although Evan managed to wangle an extra day at the last minute. I’ll be waiting for him over the border then. We then handed over our US$50 – yes, each, - for our 3 day stay.

Next stop, 3rd party insurance for the car. We crammed in to a tiny office which housed an enormous desk on which was seated an enormous woman, nearly obscuring the man behind the desk. Insurance, obviously, is not done by the day, so US$40 bought us a month-long policy. Once we’d insured the car, we needed to obtain a Temporary Import Permit. We crammed in to an even tinier office which was filled with huge stacks of paper, over which we could just about see the man behind the desk. The TIP could only be paid for in Namibian dollars or Zambian Kwacha, of which we had neither. So Evan was directed towards a (surely illegal?!) moneychanger by a military official, who helpfully pointed the way with his AK-47.

Money changed, paperwork completed and 160 Rand handed over for the TIP, we set off back across the pot-holed car park to try and locate the shed where we could pay our Carbon Tax of US$20.

Final stop was the rotten caravan to pay the district council tax of 50 Rand – which fortunately we had left over from the TIP. As it had started raining (not pathetic English rain, actual proper tropical rain), the caravan was full of people sheltering from the down pour. We managed to squash in alongside them, and even got a seat at the very wobbly and rotten table which was balanced between the broken window and the tax collector’s knee. Despite the best efforts of the table to end up on the floor, the friendly tax collector managed to skilfully – and neatly – fill in the receipt book. Assuring the crowd of sheltering onlookers that we’d be OK to make the 20m dash to the car in the torrential rain – we were English, we liked rain - they went to open the door to let us out. But the handle had broken. As one guy started to open and lean out of the window, I assume to start climbing out of it; a kind soul braved the rain and came to let us out. Essential paperwork (of which we’d gathered a surprisingly large amount in the previous 45 minutes) wedged up my top to keep it dry, we sprinted back across the pot-holed car park, dodging as many puddles as we could whilst still maintaining a course to the car. Soaking, muddy and giggling, we clambered in, and set off towards Livingstone, contemplating how we’d managed to part with nearly US $200 in such a short time, and how we’d better get a move on as we only had 3 days before we became illegals in Zambia.

So...onwards to Zim!

Friday, April 16, 2010

From the Kavango to the Zambezi – by Ellen

It was time to leave the mighty crocodile infested Kavango behind, and head to the other mighty crocodile infested river, the Zambezi. We drove through the Caprivi Strip to the furthest point in Namibia from Windhoek, Katima Mulilo. The really great thing about the Caprivi Strip is that there are elephants wondering around, and we were lucky enough to spot one, getting a great view by sitting on the roof of the car. (One thing that’s missing is a strip club – we were debating whether it should be called the Caprivi Strip Club, or the Caprivi Strip Strip Club.)

It was in Katima Molilo that we had our first encounter with the Namibian police – well our first encounter with any police for that matter; up until this point we’d been waved through any police road blocks. We were stopped at a road block and asked to step out of the car while the police searched it for firearms and ‘other things that you’re not supposed to have and if we find them we’ll arrest you and you’ll go to prison’. To be fair to them, they were very polite and, once they’d finished the least thorough search ever, they thanked us for our time and wished us a safe journey. None the less, it was a fairly nerve wracking experience. I suppose mainly because it’s so out of the ordinary for us, and I think that in situation where someone of authority seems to be accusing you of something you start to feel a little bit worried, and a little bit guilty...

Brush with the law over, we pitched our little tent (by this point so many poles had snapped that we didn't bother to put them all in) on the edge of the Zambezi, and spent our last evening in Namibia watching a huge thunder storm rumble its way across Zambia on the other side of the river.

Popa Falls - by Ellen

We left Etosha with 3750 km on the clock, and headed to the Popa Falls, on the edge of the Caprivi Strip. There’s a ‘veterinary fence’ that separates the commercial farms in the south from the subsistence farms in the north, to prevent the spread of foot and mouth and renderpest. Once through that gate the country changes.

Cattle, people and goats wonder across the road in a leisurely fashion, and hoards of school children play their way home heart-stoppingly near the road. The road is lined with traditional huts; wooden frames and thatched roofs, each family’s plot marked out by a thatched fence palisade and each family’s livestock housed in kraals (when they weren’t wondering across the road). If one of the early explorers came back to Africa today, they probably wouldn’t see much difference in the way people were living – apart from the telegraph poles, cans of coca cola and Manchester United football tops of course.

