18th
One of the things I’ve always enjoyed about travelling is the liquorice allsorts of people I find myself rubbing elbows with. As a camp manager, where tourists came to look at the animals, I was often lodge-bound and ever so slightly crazy with cabin fever, so the variety of human life that passed through my patch provided no end of entertainment (I’m conscious that this little revelation is likely to spark mass paranoia amongst the holiday-makers, but really, look around…what d’you expect?). I’ve had high-flying New York types that tripped out of helicopters for a dirty weekend and recoiled from the visitor’s book in case they incriminated themselves (small world that it is). There have been mummy’s little darlings who refused anything to eat but fanta and bread, buried toothpicks in the sofas, and were rather light-fingered in the gift shop. Other camp managers tell stories of a “goth” woman who insisted on seeing her orange juice squeezed in front of her and required mineral water to wash her hair…and this on a remote beach in East Africa. I remember scratching my head over the menu for a diabetic, lactose and gluten-intolerant raw foodist, with an allergy to monosodium glutamate (sigh). You get my point.
The locals can be a strange bunch too. On a trip through Malawi, our 1958 Land Rover ground to an agonising, clunking halt, as only a Land Rover can, in a mosquito-ridden swamp called Kazilizili. From behind a dark bush materialised a man wearing a broad hat fashioned from black bin bags and fishing line, strumming a jaunty tune on a homemade banjo. He was joined by another rural type, clad in a fashionable, though grubby, Burberry trench coat, who brought a Tipex bottle to his nostrils, declaring in the Queen’s own English: “Where’s my snuff? Where’s my snuff?” It’s not something that you easily forget, and inhabitants (or should I say inmates?) of Kazilizili still appear to me in disturbed moments.
And then there are the nomads of the world. While working in Kenya’s Rift Valley, a visit to market day in a Maasai village yielded a pair of handsome sun-burnished French folk, wearing what looked like school uniform, carrying a small backpack each. They were in the process of walking from Cape Town to Jerusalem (as you do), trusting only in the generosity of people along the way, and a film has since been made about them. We spent hours listening to their tales of soaking in the hot-tubs of South African millionaires, and of sharing meals with warlords in countries that you only hear about for all the wrong reasons.
Incidentally, this week I bought an apple pie from a lady dressed as a fairy standing at a Harare traffic light. Apparently the apple pie, in addition to a good thing to have with a cup of tea, was also the secret to eternal life. I’ll let you know how that pans out.
As the saying goes; “there’s nought stranger than folk”.
18th
Amongst other things, social media has sanctioned the voyeuristic tendencies within many of us. Consequently it’s now okay to keep a much beadier eye on the doings of others than previously acceptable, without being considered even a little weird. Therefore, I am unashamed to admit that I get regular feeds on a few individuals through whom I vicariously enjoy adventures when reluctantly tethered to my desk, and therefore incapable of having any of my own.
Within a few weeks, a couple of these souls have embarked/are about to embark on pretty incredible personal journeys and every few days I read with a mixture of awe and envy of their latest exploits, bug-bears and conquests. One of my Facebook friends, Julian Monroe Fisher, will shortly begin walking across the belly of Africa, from the coast of Mozambique to the Atlantic in Angola. The second person is someone I regard with the same curious incomprehension as a fax machine: I have no idea what makes it tick but think it is quite marvellous in any case. Well-known ocean rower, Roz Savage, is a few days into her mammoth 4000 mile solo row across the Indian Ocean.
The blogs relate a repertoire of interesting happenings thrown across their paths (Roz seems to be frequently pelted by flying squid), and describes the very human afflictions which make life on the explorer’s pedestal sometimes less than comfy. From painful blisters to sunburn, annoying insects to homesickness… hurrah, they are mere mortals after all. I find myself searching for what motivates these people to take up the mantle of extraordinary endeavour. Much like my great grandfather, who set off from Scotland in the early 19 hundreds to carve a new life for himself in East Africa, I imagine that much of the reward comes from stepping off the well-trodden path and relishing the unexpected.
Whatever it is that galvanises such people, the interesting thing is that the inspiration they provide can come in many forms and you can take what you will from it. Whether it means choosing a different country to visit next year or throwing in a tedious job to do something on your own, pushing your physical and mental limits in running that marathon, or reading a controversial author…the message for me is that boundaries are there to be pushed and only in doing so do we make room to grow (or, less philosophically, experience the novelty of being hit in the face by air-borne seafood).
