Botswana & Zimbabwe Part 1

2 – 16 September
(Including Zimbabwe 7- 8 September)

Pula Please
The border crossing was quick and painless, taking no more than 20 minutes of smiling and helpful bureaucracy. Heading southeast on a good tar surface and in desperate need of pula (the Botswana currency) we stopped at the first town we came to, hoping to find an ATM that would accept our card. The area around the bank’s ATM was crowded, it was the only ATM in town and brand new; so new that bank officials were patiently taking excited clients through the process of using it, one after the other. We waited our turn and much to our relief pula bank notes came out of the hole in the wall. Glory be, money at last! 
The Veterinary Fence
Our next stop was at the ‘Veterinary Fence’. First begun some 50 years ago to control bovine foot and mouth disease (and secure beef exports to the EU), this effective but draconian measure provided a cordon sanitaire around the vast cattle ranching areas and disrupted the movement not only of subsistence farming livestock but also Botswana’s game. A boon for meat exports, as the system of fencing extended inexorably it became a well documented disaster for migrating game; hundreds of thousands, unable to reach their traditional dry season feeding grounds, died of thirst or starvation as they reached the fence. Never again would there be the magnificent sight of the mass migration, often in excess of a quarter of a million, of wildebeest across the Kalahari plains. For road travellers, reaching the fence had a less catastrophic impact; Boris went through a disinfectant filled trough and, whilst we cleaned the soles of all our footwear, worn or not, on a disinfectant mat, an official went through the contents of our fridge to ensure we had no uncooked ‘red’ meat.
Tsodilo Hills
Soon after the fence and at an impressively large sign for ‘Tsodilo Hills-World Heritage Site’, we turned off the main road onto a wide, blindingly white and dusty piste heading out into the Kalahari. Tsodilo Hills, a small isolated cluster of hills rising from the flat, parchment dry skin of the Kalahari Desert were a monument to a past age of innocence of the San hunter gatherer, the Bushman, for whom these dramatic 1300’ high rocky outcrops had such mystical and cultural significance that they were, quite literally, the centre of his universe. There are three main hills, Male, Female and Child; the San believe that the hills are home to the spirits of the dead and that the caves in the Female Hill are inhabited by gods who rule the world. As a result the hills house a rich library of rock art with some 4,000 paintings scattered around the rock faces.

 Male Hill and smoke haze, Female Hill left rear.Tsodilo Hills 

The hills have been occupied by man in one form or another for at least 30,000 years, lending credence to the claim for it being one of the oldest such sites in world. This, allied to Tsodilo Hills cultural and spiritual significance without parallel in the region if not the continent, led to the area being given UNESCO World Heritage site status in 2001. Despite all this the Tsodilo Hills are underwhelmed with visitors; with insignificant numbers of game and a location that is isolated, they are off the ‘here today and gone tomorrow’ compass of game seeking tourism. 
Female Hill
For our first night we stayed at the deserted Park Headquarters campsite and where the next morning we met up with our guide KT ...no, not John!.. and spent the morning exploring the Female Hill. 

 Enroute to the San rock art,Tsodilo Hills 

It had the highest concentration of accessible rock paintings; the age of the rock paintings varies from a few hundred to tens of thousands of years old and in the main they depict animals, such as rhino, giraffe, eland, zebra and elephant, and geometric patterns.

  (Left: Giraffe, Right: Detail rhino panel, logo of Botswana Society)
 Geometric Design 

KT was a fount of knowledge, describing the significance of the paintings as we came to them and, as we walked, introducing us to San folklore; that anyone who hunts or causes death in the hills will suffer a terrible misfortune at the behest of the gods; that, for the safety of her baby, a pregnant woman must never set eyes on a leopard, but for those going hunting seeing a leopard was a guarantee of success. And, as we passed them, he would point out plants, shrubs and trees and explain how they were used by Bushmen for medicines, tools, food and so on. It was a tour de force and absolutely fascinating.