We arrived at the camp site near the Popa Falls (though they seemed more like rapids than falls to me). The Kavango river had flooded many of the camping sites, but we found a spot that, we thought, would be safe from all but the most drastic rise in the river. After much humming and haaring, and drawing water level encroachment lines in the mud by the river bank, and deciding, on the advice of someone who seemed to know what they were talking about, that we didn’t need to move the car to the top of the slope that would turn into a mud slide if it rained, we decided to go for a wonder. We kicked our flip flops off and splashed happily through the Kavango Delta (not quite as impressive as its relative, the Okavango Delta) that passed through the camp, to go and see the falls/rapids on the other side.

As we looked around us we realized that the trees looked very familiar – yes, there was a knob thorn, and there was a sickle bush! And a silver cluster leaf! And, by golly, we could hear an emerald spotted wood dove and a duet of black collared barbets! We were home: back in the same biome in which we had done our field guide course, albeit in a different country.


After a fairly sleepless night (a branch crashed from the tree above us, missing the tent and car by mere inches, then we were woken up by a security guard who was concerned that, if it rained, our chairs might get a little damp, and then the birds started…) we emerged bleary eyed from our tent to see a group of people standing by the bit of river we’d crossed the evening before. There was obviously something not quite right. But, on the plus side, the river was exactly where it had been the evening before; it hadn’t risen in the night and swept us away. We wondered down to have a look, and there, in the waterlogged undergrowth, was a crocodile. Yes, less than 10 meters from where we had happily splashed our way through the river, was a 4-5 meter croc. ‘We’re just trying to work out if this is the one that’s usually here – it looks a bit small’ said one of the staff. ‘We think this may be a new one, so then we’re not sure where the big one is today’.

And that’s the last time I venture into a river.

No Longer Stuck in the Mud in Etosha – by Ellen

Once we were back on terra firma, and I’d groveled and apologised for driving us down the road we shouldn’t go down, and promised not to ever do that again, and then apologized for getting a bit freaked out because I watch too much crap TV so all I could think about was Evan (who I love very much, especially in one piece) getting eaten by lions as he pushed the car out, when really I should have been concentrating on trying to drive us out of the mud, we headed back to camp. After giving Evan (my hero) a celebratory ‘huzzah, we’re alive!’ beer I set about washing the car. We then relocated to the final camp where Evan (who I’m very glad didn’t get eaten by lions) cooked me a yummy spag bol while I fended off the jackals.

In the night we heard hyaena (I love that sound), lions, an impala alarm call, rustling, stampeding hooves, then silence. We imagined what it would have been like to be listening to those sounds from in the car in the mud halfway down the closed road, probably really needing a pee…

Getting Stuck in the Mud in Etosha – by Evan


Hurtling along the road through the mighty Etosha Game Park, we said a nonchalant Pah! To the ‘Road Closed’ sign – that doesn’t bother us! This road is fine, Look! Watch us hurtle along! We are unstoppable! We can take this bakkie anywhere! We are like the wi… ‘Oh Dear’ we said, as we came firmly to a halt in deep, thick, sticky mud on the closed road that we shouldn’t have been driving down. The closed road that, as it was closed and we were many, many miles from camp, no one would come down to rescue us on.

Still, no bother: we can push ourselves out – the car is pretty light after all. After 15 minutes of pushing and getting (very) muddy, with Ellen at the wheel – we were very much deeper in the mud than we had first been, which wasn’t quite my plan. We had a little break, and a look under the car – which only made us slightly more panicky, as the mud was now up to the engine. Hmm. At this point it hit us that we were in a game park, and there lots of lions in the vicinity, and were Under No Circumstances to get out of the car. Hmm. Not a problem! We can phone the rangers then – embarrassing, admittedly, but we can claim we missed the road closed sign, and they can pull us out – then we can go back to camp, stick the braai on, and have a beer.

Easy.

Except that there wasn’t any reception.

Hmm.

I hopped out of the car and PUSHED and pushed and really pushed. And pushed some more. An hour later, in sweltering heat, getting ever more concerned about the lions now, and we were Very Stuck Indeed. And a little worried, admittedly…hmm…

Then we had a brain wave! Use the lids from the food containers! Put them under the wheels! Brilliant! And you know what? It s*****g worked – we finally, after only a few attempts, managed to move the car several inches, then several inches more, then a whole BLOODY FOOT I TELL YOU, and then, miraculously, we were on a hard bit of the road again. We couldn’t even see out of the front windscreen there was so much mud and I couldn’t feel my shoulder anymore, but after giving E a big kiss we headed back to camp and a hose down! Phew. Not doing that again.

