The Lion King and his friends are (mostly) alive and well

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Leaving Solitaire was a chance to rinse the sand from between the toes and enter the twilight zone of Swakopmund, a German inspired enclave in western Namibian against the skeleton coast.



Another dry morning greeted us at 6am and by 7:30am we had packed up and started out on the bikes, along a broad flat valley of brown grass, goats and the occasional bore water well.



Challenging the boredom and bumping factor, we were passed by few air conditioned tourist buses and trucks on their way to the road works that started at the 17km mark, throwing up enough dust to give one a ‘London nose’ for the trip. By 10:30am we had knocked off 50km and racked our bikes for the long deserted descent down to Walvis Bay and Swakopmund.



The arid environment of the Namib Desert extended beyond the multiple lamina of sedimentary rock as far as they eye could see that we had become surrounded by. At the final tree line, we marked a 90 minute journey across a big sand pit until pulling up at the port town of Walvis Bay.



Pink flamingo roamed the muddy shoreline, and chancing a quick dip in the tidal flats, I only missed by centimetres a large chair sized jellyfish with brown mosaics of poison. Another traveller also went in, but being shin deep, no laps of the beach were to be had.



In moments the Exodus team had whipped up a mobile picnic beachside, and we toasted avocado spread crackers, fish, salad and pickles whilst deciding how to part with our money for the following few days of activity. Reconciling to working on my return and the imminent big spend to get me privately back to Windhoek in time, I sucked it up and signed up for the flight over the skeleton coast and Sossusvlei.



Crashing out for a few minutes on our arrival at Gruner Kranz guesthouse, I headed into town for a wander, easily achieved within 5 to 10 minutes with several deviations for finding the tourist info centre. I had sussed out the local to-do’s, passed on the dolphin and seal safari by water the next day, and made plans to visit a modern aquatic centre for a slice of normality the next day.



A fabulous seafood meal had, bequeathing a glass of top notch South African merlot to our guide and another traveller because I felt like it, with a few ACC emails to sort work out after, and it was sleepy time.



Whilst the others went dolphin watching, one thing I have seen more than a few of in NZ, I made it to the aquatic centre for some laps and slice of Westernisation. In this real estate company sponsored venue, not a soul was in the water, it was cheap (3NZD), and I had 8 lanes to myself. Once knocking off 3km I returned to the guest house to tend to a due report, great coffee and continental breakfast.



Seeing to my contingencies, I took a stroll around town for some shopping with Rocky insistently tagging along, who combined with the team acted as driver, cook, and general dogsbody. Thinking he would be a bored male accompanying a shopping female, I purchased quickly and impulsively, all the while my eyes peeled for a coffee shop to shout him as a thanks for his porter efforts.



It appeared mirage like, a haven of good coffee’ness, and we chewed the fat, ruminating on his life, my life, life in general and the importance of a good life. A few stares of course, and at his persuasiveness of serendipitous events, I thought of staying in touch.



After lunch was the big shebang, the 2 hour 15 minute scenic flight in the 6 seater Cessna costing a good arm and some leg for good measure. I thought a short prayer with Lyn the Australian as taking our photo, helped spin the propeller, and we packed onto the sardine can with wings full of excitement and trepidation.



Believed to live up to its reputation, I lost count of the photos taken as Johan the South African scrunched himself against the dashboard whilst us 5 flyers leaned here and there to perfect the shot, passing over Gobabeb, Kuisep Canyon, Tsondabvlei, Sesriem where we had stayed several days before, Sossusvlei, Diamond camps and the wrecks of at least 3 vessels against the Atlantic coastline. How on earth one knew gems were out here is beyond belief. Suffice to say they must have been resilient and tolerant of lots of sand!



Pink hues of salt flats and dark patches of 100 wide sea lions occupied the coast approaching Walvis Bay. Soon enough, the fuel light now on, we descended over the Swakopmund slums to the air strip, a few kiliometres out of town, my bladder and mind full of relief! I recalled the flight leaving Madagascar with 10 minutes of fuel remaining…the pilot was again cutting our trip fine.



Well and truly stuffed, contingency day ended with a good rest. Fresh the following day with a lie in to 7am, we racked our truck with packs and bikes for a long 70km to Henties Bay, a retirement getaway north of Swakopmund.



Starting 5km out of town, the long haul on sealed road was akin to a strand of dry spaghetti, passed regularly by trucks, utes with personalised plates like ‘See Ya’ and surf casting rods on their way for a Saturday fish. Areas on our inland side of lichen were fenced off, and salt factories featured on our horizon. I likened the lichen to the gravel fields, further north, with as many bush toilet opportunities.



As much as this section was mentally tough, it was all the better, even for our guide, with iTunes for company. I revelled in the solitude of a spread out pack, and broken by a short visit to the Zelia shipwreck, we soon enough made it to a dusty roadside pub and market in the Bay.



Within wide streets, a crowd of loitering locals, several sweaty bodies pouring into town surely was a sight. The cappuccino was very average and I ached metaphorically and literally for my right calf.