 Liz & KT on a crag,Female Hill,Tsodilo Hills 

The walk involved a fair bit of scrambling to various viewpoints; the only disappointment was that, having made the viewpoint, a haze of smoke from the ‘controlled’ burning of yet more savannah reduced the visibility dramatically. Fortunately, Liz’s ‘gorilla knee’ didn’t play up too much and she survived the morning’s tour and was happy to go on a much shorter one that afternoon. 
Visit to a Sacred Cave
This time KT was going to show us the way to our home for the night, the isolated and little used Malatso campsite. There was really only room for one vehicle at the site which, shaded by a thorn tree, had absolutely no facilities and was very much a ‘bush campsite’. It was in the most magical position at the base of the Female Hill, several miles from the Park Headquarters, and could only be reached by a 4x4. The track there would take us past a sacred cave in the side of the Female Hill that always contained water, no matter how long the drought, and was home to a giant horned serpent; KT had suggested we visit it en route to the campsite, in part to ensure we had sought ‘permission’ from the serpent to stay at the campsite and were thus assured of a peaceful night. 

 Cave and lair of the guardian serpent god,Female Hill,TsodiloHills 

We all squeezed into the front of Boris and, after 5 minutes of ploughing through deep sand, KT brought us to a halt and we began scrambling up the steep side of Female Hill. Puffing and panting behind KT, we came to an outcrop of rock beyond which was the sacred cave. KT motioned for us to stay where we were; he walked forward, selecting a small stone as he went, and then began rubbing the stone on the rocky outcrop, chanting as he did so. As he stopped chanting, the stone was raised above his head and then tossed into the, as yet unseen, cave entrance. With the serpent placated we were beckoned forward; standing beside KT we stared down at the entrance to a cave that sank, like a well, vertically into the hill. The water was about 10 feet below us, illuminated by a shaft of sunlight and looking a rather nasty brown colour.
Bushmen around our Fire

 Thorn tree and setting sun,Malatso Campsite Tsodilo Hills 

It was such a very special night; just us, the stars and the Female Hill, towering behind us silver-grey in the moonlight. We felt deeply privileged to be there; becoming immersed in the San culture, imagining Bushmen sitting around our fire and then leaving us to begin a trance dance and so pass to the spirit world. Shadows began to move and the night time noises of the bush took on a human aspect; branches in the thorn tree groaned and the embers of the fire glowed bright orange as the wind picked up. Yes, it was a very special night.Leopard or Not
The 4 September we got up early to ensure we had time for a walk before we left for Maun. Despite the sun, it was still chilly when we came to an area of the Female Hill we had not seen the previous day and were surprised, after clambering over rocks, to discover a huge, wide scrub filled depression seemingly in the heart, or belly, of the hill. We descended to explore further coming across yet more rock paintings, then, breaking the deep silence around us, we heard a noise that sounded very much like the cough of a leopard! Liz climbed to the top of some rocks to see if she could see anything, not being pregnant we assumed this would be acceptable to the gods, but she saw nothing. Reluctantly we retraced our route back to Boris and left this enchanting and very spiritual place; to quote Laurens van der Post, this, ‘great fortress of living bushman culture’.

 Now where's that leopard! Female Hill,Tsodilo Hills 

Maun
We travelled most of the rest of the day through desperately overgrazed savannah, down roads lined with mopane trees and acacia covered in yellow and white blossom before arriving in Maun, the ‘safari capital’ of Botswana.

 Cattle shelter under flowering Acacia tree,enroute Maun 

There followed a depressing visit to the National Parks Office, where we were told that every campsite in every park in Botswana was fully booked and that they were now taking bookings for 2009! We retired to the ‘campsite’ at Riley’s Hotel; it was expensive for what it was, nothing more than a noisy, large, empty car park, but the ablution block had copious quantities of hot water so the 10 day back log of washing was soon hanging on a line hung between Boris and a nearby tree. The next day we restocked the fridge and food box, skyped every member of the family we could get hold of and then, over a cup of tea, agreed between us to ignore the ‘fully booked’ statement, determining to ask what was available at the various park gates as we came to them. We couldn’t turn back now!To KasaneBy nine o’clock the following morning we had left Maun and embarked on what would be a full day’s journey (and boring slog!) to the town of Kasane. Kasane, 380 miles away in the far north east of Botswana, was close Zimbabwean side of the Victoria Falls and the logical start point for a visit to the jewel in the crown of the Botswana Chobe National Park, the Chobe Riverfront. It was as we translated the cost of filling up Boris into sterling that we realised that, for the first time since arriving in Africa, fuel here cost about the same as in England. Factor in the exorbitant cost of the national parks and Botswana was going to be eye wateringly expensive!