(Not) Taken to the Cleaners – by Ellen

After a couple of days of hand washing, it starts to get a little boring. But we’d been assured that if we dropped our laundry off by 7am, it would be ready by midday. Perfect. So, at 7am we bagged up our stuff and went to hand it in. It had been decided that, as the incompetency and rudeness of the staff at the Etosha reception desk Really Irritated me (sorry, but PMT and the heat don’t mix well) I should stay in the car.

I watched Evan take the bag to the counter. I watched Evan be handed a sheet of paper. I watched Evan look from the piece of paper to the receptionist and back again. I watched Evan start to pace up and down. I watched Evan head back towards the car with a look of absolute disbelief on his face. He handed me the piece of paper: it was a list of laundry prices, with space by each item for you to record the number of each garment type and whether or not you wanted them ironed.


Underwear/pair: $10.00
T-Shirt: $15.00
Towel (medium): $55.00
Handkerchief: $5.00
Trousers: $45.00

Not only would it probably be quicker to hand-wash everything we owned than count out our undies, decide whether we wanted them ironed, and fill in the form, but our bill would probably have been around $800.00 – that’s about 80 quid. For laundry. For laundry.

Sigh.

Toilets and Vultures – by Ellen

Trying not to think about the fact that we were being charged $400/night (≈£40) for the pleasure of camping in what was, essentially, a very cramped and dusty car park, we hammered the tent pegs into the rocky ground. Well, we hammered them and they sort of crumpled and twisted and bent and then a little tiny bit of them poked into the ground. Giving up on pegs we weighed it down by filling it with our stuff, and set off back into the game park. By the time we saw the first lion, we’d even managed to forget about the noisy tour group that had started to set up camp about 2 inches from our tent. But I was soon reminded of my outrage when we stopped at the loo. It was filthy, smelly, broken and disgusting, with no running water and no loo roll. And don’t start with the ‘but you’re in Africa….’ stuff. We were in one of the country’s premier tourist destinations, where each camper – camper – was paying $200/night. And they couldn’t even maintain the toilets. NWbl**dyR.

Anyway…there were the lions, lying in the grass, ears twitching and tails flicking, fully focused on the herd of zebra that was obliviously heading their way. The lioness charged – but she’d been impatient and hasty, and the zebra quickly turned and fled, the lioness giving up a few meters into the chase…exciting stuff none the less!

We did a few days driving round, sometimes seeing lots of stuff: more lions chasing zebras, zebras ‘getting some sexy time’, some cheetah, lots of my favorite antelope oryx (to look at, not to eat – my favorite to eat is eland) and lots of birds to add to Evan’s list - and sometimes seeing no stuff. Possibly the strangest thing we saw was when we were by a watering hole watching the vultures and a Maribou Stork (astoundingly ugly carrion-eating birds which make vultures look really cute and cuddly). One of the vultures was skulking in a typically pensive and depressed vulture-esque way on the top branch of a dead tree. Along came a Maribou Stork, who decided that - as the biggest and ugliest bird in the area - it deserved the highest vantage point from which to scan for any hapless herbivores who may be about to meet an untimely end at the jaws of a crafty carnivore. And so it got the highest vantage point – by landing squarely on the back of the White Backed Vulture. The vulture managed to wriggle free, and then resumed its skulking (in an even more pensive and depressed vulture-esque manner) on a lower branch of the dead tree.

Rock Paintings and Petrified Forests – by Ellen

Near Twyfelfontein (‘Doubtful Fountain’) are some fantastic KhoiSan rock engravings and paintings, which are about 6,000 and 2,000 years old respectively. There were carvings of concentric circles representing water, dancing kudus and a lion man, and paintings of hunters with bows and arrows. It was not unusual to find paintings of seals hundreds of miles in-land; the nomadic KhoiSan would travel vast distances depending on season and food supply. These rocks were used to educate the younger generations, and pass down hunting knowledge and stories, as well as depicting their spiritual beliefs.

