Namibia Part 2
To Sesfontein
The next morning, the 24 August, we left the campsite and headed to Sesfontein. We wanted to avoid the main graded track that ran from Purros and take an interesting, less used route that would initially take us towards the coast along Hoarusib river bed and then south across a high plateau before descending into another green lifeline, the dry bed of the Hoanib River, said to be used by desert elephant, that would then lead us inland to Sesfontein.
From the start it was a gem of a route; the Hoarusib had cut its way through a mountain range creating a long canyon within which was a dramatic, high sided gorge (known locally as a poort). A shallow stream surfaced irregularly in parts of the winding river bed and although we did not see the ‘desert’ lions John said were living there, we did see their spoor in the wet sand, discovered whilst Peter was examining some rocks!
The high plateau, speckled with the black dots of game and studded with ‘kopjes’ (Afrikaans for rocky outcrops) extended to the far horizon in every direction. When we descended to the Hoanib River our route inland took us past springbok, gemsbok, giraffe and desert elephant. Following the warnings in the Bradt Guide, to give elephants and in particular desert elephants a wide berth, we navigated the wide river bed with great caution; even so whilst looking at one restful bull, another appeared in Peter’s wing mirror a few yards away and heading towards us looking anything but restful .... a discrete but swift exit followed! Then, after passage through the Ganamub canyon, we rejoined the graded track from Purros some 4 miles short of Sesfontein. It was early evening and we were exhausted, but that was nothing compared to our elation at the vindication of our choice of route. What a great day it had been!
No Money!Having spent the night in the Fig Tree community campsite, we set about tracking down the ATM that was recorded as being in Sesfontein. We discovered the ATM in the sole general store, but much to our alarm it would only issue money to Namibian account holders. Oh lors! We were in the middle of nowhere, had only some loose change left, were low on fuel, had no food apart from some tinned vegetables and needed to recharge the cooker’s gas bottle. Having determined the maximum distance we could travel with the fuel we had, there was no alternative but to change our planned ‘scenic’ route to Etosha Game Park and head east to the nearest town, Outjo, some 150 miles away.
Outjo
We left the Kaokoveld behind, crossed the 4,800’ high Grootberg Pass and headed towards Outjo; exchanging untrammelled wilderness for cattle ranching, the gravel track turned to tar and fencing lined the road. We couldn’t avoid it forever! The land became flatter and the road ahead of us led to the horizon, a straight black line stretching to eternity.
Outjo turned out to be the perfect stopover on the way to Etosha. It had banks, ATMs (that accepted our card!), supermarkets (of sorts!), hardware stores (able to refill our gas bottle!) and a superb bakery-cum-eatery. Attached to the Outjo Backerei was an internet cafe enabling us to get in touch with family and friends; importantly, after a long period incommunicado, Liz was able at last to discuss in detail ‘weddings’ with Louisa. The wedding was less than three months away! The Backerei, an excellent place to chill out over tea and cakes, was very much a window into Namibia’s colonial past. Germans first settled in what was to become German South West Africa in the late C19, these settlers having ‘bought’ or forcibly removed black Africans (mainly pastoralists and hunter gatherers) from the prime farming land, were themselves swamped by a second influx of white farmers, the Boers, after WW1 when South Africa gained control of what was to become Namibia. Today white Namibians are the most affluent section of society, and dominate most of the commercial farming and virtually all of the tourist industry whilst their language retains colonial overtones; many regard German as their first language and those who don’t, speak Afrikaans. English as the ‘language of the liberation struggle’ was untainted by colonialism, a rare occurrence, and since independence has been Namibia’s only official language. The Backerei was white owned and patronised by white German speaking Namibians and, bearing in mind colonial history, it was hardly surprising to find at this popular tourist watering hole that German speaking tourists were the dominant species.