On this boring journey we rediscovered the joys of listening to our iPods. (Note from Liz : This was the best farewell pressie you could have given your mother, thank you!). Having one each was a boon; Liz, much more the discerning iPodder and listening to spoken books and classical music was relieved to be able to ignore Peter’s generally awful and eclectic musical taste ranging from John Lee Hooker and Muddy Waters, through Dean Martin, Dire Straits and The Dubliners to Maria Callas and Beniamino Gigli!

Our calm, if rather insular, iPod worlds were rudely shattered when we joined a road that was the main arterial route between Zambia and South Africa. Bang, wallop, bang-bang!! The tar surface was pitted with mine shaft like potholes. Swerving to avoiding them was often next to impossible as the road was chock-a-block full with huge trucks driven by maniacs for whom speed was the drug of choice. Fortunately for Boris’s navigator, driver and suspension, the road improved as we drew close to Kasane and the Toro Safari Lodge. The lodge was one of many in the Kasane area; importantly for us it had a campsite and was on the outskirts of Kasane closest to the Zimbabwean border.
Zimbabwe 7-8 September
An Ageing HippieWhilst in Namibia, at the hotel in Outjo and again in Etosha, we had come across a charming, self employed German taking a small group of assorted Austrian ladies around Namibia. He was in his late 60’s, lived in Johannesburg and was called Harry; he had slightly roguish air given substance by having spent the 1960’s in India and Goa and then time in Spain selling ice creams on the beaches there, before taking up bull fighting! This ageing hippy warmed to us and liked to spend time over a lager or two letting off steam about the Austrians in his charge. As an old Africa hand, he loved Africa in its unsanitised form and found it particularly galling in Etosha that his ladies spent most of the evening getting ready for dinner, rather than at the water hole. He came close to apoplexy when the leader of the group, one particularly precious individual, demanded he pay more attention to the danger of an animal attack by not joining other vehicles, ‘too close to water holes’ and ensuring that the windows of his VW van were, ‘closed at all times’!

Harry had also taken clients to the town of Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe. He had urged us, when in Kasane to go to Zimbabwe, visit Victoria Falls and see the falls in the dry season. Harry said the views from the Zimbabwean side were the best, by far, and particularly so at that time of the year when it would be possible to get close up to the falls without a cloud of spray obscuring the view and soaking us. When we queried the safety of a visit, Harry said that a short visit to the falls would be no problem; the Zimbabwe people, despite everything, would be welcoming and there was a steady trickle of tourists visiting the falls without any problems.Border Crossing 
We had altered our plans accordingly and so left Kasane on 7 September, heading for the quiet Zimbabwean border post only 10 minutes away. Entering Zimbabwe for only 48 hours turned out to be a most expensive crossing. Paying in pula, to avoid having to use the hyper-inflated local currency, we had to pay for visas, entry tax and a month’s car insurance. The officials were very courteous and never hinted at the official bias against Britain; one, a cheerful, chatty soul, did obliquely mention the current internal ’problems’; in this context we took a reference to a ‘hope that things change for the better’ as Zimbabwe after Mugabe.

The road from the border post, the only road, passed through the Zambezi National Park on its way to Victoria Falls and was devoid of traffic, a consequence of the almost total lack of fuel in Zimbabwe, leaving it free for large herds of elephant to cross with impunity and head for the river. Everywhere were the signs of the scale of this transit; piles of dung covered the road, whilst well trodden paths led the way through a mopane forest teetering on the verge of total destruction by hungry elephant. 
Victoria Falls
Once in the town of Victoria Falls we checked in at the Spray View Hotel; recommended by Harry it was quite some distance from the falls and could only have possibly lived up to its name were rains of Biblical proportions to have taken place in the weeks preceding our arrival! It was a little outdated and the hotel was showing all the signs of the effects of the implosion of the economy and tourist industry. We were two of only five guests staying at a hotel with over 50 chalet style apartments; everywhere was the need for maintenance refurbishing and redecorating. The price, in dollars, asked for the room was ridiculously high; we offered to pay half the price. Instead of this being the start of a round of bargaining, our offer was accepted with alacrity; better some dollars in the pocket than none at all.
The Falls
By now it was nearing midday, so we wasted no time and left in Boris to go and see the falls. Driving through the town and expecting the worst, we were surprised at, on the surface, how close to normal everything seemed to us, the casual observers; shops, largely tourist shops, open but few people shopping, cars parked on the roadside but few being actually driven, and tourist coaches but few in number and most coming from the Zambian side. A truer picture was painted at the parking area opposite the entrance to the Victoria Falls NP; here were stall holders and street vendors in rags and without shoes, desperate ...absolutely, terrifyingly, heartbreakingly desperate... to sell something, anything at any price. A few were lucky, but buying from them acted as a magnet for the rest and the crush became so noisy and so claustrophobic, we had no option but to cut and run; making a beeline for the park gates.

