Almost Angola – Under African Skies

by Sara John

It was about 5-30 in the early evening but dusk was already falling.

We were all dusty and a little tired. We were so far, it seemed, from anywhere. All we could see out of the windows of our vehicle was scrubland, flat very flat scrubland. No buildings, no water sources, no power plants, no lights. No one mentioned it but everyone was concerned with what we hoped would be our evening refreshments, washing facilities and sleeping arrangements. No one felt it was appropriate to ask. No one spoke up.

We had been travelling north, since early morning, from Windhoek the capital of recently independent Namibia and heading for Etosha, an enormous Nature Reserve, the size, we had been told, of England, with only an area the size of Surrey, enclosing a vast salt pan frequently but not always, open to visitors. We were in a comfortable Dormobile with eight other guests and two guides, one a botanist and the other a specialist in creatures of all castes, colours and countries.

Namibia (labelled German South West Africa in your old school atlas) had been placed under mandate to South Africa by the League of Nations after the Great War. Eventually plans for Independence had come to fruition in 1990 . My husband had recently completed a report on aspects of the management of the Namibian Broadcasting Organisation This was a nation with at least a dozen recognised languages including at least one which was not written. On Independence it was agreed that English should be the universal national language.

His report being completed I flew out to join him for a holiday there. I could not wait to start this new adventure.

By now we were far from anywhere following a long substantial unpaved road. We felt we were in good safe hands, (armed safe hands that is). Our two guides took turns to drive and with binoculars always at the ready, spotted birds which we would otherwise have missed seeing. In this location they were often Cape Doves, quiet and gentle. Or, very distant airborne vultures, busy as always keeping the place clean and tidy. As they had been heard to say, “well someone has to do it”.

I was, at this juncture, introduced to the military system of identifying where a particular bird (or alien aircraft?) was in the sky, and you had to be quick about it, by referring to an imaginary clock face. I heard myself informing the others (we had not had a chance as yet of introducing ourselves, that would come later) with a combination of words I would have never thought I would say, “Vulture at two o’clock.” vehicle, and there was, all of a sudden from nowhere, a local man standing on the side of the road waving at us. He had a basket full of items for sale. What could he possibly be selling such a distance from any settlements, farms, or houses? The guide got out, clearly knowing who the man was and what his business was. The guide made his purchase and turning around to his astounded passengers, waved aloft the biggest egg in the known world. An ostrich egg, just the one. Sufficient, said the guide, for a tasty omelette for a dozen people. The egg seller had already disappeared back into nowhere.

Note to self about the day so far. You, (meaning me) happily posing as a smartypants when watching University Challenge KNOW NOTHING ABOUT ANYTHING. I kept all questions about the possibility of a baby ostrich being inside the egg, it was certainly big enough to house a kindergarten of young ones, to myself. Along with a great number of other things I was wondering about.

By now it was dark. Very dark. Were we lost? How would we know? Were we innocents being kidnapped? Who would pay the ransom? Had the heat earlier in the day affected my normal common sense? Too much imagination again, a tale to tell, nay a possible serial? For radio? Maybe our vehicle has a radio connection to ‘somewhere’? No one worried about mobile phones or

Suddenly our guide called out, “There it is.” There were lights in the distance. We were about to arrive at the Government Camp for our first night’s stay. Privately I thought to myself, we are all still curious as to how you could possibly have, as advertised, ‘First Class Accommodation’, notwithstanding, here, in nowhere, with nothing else?

How wrong could I be? The comforting factor was that we were all wrong! We were met by four or five waiters in white uniforms bearing welcome drinks on silver trays. Each champagne glass had a different colour of frosted sugar on the rim, the champagne within (yes it was the good stuff) was chilled to perfection. More waiters came out from the dark background with trays of miniature foods. I recognised the quails eggs but nothing else. The manager came around to welcome each of us and explained the ingredients in the delicious nibbles. He looked as though he had been spirited in directly from the George Cinq in Paris.

The delight and surprise of the Safari - Seekers was palpable. We introduced our selves to each other. There were two South Africans, their first and very brave visit to Namibia - nowadays, they shared a border of course; there were two Austrians who whispered to us that they were not Germans; Canadians who confided in us they were not Americans; and us, a Scot and a Welsh girl, no explanations necessary.

The guests stayed in character, I thought to myself at the time. The German gentleman had been a senior manager at BMW and was intrigued at the clearly effective, ultra modern supply of electricity fuelling this Government Camp. If this is a Government camp imagine what the Grand Hotel must be like! The nice Austrian couple were deep in conversation with the (I presumed) pastry chef who had arrived with even more unrecognisable but totally delicious pastries. The South Africans very quietly observed everything, then offered sincere thanks to the Manager. He was a perfect welcome host. One got the impression that the South Africans were pleasantly surprised. The Canadians ensured no one was left out of the group, they were extra friendly.

And for once I was speechless. Speechless with joy and relief.

We were shown to our circular thatched roofed huts with red tiled floors, white linen bedlinen, and an immaculate bathroom, by the assistant manager and he needed our attention for a moment.

We all stopped to listen, it sounded important. He ‘suggested’ that we used the coloured bath towel supplied to each hut as a snake barrier across the bottom of the door - which some of us had noticed had a small gap between door and floor. He demonstrated by rolling it lengthways and tucking it very firmly between said door and floor. Clearly he noticed that colour had drained from a number of faces. News about snakes was NEWS to most of us. He speedily reassured us that snakes only made rare visits to this location, and quickly added that our dinner was ready in the Dining Room of the main building.

