Southern Africa 2025. Part Three: Etosha and Damaraland

 17^th October 2025 (Day 6)

Up at 04:45 - Jeez. Quick breakfast in the dark. I notice that, figuratively, people have been putting their towels on the seats of the Red Tank the day before, even though we were told to rotate. So, the only free seats are the ones we had yesterday, which is fine, but maybe that’s because I left my travel pillow there by mistake. From now on we're going to rotate clockwise.

We’re on time, off at 6am. We pass through the outskirts of Rundu which apparently has a population of 180,000, although I suspect that’s the region as a whole. All the kids are off to school in a multitude of different uniforms. They seem very happy. The town was originally built by white farmers to house cheap labour, but is now full of Angolan immigrants. There are no stockaded huts, just corrugated iron shacks.

Gradually, the scenery changes - less dusty strip, more Mediterranean highlands. We reach Grootfontein, a relatively-attractive looking town with a sign warning people not to nick electricity off pylons. We stop to refill petrol. Someone asks if they can get a coffee and is told we’re going to a supermarket in ten minutes. Tricked!

We’ve made good progress so far because the road’s been relatively good, but at Otavi we need to turn off onto a dirt track or, as Tawanda calls it, a 'free African massage'. We get to Outjo, another colonial town at 1pm. It should have taken 9 hours, but other vehicles aren’t driven by Jonas Hamilton. Sandwiches are despatched to either eat in the Tank (no thanks) or the parking lot (ditto). Claire is upset at receiving vegan baloney and processed cheese again, and half the group don’t eat theirs.

Tawanda and Jonas are late back from the supermarket, as this is the last place in civilisation for many miles, and these three young boys are begging for food. Why can’t we give them the sandwiches? I ask. They’ll only be thrown away. Because the security guard, who carries a catapult, tells us not to. I slip them a sandwich bound for the bin when nobody’s looking, but it doesn’t deter them from returning.

So stupid, so distressing. All this wasted food, a huge supermarket stocked with goods from around the world, an upmarket coffee shop. Tawanda returns with three days-worth of groceries and tells us to give them the sandwiches. He is told off by the security guard in no uncertain terms.

Another hour to the Taraanthal Farm guesthouse. There’s an honestly box for the coldest beer, terrible wi-fi, a swimming pool, cactuses, a small communal fridge that will never chill anything given all the stuff put in, but it’s lovely here. All the rooms are different, but for once we have the best one with a patio out the back. There’s nothing else around in a circumference of 50km or something like that.

Long day’s travel, lovely meal with a fire under the stars, lots of beetles, goodnight.

18^th-19^th October 2025 (Days 7-8)

Etosha National Park covers over 22,000 square kilometres. That’s x 1.07 Waleses or, in metric, 0.73 Belgiums. It used to be 80,000 square km (2.6 Belgiums) but various governments sold off parts to farmers and private developers so that billionaire fat Americans can shoot rhinos.

5:30 wake up, 6:00 breakfast, off at 6:30 sharp. It’s a half an hour drive from our lovely farmhouse. On entering the park, you have to give a tribute of one plastic bag and a dog sniffs your shoes, then it’s bushy-bushy time and we’re away.

We go first to a nearby waterhole and there are several springboks, two zebras, three jackals and an ostrich. Not bad, happy with that. But then there’s two hours of slim pickings where Jonas is instructed to stop at every springbok, guinea fowl, other boring birds and squirrel we encounter because the Fellowship are too excited and tripping over each other in their eagerness to take pictures. By the next waterhole we’re bored of springboks, which are very tame and legion, impalas and zebras. Through our binoculars you can see the shapes of giraffes and elephants on the horizon, but the herds of wildebeest, hartebeest and gazelles I had expected aren’t there.

The waterholes in Etosha are fake by the way, the water is pumped in. Without them there would be no animals as there are no rivers and there is almost no rain.

In the middle of the park is a tourist camp called Okaukuejo which has a restaurant, expensive shops and more toilets and charging points than you can shake a stick at. It’s here we have a cooked lunch because they’ve lent us a kitchen. I leave my hat behind.

Gangs of fierce mongoose terrorise the picnickers. 

A viewpoint above a waterhole offers shade in the 40c heat and there’s more springbok, impalas and zebra and, allegedly because they weren’t there when I was, a family of elephants.

Then there’s a three-hour round trip because Jonas has heard of a sighting of lions on Ranger-Net. We know where they’re hiding, they’re just not coming out, and we see almost nothing else apart from bloody springboks.

Namibian roads aren’t great generally, and this is a game park, so all this is a bit wearing, like being in 12 hours of aeroplane turbulence with a sandstorm in your eyes. After a dinner of beef and mushroom in a Knorr stroganoff sauce, bugs shaped like pinto beans falling into our food, Tawanda announces in his laconic way: “Tomorrow, same thing.”

“Can’t we have a lie in?” asks someone. Okay, so that would be me. But the Fellowship follow their leader and nobody’s joining me in my chant of ‘Less safari! Less safari!’

Which I’m glad of because today was brilliant. The first waterhole has hundreds of animals there. I’m not very good with my collective nouns but there are surpluses of springboks, institutions of impala, school trips of zebras, happenings of hartebeests, caravans of kudus, a wotsit of wildebeest, a neck pain of ostriches, an opera of oryx, a jingo of jackals, a golly of giraffes and a worry of warthogs. I can’t remember who took these pictures, but they are people who know how to photograph and have good cameras.