 'Dr Livingstone, I presume'.Livingstone statue, Victoria Falls NP 

Inside we followed a path to the impressive statue of a certain Dr Livingstone, ‘Explorer, Missionary and Liberator’, that overlooked the spray laden line of the canyon into which the falls plunged in a spectacular curtain of turbulent, writhing white water. The falls are over a mile long, about 800’ high and the water cascades, not over one continuous fall, but over a series of five smaller falls.

 Canyon View,Victoria Falls NP 

 Cautiously looking down at the Devil's Cataract & note the top of the range safety fencing! 

The first, and only yards from Livingstone’s booted feet, was the Devil’s Cataract and near which, sitting on a bench, we ate our picnic sharing the good Doctor’s view of the falls. That afternoon we wandered along a path that took us to the side of the canyon opposite the line of the falls.

 View along the canyon,showing Devil's Cataract entering bottom left 

 Jumping for joy at seeing more top of the range safety fencing! 

This path and its length, enabling the viewer to pass in front of all five falls, made the Zimbabwean view of the falls so much more spectacular than the much, much shorter canyon on the Zambian side. Added to which, closer to the Zambian side, the falls in the dry season...well they just don’t! Thank you Harry, you were so right!

 Spray rainbow from falls near Livingstone Island 

  Left: Less than impressive falls on the Zambian side; Right: Liz with the Zambia falls behind 

A Bungee Jump
Returning to the park gates brought us to a point high above the Zambezi River and a distant view of the bridge from which mad individuals were bungee jumping; some in silence, others uttering a blood curdling scream as they hurtled towards the river below!

  Victoria Falls bridge,spot the bungee jumper! 

What an idiotic thing to do... who in their right mind... well, as it turned out Peter was also ‘of an unsound mind’. We won’t dwell on the discussion that preceded the jump, suffice to say Liz was not amused and did not agree that it was a great way to celebrate Peter’s upcoming 60 birthday! Bundled up with cord and his ankles strapped together, Peter shuffled towards the edge of the 340’ drop to the Zambezi below... if a picture is worth a thousand words, here are a paragraph or two....
  

The jump over and Peter back on the top of the bridge, it was clear all was not well with our ‘idiot’ who was white faced, wobbly kneed and clammy to the touch! It transpired that after the jump and as he was on the first rebound, Peter’s (unnecessary) attempt to avoid the slack cord snaking towards him had only initiated a rapid spiralling motion .... for what seemed ages he then hung at the end of the rope spinning round and round, increasingly suffering from an overdose of motion sickness amplified by the adrenalin rush. Throughout the rest of the afternoon and evening, as Peter continued to suffer bouts of nausea, sympathy was almost as rare as hen’s teeth ... !!Spray View Hotel
Back at the hotel and Peter lying down in a darkened room, Liz spent time talking to the receptionist, who went by the memorable name of Phone, discussing the reality of living in Zimbabwe; it was just so very depressing and so much worse away from the area we were in, particularly in the countryside. With Peter feeling better after a good night’s sleep, we sat on a large terrace with over twenty tables laid for breakfast, how tragic it all was, and the lovely, smiling staff waiting for our order, how marvellous they all were. Breakfast reflected the circumstances, consisting of a small plate of savoury mince and tea but no milk. We really felt for these charming and noble people who were trying so hard not to let their personal standards slip despite the dire straits, personal and professional, they were suffering.