Liz’s Hair DisasterWe felt we needed a bit of TLC, so stayed at the Austrian run Etosha Garden Hotel in Outjo. It was rightly renowned for a marvellous extensive game menu and the staff couldn’t have been more helpful. So much so that when Liz asked if there was a hairdresser in town, the receptionist said there was not and offered to cut Liz’s hair herself. As this was a bit of freelance work in office hours, the haircut had to be done surreptitiously in our room. A discrete knock on our door announced the receptionist’s arrival; Liz’s alarm at the size of the pair of scissors in her hand elicited the response that they were the smallest she could find in the kitchen! There was no time for second thoughts as Liz was sat down in a chair in front of a small mirror and the ‘hairdresser’ began her work. By squinting hard in the mirror Liz was able to see and ‘constructively’ comment upon what was happening to the front of her hair; it was as the receptionist was proudly standing back to admire her creation at the back that the comment, ‘it’s first time I’ve cut anyone’s hair’! caused Liz to worry about what lay out of sight. Peter’s views on the haircut in general were less than complementary; the words ‘medieval’, ‘basin’ and ‘moth eaten’ were used, whilst the hair ‘style’ at the rear earned an unkind guffaw and a ‘bloody hell!’. (The seriously jagged and deeply stepped hair at the back was fortunately out of sight and out of mind for the next four weeks until our arrival in South Africa, when a horrified hairdresser said he had never ever seen such a dreadful haircut in all his professional career!).
Etosha National Park
We left Outjo on the 27 August and made the journey to Etosha National Park; as a feature of travel in Namibia away from Kaokoland is the unending boredom of one seemingly unending dead straight road after another, we were glad it was only an hour away! At the park gates we paid the hefty entrance fee and were able to book a pitch at the Okaukuejo Restcamp in the Park. We were fortunate to get in, a combination of school holidays and the dry season (prime game viewing time) meant the expensive, dusty and largely unshaded campsite was crowded. We were surrounded by cars, 4x4’s, campervans, tents, tour groups and tourists; not what we were used to! But the Restcamp did have a reasonably sized swimming pool and, our reason for choosing it, on one side a water hole which in the dry season attracted a wide variety of game, particularly in the evening and during the night when it was floodlit. The animals were unperturbed by the lights, the whispered conversations or camera flash lights. Everybody sat around in a semi circle, slightly raised and behind a low wall; we watched enthralled, despite the slightly zoo-like nature of it all, as lion, elephant, rhino, giraffe, zebra, antelope and jackal came to slake their thirst. Some warily taking their time, others strolling to the water’s edge showing no concern for predators at all.
The Restcamp reception sold large bags of sized Mopane wood (the braai expert’s wood of choice!);Peter bought a bag and put his braai instruction into practice, adding to the smoke and red glow of coals as a meal of boerewors, pork loin, baked potatoes and grilled peppers, onion and pumpkin reached perfection! Quite delicious and we felt very ‘Southern African’!
During our two days in Etosha we drove around an extensive dusty network of tracks leading from one waterhole to another. The majority of the water holes were artificially fed, providing water this way prevents animals, in particular elephant, migrating to traditional dry season water supplies now on farm land. Some water holes were completely man made; either an enormous trough at ground level or a large concrete pond; the slippery and steeply shelving sides could be a danger for young, boisterous elephant. At one such water hole we witnessed one calf having to be rescued by a phalanx of waving, pulling trunks.
The game we saw was stunning in its number, variety and proximity; in particular, and contrary to perceived wisdom, midday and the hottest time of day was excellent for getting close up to them. Elephants filled the track ahead; brushing past Boris as they headed for a drink; bull elephants, seemingly materialising out of nowhere and a ghostly light grey from a dust bath, stood shuffling from one foot to the other, trunk swaying to and fro and standing mountain-like above zebra and quarrelsome antelope, whilst nearby comatose groups of overheated springbok huddled in a trance under slender fingers of shade.
Under the influence of this trance the latter, normally very wary animals, were quite unfazed as we drove to within a yard or so of them.