We had a most enjoyable evening chatting and exchanging comments about the adventure so far. No one

mentioned snakes, the distance to the Angolan border, or where the water comes from (or where it had been).

Quite soon we were saying ‘Goodnight’ in all the different languages that we could recall.

Next day it was light very early. We got our bearings on the short walk into breakfast. The gardens were well tended and totally unexpected. The swimming pool was being raked to clear out the leaves and twigs. I remembered that it was February in the UK. It had been snowing when I had left Cardiff a few days before. I recalled watching black and white television as a little girl and I was reminded of one of my life plans from that time, subsequently abandoned like many others. There had been a programme on the BBC, there was only the BBC at that time of course, about Armand and Michaela Dennis, featuring two zoologists who lived in Africa studying the natural world. I had not thought about a life in Africa for many many years and wondered if I had already caught “la mal d’Afrique”. A work colleague from the BBC World Service had warned me about this. He described it as being homesick for Africa when in Europe and lesser homesick, as it were, for Europe when in Africa.

A wonderful smell was in the air. Too early in the day for the scent of garden blossoms. It was the smell of newly baked bread awaiting our arrival for breakfast. Our guides joined us and explained their plans for the day.

We would be setting off on a circular trip. It was planned so that we would see as much wildlife as possible. A packed lunch with chilled drinks would be provided at an oasis with trees to provide shade. We would return in good time to bathe and change. Dinner will be a Brai (pronounced brie as in cheese). To us, of course a barbecue. All prepared by the staff and laid out in the garden. One of the guides explained that the weather would be very clear that evening and we would be eating under The Southern Cross, only the South African couple knew anything about this. “Under African Skies,” they said, “Just wait till this evening, you will never forget it.”

In no time at all we were in the Dormobile. The botanist guide did the driving. The zoologist with his binoculars spotted, informed and explained.

We drove along a dirt track but there were stretches of telegraph wires and poles. At the top of the poles were very large, untidy nests and lots of weaver birds. They were selecting and stealing foliage and slender twigs, then flying back to their own nest sites to add the finishing touches. We were promised that, later on, we would be able to view up close the wonderful results of their labour.

Our driver slowed down and taking a smaller track on the left, switched off the engine. He turned to us with his finger to his lips. He pointed to the sandy hillocks ahead. They were covered with meercats. This was before they had had so much publicity! Some of our group did not recognise them. Most of them were standing up on their back legs, the meerkats that is not our fellow passengers. Gradually they relaxed and decided we were all just visitors. Some of the meercats posed for photographs perhaps hoping there might be a career opportunity in it for them.

Some of the larger meercats, were they the males I wondered, continued with their sentry duties. The littles ones went back to chasing each other and play fighting. We could have stayed all day.

“Lots more,” said our guides, turning the vehicle around to rejoin the only slightly better dirt track.

There was. Lots more. And at the other end of the scale. Ahead of us and to the right there were a group of a dozen or more adult elephants, with two little ones. Perfect replicas of their doting, prodding mothers and grandmas. Our driver explained it was best to stop and turn off the engine and wait. Elephants with young can easily turn over a Dormobile, full of paying guests or otherwise. He added that the smell of oranges attracted elephants to camp sites at night. “Never, never take oranges with you on safari, you will be trampled to a totally silent death!” Something else to put in next year’s diary, I thought, just in case.

The elephants kept the youngsters completely protected in the centre of the herd. We could not believe these slow, curious, cautious creatures were wild. They had to look after themselves and each other. The was no zoo keeper to name them or bring their food. What a sight; but they took no notice of us.

We left the elephants enough time not to frighten them and we took off again. After a short distance we stopped. The passengers feared there was a problem. We were reassured by our guide and asked to look out of the right hand side windows and down on the ground. I had a seat next to the window about half way down the Dormobile. There was a group intake of breath.

Parallel with the side of the vehicle and momentarily quiet was the fattest, longest, darkest, meanest looking snake you could possibly imagine. Someone behind me asked no one in particular, but the passengers in general, what it was called. My husband suggested Jeffrey.

In a spilt second it slithered to the front of our Dormobile, crossed the track in front us, slipped into the long grass and was gone. Another disappearing and totally silent act. any romantic plans of returning next year for an actual camping - safari - under - canvas - holiday it was dismissed at once as sheer madness.

The return journey allowed us to see a group of Dik-Diks. They are the smallest of the antelopes group, exquisitely beautiful with the young just the size of a large cat. We passed a busy group of Vultures tearing into something no longer recognisable. They could not be blamed for causing any loss of life. They only clear up afterwards, they claim, after the others. We saw huge herds of Wildebeest travelling their same routes north to south and then months later south to north, constantly seeking fresh pasture.

It was close to dusk. Our picture processing plants in our brains could hardly take in any more images.

Thoughts turned to hot baths, interesting company and the Brai. What would the next day hold for us?

Our guides had an invitation for us. They asked if we wanted to see lions having breakfast? If so please be ready to leave at the main gate at 5-30am tomorrow morning.

“We will return in good time for breakfast.” Lions! Here we come. Then we were warned that they would not be tucking into bacon, sausage and eggs. “You have been warned!”

To be continued next month.