Sitting On The Fence In The Kgalagadi - Nossob

It’s midday; I'm sitting in the Honey Badger, typing this blog. Now and then, I look up, binoculars at the ready, and see small critters perched on or clinging to our fence. They’re our pole dancers.

My company includes a lizard, a Cape Glossy starling with a slurred warble, an ever-chatty White-browed sparrow weaver, a party of sociable weavers, and a wagtail. The barn owl is asleep across the way. A double-banded mongoose has just scuttled past, slipping under the truck and into a burrow. The ground squirrel has stopped covering himself in sand to cool down and must’ve gone to ground for a siesta. The crimson-breasted shrike, in his scarlet waistcoat, is always a joy to behold. 

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This morning, the lion’s roar sparked our curiosity, making us eager to spot their spoor before anyone else and fuelling our sense of adventure.

It’s five-thirty, and the sun’s reddening the horizon. Temperatures have dropped slightly, and the cool breeze calls for a sleeve over our T-shirts. Our alarm went off at four-twenty this morning, and here we are, ready for a great day of adventuring. The queue at the reception office is already a few people deep. Most of us are heading north, the sun on our backs.

Yesterday, after our epic drive to the Polentswa picnic spot, the cheetah sighting, and the subsequent kill, we returned exhausted yet exhilarated. The big cats always steal the show, but they also make for exciting stories around the pool later, when one-upmanship is the name of the game. 

But I’m getting ahead of myself. I think it’s amnesia from our daunting first-day trip to Nossob.

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We’d heard rumours of a devastating fire that had raged through the Kgalagadi unabated on numerous occasions along our way up, but only once we’d entered the park did the full impact of the devastation and the proximity of our visit hit us. Large tracts of land and dunes lay barren, with only blackened, skeletal tree remains. The fire has significantly affected the local ecosystem, reduced wildlife habitats, and highlighted the ongoing challenges of fire management and conservation in the park. 

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Life in the Kgalagadi can change suddenly; a siren and a tyre issue remind us how unpredictable travel can be, fostering resilience throughout our journey.

Recalling the upheaval and traffic jam we caused at the midpoint of our journey from Twee Rivieren to Nossop campsite reawakens the angst I felt. Vehicles from both directions were eager to reach their destinations. Even as I type, I can’t stop smiling, then guiltily biting my top lip. The conversations went something like this:

“What? That’s your jack?” a guy, willing to help but in a desperate hurry, asks, both hands clutching bunches of hair. “Is this a six-tonne truck?” he exclaims, his face scrunched up. “It would help if you were using a 7-9-tonne jack. See, it’s tilting to the left.” Butch can’t see him; he’s under the truck.

“Lord! You should have more than that steel plate; the jack’s sinking into the sand. This can only end badly for all of us. Lift the truck higher. No man higher. Is that all you can do to lift this truck? Listen, man, I need to get to the border by this evening.” The agitated man continues. I can see he’s very stressed. They have at least 120 km to go, and it’s already noon. There’s no chance he can pass safely alongside us. Taking a shortcut through the bush is dangerous, illegal, and could still result in a puncture. 

“No! No, no! That thing is useless. Is this the first time you’ve taken the wheel off? How are you going to get that wheel off the back of this truck?” He gestured, arms akimbo, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he gave the setup a once-over. “Oh, I see. You do have a winch. Is it electric?”

Butch is still jacking the truck. “You’d better be careful. The axle’s going to come down on your head.” Someone else picks up the pace. Everyone’s hackles rise, sending me into a panic. 

While Butch worked on the wheel, the onlookers’ cheers and advice created a sense of community, making us feel connected in this shared challenge. 

The last thing you need when you’re under pressure and a convoy of vehicles has stopped in both directions because of your flat tyre is advice. I know how much I hate being told what to do, especially when I’m anxious. My mind’s in turmoil; I forget the simplest things, and my memory goes blank.

“You’ll have to dig this wheel out; I’m telling you, you’re never going to get it off. Never mind, get the other one back on. Fetch your spade and start digging.” 

By now, I’ve pruned the thorny bushes on the verge, looked for the Leatherman and couldn’t find it, helped with the winch, pushed the bike rack up to knock out steel pins, directed traffic, and slowed speedsters down. I’ve explained our predicament a dozen times. No one can pass us; we are the spanner in everyone’s works.

“At his rate, I’ll have to dig a path around you to get past this truck; it’s too wide. No, I will not go through the brush to get a thorn in my tyres. Thank you very much,” he told Smart Alec.

“If he doesn’t get that wheel straight, he’ll strip the nuts. You don’t want that.” Two newcomers say conspiratorially.

Bless the lovely couple from Cape Town, who turned back, said, “We feel so guilty leaving you here; we had to turn back!” And thank you to the chap who took up the shovel and gave Butch a hand and a breather.

