Hayestack

Etosha is one of the best game reserves in Africa. It is amazing that anything can live on this vast arid plain and the fact that elephants, giraffes, zebra and many kinds of antelope amongst other large animals thrive in such abundance is a miracle.

We took the “gravel” road to Etosha. This kind of road is one that the builders forgot to finish, or they ran out of tar. Consequently, your car, leaving a billowing trail of dust in its wake, will rattle and shake until the joints knock and bits start falling off. An ordinary saloon is no good for this kind of road. You need a 4×4, and a tough one at that. Then you can fly at speed across the ridges and bumps, sneering at their attempts to slow you down and wreck your car. The roads inside the game reserve were even worse. Here there were ridges the size of the Grand Canyon and pot-holes the depth of Cheddar Gorge. We zigzagged our way along the Etosha roads like drunken maniacs with the ominous clanking of universal joints in our ears. But the view outside the car was astounding. In the distance we saw a group of giraffes towering above the trees. We had to take photos. We had not seen a group of giraffes before. By the end of the day, after photographing dozens of giraffes within kicking distance we realised how lame the first photos were.

We seemed to see springbok, impala and zebra at every turn. They watched us from the side of the road as though thoroughly bored by the whole business. At least they didn’t demand money to have their photograph taken. Humans are more canny. The other day I took a photo of the River Kavango as it meandered through a particularly interesting piece of countryside. In the distance I heard a woman calling to me. It turned out she wanted money as I’d apparently taken her photo. She was a blob in the far distance and not a very interesting one at that. Though I admired her enterprising spirit and sheer gall, she was disappointed that day.

We hadn’t seen an elephant all day and when we’d just about given up, a proud male came marching majestically out of the bush. For some reason all the other animals abandoned the water hole allowing the elephant free reign to wallow in the mud.

We visited several water holes that day and saw many elephants squirting water and chucking dust over themselves. Springbok lined up at the water’s edge sipping nervously, giraffes splayed out their legs doing the splits in an effort to have a drink. Amazingly, they managed to recover their posture with little effort. The birds were too laid back and didn’t notice the black-backed jackal stalking them until it had one in its jaws. It was a light snack and gone in a second. The jackal had a harder job surprising the birds after that. One very common bird was the kori bustard. Karin, our Dutch friend, misheard this, we assume, and every time she spotted this large bird she would shout with glee,

“Look, there’s another bastard over there!”

There were lions and leopards in the park but we didn’t see any that day. As the sun sank, the hyenas began to slink out of the shadows one at a time on their way to the water-hole. Looking sly and savage they gathered together for the night’s hunting.

We looked around. All the other cars had left.

“The clock at the entrance definitely said closing at seven-thirty,” announced Georgina with her usual tone of misplaced confidence.

It was now getting quite dark and we were the only people on the road. We were locked in. I was driving and we picked up speed, considerable speed. We nearly took out an impala but it managed to jump off the road just in time. A large mass came into view by the side of the road. It was black and had a horn at one end.

“Rhinoceros,” I shouted, slamming on the brakes. By the time we had reversed, the rhino had sloped off into the bush leaving us with a view of its disappearing rump, which, strangely, resembled the expression on the face of the woman gate-keeper when we eventually arrived at the exit.

The tense conversation went like this:

“You’re late”

“The clock said 7.30 closing time.”

“The clock’s broken. Closing is seven.” (How did everyone else know?)

She frowned and obviously thought we were idiots or desperate criminals.

“Where’s your tickets?” Yes, we still had tickets.

“You Namibians?” As VSO we paid the local rate. Tourists pay at least double.

We didn’t look like Namibians and were obviously confidence tricksters.

With a humiliating amount of profuse apologies, ( I was prepared to go so far as throwing myself on the ground and kissing her feet) she capitulated and instructed her henchman to unlock the gate and let us out. As we drove back to the campsite we felt relieved that we had experienced a close encounter with the wildest creature in the game park and survived.

Have you ever lain in bed in a semi conscious state and gradually become aware of a persistent sound in the background that you feel you’ve been listening to forever? A semi conscious state is my natural milieu. Some are born zombie, some achieve zombie and some have zombie thrust upon them. I am definitely in the second category. It was all my own work, in fact, my life’s achievement. Ask me what I did yesterday and I wouldn’t have a clue. See, zombie. In fact, Karin (our intrepid, Dutch house mate) asked me if I’d had a good morning. My mind was blank. I couldn’t for the life of me remember what I had done that morning (zombie). In my defense, it transpired that I had done nothing. “It’s senile dementia,” you will be thinking. No. I’ve always had it. Is there such a thing as juvenile dementia? Can brain cells die when they’ve never been used?

