Softly, Softly, Catchee Monkey...

"We have a lead, they also stole our tampons." There is a calm, controlled authority about Chelsee's voice that reignites a tiny flicker of hope in me, where none ought to exist. Without a moment's hesitation, she disappears into the undergrowth and I follow her lead. Lotte, meanwhile, holds the fort under the beach windbreak in the event of an unlikely counter-attack by our cunning opponent.

With a two decade track record in losing electronic equipment creatively whilst travelling, it was only a matter of time before something happened in Africa. On this occasion, however, I have outdone even myself. Having returned to our beach headquarters to see our bags unzipped, my phone missing, Chelsee's passport out in the open and most of our possessions scattered haphazardly all over the blanket, I automatically assumed that an opportunist local had taken advantage of our short walk to the sea to misappropriate some of our belongings. But a closer inspection of the crime scene reveals a half-eaten chocolate bar, a shredded bag of sweet chili Fritos and the disappearance of a dozen of Tampax's finest. The perpetrators of this misdemeanour become apparent: we have been robbed by a troop of monkeys.

Once I recover from both the absurdity of the situation and the by now familiar sinking feeling, I cannot help but get carried away by the enthusiasm of my Dutch travel companion. As a veterinary nurse with first-hand behavioural knowledge of the vervet monkey, she is the ideal supersleuth to pursue this investigation; within minutes of tracking their movements, we are entering the monkeys' natural habitat deep inside the tree canopy and find their lair almost immediately. It is a veritable treasure trove of discarded stolen goods not to their taste: shoes, bangles and other assorted shiny objects, even a leather satchel; but no mobile phone, sadly.

Whilst I would typically use such a situation to curse either my own stupidity or the evil of mankind, on this occasion I am not even upset; in fact I am more than a little amused by our fruitless search and rescue operation. And I am simply happy to be here, in such fine company, because I shouldn't be here. Two nights ago I was in Swaziland, with the intention to move on to Mozambique the following day. But a chance hostel discussion between the two Dutch girls I had already met and Tom, a gigantic Norwegian viking who had just sat down to eat his dinner at our table, led to an offer of a lift to Sodwana Bay, a South African diving mecca in almost completely the opposite direction to that which I had intended to take.

The most precious commodity of any extended backpacking trip is not money or time, however beneficial to its overall enjoyment and duration they both may be, but the sheer unadulterated freedom that comes of having no fixed itinerary, logistical deadline or pre-booked accommodation to respect. As distant and semi-faded memories of  'The Real World', 'The Office' and 'The Daily Commute' briefly remind me of the shackles of normality, I choose to seize the first real opportunity for unplanned adventure on this voyage: a spontaneous road trip to an unknown destination with three total strangers.

In a tiny Ford Figo splitting at the seams with backpacks and bags, the Norwegian man-mountain and I slot Tetris-like into the available space: the Backseat Boys are born, to be driven by the Spicy Girls. The six hour journey passes by in a non-stop medley of group sing-along and the unexpected bonus of a free safari as the state road to the coast allows us passage through a private game reserve. But it is after the giraffes, rhino and buffalo, at our destination that the prize for my itinerary improvisation truly reveals itself: the last available accommodation at our chosen lodgings is a four bed beach villa, complete with kitchen and outdoor barbecue area: available and ours for the princely sum of £6.50 per person.

And so, when I lose the thirty-ninth mobile phone of my adult life to a bloody vervet monkey the following day, I still manage to smile and enjoy our afternoon at the beach. Because I have the evening to look forward to; between mixing drinks, setting up the braai and bonfire, marinating vegetables and preparing side dishes, Tom, Lotte, Chelsee and I are each allocated our dinner soirée duties. This is our time, our place, and the interaction is natural and effortless, like flatmates on the shortest of tenancies.

With our two hammocks swaying in the gentle evening breeze and the wonderful aroma of porterhouse steaks sizzling on the braai, this is one of those moments and decisions that define my very philosophy of travel: not the world heritage sites or wonders of the world; not the beautiful gothic cathedrals or towering medieval fortresses; not even the secluded unspoiled beaches; no, it is just the simple, spontaneous and genuine pleasure derived from sharing a seaside cabana and a short escapade with three complete but like-minded strangers, playing cards and drinking cocktails late into the night in front of the glowing embers of a sandpit fire.

