Cats on Safari – Botswana

I woke up really early on Day 2, just as the sun raised an eyebrow over the horizon. The premature start was initiated primarily by the fluttering cacophony of the high density residential real estate above our heads – weaver birds by the ton twittered, buzzed, flitted and chatted vociferously, getting their avian equivalent of 30 000 words in before breakfast. What a to-do, while Anushka stared lustfully up at the Paperbark Acacia canopy quivering with feathered residents. One day she’ll get her bird, but today is not the day.

Oh, yeah, and the truck stop next to Big Fig Tree Inn belched flatulently as the overnighters gunned their engines and pulled away on the next leg of their journey. A great pity to site such a pretty, tree-strewn campsite alongside.

It is an indisputable fact that neatly packed and stashed luggage will, once raided enroute, refuse to return to its departure state and here we are in that situation. Henry was looking rather shabby as in frustration, items were tossed onto the bed or lashed in the central space when they simply didn’t slot back neatly into their allotted niche. S and A hopped in willingly and snuggled down for stage 2. As usual, the turning of the engine prompted a cat travelling singsong but they soon settled and were perfectly composed (ok, snoozing deeply and absolutely oblivious to the goings on around them) as we navigated the border formalities.

Through Martin’s Drift border post and on we rolled, heading for Francistown. A long drive on a good road, straight as an arrow through countryside populated by goats and donkeys with no sign of human habitation, villages or even a little shop. After a couple of hours we stopped at one of the many roadside picnic spots and laid out the cat’s comfort accessories – food, water and litter tray, which they were ignoring in the car. Clipped on the leashes and persuaded them (with a touch of force!) to exit but try as we might, these hosses were NOT going to eat, drink or use the box.

Our original intention was to bunk up for the night in Francistown but to be frank, after a long drive through a landscape remarkably South African in nature, to be faced by what could be any South African town (every possible SA chain and franchise, bank, petrol station and so on) it lacked appeal so forward to Nata we forged. Proofing and editing Andy Tinker’s Guides to the region came in very handy at this point and his advice invaluable as we knew exactly what to expect both along the way, in Nata and at the dreaded Zambian border post. But I’ve run ahead too far, that’s tomorrow’s chapter.

In the meantime, we turned off the road without bend or end into Pelican Lodge just minutes before the approaching storm we’d been watching hit. Henry’s advantages were immediately apparent as we raced the bulging black clouds – stop, open the side door, roll out the side awning, set up the chairs, open the fridge and enjoy a cold one while spectating the Gautengers a few metres away desperately putting up their tent in the deluge then retreating to their car to sit the storm out.

The Pelican camp site had the cutest stone and thatch personal ablutions for each of the three sites, containing a shower, basin, toilet, mirror, beautiful handwoven grass lampshade all discreetly hidden behind a curtain. At the rear of the building, a kitchen sink and draining board made for convenient washing up. The silence and refreshing coolness after a really hot day and long drive made for a very good night’s sleep.

Cats on Safari – The Beginning

Finally the big day dawned and no, true to form we didn’t leave at sparrow glow. Him Outdoors chose this day to complete many tasks he hadn’t got to during the week, most notably, buying forex. Needless to say, the bank five days before Christmas was exactly as you’d imagine – overflowing with people taking ages to complete their business. Serves him right, but needless to say, we both suffered!

Taking pets across international borders is not for the faint hearted, and if it wasn’t for the impassioned plea of our catsitter, and the indisputable evidence of feline pining and heartbreak, we’d have left them in the loving and capable hands of Joseph and Arlene. Anushka and Speckle had different ideas, though, and we bowed to their anguish and began the arduous process of admin and medical checks and interminable documentation. Headspinning and wallet emptying indeed, although we discovered a vet who home visits rather than have a surgery of his own, and a very friendly State Vet but still, government processes grind painstakingly slowly in a rather convoluted fashion.

Eventually, Henry the Campervan was loaded to the gills with indispensible household, personal items and cat travel accessories. Bags of catnip, homeopathic salmon flavoured calming gloop and pheromone spray were joined by favourite blankies, cat tray, food and water.

On a weight/size body to luggage ratio, they far surpassed us and looking at the pair of them, laden with their personal travel handluggage, it is easy to imagine that if George Orwell had written Animal Farm in the millenium, and included pop fiction in his prescient social imaginings, 50 Shades of Fur would feature similar bondage accoutrements. They each sagged beneath the weight of a bell and microchip medallion bearing collar, a pheromone infused calming collar and shiny, reflective harnesses ready to be attached to long leashes. For public appearances, you understand, although the harnesses were very effective in capturing Speckle to apply calming goo. Simply grab, lift, slap onto paws waving wildly mid-air and release. 

Joseph, their adoptive father, was almost in tears when we loaded the girls up and they immediately set up their standard travel chorus, ranging from a magnificent impersonation of a Basset Hound howl to a, well, frankly quite pathetic mew. Midrand to Grobler’s Bridge was the first leg of the offical Cat Safari.