Etosha Pan
Etosha is really a series of waterholes in a southerly semi circle around one vast 2,500 square mile pan, the remnant of a huge lake that ceased to exist over 10 million years ago. Seasonal rain may irregularly and partially fill the pan with water for a few weeks but then, until the water next returns, the pan is dry, dry, dry! Few animals, apart from the hardiest of antelope inhabited the pan. Wildlife was not the hold it had over us; Liz loved the tranquillity, desolation and magnitude of the silvery pan that, flat as a billiard table and cut with long black belts of light warping mirages, stretched to the far horizon. For us it was very much a key part of the National Park.
Roy’s Camp
On the 29 August we left Etosha and began to head for Namibia’s northern border with Botswana, the Caprivi Strip. Yet more long, straight tarred roads took us to within a day’s drive to the border and in the late afternoon we stopped at a B&B with a campsite, some 80 miles short of the last major town before ’The Strip’, Rundu. Roy’s Camp was quiet and shady with plenty of birdlife. There were only two other sets of campers. The closest was an English couple, both keen ‘birders’ and making the most of what the wildlife had to offer; the other was a pair of young overlanders, Bruce and Sarah, who had been living in the UK for some years but were now returning to the Durban area, having driven down the eastern side of Africa. We spent a pleasant evening with them, exchanging travel stories about the trips we had been on. They suggested we visit a ‘great’ campsite, Ngepi, in the Caprivi Strip, close to a couple of places we wanted to visit before leaving Namibia and only 30 minutes from the border.
Ngepi Camp
Having decided to take their advice, we first drove to Rundu where we spent, or more accurately wasted the morning trying without success to get some Botswana currency from the three banks in the town. Frustrated, we headed on to Ngepi Camp; the road lined with tree some of whose leaves were turning yellow as the effects of the dry season took hold, lending an autumnal feel to the journey. On the roadside neat bundles of thatching grass were lying in great piles, ready for sale to anyone needing to reroof their hut.
We reached the sandy track leading to Ngepi Camp and headed across a grassy floodplain towards trees lining the banks of the Okavango River. We hadn’t booked, but our concerns at not getting a pitch were unnecessary... there was room at the inn! Our pitch was right on the bank of the wide fast flowing river that was making its way to Botswana, where it would fan out into the world famous delta before sinking from view. The camp lived up to all that Bruce and Sarah had said about it; it was in a superb location, there were hippos grunting in the river, elephants drinking on the far bank and birds everywhere.
It also without doubt had the most amusing and eccentric ‘ablutions’ we had ever come across and all were done in the best possible taste! Those close by were enclosed in a tall wall-cum-screen of dried river reed and open to the stars, inside the loo had open wooden steps leading up to it and the shower base nestled amongst a low growing botanical garden. Elsewhere one loo, named ‘Poopa Falls’, atop a wooden lookout tower, had a low stable door that allowed the occupant to overlook the floodplain; another, with ‘The King’s Throne’ on the door, was ‘open plan’ on the side that overlooked the river; and a bath tub, similarly located, followed suit.
There was also a ‘swimming pool’ in the river; in effect a 10’ by10’ cage moored in the river that allowed the river water to flow through whilst keeping the crocs at bay! The current passing through the cage was so strong we had to swim hard just to stay in the centre of the ‘pool’.
Popa Falls
We enjoyed Ngepi Camp so much that we spent three nights there. From the Camp we were able to visit Popa Falls. The falls were in a Reserve and turned out to be largely hidden from view by impenetrable vegetation, even when standing on the river bank. Our frustration was relieved by an enterprising young man who paddled up in a canoe and offered to take us to the central island and guide us around the falls on foot. The thin wooden canoe, cut from a single tree trunk, had seen better days; the soggy sacking in the bottom testament to the fact that it was no longer fully water proof. The canoe was low in the water and seemed to wobble alarmingly with every paddle stroke our guide made; uncomfortable visions of a capsized canoe and an unscheduled encounter with a hungry crocodile faded as we approached the island.
