Location: WINDHOEK, NAMIBIA
Since childhood, my bedtime stories revolved much around my father’s hunting expeditions at the Makadi Ranch in the early 1980s. He would point to the trophy heads hanging high on our walls and astound me with tales of the stalk and the eventual kill. Yes, it was morbid, but I had even named each trophy. My personal favorite is Walter the Kudu. After Dad would shut off the lights, I would lay awake imagining what Walter was like in the wild and wondering if we would ever meet. Now, I am here.
Before we left on the trip, all I truly knew about Africa came from these stories and The Lion King. I knew hakuna matata means “no worries”, lions with scars (or for that matter, any lions) are not to be trusted, a warthog and a meercat can be best friends and that everything goes through the “circle of life”. Unfortunately, South Africa the Metropolis didn’t quite live up to my expectations of seeing wildebeests and warthogs in the backyard, springboks bouncing over game fences or the vast emptiness of a desert. But, as we were landing at Windhoek, I saw my expectations unfurling.
Out my window, I saw nothing. Just vast nothingness with a spot or two of mountain ranges. But, as we got lower, I could see the dusty sand billowing underneath caramel-colored dried grass, and hints of hunter green on trees clinging to the last remnants of water. This is the same water that also left behind rocky stream beds that turn into roads. The same roads we drove at 90 km along its wash-boarded clay surface in a green VW van. Yet, even at 90 km, I could still spot warthogs, anteaters, steenbok, jackals and hartebeest. And then, I saw Walter. He was standing amongst Kudu cows, directly behind an acacia tree. He was bigger than I remembered, and for that matter had a body. But, he still had the same dark mooned eyes and spiral antlers.
Since childhood, my bedtime stories revolved much around my father’s hunting expeditions at the Makadi Ranch in the early 1980s. He would point to the trophy heads hanging high on our walls and astound me with tales of the stalk and the eventual kill. Yes, it was morbid, but I had even named each trophy. My personal favorite is Walter the Kudu. After Dad would shut off the lights, I would lay awake imagining what Walter was like in the wild and wondering if we would ever meet. Now, I am here.
Before we left on the trip, all I truly knew about Africa came from these stories and The Lion King. I knew hakuna matata means “no worries”, lions with scars (or for that matter, any lions) are not to be trusted, a warthog and a meercat can be best friends and that everything goes through the “circle of life”. Unfortunately, South Africa the Metropolis didn’t quite live up to my expectations of seeing wildebeests and warthogs in the backyard, springboks bouncing over game fences or the vast emptiness of a desert. But, as we were landing at Windhoek, I saw my expectations unfurling.
Out my window, I saw nothing. Just vast nothingness with a spot or two of mountain ranges. But, as we got lower, I could see the dusty sand billowing underneath caramel-colored dried grass, and hints of hunter green on trees clinging to the last remnants of water. This is the same water that also left behind rocky stream beds that turn into roads. The same roads we drove at 90 km along its wash-boarded clay surface in a green VW van. Yet, even at 90 km, I could still spot warthogs, anteaters, steenbok, jackals and hartebeest. And then, I saw Walter. He was standing amongst Kudu cows, directly behind an acacia tree. He was bigger than I remembered, and for that matter had a body. But, he still had the same dark mooned eyes and spiral antlers.
Then, with a loud thud, we hit a black bird with the car. It made a cracking sound and fell some distance behind the still speeding car. Such is the circle of life. Welcome to Namibia, Africa.
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