Day 7: Bareb River Basin…and Blisters

By Sanjayan

We are half-way to the Atlantic Ocean — the end of our journey. Along the way, we have developed little rituals to make the days less painful — and more efficient. 

Every morning starts the same. We stumble around until the coffee is brewed and then spend 30 minutes ministering to the abuse the previous day inflicted on our feet.

Blisters bloom like mushrooms or white albino ticks — bulbous and deforming. We try gel, moleskins, band-aids, and even duct tape to relive the pain. Mark Sundeen, a writer accompanying us, wraps his entire shoes in duct tape in an effort to keep grass seeds out. 

By noon, of course, despite the care, our feet will be in tatters again.

Wading Through the Grass of a Desert

The distances are never less than 20 kilometers or so, and one day we actually clipped off 18 kilometers before lunch! I certainly have never walked so far so fast over such tough country.

The whole landscape is strewn with basalt bounders — from tennis-ball to soccer-ball size — that were thrown up when the ancient Gondwanaland split up and have been waiting many millions of years to twist our ankles. 

To make things worse, unusual rains have carpeted the whole place in a blanket of grass, obscuring our sight of the ground beneath our feet. We wade rather than walk, like fishermen on a strange slippery stream. 

'Sensing' the Presence of a Cheetah

At least the wildlife is finally plentiful. We have entered the heart of the Palmwag Concession — and the center of operations for our partner, Save the Rhino Trust.

We count perhaps 1,000 springbok, 300 mountain zebra, 50 giraffe, and 200 oryx in one day alone.

And this morning, as we walked with our heads down, intent on discerning the pattern of boulders conspiring at our feet, our lead rhino tracker halted abruptly. He “sensed” the presence of a cat — almost as I would sense a trout fining beneath rippling waters.
 
Sure enough, in a few minutes, as we get closer to a ridge he kept looking at, a narrow head pops up and a spotted cat emerges to trot into the hills. An adult cheetah!

Though Namibia has a healthy population of cheetahs, partly because of the work of the Cheetah Conservation Fund, they are dispersed and cryptic animals. I have only seen two in all my trips to this country. Now, just a half a kilometer away, we watch the cheetah and it watches us — both content at the distance between us.

What's for Lunch? Same as Yesterday

Springs are everywhere and the water, unpolluted by the plastic jugs we carry our liquid cargo in, is refreshingly tasty. The tadpoles don’t prevent us from sipping freely. We usually aim to hit a spring at lunch — a meal that is regular and monotonous. 

Every single day we have sardines in tomato sauce (luckily, I like them); potted meat (my Conservancy colleague Richard Jeo likes them); biscuits and bread; peanut butter; and honey. 

But we look forward to our lunch breaks and the tea that goes along with it. It's a good way to rest up in the worst heat of the day before pushing on around 2 pm.

The last two or three kilometers to camp, nearly always in fast fading light, is tough. We are tired, and the site of our camp spot seems to grow in distance with every step. 

The Edward Abbey of the Namib, With Shotgun

We sometimes set remote cameras around camp. Infrared triggered, they capture any small carnivore that may be prowling nearby. A couple of nights back an inquisitive spotted hyena got a self-portrait.
 
The walk's novelty is a distant memory — and it's now a mental game to keep going.  The wildlife sightings help, but it is impressive how very large this landscape is and how very long it is taking us to cross through.
 
The only person who seemingly glides over the land is Rudi Loutit of Save the Rhino Trust. He's more than 60 years old, but everything about him is economical and efficient.

He does not wear socks, hat, sunscreen or sunglasses despite spending most of his life in the Namib. He can see better than any of us. He walks like a giraffe, covering ground swiftly, in apparent but deceptively slow motion. Though every morning I start with him by lunch he's always half a kilometer ahead.

Rudi walks with his Dalmatian and shotgun. The shotgun is not for show. When his dog reacts to a small noise in a thorn bush, Rudi brings the gun to the ready in an instant. We follow, exchanging glances.

To me, he is sort of an Ed Abbey of the Namib — and walking with him to the sea is a huge inspiration and reason for us pushing on despite the blisters, scorpions (which are crawling all over), and the punishing mileage.

Yes, the transect we are doing is novel and historic and yes we will bring back important data about new springs, sightings, and corridors. But we walk mostly because Rudi leads us along. 

This evening, Mark Sundeen needs something desperately for a rash that has developed on his calves. His legs look like they are blistered, and we think it a reaction to the grasses.

Rudi sees his discomfort and walks by, chucking Mark a tube of something. 

"Put it on," he says. "It's good for all sorts of stuff." 

That just about sums up Rudi.
 

Nature picture credits (top to bottom, left to right): Photo © Sanjayan/TNC (Giraffe and Oryx); Photo © Sanjayan/TNC (Rudi).