The Joys of Travel Are A Mata of Taste – Mata Mata

We have to own our retirement, make the most of it, embrace the adventures and challenges, and be unapologetically thrilled by every opportunity thrown our way. You say. I say, who would’ve thought we'd sit here on a fine Sunday, my fingers flying over my keyboard while my photographs download? Under a tree, a mere six hundred metres away, four lionesses are catching up on some shut-eye while a large male guards and tussles with the Oryx they hunted in the early hours of this morning? Unbelievable, and yes, we will own the privilege. Refined, refined, we'll eventually be!

One lioness keeps watch, occasionally rising to chase the cheeky black-backed jackal back a few yards. Her pregnant belly bulges from the recent snack she enjoyed. Restless, she paces. With her powerful paws, she digs a hollow clearing in the sand for a cooler, more comfortable place to lie down. Despite the power lions wield, they never let their guard down; all eyes are on approaching danger or an opportunistic scavenger lurking in the wings. Watching their interactions for a few hours is fascinating; they even take time to play, but the lioness soon tires and resumes her watch.

Engines stopping and starting are the only sounds I’m aware of, apart from the occasional bird twitter, jackal natter or wildebeest snort. No technology robs us of the surrounding silence, except our own technology and our fridges ticking on or off in the heat. 

The herd of wildebeest checked out the scene, then took off over a knoll to graze in a calmer field. They knew, instinctively, that a pride of lions was not to be trifled with. When we’re sure there’ll be no more action until sunset, we’ll head back to set up camp and get supper going.

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The drive to Mata-Mata, surfing the red dunes, never disappoints, does it? Like a ship in full sail, we dipped and crested waves of golden, dry, grass-covered dunes. The blue sky was dotted with puffy, pink-tinged clouds. The usual suspects trotted along the road or grazed the verges. The tortoise took his sweet time, while a pair of ostriches cantered like Lipizzaners, trying to avoid us. I always love spotting a tiny klipspringer, and the Kori bustard reminded me to message my friend Val to recap some of our safaris. I went on my first trip to Namibia with her and seven other friends. She never forgets a thing and can accurately recall events to the letter or cent.

One or two gemsbok stood photo-ready on a dune crest, and the Gabar Goshawk kept us guessing. At last, back in the riverbed, we spotted the ever-faithful giraffe nest, grazing quietly and giving us the once-over with those big brown doe eyes. This is the Mata-Mata I love. We recalled previous sightings and the people we’d met. We wonder where they all are now.

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Colossal acacia trees shaded us as we set up our campsite and talked with young people interested in and committed to conservation. Astonishingly, they were all foreigners. While Dane set up hurricane lamps around the perimeter of our campsite, creating the romantic setting he’d planned for his Wiezke, Butch lit our fire, and I went off to photograph the “littlies” working around the perimeter fence.

A massive cloud of red-billed queleas was building up. They’d swoop up and swoosh in an enormous wave, sit in a tree for a few seconds, then skedaddle off to feed on grass seeds. While I waited for them to set off again, a family of banded mongooses foraged while a couple of ground squirrels groomed. The female grew overfamiliar with her mate, who lay spread-eagled as she picked fleas. I gave them the privacy they deserved and moved on to the onlookers sitting like musical notes on the fence.

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Last week, my son Joe posted a comment crediting his driving skills to his Dutch heritage (Verstappen-inspired, I’m sure). With that in mind, I realised his tongue-in-cheek idea wasn't far off. Our neighbours in Nossob and Mata-Mata were young men from the Netherlands, accompanied by their partners. Tall, athletic, fair-haired, and chatty, Stefan and Dane reminded me of my sons. Before introductions, Butch and I called them Jaco or Joe. The uncanniest resemblance was that their partners were much like my daughters-in-law. Caitlin, from the USA, reminded me of Erin, petite with a chestnut braid swaying down her back. 

The similarities stirred my maternal instincts, and I recalled how, in Nossob, I'd reluctantly had Butch march over to them and suggest they use our Oz tent. I couldn’t bear the thought of them sleeping in their vehicle. Far too uncomfortable. Butch, quite rightly, thought they were old enough to decide and didn’t press the point when they assured him they were okay.

At Mata-Mata, they were our neighbours. I agonised over them again, worried about where they were. It was late, and by the time we sat down for supper, there was still no sign of them. Again, Butch wagged a finger and told me it was none of my business, but I was relieved to see them later. They’d been on a game drive. Too little time and too much to see, they assured us. They were packing in as much as possible before returning to a cold, bleak Amsterdam.

I asked Butch whether he thought there was any chance of finding three South African families in a remote park in the Netherlands. We doubted it, yet they were here, enjoying our natural heritage. We have a commodity that so many people love.

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Butch likes to get all his ducks in a row to avoid surprises at the border post. All the advice he’d been given suggested that Namibian border control ruthlessly confiscated dairy products, raw meat, wood, and even fruit and vegetables, and sometimes even mentioned the possibility of “affirmative shopping” by some officials.

Our stocks were low, and our extended stay from ten days to fifteen nights had depleted our supplies. Nevertheless, we wouldn't be robbed of our delicious goodies. Forewarned is forearmed, so we set about braaiing four portions of meat to comply with the foot-and-mouth rules. For supper, we enjoyed a Smorgasbord of vegetables and fruit.

Once we decided to move on, we turned our heads and eagerly awaited the next dirt road. At last, we left South Africa and entered Namibia, and now we’re really on our way for this fantastic African adventure.

The police officer at the border advised us to leave all our wood supplies behind before entering Namibia. With a heavy heart, we did so. He promised he’d think of us every time he braaied. With our passports stamped, we left South Africa and entered no-man's-land. Namibia, here we come.

Before stepping onto Namibian soil, we had to dip ALL our shoes in foot-and-mouth disinfectant. Rows of upside-down shoes lined the footpath, laid out to dry.

The road tax issue was frustrating; we explained that the Honey Badger is not a commercial vehicle but is registered as a motorised caravan. The flummoxed official eventually phoned her boss, who confirmed that we had to pay the tax for a delivery vehicle over six tonnes. We agreed, of course; we weren't going to cause any ripples in this pond.

Fortunately, all the doomsayers were wrong. They waved us through without any hassle or inspection, and they didn't even ask whether we had anything to declare. A very pleasant experience indeed.

 We were granted leave to stay for six weeks, and we're going to make the most of this lemon.

First things first, we needed a place to stop for the night. 

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Tucked under a tree, we found two raptors licking their wounds; we couldn't fathom why they were there, except that one seemed injured. They were beautiful and made great subjects for photos.

Here are some photos of the dune road to Mata-Mata. If you've visited the Kalahari, you'll recognise them immediately!