"Intense aromas of stewed plums, cigars, and your grandmother's potpourri"
I thoroughly enjoy wine. I am partial to red, but will drink an occasional white or bubbly if I’m feeling inspired. So it was no coincidence that on our adventures in South Africa, our first stop in Stellenbosch, aka Wine Country.
After driving 14 ½ hours down to Stellenbosch from Windhoek, we deserved a little wine. We decided to join a wine tour that takes you around to vineyards, gives you lunch and cheese, and provides all the wine info one could hope for. So Todd and I readied our palette for our 10am tour, and when we arrived found out it would be a bit of a VIP tour, since we were the only tour who signed up!
We met our tour guides, who told us his name was Gabriel (like the angel) who’s actual name is Gabriel (pronounced with a ha like you are clearing your throat) but everyone called him Harvey. He was sufficiently knowledgeable even if perhaps a bit of a shady character, and gave us his instruction for wine tasting.
1. Swirl the wine in the glass to release the bouquet 2. Nose the wine (aka sniffing -but we don’t use such plain language in wine tasting) 3. Sip the wine softly, not too much, not too little 4. While holding the wine in your mouth, suck in the some air and swirl it around like mouth wash 5. And swallow paying specific attention to the taste and finish
There are three things I should mention up front.
Firstly, there is a point when you are wine tasting when all the wines start to taste good. This is a bad sign. It means you’ve had one too many ‘tastes’ and now you’re just drinking. Therefore, my critiques of earlier wines are much more valid than the latter. Consider this my disclaimer.
Secondly, my suspicion, confirmed in part by our trip to Stellenbosch, was that the people who write wine descriptions like “hits of tar and a finish of rose water” just get drunk and then come up with the most ridiculous things they can think of. Therefore, in my descriptions, I’ll stick to the facts and let you get drunk and create your own ridiculous descriptions of “boysenberry undertones and splashes of mahogany and cigars” when you try the wines yourselves.
Thirdly, I’ve dove into a bit of detail around the wines that we drank and the ones that we liked. Next time you are at the wine store keep a look out for South African wine and think of us!
The first Vineyard we stopped at was called Simonsig, at the base of Simon Mountain and since ‘sig’ means view it was appropriately named. We took a tour of the grounds and into the cellar- where the magic happens. We learned about grapes and fermentation and all sort of good stuff. At Simonsig (which import to CA so keep an eye out in the US) Todd and I tried different wines so between the two of us, we covered pretty much the whole menu. There were lots of good wines, but to pick some favorites…the Pinotage is a South African specialty. It is a hybrid of pinot noir and hermitage grapes- an excellent everyday drinking wine. The Simonsig Cabernet Sauvignon Labyrinth, was a nice lighter Cab, called Labyrinth because they plant and grow the grapes in the shape of a labyrinth for no other reason than to name the wine. They age the Cab in oak, but then leave it in the bottles at the Vineyard to the tannins calm down a bit so it develops a smoother taste. Finally, the Tiara Bordeaux Blend, Simonsigs flagship Bordeaux (Bordeaux the region in France where the grapes come from) was a nice blend predominately Cab, but with Merlot and Cab Franc as well. Normally I don’t enjoy Cab Franc and find it bitter, but this one worked for me. Supposedly the 2004 is a good year for this one. (Simonsig had a great list and I enjoyed most wine…or something to close it)
The next vineyard we hit up was Fairview, which is the vineyard that makes “Goats do Roam” which you probably know from the US. I think this was Todd favorite right off the bat, because Todd has a special place in his heart for anyone that gives the French a hard time and liked the play on their Cote du Rhone. They have a bunch of different wines, but the Goats do Roam- The Goats in Villages Red was a great easy drinking red, the Chakalaka in the Spice Route Wines is a great blend (Chakalaka is the name of an African-Malay Spice- as early slaves to South Africa came from the far east) and the Fairview Wines, of which the Mourverde and the Shiraz were particularly good. Todd second favorite thing about this place may have been that they kept live goats outside in a tower like on the label.
