Heja Game Lodge: How NOT to do a game drive

Namibia does game drives well. I love them. I love the excitement of animal sightings and the guaranteed fresh air. I love the scenery and just being able to sit back and let someone else be in charge for a while. When my friend invited me to do a hail Mary game drive before she and the kids took off for the summer break, I immediately agreed. My friend chose Heja Game Lodge for this particular adventure because, a) it's less than 30 minutes outside of Windhoek and, b) she once saw rhinos grazing right off the road. The road being a popular stretch of ruddy asphalt for cyclists and runners. 

The lodge has a unique personality: a hiply decorated bar and lounge area that backs to a brown, dull pond stuffed with ducks and swans. Dusty, scraggly ostriches and warthogs linger among the abandoned pieces of junk, whereas the vividly colored metal playground is just begging for children to acquire extra tetanus shots. Their five (5!) conference centers, scattered among the lodging accommodations are filled with fancy technical options along with rows of tables and chairs covered in sheets of thigh-sticking plastic. No matter, we weren't there for that.

I should have suspected our adventure would be sub-optimal when the driver refused to say hello or introduce himself. But with 5 joyful youths and 3 adults to herd onto the truck, I dismissed this as impatience to get started. Maybe he'd perk up once we left the parking lot. If we ever left, he was driving so slow. Going 20km/hour (12mph) we crawled past the greyed, crabby ostriches, past the fake animals used for practicing archery, and eventually onto the paved road where he stopped in the middle to point out a dead, bloody iguana that had its eyes pecked out. He continued on... going 20km/hr and as my patience withered, my indignation grew. Sure, we spied about a thousand warthogs and hundreds of blesbok, which is a southern African antelope with a helmeted look much like the leatherheads from the early days of football, but the road conditions deteriorated so much that no photos could be taken. Even if we were driving... 20km/hr. 

I loved the mountainous, shrubby surroundings and could even ignore the hundreds of piles of forgotten piping and rotting hay. But when the driver approached the foot of the mountain that we would ascend, I began to get a sick feeling in my stomach. We trusted him to continue because we were in a 4x4 capable of driving in contentiously rocky conditions. And besides, he'd been driving 20km/hr and promised that rhino sightings were just on the other side. Bodies lurched side to side and I tried to imagine a peaceful place where I had an elastic, flexible spine. Every child and adult clung to the metal bars, eyes glued to the steep grade ahead of us.  Sadly, he made it up about 200 feet before the back wheels spun out and sunk into the ruts. Ordering us off the truck, we walked to safety wondering what his next move would be. 

Apparently it was to try to drive up without us and we could hike up behind him. That plan failed miserably, with dust and rocks flying down the hill as he gunned it and then watched him maneuver the vehicle Austin Powers style back down. Into relative safety, and he told us that we had another way around to the back side. I took this to mean he'd take the long, flat way around. Nope. He careened the 4x4, kids and all, up another side of the mountain where the vehicle continued to slip and tilt dangerously. More than once I cursed loudly which gained me stink eye from all the kids not mine. As for the adults, we looked at each other and laughed hysterically to cover up the fact that we were truly worried about losing a kid or two. I love a good thrill, but I had never been so scared on a game drive, including the time when elephants charged the vehicle a few weeks ago.

The driver made it to the top, and certainly the view was breathtaking. Had he bothered to stop, I would have taken more photos. Surrounded by valleys and mountains that were on the downside of the rainy season, tones of brown, yellow, and green stretched as far as the eye could see, buttressed against the endless blue sky.  Down below we could see herds of animals either on the lookout or on the run, and a short-circuited blue wildebeest bucking his way across the flat spots. And no rhinos, which by this time we didn't care about anymore. Exhausted from hanging onto dear life with no breaks, kids (rightfully) started whimpering and the adults announced that enough was enough: we were done.  Of course that meant we needed creep back down the mountain.  The truck lurched forward dangerously, forcing our butts off the seats, as plumes of dust and rocks tumbled down the mountainside. More cursing followed along with dramatic near misses of thorny branches reaching inside the truck. The canvas rooftop even split in two.

We finally it to the base of the mountain and drove back to the public road where our guide decided to gun it back home. Blinded by whipping hair and watering eyes, we literally jolted to a stop in the parking lot, harried and bewildered. The driver swung down from the truck and left us to our own devices (normally they assist passengers to enter/exit). My friend and I eyed each other and marched directly to management. Ever professional and calm, my girlfriend factually explained the situation. Ever the emotional exploder, I was at least smart enough to keep my mouth shut on this round. Completely dismayed, the manager told us the roads leading into the mountains weren't part of the usual game drive route and that it shouldn't have happened. They didn't charge us for our personal three hours of hell, and for that I am grateful.

