Hello. I’m an oryx, which, if you don’t know, is a kind of African antelope. I’m your guest blogger. The oryx also happens to be the national symbol of Namibia.
That last part matters because Beesquared, the publisher of this blog, visited Namibia for a week over New Year’s. I saw him on his second day here, when he and six other humans were riding in a Land Rover through Etosha National Park. They had been driving through the park and the adjacent bush while staying in a tented cabin at one of those camps that border the park.
The tents are formed by canvas stretched over a wooden floor. The whole thing sits on stilts. The walls consist of bricks formed by pouring rocks into steel nets. The structure is what you humans might term “eco-friendly” because you could take the whole thing away tomorrow without leaving a trace.
You may wonder how an oryx knows about eco-friendly construction. There’s a watering hole by the camp that my friends and I like to visit. There’s not much to look at when you’re standing there drinking from a synthetic hole in the ground. So I contemplate the cabins.
But I digress. I first saw Beesquared after I left my herd to stand in a field at the side of the road where I anticipated the Land Rover might pass. I hoped one of the passengers might call out, “Hey, there’s an oryx,” while pointing at me. Then the other passengers might photograph me. That’s what my giraffe friends tell me happens to them.
It may seem simple to stand by a road looking wild but I’m here to tell you it takes effort. I walked nearly five kilometers through the bush on an 85-degree morning. That may not seem like a big deal, but it took me away from the watering hole, which is the place to be on summer days. There’s also my safety. Nothing excites lions like the sight of an oryx preening. Some of my best friends have been eaten while smoothing themselves up for photos.
Anyway, while I stood by the side of the road a lion and his lady lounged less than a kilometer away. I know this because earlier I saw the Land Rover parked by the lions while the tourists photographed them. The lion couple had just had sex for the third time that day, according to the guide. I overheard one tourist say he hoped the lions would awaken and go at it again. But I knew the lions weren’t going to relent for a couple of New Yorkers and two German couples, even if one of them had a decent zoom lens.
While the tourists waited for the lions, I also heard them thank their guide for taking them on a bush drive the prior evening. Apparently they saw two male lions lounging beneath a tree. Big surprise if you know anything about lions. The tourists said they later say the entire pride – 11 lions in all.
The tourists, like tourists tend to do, yammered on about the lions, but they also saw giraffes and black rhinos. “They either charge you or they run away,” said Omo, their guide, referring to the rhinos. As if on cue, three rhinos appeared, snorted and then ran off into the bush, while the tourists cowered in the Land Rover, taking photos. Beesquared struggled to capture the action on his iPhone. But the Germans with the decent lens seemed pretty satisfied with themselves, passing their camera around the Land Rover while the other tourists oohed and aahed over the images. “Great shot,” I heard one say.
Speaking of shots, Omo had a rifle with him, so it’s a good thing the rhinos ran away. Though I doubt Omo had any intention of shooting the rhino, even an oryx knows better than to charge a guy who’s packing.
The tourists also talked about seeing wildebeests and springboks, as well as black-faced impalas. They also saw oryxes. I heard about it from my ex, who happened to be ruminating with a few friends nearby when the tourists arrived. What, you think only humans stalk their ex’s on Facebook?
The next day Beesquared and his companion headed to Hartmann’s Valley, in the northwest corner of Namibia. Some of my Facebook friends reported seeing them in a Land Cruiser riding through the desert there. Besides oryxes, that area has baboons, snakes and scorpions, as well as Nile crocodiles, which inhabit the Kunene River that flows between Namibia and Angola.
The northern Namibian desert also is home to the Himbas, a semi-nomadic people who subsist as herders. The Himbas live in huts made of sticks and cow dung. They usually arrange the huts in a circle around an animal enclosure and fire. The author visited the Himbas on three occasions while he was in the desert.
My oryx pals in the area also saw the author with his companion and their guide late in the afternoon, when the three went driving to the tops of nearby peaks for so-called sundowner’s, which is how South Africans, Namibians and others in the shadow of Britain’s erstwhile empire refer to happy hour. My friends saw the trio drinking Windhoek lager, pink wine and Coke while munching on dried worst and banana chips.
Apparently Beesquared remarked how much he liked his accommodations, which included a cabin that faced the dunes and an outdoor shower. What is it with humans and outdoor showers? I’ve been showering outdoors all my life. I’d kill for a bathroom, even one of those tiny New York apartment bathrooms with bad plumbing that my cousin, who lived at the Bronx Zoo, complained about.
The camp also had just one Internet-connected computer. The place is a Wi-Fi-free zone. That’s probably good because otherwise the guests would rarely look up from their iPads. Then they would abstain from activities, claiming they needed to rest when actually they wanted to be online. That would threaten the tips the guides earn by leading groups into the desert.