A long 2+ hours in the truck later and we had arrived at our digs for the evening, Brandberg camp, passing the bare breasted Hereru women and their crafty Knick knack stalls on the way in without purchase.



Fit to its name, the landscape surrounding this remote outpost was granite of up to 2700 metres elevation, a burnt orange colour, and opportune time to sight some desert elephants. Of the 800 creatures in these parts, nil showed their faces even if they could freely walk around the camp. So we resigned to smelling elephant dung and sifting through the sand of bucket sized foot prints to determine sex and age those that had roamed before.



The lodge was a typical remote restaurant and bar set-up, the 4WDs parked door front and fairly large clientele (compared to us cyclist types!) propping up the bar. Elephant sightings aside, a late swim for all in a tepid pool was followed by crashing into a plate of macaroni and beans fireside. Not the best, albeit a filling starch for the day’s work. The local choir then popped around for a sing song and dance, for a modest 10 Namibian dollar donation, and with sand well wedged under our toenails from stomping the ground, we admired the Milky Way and dropped into the sack head first.



Shoes still attached to the tent the next morning to dry overnight (and not worn by some local elephant), we breakfasted and packed bound for a cycle into the villages of the Hereru and Himba tribes.



Existing in basic circumstances on farming land with shack huts, they are known to be a genuine and friendly people. With several scenic similarities to rural southern Madagascar, the road was bone shaking corrugations interspersed with a few good hills to break the monotony of the previous day. With our guide erroneously converting km’s to miles’, I passed our pre-determined stop as suggested to be picked up by the truck at the 45km mark, hot and dusty but without a hitch.



Within an hour our truck rolled into the small town of Khorixas, about 120km from our previous camp and behold, it had a pool, albeit with a wicked green tinge. So it transpired, the chlorine ran out a week before, and they chucked, as recompense, 10 L of the stuff in the previous night. Our chances of a dip as the mercury approached 40C were looking slim



A generous serving of the middle class staple baboutie completed the evening (mince with sultanas and an egg custard topping) and with promises of undulating roads the next day, I retired flat out on the 5 star bed in air conditioned comfort along with the rest of the team.



Physically and electrically recharged of all devices, we set off bound for Outjo after the hotel breakfast. Yet again our porters tidied up after us, always at hand in tirelessly erecting tents and saving the day with puncture repairs, cleaned bikes, ad cleaning up our general mess.



I began at the rear of the pack, trudging a steady pace past cows, bulls, goats, airborne shrikes and locals far from signs of habitation. Rocky, the ever attentive porter, managed 10km on the saddle, then bowed out against this bunch of foreigners with steadfast mentalities and, mostly, fitness to match.



The Ugab river, literally a dry bed, faded to nothing and soon the surrounds took on an arid appearance. Passing through the small town of Outjo (population ~ 3000), for refuelling, restocking, and wifi access, Etosha was 115km away and our campsite, Okaukuejo a short 17km thereafter.



The park is based around a salt pan of 5000 square kilometres, and the scrubby bush land being home to the many species adapted to this harsh and hot environment. Rainfall is minimal (under 50mm/ year usually), and so what survives scavenges on the occasional fog moisture that drifts inland to deliver precipitation. Some trees are known to live for 2000 years in their dead state, quite the adaptation!



Our evening game drive began in the sultry afternoon heat thanks to Sven. Barely below 35C at 4:30pm, the converted open top truck meant we could peer like meer cats over the roof at the many elephants, jackets, zebras, wilder beast and ostriches that were in the throes of rehydrating at a water hole.



After a mission to get some water from the shop-with-perpetually-no-change (Etosha has its own post office, curio shop and tourist shop), we admired the red sunset, chomped down a basic buffet meal, then plonked down aside the waterhole theatre for some animal antics.



Like clockwork, the elephants began the show, followed by an old lion drinking, elegant giraffe sipping legs spread widely, jackals chasing the scraps, delicate impala, and near my bed time approaching midnight, the rhinoceros and their horny heads butting and grazing against each other. I sipped a glass of South African pinotage in silence with the hoards, shared a sip with the crew, tried hard to dissuade Rocky that he wanted to marry me, and considered using the cello tape I had brought with me to keep my eyes open.



The full day of game viewing began early as usual. Fortified by bad but strong instant coffee, we trundled off weary eyed by 7am for a morning session in the truck, game viewing. A spotting game it was, and by 9am being without a tally to write home about, we found them heading en mass to the water hole about 30km east of our camp. Zebras were crossing, ostriches promenading with chicks no older than 3 or 4 days, kudu tentatively approaching, springbok trembling with fear, and the King, the lion, all powerful in his lair within eating distance of the lot.



Heat struck us by 11am, and a cooked brunch of fried eggs, baked beans, pickles and toast made certain of a slothful afternoon poolside, cold anything in hand. Finding that elusive cold or shady spot, and swimming circles in the circular pool occupied the day and come 4:30pm we geared up for an evening drive, Rocky independently at the helm.



