Day 25: Cheetah Conservation Foundation: Wine, Genetics, and Two Very Relaxed Boys

Posted on by Sandy

All photos of entire CCF portion can be found HERE

Lynn and I are now at the Cheetah Conservation Foundation (CCF), and as I started to type this, we were sitting on the veranda of Babson House, looking out over two cheetah brothers lounging in the afternoon sun while we sip wine from…appropriately…cheetah glasses.

Travel has its moments.

The name of these mountains translates to “butt mountain.” Our driver agreed that a perhaps better moniker would be “boobs mountain” (Cue Madonna bustiere from the ‘90s)

But first, a note on something we learned on the drive out to CCF. Our driver pointed out something that sparked a lot of conversation. We passed a massive property — roughly 85,000 hectares — that used to be a lodge where travelers could simply drive in, sit on the deck with a drink, and watch hippos, elephants, lions, and rhinos around the watering hole.

It was recently purchased by a private Mexican buyer.

Now the gates are locked, and no one can only enter with special permission. There’s growing concern locally that the property may eventually become a hunting farm.

The Namibian government apparently tried to purchase the land when it came up for sale, hoping to preserve the habitat and wildlife, but the price was simply too high.

Driving past it on the way to the Cheetah Conservation Foundation made the contrast very clear: one piece of land potentially closing to conservation, while another — here at CCF — is devoted entirely to protecting one of Africa’s most endangered predators.

Back to the veranda at Babson House. Babson House, where we’re staying, is absolutely gorgeous — thatched, comfortable, and more like a beautiful large private bush home than a lodge. The refrigerator is fully stocked, there’s wine waiting, and our chef has just headed out to gather the “fixins” for dinner.

This is clearly not roughing it.

Earlier today we watched the feeding of several cheetahs who were orphaned as very young cubs. These animals were bottle-fed as babies after their mothers were killed, and because they never learned to hunt from their mothers, they cannot be released back into the wild. So they live here permanently under CCF’s care. They are fed from bowls that mimic the way that they would be fed in the wild – the mother cheetah digs a hole in the prey on the ground, and the babies then eat from that “container” (TMI?)

But CCF also works with another category of cheetah — those that can eventually return to the wild.

Some animals arrive after being caught in traps or rescued from farms. In those cases the goal is rehabilitation. These cheetahs are kept far away from humans and exercised by running after mechanical lures so they maintain their hunting instincts before being re-released.

Yep, the cheetah brothers, playing with a Kong…

The most recent arrivals are two young brothers, both less than a year old.

They were rescued from a man who had killed their mother, trapped the cubs, and was preparing to sell them as pets — usually to buyers in the Middle East. When they arrived here they were dangerously thin and severely dehydrated. They’re recovering now, but still have a long road ahead.

Lunch at CCF was lovely (and included with the stay), and yes — I will admit to having a salted caramel milkshake.

I am on vacation, after all.

After lunch we were introduced to one of the foundation’s most important team members —one that H and I had actually sent specific donations in for eight years ago — one of the Belgian Malinois sisters who serve as CCF’s “scat dogs.”

Yes. Professional poop finders.

The dogs are scent-trained specifically to detect cheetah and wild dog scat. The scat team goes into the field, collects samples — carefully/not all of it, because the animals use scat for communication — and brings them back to the lab. So, the dogs locate samples, which researchers then analyze for DNA, hormones, and other biological markers that reveal health, diet, and population patterns.

This led us to what was honestly one of the most fascinating parts of the day.

We toured the genetics laboratory.

And wow.

The scientists working there are all pursuing highly specialized PhDs related to carnivore conservation genetics. The woman who showed us around is doing her doctorate on African wild dogs — and interestingly, she has never actually seen one in the wild.

I told her I would bring over my photos from Kruger National Park tomorrow.

CCF also houses one of only three specialized DNA machines in all of Namibia. The other two are used for human purposes — one in a hospital and one by the government for forensic criminal investigations.

We were walked through the entire genetic testing process step by step.

It was a big Wow moment.

I was so impressed that I immediately made another donation — specifically earmarked for the genetics lab.