Next we went to Boshendal Vineyard. It was set on a nice property with a Cape Dutch farm house and worth it for the view, but overall it was probably our least favorite. We didn’t get to pick our wines, so we were poured 3 very oaky very white, white wines which might have had something to do with it, but if I had to pick a favorite I’d say the 1685 Shiraz/Cabernet blend 2006.
Finally we went to Tokara, the most modern of all the vineyards . For all you white lovers out there, my favorite white wine was here which was the Tokara White 2007, a blend of Sauvignon Blanc and Semillon- not a huge oak and butter flavor like a lot of oaked whites have- as the Blanc spends little time in the oak. The winning red here was Zondernaam Cabernet Sauvignon 2006- a nice solid Cab and pretty inexpensive (about $ 7 US here, but wine here costs nothing). We have a bottle of the Cab on our shelf getting ready to be drunk in Windhoek when we need a little reminding of what a great trip we had to Stellenbosch.
As I drive south to the camp at Hobas, I do not worry about the warnings of people in Windhoek who say the Fish River Canyon is too dangerous to walk alone. I am confident that I can walk the sixty miles of rough terrain from Hobas to Ai-Ais without a problem. I have walked long distances alone before, and I know I have packed enough supplies to sustain me, even through minor injury. My fear is that the Namibian Wildlife Resorts officials will turn me away because I do not meet their rigid specifications for hiking the canyon. I should have known better. Namibia is the developing world, after all, and there is always a way around the rules, and things work out in the end if you keep your options open.
Fish River Canyon is touted as the second biggest canyon in the world behind the massive canyon of the Colorado River. The Fish River is in south-central Namibia, and has carved a canyon hundreds of miles long on its way towards the might Orange River, and the border of South Africa. Water courses from its tributaries in the north in the fall to fill the canyon with water in the spring and summer. The canyon is only accessible to hikers for the four months of winter while water levels are low but still flowing.
Control of the Fish River Canyon comes under the jurisdiction of the Namibian government, specifically the Namibian Wildlife Resorts (NWR). Besides limiting the opening and closing of the canyon due to water levels, they also limit the number of registered entrants to the park to thirty per day. Due to previous accidents in the canyon, hikers must form a party of three or more people, and each member of the group must have medical clearance from a doctor. As I pull the car up to the guardhouse at Hobas camp, just before sunset on a Monday evening, I have no registration to enter the canyon, no group of three hikers, and only a forged doctor’s form, from a fictitious Doctor Perriwinkle, stating my optimal physical condition.
Behind the desk at the camp office is a large black woman with a black and white scarf wrapped around her head and large black-framed glasses. I stand before her and stretch my back after the long 600 mile drive, and smile at her to get in her good graces. “Long drive?” she asks. “Yes, from Windhoek.” “Oh, so you are from Windhoek. Do you hike the canyon?” “Yes.” “And after?” “Back to Windhoek.” “You are alone?” “Yes.” “You cannot walk the canyon alone. But I can put you with a group if I can go with you back to Windhoek. I have to see a doctor on Monday in Windhoek.” “If you get me into the canyon tomorrow, I will take you to Windhoek when I go.” “Now we make business,” she laughs.
I stand with my pack at the guardhouse of Hobas as the sun comes up, hoping to catch a ride to the canyon as early as possible. At seven a white pick-up truck with canopy slides to a stop before me and people pile out of both ends of it. It is a Afrikaans school group from a small Namibian farming community with four middle school students and three adults. They agree to give me a ride to the starting point of the hike. We turn our medical forms in to the park officer in the guardhouse and pay the entrance fee. The officer does not look at the documents, but counts to make sure he has the correct number of them. Dr. Perriwinkle has done his job, and I climb into the back to truck to start the hike.
