Africa - pre trip jitters

Enjoy this final blog on our trip to Africa. It's a glimpse into our psyches before we left - and a classic case of worrying about the things that never happen . . .

“You’ll have to learn to squat,” said Rex one evening out of the blue.

“Why?”

“To go to the loo. You won’t want to tip over backwards.”

“It’s you who’ll have to learn. Women have been squatting forever,” I retorted.

A few weeks later, having been inoculated against Yellow Fever by a specialist doctor who spent about an hour scaring us by detailing the countless medical nightmares on offer in Africa, I desperate for sleep - in the middle of the day.

The ‘wrong’ feeling was so minimal, it was only several days later that I figured with certainty it was a reaction to the vaccination.

No-one tells you about these things - not the full import of what it’s like building up for a trip to Africa.

It’s well worth having vaccinations. In 1867 the great-great grandfather of our neighbour contracted yellow fever while was helping the poor in Jamaica. He was a curate and only 33 when he died. This knowledge is as close as I want to get to the disease.

The next week I was transfixed by the shirt of our local doctor who we were seeing with a view to getting the rest of our vaccinations: flu, Hep A, typhoid, tetatnus, polio, diptheria. (It’s cheaper to go to your local GP for these jabs.) His shirt was sparkling, eye-dazzling white.

“You’ll need Immodium,” he was saying. “If you’re really streaming and have to get back on the truck, then take it, otherwise sit on a toilet and let it run. It’s better out than in.”

And his shirt was pressed to perfection, without as much as one crease. Was it brand new? 

I turned my attention to more pressing matters - the antibiotics we would be taking in case of dysyntery or infection. Plus we’d take doxycycline, a low-grade antibiotic which would help prevent malaria. The doctor explained that it only gave about forty percent cover, but taking the more effective alternative Malurone would cost us about $600 each. I guess it’s Madonna’s first choice. Others, like Lariam, can send emotionally wobbly people off track. I won’t take that, then.

He also said it would make us sun sensitive and could turn our teeth yellow. Lovely.

The next night the farmer and I watched a James Bond film in which 007 travels across North Africa.

“Has he got his vaccinations?” asked Rex.

“Sure. The MI6 organise them for him and he gets boosters every year,” I replied, while wondering what the Queen did when she went to Africa. She’d most certainly have used top-of the-range medicine. Would she have been surrounded by an army of people swishing mozzies aside, would her clothes have been soaked in permethrin?

These are the things people don’t talk about when they return from holiday because they’re marvelling at the wonders of wildlife, the joys of the journey, the thrills and hopefully no spills of their adventure. I’d trade tipping over backwards to be among them.

And of course, I was among them - without ever having to do the trade.

Africa: This is Africa

Each of the four times we checked into accommodation during our African overland adventure we were greeted by a tinkling ‘running’ toilet. And this was in a continent which boasts the world’s oldest desert - the Namib. After travelling through part of its 2000km long and 120km wide expanse, we were overjoyed to wash out sand and sleep in real beds at Swakopmund.

We scored beds for 12 of our 51 nights - at Cape Town, South Africa; Windhoek and Swakopmund, Namibia and Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe.

The irony with the dribbling loos says so much about Africa: one upward flick of the handle made them behave, but only at one place did a stern sign say: Lift the handle after flushing!

By our holiday’s end we were familiar with the expression, TIA - This is Africa. It helped us laugh when things didn’t work as they should.

At one smart camping ground, which had a 50m swimming pool, only one of the four women’s showers worked. At another, a fancy Government-owned camp where we stayed after climbing to a plateau where a wild animal breeding programme is underway, a handful of us adjourned to a gorgeous bar complete with glittering chandellier. The building had been the police station during a war with the Germans in the early 1900s.

The peculiarities here were fabulous facilities for so few visitors and exceptionally wide toilet cubicles. The equally wide doors, when opened, almost hit the toilets, thus getting in was a tight squeeze - just when you didn’t need it.

At Chobe National Park, when one shower was turned on the others dried up. One witchy woman spent so long washing we wondered if she’d died. A couple of blokes had a low-grade altercation.

In Tanzania and Kenya, we met squat toilets. The floors are always wet. Yik! An Internet search confirmed they’re the most common loos in the world, and revealed this tip in a nine-point how-to-go guide: the best way to keep your clothes dry is to remove your trou or skirt and hang it over the door.

In Karen, Nairobi’s smartest suburb, the camping ground had a shower block, a toilet block, another unisex loo - but only one handbasin and it was outside, tacked onto a wall.

Having traversed Namibia, Botswana, Zimbabwe, Zambia, Malawi, Tanzania and Kenya, we reached Nairobi airport after a perfect holiday: no illness, injury or threats.

But when we checked in, the woman looked puzzled. “I’m sorry,” she said eventually, “we have no record of your booking.”

While I was thinking, ‘Disaster!’, the farmer was thinking, “Upgrade!” But after relieving us of some US dollars for a mystery tax, we were soon in cattle class.