Luckily we walked away unscathed, but I didn't realize how mentally and physically trying the drive was until I got home. The weariness seeped into my bones, and the breath I had been holding was so intense I almost cried as we all laid down for a long afternoon nap. One day later, the tension in my shoulders and elbows from is enough to remind me of the highly annoying day, but it also reminds me that my friend and I were in it together and that we'd be laughing about it over gin and tonics sooner than later. 

Going on a game drive.

In case you were confused, it's a bar.

Sample of a blesbok

Getting kicked off the truck.

During various points, sombreros, bags,
and hats all flew off the truck.
It wasn't even windy.

Walking the Dog in Windhoek

Technically, Namibia is dog friendly. After all, probably 9 houses out of 10 have dogs. The city has a couple of dog-training parks where you can pay a membership fee to make use of their obstacle courses: tunnels, ramps, zig-zag poles, etc. assuming your dog would be into that sort of thing. There's a great farm where dogs are free to run off leash (assuming the dog is smart enough to stay away from the free roaming cows and bulls). Windhoek has a couple of kennels and countless beauty shops, each with varying degrees of quality, and a decent selection of trustworthy veterinarians. Heck there's even a pool exclusive for doggie swim lessons! Plus, there's the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (SPCA) and a handful of other non-profits that deal with the responsibilities of pet ownership, like spaying and neutering services.

Obviously an infrastructure to support pets exists in this country, which is great. But the dogs here just aren't... friendly. Of the 9 houses that do have dogs, there's only 1 other person in my neighborhood who actually walks his. Here, dogs usually serve as one of many tiers for property protection- after the 10 foot walls topped with razor or electrified wire, and before the motion sensor burglar alarms. Most dogs are sequestered outside to guard the perimeter and ward off the unwelcome. They stick their noses and paws underneath the gates, chewing on metal, and savagely snarling and barking at all hours of the day to match the mind numbing "whop whop whop" of the burglar alarms. Alarms that are set off so often, that locals sardonically call it their national anthem.

Anyway. Walking my dog isn't super fun because of all that. More often than not when gates open and close, these "guard dogs" race to escape, eager for a confrontation. Jim and I have been attacked so many times, that I carry a nerdy walking stick to ward off gnashing teeth. The worst part is, the owners get mad at me. One woman told me it was my fault that her husky slipped past the gate to attack my (leashed) dog. Had I "not walked past her property, I wouldn't have been attacked" and that I owed HER an apology.  I'll spare you the other side of that conversation; just picture me with Medusa's head.

So it's weird and uncomfortable, and walking Jim requires a bit of cognitive preparation. Since we are at elevation, the mornings are guaranteed to be cool- 40F or less during fall and winter. I layer up with scarf, hat, gloves and top off the look with saggy sweatpants. He and I take off around 6:30am after the kids get on the school bus. If it's a Monday morning (trash day), we navigate past city-issued trash cans and bags of recycling that have been pilfered by opportunists. The bellowing dogs greet us as we walk past our neighbors and the sound of madness grows as we head down the street. Poor Jim, never having been a barker, simply whines and pulls on his leash.  I never did teach him to heel.

We amble past the high walls, unique to each property, and turn onto a wide main road where we enjoy the silence briefly settle back in. Sounds of barking and howling dogs alternate and mix with passing cars and the harsh screeching of francolin birds. These birds yell as if they're yelling at children to clean up melted ice cream on the couch. Sometimes there's morning construction crews of about here 20-30 who always stop in their tracks to stare down the weird lady in sweatpants and her dog. My morning salutations are usually ignored and we continue on, staying aware of cars that blow past stop signs (everyone) and other potential dog walkers (no one).  In fact, the only people who will say hello to me are the housekeepers huddled at the bus stop waiting for their shifts to start. Nice ladies, really.

There are a few miserable looking joggers, some vigilantly carrying mace, others obliviously rocking out to music. Jim and I speed walk up steep hills and gingerly step down them- both of us a match for sore knees. By 7:00am the sun breaks over the mountain, cascading a glorious shine over the city and surrounding hills. Right after sunset, meal times, and bed time, it's my favorite part of the day. I love these moments: when the dogs are out of earshot, I stand alone with Jim looking over the city. Ironically, Depeche Mode's Enjoy the Silence always winds through my brain and stays there for several hours. At least it gives me tempo to walk home to. I dodge sharp bougainvillea branches creeping over walls, pick countless thorns out of my dog's paws, and stare down the wonk eyed mongrels behind bars, hoping the gates remain closed as we finish the loop. An unsuccessful walk means I had to fight off fugitives and their belligerent owners or save the token idiot dog who's not fierce, but on a death wish as it runs down the street. This happens about once a week. A successful, good walk is the opposite of that. I love how high the bar is set here.

 Our daily walks and the uncertainty that ensues
justify my claim that Jim is the greatest dog ever.

Catching a breath.

Despite the madness of dog-walking, this is why I do it.