A wide, rocky plain extends for miles around, broken only by a few small hills in the distance. Only on the rim of the canyon do I see the huge scar in the earth that is the Fish River Canyon. I walk to the rim of the drop off and stare at the valley floor 550 yards below, and my eyes trace the route of the river south thought the multicolored rocks. I eat breakfast and contemplate the four days walk ahead of me. I do not have a map to guide me because Luisa ran out of maps in Hobas, but I know that I just have to follow the river for sixty miles to the hot springs resort of Ai-Ais. I stretch, say good-bye to the group, and start the trail in the shadow of the eastern wall of the canyon.
The route is steep and rocky, with chains drilled into the rock face to assist in the descent. After many switchbacks the trail widens and follows a steep sandstone gorge towards the bottom. Quiver trees, a type of aloe tree, cling to the steep rock walls around me as I descend. After an hour I arrive on the sandy bank of the Fish River at the mouth of the gorge. The Fish River is not a river as much as it is a series of green pools connected by trickles of water between them this late in the winter. I am glad to have my water purification tablets, but don’t relish the thought of drinking water that tastes like chlorine for the next four days.
The sun is over the rim of the canyon and the temperature is already up to eighty degrees when I get down. I change into shorts and a T-shirt beside the river before heading off. I want to keep ahead of the group behind me and walk alone. I like to move at my own pace, focus on nothing more than my next footfall, and let my mind forget about everything except the environment around me. I make as little noise as possible to see as many animals as possible along the trail. However, within minutes of re-starting I turn a corner that makes me rethink my decision to walk alone.
I don’t like primates. In truth, they terrify me because they are wild, unpredictable, and often vicious. I know humans are above primates, and should be able to dominate them, but we have long since abandoned living physical existences, and I know that they could tear me to shreds. Most of all I hate baboons. I think it’s because of their beady eyes, huge muzzles and long, powerful limbs. Africa is full of baboons, and full of wild stories of baboons killing children, and even eating babies. So, as I climb a steep, narrow ledge high above the river I freeze at the sight of large, gray baboon staring at me from a boulder ten feet ahead of me.
He knows I am alone. He has been watching me approach, and was aware of me well before I see him. He is not scared of me because I am alone, and challenges me by standing his ground. He is sitting on his rump, his forearms resting on his knees, his small, black eyes staring directly at mine. I have to walk past him, or wait for him to leave. After a long, painful minute I start to walk to past him, hold eye contact with him, and try not to show my fear. His body doesn’t move, but his head follows my every step.
As I approach him his body becomes tense and rigid, and his weights shifts forward onto his hind legs. He tilts his head in my direction and opens his huge mouth, exposing his tall, bright fangs. One more step and he howls, the deep, primal noise that reverberates between the canyon walls and shatters the calm of the canyon. The strain of the howl wrenches his body and quickens my steps.
I pass the angry animal and move slowly backwards along the trail. As I move further from him, he sits back down on his rump, and relaxes. I pull out my camera to document the encounter. I focus the lens on him and he howls again at my insolence. The camera shakes in my hand as he howls again through the viewfinder. The video is short because focusing on him makes him agitated and I fear a charge. I do not check the footage, but back down the trail away from his perch.
At four o’clock I estimate I have walked twelve miles, and decide to make camp on a sand bank below the north rim of the canyon wall, twenty yards from the river. I spread out my plastic tarp, weigh it down with heavy rocks, and unroll my sleeping bag. This is the desert and there is no need for a tent. Within minutes the sun disappears behind the western wall of the canyon and the chill the shadow envelops me. I cook my dinner over my gas stove and eat quickly before laying my pack at my head and lying down. It is not even dark.
In the loneliness of the early evening a quote keeps resonating inside my hyperactive and slightly paranoid mind. An Afrikaans farmer once told me that, “baboons will do anything for food. They go absolutely crazy for anything you have. That is when they are most dangerous, yah.” The statement takes hold of my imagination and spawns a series of questions and terrifying scenarios.