Home sweet home

Braai, sandpit, hammocks, what more could we want?

The braai masters at work

Nothing like a good book burning to close out an evening...

Thanks for the monkey warning, South Africa. Thanks a lot...

Mood song: Feuer Frei - Rammstein
Mood food: porterhouse steak, barbecue seared

The King And I

"The King, officer. Where is the King?"

We are at a crossroads of dirt tracks somewhere in Eastern Swaziland and the last signpost to the Hlane Royal Residence was 27km back. With no map and two South African stoners driving us in their battered bakkie, the chances of success in this particular mission were always going to be slim. Even so, we are genuinely surprised when the police officer tells us that the His Majesty Mswati III is not here at Hlane, but at his other Royal Residence at Buhleni, in the north of the country and at least another two hours' drive away.

We are on a quest to find the Marula Festival, a cultural event little known outside the smallest country in the Southern Hemisphere, but of great importance to Swazi culture. Whilst the marula fruit can also be found in most other Southern African countries, here it is the proud focus of a national harvest celebration. The fruit is distilled into a homemade 'beer' that ranges between 10% and 20% in strength, and the King holds an entire festival weekend at each of his two residences. Only after His Majesty has adjudicated over the finest marula gifts presented to him by his adoring subjects may the beer be consumed and the party begin.

After a brief negotiation with our drivers, my hostel roommate Iris and I agree to cover the entire fuel costs in order to get to our destination. I have cancelled a rafting trip to discover this festival, and the coincidence of our timing makes this too good an opportunity to miss. Besides, another two hours in my favourite mode of transport - the back of a pick-up truck - is an unexpected bonus that allows me more time to appreciate this unexpectedly beautiful country. As we bounce around the beautiful rolling hills with a beer in hand, we are treated to some stunning alpine scenery reminiscent of the country's European near-namesake. That the panorama is accentuated by a distant backdrop of almost constant lightning makes this a truly unique experience.

We finally arrive at the festival grounds to find a scene of carnage and devastation. It is clear that much marula has been consumed as swaying bodies trip over the already prone. We are stopped by every single Swazi group we encounter, for photos and a taste of their own homebrew. Having sampled its delights the previous night, I have come prepared with my antacids to counter the effects of the beer. To no avail: the liquid slides down my oesophagus like lava and I experience self-immolation from within. After what feels like a lengthy papal tour of duty, we beat a hasty retreat to the ceremony grounds and witness a breath-taking celebration of Swazi national identity. More than five thousand women in national dress stand in formations of Roman battalions, their chanting and swaying accompanied by the entire crowd.

An older gentleman sitting to my right strikes up conversation with me, telling me of his six months spent in London in the 1980s before asking me how I am enjoying the ceremony. It is a genuine delight and honour to witness such a cultural event first hand, I reply, but what I would really like to do is meet the King. Unexpectedly, he gets up and signals to me to follow him. We approach the telecommunications vehicle of the country's national broadcaster, and enter into conversation with a senior production manager who appears to have had one cup of marula too many. For the hand of a white English girl, he will help me meet the King. Thinking quickly, I ask whether a white French girl will do the trick, my Anglo-Saxon resources being pretty thin on the ground. He agrees, remarkably, and places a Swaziland Broadcasting press pass into my hand. "Come back at 9pm and we will go to meet His Majesty." I return to where my friends are sitting and smile innocently at Iris. A quick toilet break, I tell her.

Just as I am starting to work on my curtsey, however, the winds of an approaching storm pick up dramatically and the sandy floor of the festival grounds takes to the skies. At first, it is only the lesser hardy amongst the crowd that shuffle back towards the safety of the marquees, but a hurried announcement over the PA signals an abrupt end to the proceedings. The King and his entourage adjourn to the nearby palace and the plebiscite returns to their vehicle for the two hour drive home. As the night flashes with electricity, I reflect on what might have been. Never mind, Your Majesty, you may get to meet me next time.

Here's your marula, Sir...