 

Giraffes, ostriches and wildebeest are added to the boring list

Picture this, in another water hole there’s an elephant and all the other animals are waiting for him to ‘do his business.’ He raises his trunk and trumpets and there, in the distance we see four of his mates, bloody huge creatures, looking like the olyphants in Return of the King, plodding towards us. They walk through the gap left by us and another car, straight to their bath. If this wasn’t good enough someone spies a lion, fresh from a kill. A magnificent caravan of kudus appears and asks ‘why aren’t you looking at us?’

We see vultures hovering over a kill, lions hunting unsuccessfully by the bright white huge salt pan that’s dotted with ostriches and wildebeest and then, on our way back to the farm, there’s a huge black rhino slowly crossing the road! Rhino sightings are very rare. The authorities don’t tell you where you might find them because that would alert the poachers.

There’s a private safari park a few km from Etosha called El Dorado. There are signs outside proclaiming: ‘we have cheetahs;’ ‘we have leopards,’ and ‘we have hyaenas.’ Guess that’s why we didn’t see any of these.

Team OzPom are on washing up. The beetles are falling from the ceiling at such volume that I have to fetch my new hat.

29^th October 2025 (Day 9)

The road south of Outjo is decent. And then it isn’t.

A desert is defined by the lack of moisture so technically Etosha, which hasn’t had significant rain for almost a decade, is in one. But today we’re going deep into the heart of the Kalahari to an area known as Damaraland, named after the Damara tribe. The ventilation system isn’t doing it for us, so we play a game of openy-closey window, shutting them as a car approaches, the dust spewing up a huge cloud. Warwick is riding shotgun.

Across its wide vistas the Kalahari looks brown, but close up it’s very light green brush with dottings of bushes. We’re promised a visit to a market but it’s just a row of a dozen stalls sellling stuff that doesn’t look like it’s been made locally. More interesting are the crinoline petticoats worn by the Herero women since the early 20th century, and their tricorn hats which are held together by a springbok bone. They mix freely with their Himba cousins who prefer a more naturalistic look. We might have bought cold drinks had there been any electricity.

There are other craft stalls by the roadside as we move on. The Himba women practically stand in the middle of the road waving us down in their desperation for us to stop. Definitely a lot more on show at these stalls.

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Lunch is in a shaded hut below Brandberg Massif, a huge rock that’s also Namibia’s highest mountain. A group of chancers hang about until we’ve finished and then, with Jonas’ permission, pounce upon the cold meats and the couscous salad.

The Brandberg White Lady is actually a man. Some stupid French archaeologist in the early twentieth century decided that Namibia must have been populated by White Europeans in Palaeolithic times on the evidence of a painting of what appeared to him to be a white woman. Last night Jonas promised us an easy walk of five km there and back to see the cave paintings.

A local guide takes us. It’s 40c, there’s almost no shade and there’s a 500m ascent. At first, we walk on gravel, then on sand, and then rocks, big rocks that need scrambling over. Turns out that a litre of burning-hot water is not enough. Claire drops out half way and, after she’s rested, Tawanda takes her back to the shaded hut. I think I should go with her but I’m waved on. Damn.

Bizarrely, my instinct is that I want to pee myself as a way of cooling my leg, but when I try to go bushy-bushy in the incongruous toilet in the middle of nowhere, nothing happens.

We get to the paintings. They’re alright.

Then there’s the return journey, another hour and a half of rock climbing. The experience among the Fellowship is variable. Lesley, the oldest at 74, is like a mountain goat, but others are struggling, including me. When we finally get back my mouth is frothing and I’m reduced to drinking the melted ice in the cool box.

It’s another hour of bumpy-bumpy to our lodge. The room’s okay but there’s only one plug point which is attached to a huge air conditioning unit from the 1960’s that’s like a propellor. It’s a 400m walk to the reception/bar/swimming pool area, which you’re not advised to do at night because of the desert elephants.

The barkeeps who pour cold beer into iced glasses should be knighted. It’s very pleasant in the garden and there’s a point above from where to get the best view of the spectacular desert sunshine, which I’m not going to climb anytime soon. The swimming pool is declared ‘funky’ and ignored. We watch the domestic cats - there’s a grey one and a tabby and a funny looking one under our table, wait… it’s a meerkat!

And they say dreams don’t come true.

According to urban legend, the Compare the Meerkat campaign was created after an advertising executive overheard three drunken businessmen loudly saying the phrase over and over again during lunch. I can elaborate on this.

Back in 2007 a director of a market research company who wished to be rid of his supposed financial research specialism was introducing his new colleague to an old client. The new colleague, in order to impress the client with his knowledge, initiated a conversation about the relatively new insurance comparison sites, including Compare the Market. “Should have called it Compare the Meerkat,” said the older director, enjoying his wine. He had recently returned from Australia where he had been particularly taken by certain animals in Sydney Zoo. “And instead of comparing insurance, they should give ratings for meerkats and other members of the mongoose family. The advertising should focus on the founder, Mr. Meerkat,” he continued, not caring whether they made a sale or not. “Why does he have a Russian accent?” asked my younger colleague.

I’m still waiting for the cheque.