The four sun-tanned, muscular Chippendale lookalikes in the Land Cruiser said this as they slammed on the brakes: “Jammer Tannie, die manne is al weer laat!” Leaning out of their windows, they comically apologised for arriving “after the Oom had done all the work”, then whizzed off before we could hand them the spade, leaving us with a trail of dust and sand in our eyes. The wheel turns slowly but surely, I thought, rubbing my scratched eyes.

Eventually, with the truck still on the jack, the hole was big enough to wriggle and wangle the old 150 kg wheel off the hubs. With the added thick wooden slab, we could stabilise the truck and lift it higher to fit the spare wheel, but we had to enlarge the hole around the flat first, and we’d hit a hard rocky shelf. Eventually, with a lot of elbow grease, patience and perseverance, Butch got the job done. Relieved, he could move the truck onto a shoulder and wave the traffic jam on. 

Thank you to all the good Samaritans who helped and encouraged us. Of course, we regret the inconvenience caused, but as someone said, “tomorrow it may happen to me.”

Ninety minutes later, parched and hot, we rolled the 150kg flat wheel into the Honey Badger, reloaded the bikes, and dispatched all the toolboxes, bags and boxes into their assigned hatches. It’s incredible how forgetful one becomes under pressure. A few litres of water quelled our thirst, and we were on our way to Nossob rest camp. The tyre pressure monitor behaved itself and didn’t beep again.

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We were assigned a lovely campsite on the fence, with a private bathroom, dining area and scullery. After a stiff Scotch or two, an early supper and a quick shower, Butch was down for the count. Who could blame him?

Today’s our sixth day in the Kgalagadi. We’ve extended our stay and plan to relax. Chilling out is the only item on the agenda. We’ll get up when it suits us and do exactly as we please. We’re pensioners, after all, and we’ll leave the chores for another day.

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Ten days later. After an extension made easy by the wonderfully professional and helpful lady at reception, we moved to the general campsite, which we enjoyed. There we met our neighbours and spent afternoons at the pool with the "swimming club", where retirees solved all the world's problems with a lifetime of experience and time on their hands. 

Oftentimes, we'd go on sunset drives and enjoy our sundowners. We bought delicious roosterkoek from the lady who baked bread and roosterkoek daily. I could have two loads of laundry done by Olive, who runs a laundry service. Her girls would accompany her on her delivery rounds. I wonder whether they realise how special their childhood in the Kgalagadi is. Olive keeps praying for our safe return after our wanderings and sometimes drops me a message. Such is Kalahari kindness.

We were treated to magnificent sunsets and sunrises because of the daily dust storms, and we witnessed a phenomenon we'd never seen before: the clouds were tinged pink in the heat of the day. We were told it was a reflection of the red dunes. Could it be the result of the widespread fires clearing the dunes of yellow grass? A rare sight indeed. 

Every evening we'd wander down to the Wi-Fi tree to see which child had thought of us, and we would respond to messages. Our days are busy, long and hot, but we're loving every minute of this new rodeo. The new steps, as predicted, didn't last more than ten days. They weren't designed or made for African conditions or the devastating corrugations. Butch tied them up with cable ties, never to be used again. Using modern technology, we were able to purchase a new set of Thuli steps, compact and robust, from Takealot. They were delivered to PostNet, who, via DHL, delivered them to a contact in Swakopmund.

Instead of steps, we used "stepping" stones and hoisted ourselves up with arms and legs stretched out. The wonderfully kind Da Silvas gifted us their step. We gratefully accepted it; it's now a prized possession and will accompany us to Africa.

One morning, after I'd closed the exit gate for a morning drive, a young girl gestured towards lions nearby; we'd heard the male's roar and were on his spoor. His huge paw prints punched into the sand where I stood. They were right there on the fence, a mere 50 metres from where we were parked as I alighted from the Honey Badger. The penny dropped. The gesticulations warned me to get my backside on the other side of the fence. This pair was tired, hungry and a tad frustrated. The mating game is like chess: every move has a countermove, and it takes a few days! A group of us were privileged to stalk and watch a mating pair before they trotted off to find a private spot under a shady tree to recover from the night's shenanigans!

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The photographs I've posted on recent blogs (our African Adventure, specifically) were all taken with my iPhone (not the latest or greatest model); they're just the fun ones when I haven't set up my DSLR, or when the rising or setting sun demands speed. When I shoot proper animal portraiture, I prefer my real camera. I haven't had time to go through my photo files yet; for that, I need time and distance. Maybe one day, when we sit on the shores of Lake Tanganyika, I'll have time. You'll be the first to know. Please forgive the quality of these posts; they're the best I've got!