 

The boys enjoying the show

 

 Girls just wanna have fun...

The only way to travel

 

Mood song: Return To Sender - Elvis Presley
Mood food: Marula beer

Backpacker Life [i] - The Equipment

The Backpack:
Quite simply the raison d'être of the backpacker. Its mere ownership qualifies for backpacker status regardless of age, social standing or number of children born since the last expedition. The internal capacity fluctuation challenges all laws of physics through its unexplainable reverse black hole properties: the exact same contents that fit in neatly with room to spare one day would not fit in a 40' Maersk shipping container the next. Often mistakenly assumed to be the backpacker's most important possession (see 'The Daypack'), the backpack will spend much of its travel existence out of its owner's sight - in hostel lockers or storage rooms, on the roof of a combi van or in the hold of a long distance bus - and can therefore not contain any of the backpacker's most precious items. Whilst the loss of the backpack would undoubtedly present a sartorial dilemma, the threat to onward travel would not be significant.

Life in one bag, emergency toilet paper in the other...

The Daypack:
Of all the backpacker's essential items of equipment, the daypack presents the biggest challenge. Whilst the holy trinity of mobile phone, wallet and passport (in ascending order of importance) will almost always be held on the backpacker's person, laptop, iPad, camera and guide book must go in the daypack. And the daypack must therefore accompany the backpacker wherever he/she goes when on the move, inducing a constant state of self-conscious fear known as Daypack Paranoia (DP). It is not uncommon, many years after a particularly acute bout of DP in downtown Managua, for a retired backpacker to wake up in a cold sweat at 3am feeling to the side of the bed for a non-existent daypack. There is no cure for DP, other than booking another trip.

Constant paranoia...

The Combination Padlock:
The unsung hero of the backpacker's defence armoury, the combination padlock provides unjustified peace of mind that all valuables are safe locked within a dormitory made of second hand aluminium foil and decomposed balsa wood. Usage requires a PhD in mechanical engineering and the night vision of a Sierra Madre mountain lynx when returning to a pitch black room after a night out on the coconut brandy. Not to be confused with the common key padlock, unless in possession of a pocket hacksaw when the key cannot be located within any of the 79 backpack zip compartments twenty minutes before the departure of the 2am night bus to Mogadishu.

Ethnic Jewellery:
Permissible materials include leather bracelets taken from endangered species, shark tooth pendants fished unsustainably from within damaged coral reefs, and any ivory. Fairtrade and responsibly sourced materials are frowned upon. Not to be worn for longer than seven days upon returning, unless a return to Africa/SE Asia/Latin America is imminent. The backpacker must be able to relate at least one sentimental story regarding memento provenance, for example a 16 bed dormitory one night stand parting gift, or having haggled an additional 3p from a one-legged Angolan civil war orphan. Not to be confused with seven year old Glastonbury festival wristbands long riddled with fungal subcultures and at least one minor STD.

Peace, man...

The Telecommunications Centre:
Mobile phone, iPad, iPod, camera, portable speaker; each conveniently comes with a different adaptor and plug; and each will be lost at some point during the trip, typically with less than 5% of battery remaining on the device and when camping in the middle of the Central Kalahari Game Reserve. Total expenditure of replacement chargers or USB cables will usually exceed the original cost of the trip, or the GDP of Guinea-Bissau, whichever is greater.

Getting wired

Paper literature:

Modern day usage in its classic sense is almost obsolete, save for a handful of die-hard laptopless anti-Kindle technophobes. Now only for show, strategically positioned in the bus seat back pocket or on the communal breakfast table so as to render the title visible. Extra points are awarded for material in a language other than the backpacker's mother tongue, obscure short collections of 19th century Danish plays, or any self-help topic. 

Je prétends, donc je suis...

Emergency Toilet Roll & Wet Wipes:

Trips to any third world countries as well as provincial France MUST NOT be undertaken without these two items.