11th
Nature is frequently required to remind us diminutive little bipedals who’s boss. For all our technological prowess, at the end of the day we’re still squishy, pink and about as impressive as limp lettuce in the face of our world’s capacity to awe. While sometimes these reminders come in devastating quakes and giant waves, at other times they are beautiful and gently surprising. This year, the rains in Namibia have topped the charts, breaking 100 year old records in terms of quantity and wreaking havoc on roads and previously high-and-dry safari camps. Some places received a year’s worth of rain in a month. This is all relative of course. We’re talking about a country which enjoys over 300 days of sunshine annually (I know, sickening). So when we say it’s been a record rainy season, bear in mind that the creatures of the Namib mainly subsist on sea fog and may only see 100mm of rain in the whole year. But, if you happen to be a tok-tokkie beetle and have to stand on your head every morning to catch drops of fog running down your back for your morning cuppa, you might agree that in the desert, a little rain goes a long way. Ordinarily, the colours of the Namib and wider Skeleton Coast are vivid and captivating. In fact, you run the risk of sounding like a stuck record and exhausting your personal store of enthusiastic adjectives as you exclaim repeatedly how simply astonishing it all is. Add a little water to the equation and you have tumble-weed grass turning from gun-metal grey to psychedelic green and deep-red sand wearing a carpet of yellow flowers. Shallow mirage-like lakes of water appear for the first time in a decade beneath the giant dunes of Sossusvlei . Late afternoon electric storms paint the sky with bruised purple clouds and sheet-lightning. There goes that blue planet, got a new trick and showing off again… If you haven’t planned what to do with all those public holidays at the end of April/beginning of May, think about heading out to Namibia to witness nature’s little party in the desert. 
Have a look at these great pics from the Kulala conservancy near Sossusvlei on our Facebook page. Give us a call on +44 1747 898104 if you’d like to know more about safaris in Namibia. *The above image was taken on Wolwedans in the Namib Rand Reserve. Courtesy of Wolwedans.
23rd
If only I could blow on the soles of my feet! Pain, pain, ouch, ah, ah…hot, hot! Sporting my preferred attire of shorts and bare feet, I took off at a pace that could leave Usain Bolt in the dust, determined not to return to my tent like any sensible person and don appropriate footwear. Sadly, my fleet-footedness wasn’t in the least bit athletic or dignified; in fact I fear that I looked much like a frog doing Riverdance. Not cool.
Unjustly cursing the deep red sand of the Namib that had left my feet somewhat tender, I went to soak them in the pool. I swam up and down with torpor appropriate to a mid-thirties afternoon in the Namib (the desert was mid-thirties, not me…let’s be clear). It occurred to me that I was swimming lengths on top of a sand-dune. There can’t be many places in the world where you can say that.
Having cooled my heels, I joined my fellow travellers for the obligatory sundowner. The open landrover wound its way along the “road” (two tracks in the red sand), between dry-blue grass that looked rather like clumps of tumble-weed, ready to scatter in the wind at any moment. Suddenly, the ridge of dunes gave on to a 180° view of such depth and emptiness that I could do nothing but just stare and stare. It was vast yet the silence and emptiness made it almost two-dimensional – like a film set all prepped and ready for something dramatic to happen.
Huge gnarled mountains provided a back-drop which changed from grey to red to purple in the setting sun. Fairy circles (more about these later) dotted the wide straw-coloured valley floor as though some divine interior designer had opted frivolously for polka-dots for a bit of a laugh. Sitting with cold green glass bottle in hand and feet wiggling deeper into the sand, warm wind stroking my bare arms….I wished for time to stand still. Later that evening, I seriously considered sleeping on the lounger on my verandah because it seemed such a waste to cover up the gzillions of stars with canvas.
It’s hard to do this place justice with mere words so may I suggest you saunter over to our Facebook page and lose yourself in some stunning imagery from Wolwedans.
21st
Two days ago I was holding my breath whilst an overgrown cub of a desert lion stood within 3m of our open vehicle. Today I sit with champagne and fresh Namibian oysters in hand as a cape fur seal leaps from the cold Atlantic Ocean onto the deck of the boat. I do a reality check…perhaps this champagne and the strong sun is having unexpected effects. Nope…there is indeed a seal on the boat, currently being scratched under the chin by Nick, our jolly, bearded and sizeable skipper.
This surreal contrast is typical of a journey through Namibia. Every other day the scenery changes so dramatically that it is hard to believe you are in the same country. This morning, for instance, I awoke to the chill of a dense sea fog draped over the very German coastal town of Swakopmund and now I sit beneath a warm African sun surrounded by the azure sea.