Once we’d had a good wonder around the rocks we set off for the Petrified Forest. An authentic hand-drawn sign directed us along a very bumpy track to a deserted car park. We went to the precariously balanced wooden hut that served as on office (luckily there was a sign above it saying ‘office’ otherwise I’m not sure we’d have guessed it was an office) paid our entrance fee to the slightly bigger child, then followed the slightly smaller child up the rocky hillside. Our ‘guide’ did a fantastic job of pointing things out – his favorite things were the kudu and warthog skulls that were placed at strategic points along the path. Things of interest, such as the very dead-looking Welwitschia plants, had been highlighted by neat circles of stones.
The petrified trees were fascinating. The rings of the tree could be seen quite clearly, each one a slightly different colour, and each one turned to stone. It was very surreal to touch what you assumed was a tree, but feel rock, and see crystal deposits between the rings. According to our book, the trees are estimated to be around 260 million years old, and as there are no roots attached to the trunks, it is thought they were deposited by a huge flood.

Thanking and tipping our guide (and telling him to study hard at school) we waved good bye. We’d not gone more than 25 meters down the road when we saw another, authentic-looking hand painted sign, but this one was for the ‘Best Petrified Forest’. The next authentic-looking hand-painted sign boasted not one, not two, but ‘THREE Petrified Forests’! We stared to wonder if, perhaps, we had just visited one of the ‘unofficial’ petrified forests of Namibia.

We turned a corner to be greeted by a very official and not at all authentic-looking non-hand painted sign, which pointed to the actual entrance of the actual, official petrified forest. Oh well. One dead tree looks very much like another, I guess. And also, good on them for showing a bit of initiative and setting up their own! And at least this way the money would be going straight to the people: we’d given more than enough of our money to the Namibian Wildlife Resorts and their crazy pricing system – and were about to be stung for a lot more…

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Dop Steek - by Evan


Probably the best experience I had when driving through Nambia was coming across the concept of ‘Dop Steek’. We were driving along in the middle of nowhere, enjoying the fact that we were now several hundred kms from the Skeleton Coast (that place is seriously spooky and gave us both the willies) when we drove through a little mountain pass, beside which two 4x4s were stopped and a small group of farmers were standing around chatting. Seeing us drive by, they waved frantically for us to stop – accordingly I came to an abrupt halt, and reversed up the road in a state of real puzzlement: what could we possibly do to help a group of Afrikaans farmers – surely I would be of no practical help whatsoever if they were broken down? I mean, look at me for Chrissakes.

I jumped out of the car and walked over – to be told that we had narrowly avoided a serious accident. Thoughts flashed through my mind, mainly along the lines of: there must be something bad up the road ahead, perhaps hijackers or a massive supernova-sized pothole? It transpired, however, that what this was, was a Dop Steek. In English, this is essentially a place that it is unlucky to pass through without having an alcoholic drink. One of the farmers had driven past there the previous and month and not stopped for a drink, and had had a puncture and lost a wheel – so we were lucky they stopped us (according to our new found friends).

I then fetched Ellen from the car, and we were each given a shot of brandy out of a limpet shell, and a beer. It is also worth pointing out that this was 11am in the morning (and it wasn’t their first drink). After some cheery toasts, and two more shots apiece for our new friends, they were off, leaving me to ponder the fact that I hadn’t often been pulled over on English roads whilst driving along in the morning, and told to do a shot of brandy by people I’d never met before. Most bizarre.

Skeleton Coast - by Ellen

We were glad to see the back of Swakopmund, and we re-traced our steps (I managed not to throw a wobbly this time) along the salt road into the Skeleton Coast National Park. The park gates were fantastic! Huge staring cut outs of the skull and crossbones had been stuck to each gate, and whale bones had been piled along the wall.
We’d been told by a friend that the ‘Skeleton Coast is a strange and creepy place, and the devil lives there’. And I think they may well be right. The wind howled around the car. On our left was mile after mile of crashing waves battering angrily against the dirty white sand. On our right was mile after mile of dirty white sand, stretching to the mountains shimmering in the heat on the horizon. Every so often we would turn off the main road to go and see one of the many shipwrecks, some were no more than the rusting bones of the ship, others had recently met their fate more recently. It was hard not to think of all the people who had been shipwrecked along this coast. The elation at surviving the storm, at being alive and on land must have quickly vanished as they hauled themselves out of the freezing water, onto the sand and clambered over the first line of sand dunes, sure that they’d see green grass and the smoke of a welcoming fire. I think at the point they realized that there was no life in the vast wasteland, and that even if they made it across the desert they’d then have to negotiate the mountains they must have wished that they’d perished in the sea.