Mood song: Vagabond - Beirut
Mood food: sweet chili Fritos

The Fountain Of Flowers

For all my lifelong reluctance to believe in the existence of fate, destiny, kismet and the like, it is sometimes difficult to resist the notion that there are greater forces at work than we imagine. As I arrived at Bloemfontein bus station after the horrors of Lesotho, to be greeted by the twin chimneys of a city centre power station, I briefly wondered whether the bus journey had merely flipped me from the frying pan into the fire. With no accommodation booked and scant knowledge of my surroundings, I did what any self-respecting backpacker would do and headed for the district with the highest concentration of trendy bars on the Lonely Planet city map. Hipsters are conscious of their safety as well as their image, after all.

Further demoralised after four fully booked hotel visits and needing to escape a mercilessly beating midday sun, I headed for shelter, WiFi and a morale-boosting gin and tonic at an inviting eatery. 'Ja friend, you must go to the Hobbit Hotel, it's just two blocks from here.', the barmaid tells me, saving my life for the second time in as many minutes.

As I enter the semi-militarized security gate so normal in South Africa, it is as if I have borrowed C.S. Lewis' wardrobe to enter Tolkien's Middle Earth, if the Gods of mixed fantasy literature metaphors will forgive me. This, I thought, is what a Bedouin nomad must feel like when arriving at a desert oasis after two weeks of wandering the hot Sahara sands. There is no stagnant water here, and no mosquitoes. Only a welcoming smile as I am shown to a delightful suite, complete with Victorian study room and cast iron four poster bed.

Few books marked my childhood as much as The Lord Of The Rings. As I stroll around the charming hotel patio gardens, vivid and fond memories flood back of devouring the 1,000+ pages in a little under four days at my grandparents' house in Switzerland before going on a family holiday to Italy. I can clearly recall being upset as I started reading the final chapter, Grey Havens. I only read the book on that one occasion, but formed such a personal mental impression and image of all the characters that I have been unable to watch any of the multiple award-winning big screen adaptations.

It isn't until I read into the history of my wonderful lodgings, however, and that of the author who inspired them that I realise how much closer to home I really am. J.R.R. Tolkien was born in Bloemfontein in 1892, where he lived until the age of three. His father's death in South Africa when he was on a family visit to England with his mother led to his resettling in Sarehole, a Worcestershire village 16 miles from my home town of Bromsgrove. Unknown to me for all these years, the wonderful scenery depicted in my favourite childhood read was actually inspired by the Clent, Lickey and Malvern Hills that surround our family home. Tolkien's mother is buried in the graveyard of St Peter's Catholic Church, less than one mile from my parents' house.

These are happy memories, and this is a happy travel interval. Just as the book was a temporary escape into a world of fantasy, so the Hobbit Hotel is a fleeting reprieve from the hot and dusty demands of African exploration. The wonderful welcome from Celeste, the owner, and her adorable black labrador Bonnie make the place even more special than it already is. I had not intended to come to Bloemfontein, and certainly not for two nights. But maybe, just maybe, something other than a last minute change of travel plan has brought me to this place.

My very own Bag End

Quainter than quaint

Beautiful Bonnie

Where the magic happens...

Mood song: King and Lionheart - Of Monsters And Men
Mood food: black coffee

Misery in Maseru

Sometimes it just isn't meant to happen.

I had looked forward to visiting Lesotho, with an anticipation I reserve for only the most obscure countries. With the hope of being able to look upon this tiny country landlocked entirely by South Africa with fondness whenever I gazed at a map of the world upon my return - as one of the few in the know. I had wanted to explore the country's central mountain region, to go hiking solo for the first time in Africa and discover Basotho villagers still proudly holding onto their customs; to go for a run in the cooler temperatures of the Kingdom in the Sky; to share an experience with like-minded explorers of the paths less trodden.

Not a chance.

The first thing that hit me at my Maseru hostel, conveniently located next to a swampy abandoned military airbase 3km out of town, was both the stench of stagnant water and the wall of pterodactyl-sized mosquitoes tickertape parading my entrance into the dormitory. With no WiFi, no aircon, zero lighting after nightfall and no other companions other than the French couple in the room next to me celebrating Valentine's Day as though the end of the world was imminent, I attempted knock myself unconscious with my Lonely Planet. How fitting.