Tomorrow evening we’ll have dinner with Dr. Laurie Marker, the founder of CCF. As a fun coincidence, she will actually be flying back to the United States the same day we are — headed to Santa Cruz to give a presentation.

Small world.

But perhaps the most unexpected moment of the evening happened because of…a broken stove.

Our chef, Joshua, was preparing dinner in the kitchen at Babson House when the stove suddenly refused to cooperate. The staff (yes, we have “Staff”) sorted that out while we watched the magnificent sunset, which including a “sunset-bow” (rainbow/sunset combo – a first for me!). We drank our wine ignoring the muffled “words” coming from the kitchen, and talked with Tracy, who is looking after us during our stay, and Himee, the CCF assistant manager (Bianca is the manager).

What started as a simple delay turned into one of those quiet, meaningful conversations that travel sometimes gifts you.

Himee and I discovered that both of us had lost someone very important right around the same time — during the early days of COVID. His father. My husband.

We talked for a while about them.

I asked him what his father’s best attribute had been.

He said, without hesitation, that his father had been an amazing joke teller.

That made me smile, and it reminded me of something that has helped me think about loss.

I told him that sometimes I like to imagine that God needs people with very specific talents — and when that happens, they are “called home” because of that need. And during those terrible early days of COVID, Heaven must have been a very sad place.

Maybe Heaven needed someone who could tell great jokes and cheer everyone up.

At that point Himee’s eyes filled with tears.

I told him about H’s marbles — the small glass marbles made from my husband’s ashes that I’ve been sending out into the world so that he can keep traveling.

Himee immediately asked if he could help place one of the marbles here at CCF.

Of course I said yes.

Somehow the stove eventually decided to cooperate, and dinner appeared — and it was absolutely extraordinary.

Michelin-star level extraordinary.

Chef Joshua produced course after course with total calm and humility, and handled Lynn’s lactose intolerance without even blinking. Every plate that arrived felt like something from a high-end restaurant — except we were sitting in the Namibian bush with cheetahs nearby.

Lynn and I kept looking at each other and laughing.

How is this even real?

The people here are remarkable — kind, deeply knowledgeable, and quietly dedicated to the work they’re doing.

And all the while, just outside on the veranda, the two cheetah brothers lounged peacefully in the fading light.

The “sunset-bow.”

Tomorrow morning we wake up early for the cheetah run, when some of the rehabilitating cheetahs will sprint after the lure across the reserve.

But for now, as I write this just before falling asleep, I’m still thinking about the conversations tonight — about fathers, jokes, marbles, and the strange and beautiful ways people meet each other in the world.

And somewhere outside, under the Namibian stars, two cheetahs are still keeping watch under the veranda.

Day 23-24: Leaving the Namib: Bush Dinner, Apple Pie, and the Road to Windhoek

Posted on by Sandy

We had an easy day and a late morning. Many people stayed back at the lodge to pack, but a few of us went with Abraham over to a small settlement just inside the park gates.

Once there, Abraham encouraged us to talk with the guard and ask him about his life. When asked if he was married, he said no. Abraham followed up:

“How many children do you have?”

“Two.”

In southern Africa, children don’t necessarily come after marriage — one of those cultural differences that makes you pause for a second and recalibrate your assumptions.

Then the conversation took an unexpected turn.

The guard, who looked to be in his 30s, asked if any of us were “single.”

Without hesitation, Abraham pointed to Mary and me and said that we were both widows.

Which, apparently, was all the encouragement required.

When it came time for a photo, he placed himself very confidently between us — looking quite pleased with how things had worked out.

Abraham was laughing, explaining that here, age is not considered a barrier — even when the woman is older than the man.

(At which point we felt it was only fair to introduce him to the term “Cougar.”)

On the way out, I picked up a “Big Daddy” T-shirt (with enthusiastic encouragement from Mary) along with a few other bits and bobs.

Then it was back to the lodge to pack — and get ready for what would turn out to be a rather magical final night in Sossusvlei.

Just before sunset we headed out in open vehicles for what Abraham carefully described as “drinks and snaaaaaacks.”

He now exaggerates the word because earlier in the trip several people heard him say “snakes.”

Which is…a very different invitation.

A weaver bird nest that we thought looked like a head!