We stopped at Caltex in Mokepane for a cat and human comfort break, hooking leashes onto the harnesses and encouraging them to leap from Henry for a leg stretch. 

Not a chance, not for love or money would Speckle emerge and when HO insisted, holding fast to the leash, she howled loudly enough to have every forecourt attendant stop what they were doing and come running. Anuschka, braver by far, descended with her usual grace then, appalled by the crowd of attendants that welcomed her emergence, slipped under Henry and up into the engine compartment. Her neon yellow harness and leash emerged covered in engine grime and HO, through gritted teeth after a painful and difficult extraction, suggested that they be tied onto Henry in future.

Onwards we trundled, Anushka comfortably ensconced on HO’s lap, sighing contentedly every now and then. He is officially her hero, having rescued her from Henry’s greasy, red hot entrails. The sun began dipping and the day, loosening it’s grip on the dry heat, relaxed into a pleasant late afternoon as we drew into Big Fig Inn and Campsite just 2kms before the Botswana border. Time to stop travelling for a bit.

Anushka hopped down and retreated under Henry’s belly but it took Speckle almost an hour to venture from the van into the lush greenery. Together, the Safari Cats explored their surroundings, keeping a firm eye on us to make sure we didn’t slip off into the twilight. Bad HO did suggest that if they didn’t come running when we leave tomorrow, we sally forth a Safari Cat or two short. That musing ground to silence when reminded that, being microchipped, we’d be summoned back from Bots to fetch them by some well meaning, kind person. 

Day's End at Big Fig Inn

Born Under A Wandering Star

'Home' is a moving target these days and what possessed us to leave a perfectly good, nay, actually rather fabulous life for a nomadic existence is hard to define. Him Outdoors is pretty used to it and it suits his Sagittarian star perfectly, but I've pushed Cancerian boundaries beyond breaking point. However, I believe that the fault lies in family genes rather than stars.

My parents sold their motorbike and sidecar, packed up house and sprogs and relocated us lock, stock and barrel way across the globe from England to South Africa. Quite a feat in 1969 when maintaining links with family was much more difficult. Wandering the planet does seem to have infected my mother and her brothers, though.  One uncle was in the RAF and spent years stationed in Cyprus while the other, a ships engineer, sailed the 7 seas and 5 oceans. My brave aunt delivered that set of cousins in Guyana and Sierra Leone respectively. By contrast, I've firmly planted my toes deep into the soil, possibly in protest against being forced aboard a BOAC flight and whisked off to Africa against my childish will.

There, I've said it. I really, really, really did NOT want to leave home and hearth and especially my beloved granny to head south on some barmy adventure of my parents. It got worse (so I thought then). They'd decide on Friday afternoon to pop off to Lourenço Marques (now Maputo, Mozambique) which entailed loading up the old Renault 10 (no aircon, plastic seats, feuding siblings and awful carsickness) for the weekend. It also meant sleeping in the car at the border, waiting for it to open on Saturday. Some weekends it was Gaborone, others Swaziland or the then Eastern Transvaal and Kruger National Park. Hour upon interminable hour spent in the car traversing dusty dirt roads.

Thankfully, the sulky brat grew up and dragged her own offspring through similar experiences. With aircon and a heap more travel comforts but to the same unappreciative audience. Talk about payback!

Home is where the heart is, they say (what tosh, my heart never leaves my body) and Paul Young yodeled on about laying his hat but the best bit of advice I've received about setting up a new life in a new country came from a much loved friend who has had her fair share of intercontinental and trans-continental moves - pack 1 piece of home to take with you. No matter how useful / less it is, having an anchor item at hand helps calm the emotional waves. (Thanks Lynda xx)

Airline weight and baggage limits kiboshed that, and HO very selfishly dumped the 3 books I'd sneaked into his hand luggage when he investigated the cause of nearly wrenching his shoulder out of it's socket. Bust, and it wasn't a pretty moment!

Practical items took preference over emotional possessions but it's amusing to investigate our limited cutlery assortment - we forgot to pack a tin-opener. Look at what emerged from my lime green suitcase though - my dawa cocktail stomper and a Swiss Army knife! Got my priorities sorted, then.

Fortunately, we have a second bite at the household moving apple and are flying back to SA next week to pack up Henry the Campervan with more necessities and home comforts. We have rented an adorable little hobbit cottage in Nairobi and it will bring much joy to have a few familiar things around us once more. One item I reluctantly left behind the first time was a favourite embossed, recycled glass wine goblet. That will be the first item lovingly packed so that Kenyan sunsets can be toasted with a memory-filled glass and all will be well in my world. 

Like it or not, we become ever more true to ourselves and our family heritage as we age. The biggest laugh of all - my mother's family name is Moss. It looks like granny and granddad produced a clutch of rolling stones determined to challenge that!

My essential bits of home!