Nick pilots our little vessel expertly from Namibia’s only deep-water harbour past oil rigs in for a service, container ships and even an abandoned diamond-mining boat, registered to Panama. This one has been running up IOUs in many different ports and skipping town without paying the bill. Interpol finally caught up with it in Walvis Bay and it is now the centre of a court battle. We learn about how gravel and sand is vacuumed from the seabed and sifted for the precious stones.
As we skip across the glittering waves, we are joined by the “Namibian Airforce” – a fleet of pelicans that fly alongside the boat, hopeful for a fresh snack. At such close quarters, their fabulous anatomy can be appreciated fully and Nick gives us the benefit of his knowledge about these and the accompanying seagulls as we go. Everyone on board turns National Geographic photographer as we are treated to clear glimpses of both bottle-nose and heavy-sided dolphins breaching alongside the hull.
At Pelican Point, the seal colony proves a good fit for our trip theme…more mating animals. The males weigh in at upto 350kg and at almost half their weight, no wonder many of the females end up practically buried in the sand during “the act”. Youngsters lollop along the sand in search of their mothers.
Turning for the harbour, we see where the meaty oysters that we are drenching in lemon and Tabasco are grown. Seed oysters come from Chile to thrive in the chill Benguela current. They are huge and truly delicious. Windswept and freckled by the sun, we step back onto dry land and head back through the dunes of the Namib for coffee and cake in a German bakery. Quite surreal really.
Click here to see more images.
07th
As I stand on the lonely airstrip at 6 o’clock in the morning, I regard the plains where rocks are strewn as if in a giant Japanese garden, stretching to the foot of the mountains beyond. Towering flat-topped basalt hills encircle me and there is not a living thing to be seen. The silence is eerie and complete. There are no bird calls, no sounds of cars or planes, no conversation, no trees for the wind to rustle. The edge of a pale blue sky is scalloped by the hills; 360 degrees of rock exploding with the deep red of the dawn light. The silence, space and emptiness makes me feel light and exuberant; I feel I am the only person on earth – only it seems more like Mars.
The day before, we land on a white sand beach upon which the Atlantic beats with frothy waves and the wind whips sharply around my ankles. I walk barefoot away from the plane and into the bare reaches of sand, rock, and gravel to feel the emptiness of the desert. The wind is quick and gusty and fills my lungs with fresh salty air. There is not a cloud in the sky. The impression is one of liberation, felt deep in the chest: it touches all the senses.
The following day, from our birdlike vantage point, we witness the patterns of rock and sand created by ancient processes. At the right time of day, the paper-sheaf of angled rock is thrown into relief, the shadows emphasising every sinuous curve. Patterns like veins in the sand made by rare water courses spread beneath us. As we descend, the knobbly bald heads of rocky outcrops race by the windows. I never knew the earth to be such a canvas of patterns and colours. It is beautiful.
As I try desperately to preserve the impressions in my brain of all I have seen, and touched, and felt so that I can revisit it all in later years, I realise that this nothingness is what I came for. And the nothingness provided one of the richest experiences I have ever known.
Amanda travelled with Andre Schoeman (pictured above) on the Skeleton Coast Flying Safari in November 2010. Check out our Facebook page for more stunning images and watch this space for more blogs of Amanda’s trip.
16th
There’s something to be said for really seeing Africa. By this I don’t mean hopping from one idyllic lodge to the other in a private aircraft (although admittedly, there is certainly something to be said for this). No, actually experiencing the life, the buzz and colourful melee which is daily life to the majority of Africans.
Wander through any market and you’ll be treated to a sort of raw sensory overload that I can bet you’ll never match. Large-bottomed ladies in colourful prints argue over the price of tomatoes and sharp lads sit around playing draughts with bottle tops while imbibing the contents of the bottles. Chickens cluck and scoot around between flip-flopping feet, dusty and calloused from hard days treading the rough streets and weekends spent hoeing fields.
An old woman, sucking teeth that are either missing or black, rests her back against a red-brick wall; legs outstretched and creased hands kneading folded notes in her hands. She sells crispy-smooth woven palm mats and baskets, wooden spoons for stirring goopy white maize meal. The sea-smell of drying capenta – small lake fish – fills the air in this corner, while further on, a young woman swiftly chops away at a clenched bunch of greens, bitter and fresh. All around are people calling to each other, advertising their wares, exchanging greetings and family news, gossip.