John (they all seem to be called John!) spoke good English and, as he led us in a scramble over rocks and gullies, told us he wanted to become a game park ranger which explained his enthusiasm for and knowledge of the local flora and fauna. In a very gentlemanly fashion he helped Liz cross some of the worst of the water filled gullies (and as a result she becoming quite taken by him) and brought us to point from where we could see the falls.
In reality they were more rapids than falls, but dramatic nonetheless. We returned to the safety of the home bank in a canoe that was so low in the water it was in danger of becoming a submarine; water lapped within inches of the top of the sides and our heads seemed to be the only part of us above the waterline!
As we walked back up the track away from the river we couldn’t help but see an A4 sized notice from the Reserve authorities which, on closer inspection, quite clearly stated that taking an unauthorised canoe ride with a local was strictly prohibited and would incur arrest, a large fine or even imprisonment. Cripes! We had so enjoyed ourselves and the company of our teenage guide that we felt like tearing it down lest others were cowed into missing out on the experience.
Mahango National Park
We left Ngepi Camp on 2nd September, saying goodbye to the friends we had made there; in particular a charming Dutch family who had camped close by, the Breeman family, fellow birders and African travellers. We made our way along a gravel track towards the Mahango National Park and the Botswana border that was its eastern border. Mahango, one of the smallest parks in Namibia and largely pristine Okavango River floodplain, was no more than a short half day detour, but certainly worth the visit. Attracted to its patches of waterlogged grassland were all sorts of birds and quantities of antelope, including the scarce red lechwe; in the dark reed lined ponds were numerous yawning, grunting and defecating hippos. Hippos carry out the latter in a fashion reminiscent of a farmer’s muck spreader; bottom and tail thrashing to and fro’ in frantic unison spraying ‘the muck’ far and wide! Despite this antisocial, juvenile behaviour, the night time noise of the hippo had become a great favourite of ours; we had just loved its guttural belly-laugh like grunts of ‘huh-huh-huh-huh’ with its descending pitch that rang out over the river beside our camp site.
To the Border
The next morning, the 24 August, we left the campsite and headed to Sesfontein. We wanted to avoid the main graded track that ran from Purros and take an interesting, less used route that would initially take us towards the coast along Hoarusib river bed and then south across a high plateau before descending into another green lifeline, the dry bed of the Hoanib River, said to be used by desert elephant, that would then lead us inland to Sesfontein.
From the start it was a gem of a route; the Hoarusib had cut its way through a mountain range creating a long canyon within which was a dramatic, high sided gorge (known locally as a poort). A shallow stream surfaced irregularly in parts of the winding river bed and although we did not see the ‘desert’ lions John said were living there, we did see their spoor in the wet sand, discovered whilst Peter was examining some rocks!
The high plateau, speckled with the black dots of game and studded with ‘kopjes’ (Afrikaans for rocky outcrops) extended to the far horizon in every direction. When we descended to the Hoanib River our route inland took us past springbok, gemsbok, giraffe and desert elephant. Following the warnings in the Bradt Guide, to give elephants and in particular desert elephants a wide berth, we navigated the wide river bed with great caution; even so whilst looking at one restful bull, another appeared in Peter’s wing mirror a few yards away and heading towards us looking anything but restful .... a discrete but swift exit followed! Then, after passage through the Ganamub canyon, we rejoined the graded track from Purros some 4 miles short of Sesfontein. It was early evening and we were exhausted, but that was nothing compared to our elation at the vindication of our choice of route. What a great day it had been!
No Money!Having spent the night in the Fig Tree community campsite, we set about tracking down the ATM that was recorded as being in Sesfontein. We discovered the ATM in the sole general store, but much to our alarm it would only issue money to Namibian account holders. Oh lors! We were in the middle of nowhere, had only some loose change left, were low on fuel, had no food apart from some tinned vegetables and needed to recharge the cooker’s gas bottle. Having determined the maximum distance we could travel with the fuel we had, there was no alternative but to change our planned ‘scenic’ route to Etosha Game Park and head east to the nearest town, Outjo, some 150 miles away.