Whenever I’d heard of desert mirages, I’d always assumed that you only saw them occasionally, usually when you were lost, tired and dehydrated. But there was ‘water’ everywhere we looked. The spookiest mirage was when we looked over to our left, and saw desert, sea, desert, sea – there shouldn’t have been any land beyond that first line of sea. Trying to figure out which bit was actually land, and which bit was actually sea was really difficult, and you did start to wonder whether you were going crazy, and whether any of what you were seeing was really there at all. Fortunately, before we could enact out our plan to hop out of the car and run over there to have a look, our turning came up and we beat a hasty retreat from this land of mirage and madness.

2198.4km to the Tropic of Capricorn - by Ellen

We had a lazy last breakfast at Sesriem; I followed the jackal tracks around the tent (sadly no sign of my crisps or the kettle box) while Evan shared his cornflakes with a flock of Sociable Weavers. Then back on the road, once again heading north. At 2198.4km we crossed into the Tropic of Capricorn.

We stopped for lunch in the middle of the desert, under the shade of a huge Camelthorn tree. Again the stunning scenery enhanced the flavor of the 2 minute noodles, which we washed down with a couple of beers that were – miraculously – still cold. We turned onto the C14 road, and bumped and bounced and jolted and lurched and jiggled and rattled our way along that for pretty much eternity. The road led us into the desert and back towards Walvis Bay on the coast. Walvis Bay is an industrial salt manufacturing town, nestled into the dirty grey sand. We decided to head on to Swakopmund instead – apparently it’s one of the places you should go to in Namibia - but didn’t think much of that either. Despite the fact that it was getting late, we turned on to the salt road and continued north, to try and stay at one of the fishermen’s campsites on the coast.

We got stuck behind the workmen who were watering the road, so within a couple of minutes the bakkie was turned into a giant portable salt lick – just in time for heading to Etosha National Park. We got as far as Henties Bay (more aptly re-named Panties Bay) didn’t think much of that. By this point I was getting a Little Tired, and threw a Little Bit of a Wobbly. So Evan stopped the car, walked round, opened my door, dragged me out, threw me down beside the road and drove off. Of course, he didn’t really, because he’s far too patient and kind and lovely and wonderful, but it would have been completely understandable if he did. Instead he drove his sulking wife back to Swakopmund.

We turned up at the only place where we knew we could camp, and were informed that yes, of course we could camp in their campsite, for the small fee of NAM$200 (about £20). Their ‘campsite’ was actually a tiny bit of ‘lawn’ in the ‘garden’ between the 5 other tents that had somehow managed to squeeze into the space. The alternative accommodation was a double en-suite room in the house with use of a kitchen for NAM$300 (£30). Bit of a no-brainer really.

We had the kitchen, dining room and living room to ourselves, but it would have been easier to cook on the CADAC in the garden – everytime I turned the electric hob up (which anyway was pointless as despite the dial indicating it was capable of different temperatures, it only really had ‘off’ or ‘hot enough to burn your food in 23 seconds’) the fuse blew and we were plunged into darkness. Anyway, the bed was comfy and the shower was great.

Of Sand Dunes and Jackals - by Ellen

After what seemed like a never-ending (though once out of the sand, thankfully uneventful) drive, we arrived in Sesriem, the entry point for Soussousvlei and the Namib Desert. After a not brilliant night’s sleep (I was still upset that the jackals and come and stolen our cheese from the cool box the second our backs were turned) we were up well before dawn. We pushed the car out of the sand (again) and followed the line of sleepy cars that were headed for the dunes.

We stopped at Dune 45, and followed the line of sleepy footprints that led up the side of the dune. Dune 45 is one of the biggest sand dunes in the world, and at 6.35am after little sleep and no breakfast, it’s a long, tough climb. But we made it to the top (well, near enough) in time to watch the sun rise over the sea of sand, turning the dunes from dusky pink to vibrant orange.

Fuelled by a peanut butter sandwich, we then set off to tackle the desert. The main vleis (dry river beds) are 5k further into the desert, and only accessible by 4WD, and there is a shuttle service. But where’s the fun in that?! We set off, barefoot, into the desert.