As I was saying, if I can remember that far back, the night in question, I was falling into a deeper state of unconsciousness, (commonly called sleep) when my unused brain cells became aware of a persistent sound in the background. It was not an unpleasant sound, such as howling mongrels or cock crowing, so I let it be. But it did not go away. It sounded as though it was coming from a neighbouring garden so it was nothing to do with me. It was not my responsibility. I fancied it sounded like crackling flames. Someone must be having a midnight bonfire. But there was no smell of smoke. This was unusual because even when nobody is having a bonfire in Rundu the air smells of wood smoke, which in itself is not unpleasant, putting you in mind of a) delicious braai, b) roasting chestnuts c) Guy Fawkes, take your pick. It definitely sounded like fire. If our neighbour’s house was not burning down then maybe ours was? This thought was more than usually motivating and, clothed only in the cloak of night (tropical nights are very balmy), I peeked out of our bedroom door.

Bats have very sensitive directional antennae. They can fly through a forest without hitting a tree. When was the last time you found a dead bat lying at the foot of a tree? [QED] I have never particularly wanted to be a bat. Black is so passé nowadays. Just thought, that would have made me Batman, no? Cool. Anyway, I could have used the bat’s keen auditory abilities that night. The fire was at the front door; no, in the garage; yes, the garage. But there were no flames dancing merrily through the garage window and no smell of smoke. I listened again. It could be a waterfall. Had the rains begun already? My last remaining brain cell woke up. What was in the garage apart from beer bottles, boxes, Linda’s car and a pile of spare parts which had cost her a fortune to replace? (She’d already, and very honestly, warned us against buying her car.) The hot water tank, of course. It must be spewing its contents all over Linda’s car. Well, at least she’ll have a clean car. I lifted the garage door and a blast of hot air hit me. It was like entering a sauna. All our precious hot water was being dumped onto the garage floor. It didn’t even have the decency to land on Linda’s car. But even Linda, the next morning found enough hot water to have a shower. But isn’t that the way in Africa? Disaster might strike and it often does, but by some miracle or quirk of fate things seem to work out ok in the end. I don’t understand it but long may it last.

By the end of the week’s training session in Windhoek everyone was anxious to reach their placement and start doing their bit for Namibia. Some were staying in Windhoek but most were going to see the real Africa up north. The details of where we would all be living were sketchy at best. Georgina and I knew, for example, that we would be sharing a house with established volunteers, Linda and Rose, and new girl, Karin, who is Dutch and makes her name sound like “Garry”. Other knew precious little. Alison, for example was told by the previous volunteer that she would have a mattress under the desk in her office in the middle of nowhere. He didn’t seem to be joking, she told me with alarm. When pressed about other aspects of the placement he was either non-committal or avoided the question altogether. This inevitably raised concern and not a little anxiety. His claims that he enjoyed the job were less than convincing. Nevertheless, Alison, to her credit, determined to carry on manfully (or should it be womanfully) and is now, no doubt snug on her mattress under the desk in her office in the middle of nowhere.

It is not that she came totally unequipped. Her former colleagues had had a whip around and bought her a very smart jungle hat which to my mind bore a striking resemblance to a female version of the old colonial pith helmet. It led me to wonder if her colleagues, in giving Alison this elegant and, moreover, useful gift, they weren’t actually taking it (the pith, that is).

It was in these last days in Windhoek that we met Namibia’s future top model. She was sure of this and, judging by her tall, slim body, air of grace and deportment I wouldn’t be surprised if she were right. Georgina and I were heading in the same direction as Albertina down one of the back streets towards the centre of Windhoek when she introduced herself. She was certainly more friendly than any supermodel I had read about. She was still in training so probably hadn’t done the module on surliness and phone throwing yet. We walked down Robert Mugabe Avenue and I had an overwhelming desire to spit, which is strange because I never feel that way when walking down Nelson Mandela Avenue. Mugabe apparently is regarded by many African leaders as a father figure for his role in helping his country achieve independence, but his present work of systematically destroying his own people seems to be strangely overlooked. Maybe Hitler would have been forgiven the holocaust had he won his war.

There wasn’t much room in the mini-bus when the six of us going to Rundu had piled in with our entire luggage. Georgina and I sat in the back, our journey made more interesting by the imminent collapse of the luggage stacked behind us. An unexpected zebra crossing, or wart hog, or ostrich could have caused an avalanche.

The seven hour journey from Windhoek took us through continuous scrub land, the tedium of which was alleviated at regular intervals by the small towns of Okahandja, Otjiwarongo, Otavi and Grootfontein. Try saying those after your third bottle of Windhoek Beer (or before it if it comes to that). The roads were metalled, straight and quiet, though not deserted. An occasional mountain would rear up in the distance then disappear. Hannah asked where the Red Line was. I said I knew a Red Lion in Shrewsbury but she was less than amused. Then we were upon it. Armed guards eyed us suspiciously. Beyond this was rabies country. As they let us through I made a mental note not to foam at the mouth on the way back.

We drew near to Rundu and the scenery began to change. There were more trees and groups of huts began to appear. These were mostly made of traditional materials, branches and thatch though here and there were shacks of corrugated iron to blot the landscape. Occasionally, an abandoned and rusting car with its wheels missing added an extra touch of western squalor. But that’s progress for you.