Outjo
We left the Kaokoveld behind, crossed the 4,800’ high Grootberg Pass and headed towards Outjo; exchanging untrammelled wilderness for cattle ranching, the gravel track turned to tar and fencing lined the road. We couldn’t avoid it forever! The land became flatter and the road ahead of us led to the horizon, a straight black line stretching to eternity.
Outjo turned out to be the perfect stopover on the way to Etosha. It had banks, ATMs (that accepted our card!), supermarkets (of sorts!), hardware stores (able to refill our gas bottle!) and a superb bakery-cum-eatery. Attached to the Outjo Backerei was an internet cafe enabling us to get in touch with family and friends; importantly, after a long period incommunicado, Liz was able at last to discuss in detail ‘weddings’ with Louisa. The wedding was less than three months away! The Backerei, an excellent place to chill out over tea and cakes, was very much a window into Namibia’s colonial past. Germans first settled in what was to become German South West Africa in the late C19, these settlers having ‘bought’ or forcibly removed black Africans (mainly pastoralists and hunter gatherers) from the prime farming land, were themselves swamped by a second influx of white farmers, the Boers, after WW1 when South Africa gained control of what was to become Namibia. Today white Namibians are the most affluent section of society, and dominate most of the commercial farming and virtually all of the tourist industry whilst their language retains colonial overtones; many regard German as their first language and those who don’t, speak Afrikaans. English as the ‘language of the liberation struggle’ was untainted by colonialism, a rare occurrence, and since independence has been Namibia’s only official language. The Backerei was white owned and patronised by white German speaking Namibians and, bearing in mind colonial history, it was hardly surprising to find at this popular tourist watering hole that German speaking tourists were the dominant species.
Liz’s Hair DisasterWe felt we needed a bit of TLC, so stayed at the Austrian run Etosha Garden Hotel in Outjo. It was rightly renowned for a marvellous extensive game menu and the staff couldn’t have been more helpful. So much so that when Liz asked if there was a hairdresser in town, the receptionist said there was not and offered to cut Liz’s hair herself. As this was a bit of freelance work in office hours, the haircut had to be done surreptitiously in our room. A discrete knock on our door announced the receptionist’s arrival; Liz’s alarm at the size of the pair of scissors in her hand elicited the response that they were the smallest she could find in the kitchen! There was no time for second thoughts as Liz was sat down in a chair in front of a small mirror and the ‘hairdresser’ began her work. By squinting hard in the mirror Liz was able to see and ‘constructively’ comment upon what was happening to the front of her hair; it was as the receptionist was proudly standing back to admire her creation at the back that the comment, ‘it’s first time I’ve cut anyone’s hair’! caused Liz to worry about what lay out of sight. Peter’s views on the haircut in general were less than complementary; the words ‘medieval’, ‘basin’ and ‘moth eaten’ were used, whilst the hair ‘style’ at the rear earned an unkind guffaw and a ‘bloody hell!’. (The seriously jagged and deeply stepped hair at the back was fortunately out of sight and out of mind for the next four weeks until our arrival in South Africa, when a horrified hairdresser said he had never ever seen such a dreadful haircut in all his professional career!).
Etosha National Park
We left Outjo on the 27 August and made the journey to Etosha National Park; as a feature of travel in Namibia away from Kaokoland is the unending boredom of one seemingly unending dead straight road after another, we were glad it was only an hour away! At the park gates we paid the hefty entrance fee and were able to book a pitch at the Okaukuejo Restcamp in the Park. We were fortunate to get in, a combination of school holidays and the dry season (prime game viewing time) meant the expensive, dusty and largely unshaded campsite was crowded. We were surrounded by cars, 4x4’s, campervans, tents, tour groups and tourists; not what we were used to! But the Restcamp did have a reasonably sized swimming pool and, our reason for choosing it, on one side a water hole which in the dry season attracted a wide variety of game, particularly in the evening and during the night when it was floodlit. The animals were unperturbed by the lights, the whispered conversations or camera flash lights. Everybody sat around in a semi circle, slightly raised and behind a low wall; we watched enthralled, despite the slightly zoo-like nature of it all, as lion, elephant, rhino, giraffe, zebra, antelope and jackal came to slake their thirst. Some warily taking their time, others strolling to the water’s edge showing no concern for predators at all.