We made it to Soussousvlei, and there it seemed that the done thing to do was climb another sand dune, so up we trudged (and I only moaned about my sore hips a couple of times – man I’m getting old and creaky). But once I reached the top I wondered why I ever considered not climbing it. The orange sea stretched as far as the eye could see, broken up only by the white, cracked dry river bed, and the dead twisted camel thorn trees. And, of course, once up, you have to go down.

I would recommend running down a sand dune to anyone. There is no way you can do anything but scream and smile and whoop with pure, childish joy as you run down the 45º slope, feet sinking into the dune up to your knees, sand being kicked up filling hair, clothes, eyes, pockets. Seriously: go and find the nearest, biggest sand dune and give it a go.

As we set off on the 5k walk back to the car, we were passed by a Landy full of people who waved gleefully at us. “Vere iz your car? Iz it stuck in zee sand again?” Aah, the Germans! The second Landy of their group passed us, and the guide persuaded us to get in – I don’t think he could bear the thought of us two crazy English people wondering unattended through sandy places. Grudgingly we hopped in, and we hadn’t gone more than 50 meters when we came across the first half of their group – who had broken down in the sand.

We didn’t quite understand the exact wording of the comment, but by the raucous laughter and the fact that all heads turned in our direction, it was quite probably something along the lines of “it’s the English couple’s fault”. We hopped back out again to allow them to all squeeze in to one vehicle, and once again set out into the desert. They soon cruised past us, the guy hanging on to the back giving the peace sign and shouting “Victory! Victory!” at the top of his lungs.

The sun was directly overhead by now, and we stopped in what little shade we could find to apply yet another thick layer of sun cream and have our two sip ration of water. I’m not sure how they got in there, but there were ants in our water. We started off with about 10 of them, and I think we got about half each. Well, you need what little protein you can get when trekking through the desert. Spurred on by the thought of the Grapefruit Juice (with Real Fruit Cells)…Grapefruit Juice (with Real Fruit Cells)…Grapefruit Juice (with Real Fruit Cells)…Grapefruit Juice (with Real Fruit Cells) that was waiting for us in the car, we made it back to the car - just in time before the desert madness really kicked in.

I know that this shouldn’t have been a surprise, seeing as we were in a desert, but there really was sand and dust everywhere. We have pretty much no dust proofing seal around the back of the bakkie, and it was almost impossible to identify our possessions under the layer of reddish-brown. Even the dust had a layer of dust.

The jackals came again that night: this time they took a packet of crisps and the card board box that we keep the kettle in. Since then they’ve also managed to steal the salt and the olive oil. I’m not sure what it is, but they’re definitely up to something…


Driving through sand, and then getting stuck - by Evan

The trick to driving through sand, I quickly discovered, was to obey Rule 1: DO NOT STOP under any circumstances, even when you are not entirely sure where the car is taking you. Because if you do stop, then you can’t move again. Which is a bit annoying when it’s 40 degrees and you’re several miles from anywhere, and it’s just occurred to you that you’re not a member of any African equivalent of the AA, so if you do get stuck miles from anywhere, and it’s 40 degrees, then there’s not actually that much you can do about it except sit and look at the blue sky and sigh quietly.

Luckily when this did happen a massive group of German tourists appeared from nowhere in a coach. Hurrah! They then proceeded to push our little bakkie out of the sand, and I happily coasted to a hard bit of road where Ellen and I sat and enjoyed being Not Stuck In A Desert. Unhappily, it then dawned on them that, as they’d (cleverly) stopped just behind us in the deep sand, thus disregarding Rule 1, they were now Very Stuck themselves. Which was more of a problem as they had an enormous coach.

After an hour of pushing in the sweltering heat, we finally moved them out by stealing the poles from a nearby fence and placing them under the wheels of their coach. The cows surrounding us seemed reluctant to take full advantage of their new found freedom, but they are probably doing so as I write this. The driver of the coach party later confided in us that he wasn’t entirely sure that he had enough petrol to take his tour group to their destination, and giggled maniacally when he verbally painted the picture to us of a group of middle aged Germans trundling through the desert without any water. The sun does funny things to people, I find.