TIA, we said as we charged our glasses: ‘This is Africa’.

Africa: Camp life at Nakuru

“There’s a Masai,” called Tembo, the three-year-old.

And there stood a young man wearing a red skirt with sparkly baubles on it and the trademark red cloak of the Masai people. He’s the night watchman at our niece and nephew’s camp near Lake Nakuru in Kenya.

We only heard Tembo’s excited announcement because Ollie the dog had finally shut up after alerting us - a herder and his cattle were outside the 15-wire electric fence that keeps us safe - or does it?

Ollie is the sole survivor of a litter from the next village. His siblings were snapped up by a leopard that’s still at large. This prompted me to point out to the farmer at 2am that it could jump the 3m-plus fence - we learned this when we met a leopard in captivity in Botswana.

We arrived here after 'transitting' (travelling super fast) thru Zambia, Malawi and Tanzania.  Lake Malawi is a miracle in a country that writhes with critters that’ll eat you. It is calm, wonderful for swimming, and yields yummy fish. The farmer got paddled out in a leaky dugout and returned two hours later bailing like mad - with no fish.

At Nakuru, the Kimani’s camping ground, like everywhere we’ve stayed and unlike its kiwi counterparts, involves a flash bar and café.  

The construction process is also different. Three donkeys arrived pulling a cart loaded with cement. A trainee donkey linked to the trio relieved itself by our tent.

Loads of rocks arrived on a truck which drove through a gap the workers had made in the electric fence at the back of the camp. They were dumped near our tent and a guy, working barefoot, is using an axe to chip them into perfect rectangles for a house.

Another worker is chipping rocks for the base for a concrete terrace; it’s cheaper to buy them whole and have them broken with a pick.

The workers - there are several who all arrive by bike each day - are served morning tea and lunch by the two young women who do the laundry and cleaning.

I taught one how to make beef stew. She told me they don't use garlic or flavouring, just fry meat, add water and vegetables and cook till its dry then wrap it in chapatis.

Lorna said the stew we made together tasted sweet to her. She’d taken some home, walking along the sandy road which is frequented by buffalos at night as they search for maize fields. Buffalos are one of the “big five”, named thus by game hunters because they can fight back when they’ve been shot.

Just as well we’re safely tucked up in our flimsy canvas tents behind that electric fence. But - and here’s another 2am thought - did someone turn it on after the truck had gone?

Africa: Stalked by . . . . a plastic bag?

The hippos lolling on a sandbank in Chobe River could have been mistaken for boulders - until our boat got stuck beside them. After tolerating our vessel’s roaring outboards for several minutes, they headed into the water. Some emerged nearby, only their eyes and ears to be seen.

When Moffat, our boat captain, said he'd only been stuck once before in his twenty years on the job we started making hysterical jokes about our plight. Chobe National Park has more elephants than anywhere in the world and we’d seen many, including adorable babies spilling water from their trunks they hadn’t yet mastered. If we remained stuck, would they smell peanuts on our breath? We’d been enjoying them with drinks.

Luckily another boat came along.  "Anyone who was good at long jump at school goes first," suggested the farmer’s sister as several of us jumped onto it, enabling our boat to float free.

Soon we were sailing along indulging in our favourite activity - animal spotting.

A few days earlier I’d been chatting to our tour leader, a Kikuyu from Kenya who’s wise in the ways of the animal world. As we watched flitting weaver birds, I said, “Look, one’s got a worm. It’s amazing that a worm’s close to the surface in such dry conditions.” Then I noticed the ground was damp. “Someone’s thrown water there. It’s brought the worms to the surface.”

After a pause, Karoma said quietly, “It’s our spaghetti from last night.”

After making that gaff, you’d have thought I’d have done anything to avoid an encore. But the next day the farmer and I were up early to spot animals at the waterhole near camp. As we stumbled half-asleep to the viewing area, I froze. I’d spotted a dark shape moving in an erratic fashion - and it was only twenty metres away.

“There’s an animal,” I hissed. “Could it be the honey badger that’s been spotted in the camp? It had better be.”

“I don’t think it’s an animal,” replied the farmer as he bravely headed towards the danger spot where I’d seen the scurrying shape. “Thought so,” he said laughing. “It’s a black plastic bag.”

“Being blown by the breeze?”

“Yep.”

It was an ideal time to reassure myself: Yesterday after a fellow traveller had called, “There’s an elephant!” we’d all peered in the direction she indicated to see . . . a public toilet. We named it ‘the elephant house’.

No-one could mistake the elephants that wander around town at Victoria Falls or the monkey that sprinted through the outdoor café while we ate lunch, or the warthogs.

They trotted across the road in Kasane near Chobe National Park and snuffled around the truck while we loaded groceries on board.

Africa: "Would you like to stroke my cheetah?"

This would be a great pick up line - and the young men whose parents started a cheetah park on their multi-thou hectare farm in Namibia could use it as most of the 31 overland companies that operate in Africa target young people. Our trip, however, provides no potential - African Touch specialises in tours for ‘mature travellers’.