Do baboons come out at night? Will they be attracted to the smell of the food in my pack? Should I make a urine ring around my camp? Should I leave my food away from my camp, and risk losing it all, or leave it beside me, and risk being attacked? How should I defend myself when they come? Where is my knife? Why am I here alone?
Sleep does not come quickly. The fear of baboons is enough to keep me awake, but at on the canyon floor I am also freezing cold. I am wearing every shred of clothing I brought with me, but I am shivering inside my thin sleeping bag. When I think it cannot get any worse the wind picks up and whisks waves of sand across my face and into my eyes, ears and nose. I bury my head inside the sleeping bag and draw the string tightly over my skull just as the rain begins to fall, lightly at first and then more forcefully. The only consolation is that I doubt baboons will come in the rain.
At the first hint of light I am out of my sleeping bag and packing up my sodden gear. It is still cold, and I need to get moving. Baboons howl from the cliffs above me, and I want to leave this spot and its memory behind me. Around the first bend in the river I see the first group of humans since dropping into the canyon. A man and a woman rest on a sandy bank beside the river. Seeing them lifts my spirits, and, despite my desire to walk the canyon alone I am glad not to feel isolated any longer.
The man’s name is Jerry, and within minutes he wants his new American friend to join his group of four South African hikers. Jerry is fifty-five years old. Jerry owns his own automobile repair shop. Jerry has two children. Jerry likes to talk. While we walked together I ask him as many questions about baboons as he asks me about America. He tells me that baboons do not come out at night, and I tell him that all Americans are not all fat and lazy. He tells me not to throw stones at baboon, and I tell him not to throw stones at Americans.
Jerry is not from the city, and looks like most Afrikaans farmers in Namibia, with wool socks rolled over the tops of his hiking boots, short shorts that barely cover his buttocks, khaki shirt with epaulettes, topped with a khaki safari hat. He is overly friendly, and overly excited by my company. By the third time he tells me that he can’t believe he has met a “real, live, American”, I know it is time for me to quicken my pace and leave him behind. I fancied surviving the baboons more than I did his persistent chatter.
With Jerry safely behind me I stop along a sunny stretch of river, lay all my belongings on a warm boulder, and strip down to swim. As my thing and my body dry on a warm rock I regain my composure and appreciate the beauty of the canyon. The scenery is not as dramatic as that of the Grand Canyon, but is still overwhelming when I consider the power and time it took to be created.
The trail varies between wide floodplains to narrow passes and back again throughout the morning. Beside a beautiful pool of green water I come across another hiker. He immerges without warning from a row of trees on the bank of the river as I am passing. We surprise each other and introduce ourselves. He is also South African, but I suspect he is from the city because he is not wearing short shorts, and tells me he has been to the States. His name is Hermann.
Hermann and I walk together and he tells me he is with a group of eleven hikers, all like Herman, about the same age as me. We walk until I want to stop for lunch, and he continues to catch up with his group. I swim again and relax on a sandy beach after eating my sandwich and filling my water bottles. When I rejoin the trail I find the rear guard of his group restarting down a wide stretch of river. “You must be Todd,” the first man says to me as I approach. We talk for a while before I catch another member of the group, who greets me again by the refrain, “You must be Todd.” I feel like Dr. Livingstone.
The group is made of up highly professionals from Cape Town and Johannesburg; five women and six men. None of them wear short shorts, and none of them call me a ‘real live American’, so I accept their invitation to camp with them on a sandy beach on the north side of the river. Pitching camp is easy with a group, and by nightfall we have plenty of firewood, fresh fish to eat, and even pass around Nalgene bottles of vodka mixed with energy drink. The night sky is clear, and the new moon is not yet visible, affording spectacular views of the milky way, the southern constellations, and even an exploding shooting star. Even though there are leopard tracks in the sand around the camp I have no fear of them or baboons as I fall asleep.