Ghost Towns and Sea Lions - by Ellen

Next we headed to the coastal town of Luderitz, a Germanic town which had sprung to prosperity during the diamond rush of the early 1900’s. Our route took us through some stunning scenery; flat plains dotted with acacia trees against a backdrop of craggy mountains. This was the ‘classic’ African landscape I’d been picturing, albeit on a much smaller scale than the Serengeti. We drove along the harbour wall to Shark Island (which is actually no longer an island, and we didn’t see any sharks) to set up camp in possibly the windiest location imaginable. As we clambered over boulders in search of a sheltered spot, the wind almost knocked me off my feet. Seagulls flapped manically against the wind, getting nowhere, then suddenly giving up and being flung backwards at high speed. We decided that, seeing as our tent poles had a habit of spontaneously snapping on wind-free days, and that if it did blow away whilst we were putting it up it would end up in the crashing waves, never to be seen again, we should probably sleep in the bakkie. By cramming logs into a crevice in the rocks we managed to sustain a fire long enough to heat the food, then we curled up (literally) in the car to be rocked to sleep by the wind.


The next day we visited Kolmanskuppe Ghost Town, just outside Luderitz. During the diamond rush this had been a bustling – and extremely wealthy – town of around 3,500 people. The diamonds in the area (some mining is still going on) we all found within 1 ½ meters of the surface – so perhaps ‘mining’ is the wrong adjective: people could simply crawl across the sand and gather the diamonds by hand. By 1927 the town had a skittle alley, a theatre, a hospital and a school and each house had electricity, flush toilets, fresh water and refrigeration. This is mind blowing considering that, as the town is in the desert, everything had to imported either by rail or sea. Ice would be made in the ice-house daily and delivered to each house by the ox-pulled train that also served as a taxi for the ladies so they didn’t need to get their skirts sandy. They even had a soda stream (!! – and I thought that was an 80’s thing). Fresh water, understandably, was extremely precious and expensive: it was actually cheaper to drink champagne than water! By 1957, however, the town was completely deserted: bigger diamonds had been found near the Orange River. It didn’t take long for the desert to reclaim the town, and now the buildings are home to sand dunes, rats and birds.


We also spent some time exploring the Luderitz peninsula, a remote and surreal place where the desert meets the Atlantic. Mist, wind and flies abound. From here we could see Halifax Island, home to a colony of penguins – and staked out by sea lions. We stayed at a camp site on Diaz Point (only being granted entry once we’d assured the 90 year old lady owner that we were very quiet people and weren’t going to ‘drink lots of beer and make noise and play those loud musical instruments like guitars’. From our private cove we could watch the sea lions and dolphins playing and fishing just offshore.

Fish River Canyon - by Ellen

Fish River Canyon was dizzyingly huge, each curve of the river opened up yet another fissure in the earth, exposing layer upon layer of ancient sedimentation. It is second only to the Grand Canyon, at 160km long and 600m deep - and growing all the time. I can’t imagine that the Grand Canyon would ever be that devoid of tourists; it felt almost as though you were discovering it alone, re-discovering long forgotten dust tracks that headed to the horizon – until yet another 4WD hurtled past. We saw a walking path snaking down the cliffs to the orange-brown river below; according to the map this was the first exit route out of the canyon for walkers who’d entered at the main camp, about 85km away. Eyes feasted on the view as stomachs dined on 2 minute noodles (the taste of which is markedly improved by location).

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

567 k to Namibia – by Ellen

As we crossed the border into Namibia, the counter in the car read 567km, the total distance we’d travelled since we bought the car. “Ooh, we’re in Namibia, doesn’t it look different” I quipped, but after just a few minutes it really did. The mountains we’d been driving through opened out, revealing a flat, arid land and a token ‘welcome to Namibia’ sand dune – we’d reached desert country. The sign to our destination - Ai-Ais - took us down a D-road. Roads in Namibia start from B (perhaps they’re saving A for that 5-lane super highway?), with B being the lovely tarred motorway, C being gravel roads that are graded (big trucks driven by smiling waving Namibians spread out the gravel and sand to flatten the road) frequently, and D being not quite so frequently graded (D for dodgier perhaps?). We’d been told that we were ‘probably’ ok to go on D-roads, so on we went.

Ai-Ais translates as ‘place of burning/scalding water’, due to the hot springs (around 65ºC) that are found in the area. The campsite there is one of two that allows easy access to Fish River Canyon – one of the places on the map of Southern Africa that we’d been staring at in our little Brighton flat for the last few months. We found a nice secluded, tree-shaded spot in the corner of the dusty campsite, and sweated to put the tent up. It was hot. We were used to the heat now, but this was a sweaty, dusty, breezeless hot, warmed up in a heat-trap between the mountains. But we’d seen the pool so as we hammered the pegs in to the rock-hard ground, and fixed yet another broken tent pole, we kept the image of diving into cool, refreshing water in our minds. Once the tent was securely duck taped into position, we set off for the well earned swim. I dipped a toe in the shallow end. Strangely warm, must be the sun.