In southern Africa, roundabouts are known as “circles” and traffic lights as “robots” (making for potentially disastrous results when requesting directions). Robots are a prime opportunity to tempt captive motorists into purchasing all manner of things…miniature markets. Loofahs, brash holographic pictures of waterfalls that move when you walk past them, dustpans made from cut metal sheets printed by Coca Cola. There are wooden bowls and cheap alarm clocks, copies of men’s magazines covertly displayed between the pages of the local newspaper. There are sometimes puppies and rabbits. It’s where you get your daily newspaper and your telephone scratchcards.
The interesting thing is that the vendors don’t try and persuade you that you need the thing. Their sales pitch revolves entirely around how cheap it is. You say “no thanks” and they say: “but, madam, you know the price? So cheap!”. You say: “even if it was free, I still don’t want it”. They say: “only $5…such a good price. End of the day. Closing down sale.” As if this was reason enough for you to go home with an ironing board. Africa….wonderful, frustrating, unique, surprising Africa.
08th
“Luxury” is one of those words that is bandied around shamelessly to the point where you become almost numb to what it actually means. Rather like an exclusive club that you’ve skulked into without the necessary qualifications, it seems somehow nefarious and indulgent. Most definitions angle towards material exces: big cars, expensive hotels, small delicacies on big white plates with equally large price-tags. Which is all very well and dandy if this is what blows your hair back. Back to that old cliché: wealth doesn’t bring happiness. Actually, it probably does, but more to the point is what you do with your available spondoolies. The interesting thing is that the richest experiences don’t necessarily cost the earth.
A few years ago, while camping in Namibia, I had one of the most surreal nights of my life. The tent was tiny – just a taut mosquito net between me and the stars. During the deepest part of the night when even the crickets seem to stop humming, an odd feeling woke me. I remember being aware of the quality of the darkness – it was not quite right. Lying still, I took stock of my surroundings and then the side of the tent shifted slightly, almost as though the wind had suddenly gusted.
Looking up, I became aware of shades of night above me and suddenly came properly awake with the realisation that what I was looking at was the underside of an elephant. With two fore-feet against the side of the tent (only a couple of inches from my prone form), the animal was stretching gently over the tent to reach some ripe fruit on a bush. Weirdly, I didn’t start thinking of the inconvenience of being crushed to death at that moment, but lay there marvelling at the size and quietness of this animal. I could smell its grassy scent and hear its knees rubbing against the canvas from time to time.
The point of the story is that this is something that will remain with me forever, long after I will have forgotten the finer points about the interior decor. In Africa, the real richness comes from just being in the place and the closer you can get to the essence of it, the more memorable it is likely to be.
Want to know more about luxury in the bush? Click here.
Have a look at luxury safari ideas.
01st
Tippi Degré was born in Namibia in 1990 to wildlife film-maker parents. Already it would seem improbable that she was destined to have a run- of-the-mill childhood. Her first ten years was indeed pretty special as her parent’s work took them travelling throughout southern Africa. Namibia’s game ranches, conservancies and the tribal lands of the Himba and San Bushmen became as familiar to her as the local neighbourhoods of a town-child.
Rather like a modern-day Rudyard Kipling (and his Jungle Book creation, Mowgli), Tippi not only made herself at home in the bush but also befriended its inhabitants, displaying unusual fearlessness to the creatures she encountered. Pictures of Tippi scaling the trunk of an elephant, reclining against the furry flank of a leopard and riding an ostrich depict a very unusual child. How cool that your best mate is a meerkat and that, barely knee-high to a grasshopper, you can tick off a leopard by tapping it on the nose and saying “stop that!”. Her mother, Sylvie Robert, developed the belief that her scruffy little rough diamond of a daughter could communicate with the animals and regarded them as her contemporaries.
Not all children are Tippis but they all certainly have the capacity to be captivated by Africa and its wildlife. How tangible is the excitement of children when they first see the tent they will spend the night in, or the Samburu warrior who shows them how to shoot a bow and arrow, and the antics of geckos catching moths around a light at night! While Nintendo and the TV do provide handy distractions for kids, how can they possibly compete with excavating the tiny funnels of ant lions in the sand, or the excitement of hearing a hyena whooping at night? And, selfishly, how cool to benefit from a second childish euphoria while you watch all this as a grown-up?
Furthermore, and probably stating the obvious here, but if the next generation don’t get to enjoy the barefoot freedom of wild places and develop an understanding of its importance for our future, how on earth can we expect them to take an interest in conserving it?
Find out more about going on safari with your children.
Check out some ideas for child-friendly trips to Africa.
Check out Tippi’s web-site.
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