The sandstone buttresses around the camp alight with an orange glow at sunrise. I am not tired from the walk yet, and I am eager to start walking again. I leave while the group waits for each other to eat and pack up, happy once again to walk alone. The trail follows wide stretches of river before cutting the corners of long lazy meanders across dusty plains.
The twelve of us make camp together again as the afternoon sun disappears behind the canyon walls. There are only six miles left to walk before the town of Ai-Ais and the end of the canyon, and we all think about ordering food at the resort restaurant, and bathing in its hot spring baths. The night is cool and clear, so I sleep next to the fire, and stoke it at intervals to keep warm. In the morning I stir the coals and put more wood on to cook my oatmeal before heading towards Ai-Ais. My only concern now is getting back to my car in Hobas today. I have heard there is a shuttle, but I am not sure if it is running.
The trail to the end is wide, flat and unspectacular. The canyon has become a valley, and the river no longer has deep pools of water. I do not need to climb out of the canyon; the canyon has run its course and ended. Beyond a low dam I can see stone buildings that betray the resort. There is no ascent to get out of the Fish River Canyon, only a small sandy riverbank that leads up to the tourist resort of Ai-Ais.
The first person I see is Luisa, the manager of Hobas camp. We greet each other like long lost friends with a hug and a kiss. I am not sure why we are so familiar, it obvious that both of us are excited to see the other. Her happy mood suddenly turns somber and she says, “I have bad news Todd. “I cannot go to Windhoek with you tomorrow.”
Luisa does not have permission to go to Windhoek. She was not given time off to see a doctor and was forced to cancel her CT scan appointment that could diagnose her constant headaches. I am sorry she will not be able to see the doctor, but happy to hear that she is returning to Hobas in the afternoon and will be able to give me a lift back to my car. I wait for her in the resort bar and order a Windhoek draught and take off my shoes. My feet are blistered from the hot sand, and my muscles are now sore. I leave the bar and take a bath in the natural hot spring water of Ai-Ais.
The group of eleven trickles in to Ai-Ais as I am packing up for my lift back to Hobas. We exchange emails and say goodbye before I jump into the back of a pick-up truck with cases of beer and Luisa’s two children. As we pull out of the stone bowl that cradles the resort and drive the bumpy dirt roads to Hobas I realize that this is a very fitting end my Fish River Canyon trip; despite my concerns about Namibian bureaucracy and unpredictable weather and wildlife, and not knowing how I will get out of the canyon, everything worked out in the end.
Whether people play sports, which sports they play, and how they play them reveal everything about a person’s character. I will play any sport, anytime, anywhere, but I prefer to play a team sports, usually soccer. I have been playing amateur, competitive soccer for thirty years, and cannot imagine a day when I cannot play. Unfortunately, my game has flaws, and last weekend they became evident, but fortunately no one seemed to care.
When I showed up for a soccer tryout on a cold Wednesday evening two months ago, I did not know what to expect. Beneath underpowered floodlights on a well-manicured field I played with nineteen other men, mostly of German descent, and immediately felt comfortable. They played well, and treated me with respect, even though I was a newcomer, and worse, an American. After practice, over a couple pints of German lager in the club bar, the coach asked for my email address. I had passed my audition and became a member Ramblers Football Club of Windhoek.
Over the last two months I have practiced with the Ramblers every week, and have played a few eleven-a-side matches against local rivals from townships around Windhoek. For the Ramblers I play sweeper, the last man in defense before the goalkeeper. I make a good sweeper because I see the field clearly, anticipate the game effectively, and have the speed to take advantage of the opponent’s mistakes. I make a good club member because I am not selfish, I am not overly competitive, and I do not make waves within the club. After playing amateur, adult soccer in 5 countries I know that being part of a sports club is as much about having fun with teammates as it is about winning the games, except in Japan.
