Free No Stopping for Lions by Joanne Glynn

grass, desert and mountains, could match the hyperbole it so often attracts. But, quite simply, it takes our breath away. I reckon that one could wake up anywhere here, look around and be struck speechless by the beauty. Yes, it’s vast and empty, and just sometimes the ordered straightness of its roads, mountain ranges and dunes become monotonous, but I’ve never seen colours change like they do here, or valleys stretch so far, or stillness feel so right. Namibia is at once monumental and embracing and there’s a sense of place, of belonging, which seems to envelop everyone who breathes her air.

iNTO THE WiLD BLUE YONDER
    Epupa Falls is on the Kunene River, which forms the border with Angola in these parts. The sight of the waterfalls as we come over a crest is magical: they’re at the centre of a true oasis in the middle of empty, dry desert. There are makalani palms, big old white baobabs, the blue lagoons of the Kunene and water falling over falls everywhere across an area 20 hectares or more. There’s Angola on the other side, looking peaceful and unaffected by tourism and over-grazing, and dust and piles of beer bottles all about on our side. We’re told that the Himba are a contented bunch who don’t steal or take anything that isn’t given to them, so there’s no need to lock the car or our tents. But who knows what they might get up to after emptying all those bottles so we lock the Troopy nevertheless.
    Epupa Camp has an activities manager, Neels, a very affable young South African who takes to calling my Neil, Neily. They get on like a house on fire and are trading practical jokes before the first day’s end. Neels takes us for sundowners to view the beautiful falls, and the next day we go white-water rafting, where Neels suddenly becomes very professional and we trust him totally. Although the rapids would be quite minor to the die-hards, they are enough to give us a thrill. Following Neels’ directions we all paddle across and disembark on the far bank, Angola, where he proceeds to tell us of the last time he brought his charges here. At just about this spot, armed military (or was it bandits, he couldn’t tell) came bursting from the undergrowth, gesticulating wildly and waving AK-47s about. The leader screamed for Neels and his little landing squad to put their hands up, leave their canoes and to walk slowly up the beach. Instead they fled as one, scrambling back into their canoes and paddling away like there was no tomorrow. Neels remembers looking back to see guns trained on them, but he’s pretty sure no shots were fired. By the end of this story some of our current team are looking warily into the bushes while edging back down to the water’s edge. Neels suddenly shouts and claps his hands, we all jump and make a run for the rafts and are halfway back to Namibia before we’ve had time to see the big grin on his face.
    Every evening Neels takes Neily and me to a different spot by the river for sundowners. On the third night, our last here, the subject turns to children, and Neels asks us what our children are doing. When we reply that there are no children, our choice, he asks if we’d mind telling him what was behind our decision. In the past weeks we’ve been asked many times about children by both blacks and whites — it’s a polite ice-breaker — but the reaction to our answer is markedly different from the two groups. Whites look expectant, waiting for further explanation, and after we say our choice they smile knowingly and say smart move and everyone chuckles. Blacks, on the other hand, become embarrassed and apologetic that they have asked the question. To them, the only reason for not having children is because you can’t, and they ah-ah-ah, touch my hand and click their tongues. To spare them angst, Neil and I have recently decided that in these instances it’s better to say that we do have children and