From our route back to the border we got a foretaste of what awaited us in dry season Chobe, a wonderful sight of probably a hundred or more elephants in the distance making their way across the floodplain and down to the river—marvellous!

Return to Namibia (after visiting Botswana)

16 – 24 September

The Roof of Africa
The swift and easy border formalities over, we remained on the Trans Kalahari Highway for the next 220 miles, all the way to Namibia’s capital, Windhoek; reflecting its German ancestry it was a well laid out city, easily navigable as we made our way to our hotel, The Roof of Africa, close to the city centre. We were assured by the receptionist that if we took a deluxe room, it would come with wifi. Annoyingly (a British understatement!) the internet didn’t work in our room or anywhere else in the hotel, harrumph!
Strange but True
Frustrated, we made for the bar where Peter tried the local lager, Windhoek by name and according to Peter certainly (not probably!) the best lager in the world. We then sat at a table in the bar-cum-restaurant area, where every so often a member of staff would come and sit down and pass the time of day with us ...they all did it; receptionist, waitress, cook and bottle washer! It was all rather strange but in an engaging way. They probably took their cue from the owner, a German somewhere in his late middle age and a fully signed up member of the ageing juvenile fraternity. Under an sun faded, Afrikakorp forage cap he sported a greying pony tail, had a penchant for tight motor bike leather trousers and topped it all off with a faded studded denim shirt, with the sleeves ripped off. He moved, Basil Fawlty like, between the kitchen and the bar where two young men sat conversing with mein host in German; the podgiest, perched precariously on a stool, was wearing forest green lederhosen supported, over a floral shirt, by a pair of wide braces; their red colour matching that of his cheeks. All very bizarre!

Added to all this were, amazingly good food and a huge and comfortable bed with the softest white sheets ever; we left the next morning having enjoyed our stop over. It was an early start on the 17 September and we had mentally prepared ourselves for battling through the morning rush hour ... only it never happened; there was no chaotic traffic, no mad mopeds, no noisy taxis, no black belching pollution. It was all, well, just so very westernised; traffic lights, lane discipline and roadworthy vehicles! Not what we were used to in a capital city.
Biltong
Continuing on the Trans Kalahari Highway that would bring us to the Atlantic coast and Swakopmund, we stopped at Okachandja where we followed the Bradt guidebook’s advice and stocked up on biltong at a store called The Butchery on Wheels! We had been introduced to this very Afrikaans method of drying meat in Outjo; thinly sliced and vacuum packed we found it to be a fantastic, tasty travelling snack and so bought a selection of peri peri (spiced with chilli), beef and game biltong.
Swakopmund
As we came close to Swakopmund and despite entering the sun drenched Namib Desert, the outside temperature began to drop dramatically. The culprit was the strengthening sea breeze from an Atlantic Ocean whose waters were chilled to 8C by the upwelling of the South Atlantic Benguela current. Despite the sun, the stiff sea breeze made it feel SO cold when we got out of Boris for a picnic on Swakopmund’s seafront.

 Cold picnic, Swakopmund sea front

Foggy Skeleton Coast, Swakopmund

Swakopmund, known to Namibian’s as Swakop’, has been in existence for a little over 120 years; blessed with a temperate climate due to the Benguela current, for the majority of that period it has been, and remains, Namibia’s only seaside holiday resort of any significance for those wanting to escape the searing heat of Namibia’s interior. The weather can be fickle, changing from bright sun and crisp Alpine air, to dark fog and chilly breeze and back again all in a morning; we were fortunate, throughout our three day stay the sun shone each day without interruption.
German Heritage 

 Bavarian architecture, old Hans Hohensollern Hotel Swakopmund 

 Evangelical Lutheran church and national monument,Swakopmund 

We booked into a pleasant B&B, in a good position close to both the seafront and the town centre. It was run by a lovely German couple and as we explored the town, there were plenty of other reminders of Namibia’s colonial heritage; sporadic examples of early C20 German architecture; the German language greeting us as we entered the excellent town centre shops; whilst the German street signs guided us from one junction to another. 