Perhaps the most telling thing about the way I play soccer is that I play defensively instead of offensively, off the back foot if you will. I wait for the opponent to make their move, and I react to it to thwart them, and keep them out of my goal. True, I play soccer aggressively, and used to take pride in inflicting pain on opposing players, but always with a defensive mindset. I do not want to own possession of the ball, carry it forward, or even score. I have no designs on the offensive half of the field, and if I happen to find myself there I get nervous and often make mistakes. In essence, I eschew taking responsibility for winning the game, and only accept responsibility for losing it.
In five-a-side soccer, however, there is no sweeper, and no time to wait for the opposition to come to you. Every player must come forward, possess the ball, and play offensively, off the front foot. So, when I accepted the Ramblers’ invitation to join the team at the Otavi five-a-side tournament, it was with some reservations. It is never a good idea to disappoint your club, especially when it is a German club.
Otavi is a small farming community in north-central Namibia with an even smaller community of German descendents. The few Germans attend a private German school in Otavi’s dusty town center, with some children from distant farms boarding on school grounds. Every year the school organizes a tournament to supports its existence and the perpetuation of the German culture for the future generations. All the German soccer clubs from the length and breadth of Namibia attend, and support the school financially by paying to participate, drinking donated food and drink, and making additional cash contributions.
I drove to Otavi with Heiko; a German descendent whose grandparents fought in vain against the Boers in the early 20th century and ended up in prison camps, only to be released once their war was lost. He was raised on a cattle farm north of Windhoek, and also attended a German boarding school in Windhoek because there were no good schools remotely close to his property. Heiko, like all German-Namibians, still speaks German at home, but can speak English, and some tribal languages as well.
We passed the four-hour drive from Windhoek easily, with sporadic conversations about soccer, his family, Namibia, and the tournament. He is affable but quiet and enjoys the simple things in life. We drove in his VW minivan with his three children and wife, but we were the only ones who spoke. We arrived at the farm where we would stay the next two nights well after nightfall. We met the other members of the team behind the farmhouse, and took our places around a campfire to drink beer, eat sausages and anticipate the next day’s matches.
For my benefit everyone initially tried to speak English so I could understand and take part in the conversations. It lasted for the first hour, bus as the night wore on and Windhoek lagers went down, the conversation slipped into German as everyone lost lucidity. I did not want to infringe on the jovial nature of the event, and I tucked myself into my sleeping bag with only my worries of what the tournament had in store for company.
A cock’s crow woke me up around six, and I went outside to see the landscape I could not see the night before. The farm was set in a valley that ran east from the town of Otavi towards Grootfontein. The sandstone valley walls were covered in scrub brush, but the valley floor was mostly clear from cattle farming. I helped our host, Gunther, pick up empty beer bottles from around the fire pit, took pictures around the grounds, visited the captive cheetah, and then settled on the porch for coffee and the traditional breakfast of hard bread rolls known as rusks. Gradually my teammates joined me around the table to caffeinate and prepare for the games ahead. Around nine I drove with Heiko and his family into town, and the tournament.
Otavi town center is foursquare blocks of wide, dirt roads lined with modest, one-story houses. A tall yellow tent in the parking lot of the host school, visible from everywhere in town, guided us to the tournament. When we pulled into the school grounds, the parking lot was filled with athletes stretching in colorful uniforms, mothers and wives preparing their cameras beside the field, and older spectators sitting inside the tent drinking beer. Outside the grounds groups of local black children hung on the chain link fence to get a view of the biggest event on the annual Otavi calendar.
The tournament has three age classifications, each made up of four teams. My team played in the 30-40 year-old bracket and was made up of seven field players and a goalie. We were a good side, with only one weak player, which fortunately was not me. I started the first game and played well, hitting the crossbar once, the post once. We won the game 4-1, and we were satisfied with the result, but should have won by more. During the break between games we all imagined that we would hoist the trophy after the championship game on Sunday.