And, unlike leopards or lions, cheetahs can be tamed. At Otjitotongwe Cheetah Park we meet three - they purr like cats, lick like dogs, and, when they’re excited, chirp like birds.Then, in 250ha that’s fenced for wild cheetahs, farmers throw chunks of meat and, after thrilling scuffles, the victors rush off to relish dinner - and we retire to a bar which features among its decorations a New Zealand flag and a kudu head.

Wine is not commonly served in rural Namibia, and mine arrives in a tumbler filled to the brim. After having a few beers, the farmer, who must seem like danger material, gets a gin in an enamel cup. The guys, having morphed from cheetah guides to barmen, are done with drunk overlanders breaking glasses

Next stop: Etosha National Park which covers almost 23,000 sq km. In fact, 15 percent of Namibia is national park. Young zebra chase springbok for fun. An elephant swipes at a bird with its trunk. Giraffes step gracefully away and inspect us in Sangoma the big green truck.

Each night, Rex and I walk to the illuminated waterhole by the camp and, in magical half light, observe elephant and rhino, hyenas loudly lapping, guinea fowl - and more. Electric blue starlings hang about camp, as does a honey badger and a ground squirrel.

The days are warm with clear skies after chilly mornings. Each day we board the truck - a converted Scania that’s surprisingly comfy - and set off on a game drive. We pass a hundred-plus zebra heading to a waterhole where they take slurps and leave. Springboks slip away as well.

Ahhh, lions are approaching. I guess other animals will soon arrive, unaware Simba and friends are in situ, or those that do will get so thirsty they’ll take a risk. After watching nine lions stake out the waterhole the ‘stay in your car’ warning really makes sense – they are almost impossible to see in the long grass.

Later we return to find more lions staking a claim – two females and six teenage cubs. How can a lioness stalk anything when the kids hoon round, pounce on each other and play rough and tumble?

At another waterhole, two thirsty giraffes hesitate. Is a lion nearby? Oh, the stress! Giraffes have valves in their necks which pump blood to their head. Drop their head for too long and they get dizzy. Sleeping is so risky they nap for less than two hours a day, resting their heads on their hind quarters. If a giraffe is drinking and a lion grabs its head, the world spins and they fall over. The lion scores - so easily.

Thankfully, today is a lucky one for the giraffes.

Africa: Don't think about the stripes

"Don't think about the stripes," counsels the farmer as I take a teensy nibble of zebra steak. I thought only lions ate zebra! But here we are, on our first night in Namibia, at a restaurant in Dutch-influenced Windhoek, snacking on animals we still haven’t seen in the wild. Those in our group who opt for game deem kudu delicious while that morsel of someone else’s zebra is definitely chewy.

Namibia is a desert and among the world’s least densely-populated countries when it comes to people - and cattle. The farmer spotted the occasional mob gloomily nosing rocky earth and nibbling dry, golden grass.

We camp on two 5000ha properties where farmers graze one animal to about five hectares and, not surprisingly, are turning to tourism. Each camp includes a gorgeous lodge, generally made of local stone, a stylish bar and often some other attraction, perhaps a spectacular land formation or animals - cheetahs; rock dassies, dear little guinea pig-sized creatures related to elephants; or meercats which stand on cue just as they do on telly adverts.

The quality of accommodation and similarities to South Africa surprise me but then I didn’t know where Namibia was until we decided to visit. However, the farmer is onto it - the All Blacks played here when the country was part of South Africa.

The country is flat then there’s a canyon, mountain, rock formation or, in one place, an assembly of 250 or so quiver trees, an aloe used by natives for quivers. After the earth’s plate cracked 650 million years ago, Fish River Canyon, the second largest after the Grand, started forming. Perched on its edge, we gaze from a lookout waiting for the promised startling sunset which doesn’t perform. Wine and cheese compensate.

At The Giant’s Playground, rocks are piled atop each other for miles.  After tectonic plate movements a mere 180 million years ago, molten magma oozed through before wearing away to expose misshapen giant toy blocks. At Ai Ais hot springs we bath in pools made of slate tiles, with water tumbling from one to the next. The resort, another one with a perfect thatched roof, surpasses anything similar in New Zealand. The South African campers also surpass anything in New Zealand - the snazzy tents, the women with backpack-sized toilet bags, the dryers going by 5am.

We drive 60km between endless dunes at Sossusvlei. Called ‘star’ dunes, they are formed by opposing winds and, glowing red at sunset, a photographer’s dream.

By the time I climb 200m high Dune 45, a giant toilet bag might help remove the orange sand that’s seeped everywhere. You might think that after dune climbing, we’re steaming hot. But it’s winter here and the cold snap has even surprised the locals.

I clamber into my new fleecy track pants after a shower and wear them to dinner. I’m too cold to care and, anyway, it’s dark by six, we’re in bed before eight and, if not reading in the glow of a headlamp, asleep soon afterwards.