I jumped in…and the heat of the pool took my breath away. I wouldn’t even have my bath that hot. Who would put a hot spring pool in Africa?! Four lengths of the pool and I collapsed panting in the sun to try and cool off.

Cape Town to Springbok – by Ellen

Cederburg Wilderness Area

Our first stop was Algeria, which is just up the road from Lebanon, where we set up camp under the shade of giant Eucalyptus trees. We managed not only succeeded in putting the tent up the right way round, but also to braai the chicken to African, not English standards (i.e. it was tasty and juicy, not burnt on the outside and frozen in the middle). We spent the evening lying back and gazing at the stars, glad that we knew what at least some of them were called.

The next morning we donned our walking shoes somewhat later than anticipated. This meant that our climb up the steep, shade-less mountain coincided perfectly with the heat of the day. After considerable more twists and turns up the mountain than were shown on the map, we scrambled over some boulders to be met with the magical sight of a waterfall cascading down into a sun-lit pool. Stripping down to undies in record time we sunk into the icy cold water. Mmm…bliss.

We then spent a wonderful lazy weekend of drinking eating and swimming in pools with some of the wonderful ‘Karongwe Krew’ who came up from Cape Town for our Tent Warming Party. It felt horribly lonely once they’d all left, and I think for the first time it dawned on us that it was just the two of us on our own now. The entire campsite emptied that night, and as we cooked Sausages and Beans for Two, the sky turned dark with storm clouds. They were actually the most amazing storm clouds we’d ever seen, great fluffy bulbous lumps of them turned bright pinks and oranges by the setting sun as they hung down below the main body of cloud. I really wouldn’t have been that surprised if an alien space ship had appeared. Scared, possibly, but not surprised. We followed the lead of the giant spider (who’s multiple eyes glinted in the torch light) that had taken shelter under the gazebo, and took cover from the storm.

Lightening….ten, eleven twelve…thunder. Lightening…one, two, three…thunder. The ground under our thin bed rolls was shaking and, yes, I may have hidden my head under my sleeping bag – but that was only because the lightening made it too bright to sleep…

Velorenvlei, Elandsbaai

We then headed to Elandsbaai on the coast for a few nights in the Vlorenvlei Wetlands. Sitting in the bird hide on the edge of the estuary we watched Darters, Flamingos and Pelicans, whilst the Sunbirds fed on the nectar pink hibiscus flowers outside our tent and an African Fish Eagle soared overhead.

A Wonderful Bird is the Pelican -
His Beak can Hold More than his Belly Can.


We tried to get Evan’s Bird List up to the century mark, but sadly bird 100 evaded identification in the failing light (and the beers probably didn’t help either). A later recount, however, revealed an admin error involving the unfortunate omission of the Little Swift so we had belated celebrations of this ornithological milestone with a nice cup of horlix.

We went to see the San Rock Art in a cave with stunning view over the bay. It is thought that at the time the cave was first used as a shelter the coast was 100km further away; as the sea encroached on the land, the diet of these cave dwellers changed from meat to fish. We strolled along the white sand beaches, dodging cray fish carcasses, and kelp curled up like giant snakes, picking up shells and watching porpoises dance in the surf.

And, of course, the storms followed us. And with the storms came the insects. We beat a hasty retreat to the tent. And the insects followed. Lying there in the dark we could hear the angry mob of mosquitoes flinging themselves against the tent, as though by sheer numbers they’d be able to break through and get to the fresh English blood they could smell. Crickets joined the army, pinging off the roof like popcorn. Poking the side of the tent raised the pitch from an ominous drone to an angry whine, and the thunder started again – now was not a good time to need to pee.
We awoke to what could easily have been the height of summer in Wales; grey clouds rolling over a back drop of mountain and lake, seen through a net curtain of drizzle. We watched the remaining mozzies make groggily make their way out into the light of day. It was time to make the push north to Springbok, our final destination in ZA. After a night in a tent with concrete sides, electricity and television (I think they call it a ‘room’) we donned our ZA sticker and headed for the boarder.