We were ready to rock for an afternoon session despite sweltering in 35C plus and no wind. Rocky had the game sighting skills that rocked the tour party, and by 6pm our and several other tour company vehicles had been stalked by a lion, creeping steadily from his harem that he shared with another bachelor (non-dominant) lion, seen several new eagles, and sighted a large (likely wilder beast) carcass several days old being tucked into by a jackal.



A bonus home cooked dinner treat by Sven, who was becoming a better cook and guide than first thought, was followed up by superior cinema in the floodlit waterhole amphitheatre on a second night running.



The animal parade continued. From the pages of a Dr Seuss book, out came the elephants bathing in muddy water, resting their cumbersome trunks over their tusks, and drinking the remainder of up to 100L of water per day they would need for their often 2 to 3 day trek across the salt flats.



“Burp, grrrrrnnnnntttwww” said the rhino, snorting through his enormous nose. He was ugly but gentle.



“Sssshhhhhhhhhhhhh said the giraffes’, spreading their skinny legs to get mouth to water past 4 to 5 metres of height, all grace



THEN, Mr Lion makes an auditory appearance. He roared in the distance, a loud throaty arrrrgggghh into his mouth megaphone, stating his feelings of culinary delight to come.



The grunts persisted all night long. Either pleasure was being had, or not. “Errgh Errgh Errgh Errgh Errgh Aaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh!!” Hakuna matata………..can you feel the love tonight…



What pursuits were in progress were totally speculative when I arose at 5am. They were not at the water hole, which is most telling, as it sure sounded like more than devouring was occurring. Perhaps marking their territory, I also learned that lions need to mate 110 times to get one success as opposed to impala which it takes a second and all is inseminated successfully. So it is a case of high investment low output, and that is the reason why they are always sleeping 14 to 16 hour days. They are truly shagged!



To make up for the lazy day beforehand, a good hard cycle hit the spot for the exercise junkies amongst us. Setting off at 7:15am, I stopped to help our first collision, grazes only and a busted derailleur for another in our group. Cleared up with the help of a handed down ‘spray bandage’ bestowed to me by a lovely Canadian on the Madagascar trip, soon enough all were on our way towards Otjiwarongo, about 200km from Etosha.



The ride was long and straight, and the songs kept the cadence up until 10am when being second from the front, my pick up arrived.



Deviating to the Cheetah sanctuary for several hours occupied the afternoon. A 45 minute drive from Otjiwarongo along a dusty red dirt road reached this outpost, where cheetah lifestyle and history were explained. Feeding time came quickly and the cheetahs fought like crazy to get their piece of donkey meat. Within an instant the feed disappeared with some seriously big chompers...........meeeeooooowww!



Sultry heat invaded the afternoon and we headed back to Otjiwarongo for a supermarket restock and cool beverages to celebrate our final night of roughing it under canvas and for me, the associated sleeplessness.



17km out of town we hit a country oasis, Wesrand, home to warthogs, guinea fowl and one of the best baths and shower views on this trip. Relishing in removing yet again a bucket of sand from myself and clothes, it was time to enjoy the sunset, relax and use up the canned supplies of smoked oysters, olives and crackers as we sipped our wine and ate Sven’s BBQ feast. I was feeling totally crackers myself, and come 8pm my eyelids drooped as I sagged down to sleep in a tent for quite possibly the last time ever.



The final day cycling on the trip was an easy 38km from a starting point out of town, in the direction of the magnificent Waterberg Plateau Wildlife Resort. With no wind, I made steady pace to the front of the group. I passed one cute steenbok, and eventually Sven caught me up, talking about the upcoming trans-desert 360km in 24 hours cycling adventure race he was not training enough for. A short break and we continued a further 17km on sandy roads to the resort, at times trying to hold traction.



Then the oasis opened up before us late morning, another of the NWR (Namibia Wildlife Resorts chain). A large circular pool, restaurant and impressive vista greeted us, and once done of swimming, grooming and washing, it was time to say goodbye after 3 hours of room occupancy and return to Windhoek to meet my flight prior to the group transfer



Marcelino was to be my driver to Windhoek, a gently spoken Namibian with great English. As I left, I exchanged goodbyes with the group, two I resigned to meet up with in Cape town that weekend, shook hands with Reuben, gave Sven a hug, wished his wife and kids a bon voyage, and from afar waved to Rocky poolside, whom had I stayed on an extra night, I might well have been knocked up in some remote Namibian village with, in his words, “cappuccino children”. I was pre-warned but it was not adequate!



Marcelino delivered me in air conditioned comfort 3.5 hours later to Winnies Guest house in suburban Windhoek. We all the while had a good old chin wag about Namibian independence, corruption, his family, life philosophy and parenting, tourism and the entire story of his and my lives…well maybe not that in depth. This was a private vehicle transfer of course, not a job interview.



And so I find myself ready for Cape town and the wine lands, hankering for a soft bed and the ability to remove sand from everything without hand laundering. Oh washing machine, I will see you soon in the Cape town apartment my love……..

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