The Restcamp reception sold large bags of sized Mopane wood (the braai expert’s wood of choice!);Peter bought a bag and put his braai instruction into practice, adding to the smoke and red glow of coals as a meal of boerewors, pork loin, baked potatoes and grilled peppers, onion and pumpkin reached perfection! Quite delicious and we felt very ‘Southern African’!
During our two days in Etosha we drove around an extensive dusty network of tracks leading from one waterhole to another. The majority of the water holes were artificially fed, providing water this way prevents animals, in particular elephant, migrating to traditional dry season water supplies now on farm land. Some water holes were completely man made; either an enormous trough at ground level or a large concrete pond; the slippery and steeply shelving sides could be a danger for young, boisterous elephant. At one such water hole we witnessed one calf having to be rescued by a phalanx of waving, pulling trunks.
The game we saw was stunning in its number, variety and proximity; in particular, and contrary to perceived wisdom, midday and the hottest time of day was excellent for getting close up to them. Elephants filled the track ahead; brushing past Boris as they headed for a drink; bull elephants, seemingly materialising out of nowhere and a ghostly light grey from a dust bath, stood shuffling from one foot to the other, trunk swaying to and fro and standing mountain-like above zebra and quarrelsome antelope, whilst nearby comatose groups of overheated springbok huddled in a trance under slender fingers of shade.
Under the influence of this trance the latter, normally very wary animals, were quite unfazed as we drove to within a yard or so of them.
Etosha Pan
Etosha is really a series of waterholes in a southerly semi circle around one vast 2,500 square mile pan, the remnant of a huge lake that ceased to exist over 10 million years ago. Seasonal rain may irregularly and partially fill the pan with water for a few weeks but then, until the water next returns, the pan is dry, dry, dry! Few animals, apart from the hardiest of antelope inhabited the pan. Wildlife was not the hold it had over us; Liz loved the tranquillity, desolation and magnitude of the silvery pan that, flat as a billiard table and cut with long black belts of light warping mirages, stretched to the far horizon. For us it was very much a key part of the National Park.
Roy’s Camp
On the 29 August we left Etosha and began to head for Namibia’s northern border with Botswana, the Caprivi Strip. Yet more long, straight tarred roads took us to within a day’s drive to the border and in the late afternoon we stopped at a B&B with a campsite, some 80 miles short of the last major town before ’The Strip’, Rundu. Roy’s Camp was quiet and shady with plenty of birdlife. There were only two other sets of campers. The closest was an English couple, both keen ‘birders’ and making the most of what the wildlife had to offer; the other was a pair of young overlanders, Bruce and Sarah, who had been living in the UK for some years but were now returning to the Durban area, having driven down the eastern side of Africa. We spent a pleasant evening with them, exchanging travel stories about the trips we had been on. They suggested we visit a ‘great’ campsite, Ngepi, in the Caprivi Strip, close to a couple of places we wanted to visit before leaving Namibia and only 30 minutes from the border.
Ngepi Camp
Having decided to take their advice, we first drove to Rundu where we spent, or more accurately wasted the morning trying without success to get some Botswana currency from the three banks in the town. Frustrated, we headed on to Ngepi Camp; the road lined with tree some of whose leaves were turning yellow as the effects of the dry season took hold, lending an autumnal feel to the journey. On the roadside neat bundles of thatching grass were lying in great piles, ready for sale to anyone needing to reroof their hut.
We reached the sandy track leading to Ngepi Camp and headed across a grassy floodplain towards trees lining the banks of the Okavango River. We hadn’t booked, but our concerns at not getting a pitch were unnecessary... there was room at the inn! Our pitch was right on the bank of the wide fast flowing river that was making its way to Botswana, where it would fan out into the world famous delta before sinking from view. The camp lived up to all that Bruce and Sarah had said about it; it was in a superb location, there were hippos grunting in the river, elephants drinking on the far bank and birds everywhere.
