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.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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 $200 in such a short time, and how we’d better get a move on as we only had 3 days before we became illegals in Zambia.
So...onwards to Zim!
After managing to coax some money out of an ATM and exchange it for US$ 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.
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.
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…
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.
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.
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…
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.
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.
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…
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.
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).
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