The following morning, I headed to the bus station to catch a combi van to Malealea, three hours away in the mountains. At 8am I was the first passenger standing by the bus. At 9am I was still the first passenger standing by the bus. At 10am I was still the first passenger standing by the bus. At 11am I was still the first passenger standing by the bus. Even by African combi standards, this was ridiculous. My mood, already exacerbated by the worst night's sleep of the trip, was grim.

Much of my time at the bus station was spent talking to Sibelo, the 22 year old eldest of three recently orphaned siblings. With a smile as wide and generous as my old Italian grandmother, he instantly put me at ease with a warm welcome to his country and the by now familiar opening volley of questions. As our conversation matured beyond the usual pleasantries, however, the picture he painted of life in his country and his own home was bleaker than anything I had ever heard first hand on my travels. Backpackers frequently and proudly extol the virtues of visiting the most desolate countries, but rarely are they actually exposed to the real extent of poverty.

With unofficial unemployment within the country standing at 70% since the mechanization of the South African mining industry, most landowners being forced to rent out their fields to third parties and a third of the population not having direct access to running water, Lesotho sadly merits its tag of poorest African country. Sibelo ekes out a living hustling passengers into his affiliated combi vans, but of the 1,800 Maloti (£80) he manages to scrape together every month the vast majority goes towards feeding and clothing his 13 year old sister and 16 year old brother, as well as his grandmother. We talked for close to two hours, with his eloquence in English and hope for the future strangely worsening my mood, if this was even possible. If this bright, positive boy is struggling to make ends meet, what hope for the rest?

As my waiting time passed the four hour mark and with still not a single other passenger occupying any of the 22 seats, I took an executive decision that greatly displeased me: I decided to leave Lesotho there and then. The thought of another night at the hostel of doom, with no realistic prospect of logistical success the following day did not even bear considering.

As I crossed Maseru Bridge border back into South Africa barely 22 hours after arriving, I genuinely felt as though I was failing Lesotho personally - something I have never experienced before. But it was the right decision, of this I am positive. For every Namibia, there must be a Lesotho to bring perspective to a global picture. The lows of travel are every bit as enriching as the highs: they provide an insight and understanding that sunny beaches and world wonders cannot. It is just a shame they aren't as much fun.

Maseri North Bus Station - Waterloo it ain't...

Bus station sustenance

Mood song: Tomorrow - James
Mood food: bus station grilled corn

King For A Day

The guy is good, I have to concede. He stalks his prey with a mixture of subtlety and power that has earned him the status and recognition, if not popularity, that his pedigree deserves. But you don't become the Saturday morning champion of Gaborone bus station without having a few tricks of your own.

Money exchanges hands and the game takes on a new importance as the crowds gather. Who is this white boy in flip-flops? This is visceral. There is no chalk, no place to hide in the beating morning sun. Even the Coke lady has suspended her trading to witness the contest: thirst can wait when the stakes are this high. I am an unknown, here, and the betting is mostly on the champion. But two hardy souls believe in me, to the amusement of the rest. 'Kill the killer' one whispers to me both hopefully and confidently. I will not fail you, my friend.

My initial fears are allayed as I take to the table for the first time: the cue is true, as are the cushions. I play. It is a quick game, reminiscent of the first Cold War showdown between Kasparov and Karpov. Pawns fall rhythmically, mistakes are made and the table is emptied without a breath being taken. He takes the lead and it looks as though my fate is sealed as he pots three balls in quick succession. I will be nothing more than a footnote in combi car park history, it seems. But Lady Luck and an uncharacteristic lack of power allow me back in, from the brink. He stares in disbelief. On such margins empires have fallen.

These are the moments you live for: a black into the middle pocket, but with his last stripe hanging over the edge of a precipice that will surely spell my doom. Live or die. Glory or failure. Twenty-eight eyes stare at my right hand, at my tapping fingers. I stop for a second to reflect. If I had not resigned in September, if I had not taken a leap of faith and believed in a different future, and more importantly if I had heard my alarm this morning, I would not be here.

'What is your name?' Suddenly I hesitate. Is this sportsmanship from a man who senses imminent and reputation-shattering defeat or a sincere invitation to Botswana pool posterity? In that moment he reminds me of a black Clint Eastwood, and I understand his game. You see, there are two kinds of people in this world, my friend. Those with loaded guns and those who dig. You dig. I stroke the white ball, gently but firmly, and the black goes in.