We lost the next game to a club from Walvis Bay, on the Atlantic coast, by one goal. In the final game we played timidly and lost by two goals to the rival club from Windhoek, the hated SKW, Sports Klub Windhoek. Part of the blame for the losses was mine because I rarely carried the ball forward and did not play enough offensive football. Our hopes of bringing a trophy home to the clubhouse trophy case were dashed, and we would be playing the consolation game the next day to finish worst, or hopefully, second worst.
The result was disappointing, but the benefit was that we could enjoy the German festivities without much regard for the game the next day. Within minutes of the final whistle with pints of German lager in our hands, the defeats were quickly put behind us. There was drinking to be done and songs to be sung, and that was enough to carry us well into the night.
Jagermeister is a German digestif made of herbs and spices and 35% alcohol. I have heard that people in German do not drink it, but in Namibia they drink it as if their German heritage depended on it. Almost every beer bought for me came with a shot, or tot, of Jagermeister, and I reciprocated during my rounds. As the booze flowed the teams mingled with each other, and old, heated rivalries were put on hold. Almost everyone knew each other, and I was the only American at the event, although everyone assumed I was English.
After dinner came an auction, with proceeds going directly to the school. At some point after the auction, after multiple tots of Jager, and multiple, raucous toast made in honor of the Ramblers club, my memory of the events began to blur. I remember being a bit confused on how to find my sleeping quarters, but woke up in my sleeping bag, so all was well. Note to self; do not drink Jager, and definitely do not drink it at the rate of the seasoned members of the Ramblers F.C.
The next day we won our consolation match easily against the only team we beat the previous day, and finished third. At the awards ceremony we collected ribbons for the honor of finishing third, and posed for a team photo. In truth, the ribbons were deserved because the event was not to see who is best as much as it was to be a part of the event. I am fortunate to have been invited to take part in the tournament, and I will bring the ribbon back to the U.S., even though my performance was as mediocre as I had feared it would be. Perhaps one day I will play more offensively, but for now, I will settle for living and playing off the back foot, but relish doing it in good company.
So unfortunately for all of you, your regular witty and sarcastic blogger is out of town walking the Fish River Canyon (the 2nd largest behind the Grand Canyon) without yours truly, so for this blog update you are stuck with me.
Last weekend, Todd and I packed up the Kia with all of our camping gear and heading about 4 hours south of Windhoek right outside a town called Mariental in the Kalahari Desert in Namibia. The Kalahari Desert stretches across three countries (Namibia, Botswana, and South Africa) and the Kalahari Basin extends its reach up to Angola and across to Zimbabwe. The Kalahari, originally named the Kalagari “waterless place” conjures images of extensive and endless fire red sand dunes and camels and other desert-baron like stuff. The Kalahari does, in fact, have extensive fire red sand dunes (smaller than one would imagine); however they are covered in grass and bush, and slightly resemble the landscape of Windhoek. I looked at Todd and said..."this is the Kalahari?" Despite our surprise, we are never ones to miss out on an adventure, so Todd and I booked the 6 am game drive Saturday morning and we headed off into the desert. Despite my argument that small game would necessitate big game that eats small game, our drive featured springbok, oryx, wildebeest, dixdix, and large group of flapping ostriches -which did, in the end, prove to be very entertaining, if not deadly killers. The game drive took us over the dunes to some cleared areas where the true radiance and beauty of the Kalahari could be seen in the sand beneath us. These bare and beautiful dunes were few and far between, but seeing them this way made it seem like we had stumbled upon the secret of the beauty of the Kalahari—which you have to experience to know was even there. Without dune hiking and lion spotting to keep us busy we headed over to lounge around the resort making use of their pools. For dinner, Todd managed one of his best camping masterpieces yet…steak, corn, and rice-yum! While this trip may not have been our most exciting yet- it is always fun to get out of the city and camp in the fresh air…and you know us- doesn’t take much for us to have some fun!
Posts