 Swakopmund lighthouse 

 Woermannhaus, Swakopmund 

That evening and following the recommendation of the owners of the B&B, we had a superb meal of locally caught and very fresh fish at an excellent restaurant, The Grapevine, a very sympathetically converted, old German Kronenbrauerei; creaking floorboards, lace curtains and so on .. oh yes, and it was owned by a Namibian of German descent, Jurgen Baas! 
Permits and Ports
The next day we discovered our arrival at the B&B had not gone unnoticed. When we phoned Hanne to give her the news of our arrival, she already knew! It transpired that Axel had an apartment overlooking the B&B and couldn’t help but spot (and hear) Boris in the parking area. We arranged to have dinner at Hanne’s that night and then spent the rest of the morning continuing our exploration of Swakop’.

 Hanne, Swakopmund 

It really had such a pleasant and relaxing atmosphere; no one hassled us, it was easy to walk around, with shops that catered for all our needs that had built up over the last eight months, not to mention some excellent galleries and interesting museums. Our day got even better; the National Parks Office agency, close to the Swakop’ lighthouse, was, in contrast to that in Maun, only too happy to provide the permit that would allow us to enter and camp in the Namib-Naukluft the following day. Great!

 Wrecked trawler, Swakopmund

After lunch on a beach close to a wrecked trawler with cormorants nesting in its masts.. to be our only encounter with a wreck on this coastline.. we went to nearby Walvis Bay; the end of the Trans Kalahari Highway, a natural harbour and Namibia’s only deep water port. It was also a port that Liz’s father had visited during his service in the Navy in WWII; well, we hope you had a better time than we did, Eric. We were distinctly underwhelmed; true there were plenty of Maersk containers, Alex, but the high point of the visit was the drifting Namib sand that temporarily blocked the road on our way back!

 A reminder that Swakopmund is surrounded by the Namib desert 

Supper that evening at Hanne’s flat was a delight, she was a superb cook and Axel was an amusing raconteur as ever. We met Hanne’s daughter and boyfriend; like us, they too were heading out into the Namib the next day, for a weekend camping with friends. How marvellous to have the great expanse and contrasts of the Namib Desert on your doorstep.
Welwitschia Drive
Next morning we discovered a soggy Boris; we had filled the water tank with fresh water the previous day and it had leaked overnight. With the help of Axel a replacement washer was found in Swakop’ and the problem solved. Then, our farewells over, we left Swakop and headed into the desert and the Welwitschia Drive. The drive was half a day’s trip along a route through the northern corner of the desert close to Swakop’.

 Liz, Welwitschia Drive
 The'Moonscape' Welwitschia Drive 

The route went past numbered stones, thirteen in total, and at each was a point of interest particular to the Namib Desert, ranging from adapted desert flora including lichen fields watered by sea fog, tracks of ox wagons made a hundred years ago and still just visible as a scar amongst the desert vegetation, through the awesome ‘moonscape’ and other geological examples and culminating with an expanse of desert containing the Welwitschia mirabilis; an extraordinary scruffy prehistoric plant of no beauty at all, and to all intents and purposes just two long, very long, mangled and split leaves lying in a heap in the sand!

 Welwitschia mirablis
 Detail, Welwitschia mirablis 

Endemic to this part of Africa and incredibly slow growing, some of those around us could have been up to 1,500 years old. As you can imagine, we found the drive fascinating and very educational; we took our time and so spent a bit more than the half day we had allowed.
A Bit of Heaven
This meant a fraught two hour drive on graded, dusty tracks further into the Namib to get to our campsite before sunset. We made the Ganab campsite with a little time to spare.

 Namib Desert, dolerite spines enroute Ganab campsite 

Like any desert, the Namib is not all sand; indeed the application of the term desert is based on rainfall or moisture deficit and not topography; this small and very basic, drop toilet and no water campsite was nothing more than a flattened area under a couple of Acacia trees, set in the midst of the type of desert we had just passed through; rolling parched yellow savannah, its surface punctured by massive, isolated inselbergs.

 Ganab campsite, Namib Deser
 Namib inselberg and savannah, Ganab campsite
 Desert reflections, Ganab campsite 

Much to our joy we were the only occupants of the campsite; alone in the centre of a vast flat plain. On one side distant, darkening inselbergs; on the other, the red shimmering disc of the setting sun being subsumed by the flat horizon and between them the moving, dark forms of gemsbok, springbok and ostrich. Heaven!