A roar. An embrace from my backer. The killer is dead. As he comes over to congratulate me with a smile that reveals only seven teeth, he hands me the 20 Pula that he had already pocketed in his utmost self-confidence, and slaps me on my back. 'Another?' But that is not how it works. I say my goodbyes, saddle up and get on my bus to Johannesburg, on to the next adventure. Goodbye Botswana, you had a tough task after Namibia, but you came good.

 A victor's smile

Open air pressure 

Meanwhile, at the qualifying round of the Mosconi Cup...

Mood song: A Small Victory - Faith No More
Mood food: Wrigley's Spearmint chewing gum stick

Desert Wonderland

Every once in a while, a backpacker's travel stars align so beautifully so as to create an experience that transcends the realms of realistic expectation and enters the pantheon of personal globe-trotting immortality. The mere mention of a city or, even more rarely, an entire country that has merited inclusion into this exclusive group induces a smile of zen-like serenity and a short pause in conversation as the waves of pure memories lap gently on the shores of my travel subconscious. To New Zealand's breath-taking nature, the unconditional hospitality experienced on my Turkish culinary odyssey, and my world-favourite city of Porto, a fourth name must be added: Namibia - the desert wonderland.

Elevation to such exalted status can only be achieved by mixing a perfectly balanced cocktail using every single one of the following ingredients, and in precisely the right measures: exceptional travel companions; natural beauty to repeatedly drop jawbones to the ground; inspirational accommodation and sensational weather; food and drink to match both context and mood; and finally, the little moment-specific je ne sais quoi that can only ever be exclusive to the destination - a night out of legendary proportions, an unexpected explosion of action-related adrenaline or a sprinkling of spontaneous romance, for example.

With only limited time in which to appreciate such a vast country and my usual lack of automotive mobility, I opted to book a six day Safari & Dunes tour with the local backpacker hostel travel company. This may yet turn out to be the best decision of the entire African trip, for a better combination of nationalities and characters will be difficult to find. In Ajay, my fellow Londoner, I feel as though I may have found a future travel buddy as well as a comedy double act partner; Donna and Mark are two Aussies I would go out of my way to visit on my next tour Down Under, if only to relive the entire tour via their 2,563,991 iPad photos; Jonnathan and Julia, our two honeymooning Uruguayans became my de facto back seat beer partners and helped me release my inner latino; our two sweet German girls, Valerie and Julia, provided the youthful exuberance; and Andrea, the feisty Mexican with whom I shared an all too rare instant complicity as well as a real zest for life, travel and white wine.

With a wonderful group dynamic cemented almost immediately, nature, food and drink, and the weather took the baton with great aplomb. We were regaled with a superb mix of roadside picnic lunches amid a backdrop of barren desert landscapes, fine dining in the quirky German Atlantic seaside resort of Swakopmund, clambering through rugged canyons formed by seismic shifts in the regional tectonic plates, braais amongst the animals of Etosha, plodding up and careering down the martian-like sand dunes at Sossusvlei - a sequence of unforgettable activities and moments that combined to create an experience so much greater than the sum of its parts.

The final touch, however, was applied on an exceptional last tour evening at the best accommodation of the trip: sunset beers in the pool and an open air dinner at our beautiful isolated desert lodge, followed by a group celebration of wine drinking worthy of a Beaujolais Nouveau launch party. The last, late night and most indelible moments of the tour were spent gazing in exquisite company at the incredible Namib Desert canopy of constellations, shooting stars and a suitably lacteous Milky Way. Chapeau, Namibia, chapeau.

Even as my last day in Windhoek threatens to descend into post-tour solitude morosity, a chance hostel dormitory encounter leads to an unexpected invitation to the Hilton Sky Bar roof terrace and provides the most fitting finale to an already sublime experience. Over an unbackpackerlike dinner of sushi with champagne, we watch as horizon reds, oranges and yellows turn into city twilight and night stars in a gentle warm breeze. We exchange travel plans, life hopes and loves past, present and future with the openness of strangers who will meet for one evening only.