It also without doubt had the most amusing and eccentric ‘ablutions’ we had ever come across and all were done in the best possible taste! Those close by were enclosed in a tall wall-cum-screen of dried river reed and open to the stars, inside the loo had open wooden steps leading up to it and the shower base nestled amongst a low growing botanical garden. Elsewhere one loo, named ‘Poopa Falls’, atop a wooden lookout tower, had a low stable door that allowed the occupant to overlook the floodplain; another, with ‘The King’s Throne’ on the door, was ‘open plan’ on the side that overlooked the river; and a bath tub, similarly located, followed suit.
There was also a ‘swimming pool’ in the river; in effect a 10’ by10’ cage moored in the river that allowed the river water to flow through whilst keeping the crocs at bay! The current passing through the cage was so strong we had to swim hard just to stay in the centre of the ‘pool’.
Popa Falls
We enjoyed Ngepi Camp so much that we spent three nights there. From the Camp we were able to visit Popa Falls. The falls were in a Reserve and turned out to be largely hidden from view by impenetrable vegetation, even when standing on the river bank. Our frustration was relieved by an enterprising young man who paddled up in a canoe and offered to take us to the central island and guide us around the falls on foot. The thin wooden canoe, cut from a single tree trunk, had seen better days; the soggy sacking in the bottom testament to the fact that it was no longer fully water proof. The canoe was low in the water and seemed to wobble alarmingly with every paddle stroke our guide made; uncomfortable visions of a capsized canoe and an unscheduled encounter with a hungry crocodile faded as we approached the island.
John (they all seem to be called John!) spoke good English and, as he led us in a scramble over rocks and gullies, told us he wanted to become a game park ranger which explained his enthusiasm for and knowledge of the local flora and fauna. In a very gentlemanly fashion he helped Liz cross some of the worst of the water filled gullies (and as a result she becoming quite taken by him) and brought us to point from where we could see the falls.
In reality they were more rapids than falls, but dramatic nonetheless. We returned to the safety of the home bank in a canoe that was so low in the water it was in danger of becoming a submarine; water lapped within inches of the top of the sides and our heads seemed to be the only part of us above the waterline!
As we walked back up the track away from the river we couldn’t help but see an A4 sized notice from the Reserve authorities which, on closer inspection, quite clearly stated that taking an unauthorised canoe ride with a local was strictly prohibited and would incur arrest, a large fine or even imprisonment. Cripes! We had so enjoyed ourselves and the company of our teenage guide that we felt like tearing it down lest others were cowed into missing out on the experience.
Mahango National Park
We left Ngepi Camp on 2nd September, saying goodbye to the friends we had made there; in particular a charming Dutch family who had camped close by, the Breeman family, fellow birders and African travellers. We made our way along a gravel track towards the Mahango National Park and the Botswana border that was its eastern border. Mahango, one of the smallest parks in Namibia and largely pristine Okavango River floodplain, was no more than a short half day detour, but certainly worth the visit. Attracted to its patches of waterlogged grassland were all sorts of birds and quantities of antelope, including the scarce red lechwe; in the dark reed lined ponds were numerous yawning, grunting and defecating hippos. Hippos carry out the latter in a fashion reminiscent of a farmer’s muck spreader; bottom and tail thrashing to and fro’ in frantic unison spraying ‘the muck’ far and wide! Despite this antisocial, juvenile behaviour, the night time noise of the hippo had become a great favourite of ours; we had just loved its guttural belly-laugh like grunts of ‘huh-huh-huh-huh’ with its descending pitch that rang out over the river beside our camp site.
To the Border
After an earlier than normal lunch in one of the park’s designated picnic spots (no lion here!) overlooking the floodplain, under an acacia and close to a huge very portly baobab tree, we left for the border some twenty minutes away. We were on our way to Botswana, the Kalahari and the spiritual heartland of the San people and one of the oldest historical sites in the world, the Tsodilo Hill
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