Fast beasts and smelly beasts

[From this point on, the untimely loss of my notebook in Pretoria means a few of the remaining posts are less detailed than they might have been (stop cheering at the back!). Still, I shall continue with the chronicles of my time in the Dark Continent. And so I return with you once more to the north of Namibia, and to Etosha National Park.]

And to another early departure, in search of yet more game. This, though, was to be our final game drive of the trip, on our way out of the park and back south again, on the first stage of the long descent towards Cape Town. And, to be honest, there wasn't really anything else to excite me on the way out. It was simply a case of getting back to the gate, having lunch at the campsite which had no room at the inn when we arrived, and then heading on south for what Paul assured us would be a quick drive of an hour or so to the Otjitongwe Cheetah Park (try saying that one after a few too many beers).

Unfortunately, for once Paul's knowledge of the route (which he hadn't been on for a year or so) failed him. It was significantly more than "an hour or so" to the cheetah park, such that we arrived there rather later than anticipated, and were hence unable to pet the cheetahs. Yes, you did read that right - I said "pet the cheetahs". As in, go and stroke them and generally sit next to the big predatory puddy cats. This is apparently possible because, alone amongst the Big Cats, cheetahs are not born with the hunting instincts, and so do not automatically see us as Food. The people who run the park rescued the 3 cheetahs in question as cubs. So they're like big domesticated housecats. That can run up to 100km/h or so. And have non-retractable claws (another little unique cheetah feature). Not going to go into the morality or otherwise of doing this, but the animals seem happy enough.

Anyways, as noted, we weren't able to do the petting that afternoon, so it was off to the enclosures further out in the park, where they keep the other cheetahs. These are generally wild adults who have been caught on farmland and would otherwise have been shot. So, instead, they are kept in enclosures and fed regularly. Again, not quite the same as having them free in the wild, but I reckon better than having them dead. Anyways, as you may have guessed, we were there for the spectacle of them being fed. Only we were late, and we weren't the first group, so we got to watch from White Nile. And I didn't think this was necessarily a bad thing, as the other intrepid visitors were in a little trailer, surrounded only by low railings, behind a bakkie (transl. = "pick-up", or "ute" if you really must). In an enclosure with half a dozen or so big, hungry cats. Protected only by a guy in the stereotypical Afrikaner costume of khaki shorts, check shirt and boots, wielding that known weapon of mass-destruction, the Big Stick.

The feeding ritual itself largely consisted of: Afrikaner oke (transl. = "bloke") goes to bucket in back of trailer and grabs large hunk of meat (another reason NOT to be in the trailer, in my book, though some of the others on the truck were loudly lamenting that they weren't out there); beckons to circling pack of cheetahs; waves stick at any that get too close (seriously); throws meat out into pack; cheetahs pounce in giant furball; one of them gets the meat and legs it off, sharpish, to a safe distance to feed; repeat until no more hungry cheetahs prowling around in enclosure; repeat for next enclosure. All pretty prosaic, were it not for the fact that a cheetah haring in at near-top speed in search of food is a pretty awesome sight, even if it is basically getting a steak served blue.

Anyways, after that it was back to another small square of dusty ground masquerading as a campsite (although this time in a cheetah park), there to pitch our tents and settle in for the night. Dinner crew made dinner. A bunch of the rest of us headed off to the bar. I know, it does seem like my alcoholic tendencies were coming to the fore again, but there really wasn't a great deal else to do. Although this bar did sell some pretty cool cheetah park T-shirts, one of which I purchased. Several others of the group also did so, and some of the discussions around colours were enlivened somewhat when Helen (who's training to be a makeup-artist) started suggesting what the most appropriate colour for various people would be. Before anyone asks, mine was apparently pink. Now, unfortunately, I actually rather dislike the colour pink, associating it as I do with pink-shirted, pin-striped, rah-rah City Boys (spot my pet prejudices) and several rather over-enthusiastic student Pantomimes on which I worked. So I got a rather fetching maroon/burgundy kind of number instead. STOP LAUGHING!