Plus, if anyone needs a rest it’s the camp’s staff, which I imagine must tire of always making sure the guests have a fresh drink or clean laundry. Hell, I need a rest. I’ve been perched on a hillside for days at a time while trying to find water and a few roots to eat, all while trying to avoid becoming eaten. “That’s Darwinian,” you’re thinking. Yeah, well you try being part of the food chain.
Beesquared and his companion visited the Himba tribe three times in four days. Himba women cover themselves with a paste made of ochre and butter fat. It protects them from the sun and makes them beautiful. The women tend to be tall. A few could be models, but then they might have to relocate to Paris or Milan or New York City, where they would have to endure bad plumbing. Of course, that might be an improvement over the Himba camp, where you burn cow dung for fire and have to walk four kilometers to the river to gather drinking water or to bathe. You might be washing up for dinner when you become dinner for a Nile crocodile.
Speaking of crocodiles, a pal of mine saw Beesquared and others aboard a motorboat on the Kunene, where they saw a donkey drinking at the shore. The guide commented that the sure-footed animal risked being attacked by a croc. Just as they passed, as if on cue, a crocodile emerged, snout-first, from the water, practically at the donkey’s feet. The donkey stepped quickly back, a little two-step, and in doing so saved his life. “That must be the slowest crocodile ever,” my friend overheard the guide say. Good point. I hope that croc doesn’t become a carryall.
The next day after a visit to the Himba settlement, the Land Cruiser ferrying Beesquared and his companion stopped to collect the skull and horns of an oryx that had died maybe a month earlier. The oryx was known in those parts as “Pops.” I heard his heart gave out, which is too bad because the doctors told him he should get more exercise. Pops liked to ruminate on the hillside and watch the tourists pass. The old man always joked that inactivity, not one of the droughts that plague the desert, would be the end of him. By the time Beesquared and his companion encountered Pops his skull had been bleached white by the sand and wind, after the vultures picked clean his carcass. Truth be told, it’s the best Pops has looked in some time.
While Beesquared’s companion retrieved the remains of Pops, Vincent, a fellow traveler from Provence, produced a site-specific sculpture. Vincent collected quartz that lies on the ground in that part of the desert and arranged the rocks in the shape of a being. I’m not sure what Vincent aimed for with his rock balancing, but he seemed to delight in process.
Another my friends saw Beesquared out in the desert on one of those all-terrain vehicles that humans like to ride off-road. We learned at the academy that those vehicles are unsafe if operated improperly. A few weeks ago, the friend watched from a hill as a lady from New York City accelerated when she intended to brake, sending the all-terrain vehicle into a canyon. Fortunately for the lady she managed to jump from the machine at the last second. Fortunately for we oryxes the lady survived because had she died her family might have sued the camp for negligence and that might have increased the liability insurance premium. That might have spurred the camp to discontinue the all-terrain vehicles, which would deprive we oryxes of the amusement we derive from watching city dwellers try to ride those things through the desert.
You see, oryxes think a lot about risks other than being eaten by lions. We depend on tourists to popularize our presence. Otherwise people might forget about us, or worse, confuse us with springboks.
Anyway, on the day I walked out to greet Beesquared, I was battling thirst, not to mention risking my life near that lion couple, all so I could welcome the tourists to Namibia, and maybe pose for a photo or two. There I stood as the Land Rover approached. I heard the engine before I saw the vehicle and then, sure enough, it came barreling down the road with Beesquared, his companion, and the four Germans and their guide.
Everyone clutched either a camera or binoculars and the guide seemed to look over his shoulder occasionally, no doubt chatting about this or that feature of the park like guides do at the end of a four-hour drive when they have little left to say and everyone has asked their questions and had a drink and just wants to return to the camp for lunch, especially after they’ve seen lions and giraffes and, hell, even a sandgrouse.
The Land Rover approached and I dipped my neck and thrust my antlers in the air and flicked my braided black tail as if to shoo away some flies. (For some reason, there weren’t any that day.) I stood at attention. “Oryx, at your service, folks,” I hoped my stance suggested. But the Land Rover didn’t slow. The guide didn’t so much as tap the brakes. In fact, I think he accelerated, and that Beesquared and the others aboard kept congratulating one another on seeing the lions for the second time in as many days. All while I’m risking my neck to stand there and be seen.
After the Land Rover disappeared around a curve, I turned and walked away silently. On my way back to the herd, I realized I’ve had enough of aiming to be an ambassador for Namibia. It’s a thankless task, at least for this oryx. I’m returning to the bush to ruminate under a blue sky. Next time you see me, prepare for me to regard you indifferently.