 Namib sunset, Ganab campsite 

After supper, we doused the fire and lay back staring up at the night sky; no one has truly seen the splendour of the night sky until they have spent a night in the Namib. We retired to bed, every flap and window open to desert and sky, serenaded by a chorus of black backed jackals; reminding us of when we first heard them at Etosha. Yet more heaven!
Kuiseb River
The next morning, 18 September, we continued south on gravel tracks through an unchanging landscape of rolling desert savannah and inselbergs towards Sesriem, gateway to the Sossusvlei dunes.

 Namib Desert, inselbergs enroute Homeb 

As if we hadn’t already enough distance to cover, we had decided to include in our day long journey a detour deep into the Namib; to the tiny settlement of Homeb on the northern bank of the Kuiseb River. We were aware that the course of the Kuiseb River was the northern boundary of the Namib’s great southern dune field; the intermittent flooding of the river, and the washing away of the desert sand, being the only thing that prevented these dunes from inundating the area to its north. We were intrigued, the boundary was apparently more noticeable further into the desert and the only track into the desert that fitted the bill, was that to Homeb.

 Distant sand dunes, Namib Desert, enroute Homeb 

As we got to within about 15 miles of the, as yet unseen, Kuiseb River, the horizon ahead changed from a yellowish grey that had been with us all morning, to a pale apricot; the first sign that we were approaching the dune boundary. Getting closer the dunes became discernable to the naked eye, their colour now the classic apricot red associated with the Namib Desert.

 Descending into Kuiseb River valley, Homeb
 Dune boundary line,Kuiseb River valley 

We began a slow and tortuous descent to the Kuiseb River, in doing so it became stiflingly hot in Boris, as we first lost speed and then the cooling breeze through the open side windows. The settlement of Homeb was nothing more than a collection of three deserted, dilapidated huts made from wood and metal, we continued past them making heavy weather of some very deep sand and then came to a basic, but beautifully located, deserted campsite on the banks of the riverbed.
Hot work
Huge old growth trees lined the river bank; leaving Boris cooling off in their shade, we descended to the dry riverbed where, as we came out into the glare of the mid day sun, a searing heat enveloped us.

 Desert thistles, Kuiseb riverbed Homeb 

 Dune boundary and southern bank Kuiseb River 

Walking along the boulder strewn riverbed, the sand that was there in the river was white and from the Naukluft Mountains upstream, but to our left and towering above the trees and shrubs lining the course of the river, an unending apricot cliff of sand marked the extremity of the dune field. Eventually we found a goat track that led us to the base of the wall of dunes.

 Liz on the Kuiseb riverbank, Homeb 

Liz found the ascent too hot, stopped and returned to the shade of the river bank below; Peter continued, but not for long. To stop sliding backwards, he had taken off his flip flops and left them at the bottom; very quickly the soles of his feet were medium, heading to well done!

 View of Kuiseb River,looking west from dune line
 Kuiseb River, looking North 

With the heat becoming worse, we called it a day and returned to Boris. Driving out of the Namib, we cheered as we passed a roadside sign telling us we were crossing the Tropic of Capricorn; ever southward, but slowly, the crossing the equator seemed so long ago! We eventually joined a well used gravel road to Sesriem that ran south between mountains on one side and along the edge of the desert on the other. Here, as elsewhere in the north and west of Namibia, neither words nor photographs can do justice to the majestic beauty of the landscape we drove through. Canyons, passes, valleys, plateaux, escarpment and plain; singly or in concert they created a tableau we will never forget.
Sesriem Exhausted, we reached the Sesriem campsite, but we hadn’t booked ahead and we were late and it was full. Shock, horror! We ignored the advice given about a lodge some 15 miles away; Peter had spotted a riverbed about a mile down the road and we followed Axel’s advice that a riverbed is fair game as far as bush camping is concerned. At the point where the river bed met the road and choosing a traffic free moment ..not that difficult.. we swung off the road and headed up the dry river bed and out of view. The site was perfect and, much to our delight, while we were eating supper a Cape Fox padded past, stopped, stood a few feet away and looked us in the eye before disappearing into the surrounding scrub. Thank you Axel, great advice!

Namibia Part 2

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

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