That was about all for that night, and the next morning dawned for us slightly less bright and early than Paul habitually liked (I wasn't complaining). The reason? Well, it was time to do our cheetah-petting. Those nice people at the park had offered to fit us in first thing (i.e. around 7:30, engendering something of a lie-in for us) and so we struck camp and drove over to the farmhouse at the entry to the park, where we went through the (rather substantial) chain-link fence into the front yard. There to be confronted by 3 adult cheetahs.

I have to admit feeling just a tad nervous when walking in there (in a daft-arse show of bravado, I'd gone in as one of the first in the group), but our true Afrikaner oke from the previous afternoon talked nicely to his pets and got them to lie down, and we then took it in turns to crouch down and pat and scratch them behind the ears (obviously with a barrage of cameras going off - luckily they're apparently used to all the bleeps, clicks and whirrs). The one I patted first even purred! I mean, it's logical for a cat to purr, but I'd never quite envisaged a scenario where a cheetah was purring right in front of me while I scratched behind its ears.

The roll-call of pictures was interrupted every so often, though, when the cheetahs got distracted by another family pet, a little vervet monkey, which would sit just out of reach in the bushes, or on the scaffolding around the water-tower, and chatter at them. We also had a comedy interlude when one of the cheetahs took a bit too much of a liking to one of Dave's flip-flops and went off with it! He got it back in the end, but now complete with cheetah bite-marks on it. And there was a slightly overly dramatic end to the session when the cheeky little monkey dropped down to the ground to taunt one of the farm dogs (who played quite happily with the cheetahs?!?), and took its eye off where the cheetahs were. And one of them pounced. Cue much shrieking, first by the monkey, and then by the lady of the house, whose pet it was. Eventually, the cat dropped the little rascal, who promptly climbed back up to the roof, and order was restored. Hopefully, the little pest may have learnt not to go around teasing the cheetahs, though!

And so, we were off again, down slightly more minor roads, heading SW for the coast and our next stop, the Cape Cross seal colony. Now, the origins of the name Cape Cross are faintly humourous, so prepare for long-winded explanation. Originally, it ws named because it's a cape, and the Portuguese (who were the first Europeans to reach the place, en route to their discovery of the sea-route around the Cape) placed a cross there, proclaiming how glorious it was in the eyes of God that they had found this coast, yadda yadda. All was perfectly fine, until sometime in the 19th Century, after the area fell under the control of the Germans, who, in a fit of sublime inspiration, called their colony "South-West Africa". Catchy, huh? Anyway, they apparently, for reasons known only to them, waltzed off back to Germany with the original cross, and erected one of their own in its place. As you do. ??!? Matters were then, however, further complicated after Namibia's independence from South Africa, as the Portuguese supplied a replacement replica of their original cross. So there are now 2 crosses at Cape Cross. And a lot of seals.

And, despite how cute people may find them, there is one overwhelming issue with seals: they stink. Absolutely reek to high heaven. Poo poo poo. Almost up there with hippos. (Almost). To the point where Paul advised us not to wear any fleeces or the like out of the truck, as they would take in rather too much of the odour, and he'd hate to have to throw them out the window (or words to that effect). You get the idea. They smell. They're also really rather noisy, keeping up a pretty impressive barrage of honks. And there's somewhere in the vicinity of 80,000 of them there. Covering the rocks, and the shoreline, to the point where you can barely see them. You get the idea. Lots and lots of smelly seals. Oh, and I saw a jackal wandering around, which was also kind of cool.

And then, not before time (I'd been wearing one of my bandanas as a mask over my nose and mouth to alleviate the aggression of the smell somewhat), it was back onto the truck, and further on down the coast to the little town of Swakopmund. Now, as you may be able to guess from the name, Swakop is a pretty Teutonic place. Kind of like a small Prussian town dumped in the desert by the sea. And we arrived on a Sunday night, when it wasn't exactly kicking. Actually, more than that, as we drove in, the consensus was that we'd arrived in a ghost town. It looked like the local tumble-weed was on a fag-break. Could this be the place described by some guidebooks as "the adventure-sports capital of Namibia"?

Well, this post is long enough now, so you'll have to wait for the next one (possibly as soon as tomorrow) to find out. Awww, ain't I a tease?

Until then, taraa!

Pat