So as the sun sets over Namibia for one last time, I know that I will never return here in a physical sense. I cannot. In my mind, however, I will forever be revisiting every animal, every dune and every star with a smile. A pure smile.

The dune conquerors, no tourist route for these guys...

Pussy cat pussy cat, where have you been?

Desert picnic stop

 The Dream Team

The tough life of a backpacker...

Mood song: Pure - The Lightning Seeds
Mood food: Christof's evening braai

Safari Time

"Stop! STOP!!! STOOOOOOOOP!!!!!!! Hyenas, mother and cub, 8 o' clock!"

You never forget your first safari sighting. Neither will my nine tour companions, as my shrill, robbery-victim falsetto threatens to shatter every pane of glass in our spotting vehicle. That the animals have not scarpered across the border into Angola is a minor miracle in itself, but I am beaming with pride at being the first to identify this particular beast. And more than a little surprised at my evident excitement.

Of all the activities and sights that the African continent will showcase to me over the coming months, going on safari to view the local fauna in its natural habitat was the one that aroused the least enthusiasm in me. Other than a mild and unashamedly semi-narcissistic obsession with penguins (my own incarnation in the natural world), the most enjoyment I have derived from the animal kingdom has been in a very specific context: medium rare, seared on both sides and on my dinner plate.

The first hour of our first game drive in Etosha NP does little to alter my opinion: whilst the gamboling springbok and oryx entertain initially, I soon lose interest and focus instead on the scenery unfolding before me. The incredibly vast and flat landscape of savanna woodlands is a joy to behold, a spectacular African panorama framed by the biggest expanse of never-ending sky I have ever seen. This is the Africa I have come to discover, the polar opposite of my urban environment of the last eighteen years.

My reverie is interrupted by a shout coming from the front of our truck. Animals ahoy! A magnificent tower of giraffes is munching on thorn trees not 50 metres from us, a mesmerizing sight as their necks rise and fall in blissful metronomic feeding. We have hardly moved on when a dazzle of zebras comes into view, their indecent flaunting of their instruments of procreation impressing the women and depressing the men; wildebeest, hartebeest and jackals soon follow, as does a mighty rhinoceros. Suddenly I can no longer see the sky for all the animals that are now surrounding us. And then my time comes.

"STOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!"

With the hyenas safely under my belt and the pressure on me relieved, I grab the animal spotting sheet and enjoy both the bumpy ride and a crash course in zoology. Another rhino sighting divides the group: is it really white or has its black cousin simply been rolling in the dusty clay? Ostrich, helmeted guineafowl, pale chanting goshawk and black-faced impala are ticked off the list in quick succession, and with great gusto. There are three boxes that I hope remain unchecked, however: the black mamba, Angolan cobra and zebra snake are kindly invited to stay unsighted.

With a fantastic braai dinner at our evening campsite accompanied by a fortunate night sighting of a thirsty rhino drinking at a floodlit watering hole, we go to bed tired and elated. The following morning, we dive straight back into the animal world and it is towards the tail end of our sunrise game drive that the final piece of the puzzle is slotted in. The German girls get the spotting glory this time, but the ecstasy and relief are shared by all we see our first lions. A beautiful pride of four males and females, doing what lions do best in the summer sun: absolutely nothing at all. Never has such sheer laziness been so beautiful.

With the rhinoceros, giraffe, and lion highs behind us, we allow the final game drive to wean us off our animal addiction and prepare us for the rest of Namibia. In a nice touch of appreciation, a white rhino crosses the road in front of us only two miles from the exit gate. We stop to admire its formidable frame amble languidly from one side to the other before leaving Etosha. Only two of the Big Five may have been sighted on this, my first safari; but with the Serengeti and Masai Mara ahead of me and my appetite for animals having been extended to the living variety, it simply means that I have unfinished business to conclude.

My hyenas

Black or white?

 

 Lazy lions

 S'up girls...

Graceful giraffe

Mood song: The Lion Sleeps Tonight - Tight Fit
Mood food: the safari platter - mixed grill of oryx, zebra, kudu, eland & springbok