We drove out into the desert as the sun began to drop behind the dunes. The rocks above us were dotted with dassies — those small, round little creatures that look like guinea pigs but are apparently the closest living relative to elephants. They sat up on the rocks like tiny supervisors, watching us settle in for sunset drinks.

Unfortunately this was the point where my digestive system decided it was still conducting experiments. So while everyone else was enjoying the spread, I stuck with ginger ale and quiet optimism.

Still, the sunset itself was magnificent.

But the real surprise came next.

After the sun went down, we walked around a rocky outcrop… and suddenly a fairyland appeared.

Hidden just out of sight was the most elaborate bush dinner setup imaginable — lanterns glowing, tables set under the open desert sky, everything lit softly against the dunes. It felt like we had wandered into some secret desert banquet for a Namibian queen and her retinue.

Since I wasn’t really eating much that evening (Rice. Sigh.), I had plenty of time to simply sit back and take it all in. At one point I leaned back in my chair, tilted my head way back, and cradled it in my palms — elbows outstretched.

And there they were.

More stars than I have ever seen in my life.

Orion hung upside down in the southern sky, the Southern Cross gleamed nearby, and the Milky Way stretched across the darkness like a luminous river. It was one of those moments that travel gives you occasionally — where everything goes quiet and you realize how small and lucky you are at the same time.

The next morning we woke to a fierce desert wind blowing across the dunes. I’m fairly sure the proper word for it is scirocco — and even if it isn’t, it certainly felt like one.

After packing up we began the long drive toward Windhoek, with one legendary stop along the way.

Solitaire.

Travelers across Namibia talk about the Solitaire apple pie like it’s a required pilgrimage, so of course we had to stop.

The funny thing is that it isn’t quite what Americans expect when they hear “apple pie.”

Instead of a classic pie crust, the Solitaire version has a thick, crumbly topping — more like a streusel or shortbread crust baked over a deep apple filling. Historically, that made sense: pie dough doesn’t behave well in desert heat, but the crumb topping holds up perfectly for travelers passing through.

So what you actually get is a sort of Namib desert hybrid pastry.

And yes — it’s delicious.

We also made another delightful stop along the way at a tiny roadside outpost where a man named Conny lives in the desert and runs what he calls “Conny’s Coffee.” Using solar power and careful technique, he brews pour-over coffee for travelers passing through.

I took several photos of him and his ingenious little setup — including the clever way he keeps his dog, Bobby, off the small patch of grass he’s managed to grow. The solution? Surround the grass with dry acacia thorn branches.

Effective, elegant, and very Namibian.

It was the perfect place to stretch our legs — although I must admit I slept through quite a bit of the drive thanks to what Abraham jokingly calls the “Namibian massage.”

That’s the rhythmic vibration created by Namibia’s long, washboard gravel roads.

Eventually the desert gave way to hills and buildings, and we arrived in Windhoek.

Our hotel here, the AVANI Windhoek Hotel, turned out to have the best breakfast buffet of the entire trip — which felt like quite an achievement after many days on the road.

Another nice change: the hotel is right in the center of the city, within walking distance of many places, whereas previous OAT trips had stayed much farther out.

Before dinner Abraham arranged something special for us.

We stopped at the Independence Museum, and he actually paid to have it opened so he could guide us through the exhibits himself. We ended up touring all three floors with him acting as our docent, explaining Namibia’s long struggle toward independence. (NOTE: When Lynn and I got to CCF and were talking to Dr. Laurie, we mentioned visiting the museum. She noted that she knew *all* the players in Namibia’s independence. Specifically, “They were my good friends.” That’s when it hit me – she had been doing what she does in Namibia for a long, long time.)

The museum itself was powerful. There were moving dioramas depicting genocides, exhibits honoring resistance leaders and independence heroes, and sobering accounts of the violence inflicted during the colonial era. At one point we found ourselves trying to remember what we had been doing back in 1978, when some of the worst atrocities were taking place.

Most of us realized we hadn’t heard much about it at all.

Some vaguely remembered hearing that “Angola” was a “troubled place” in those years — which makes sense, since Angola was a major ally in Namibia’s fight for independence. But the scale of what had happened here — the massacres, the slavery, the brutality — was largely absent from the history many of us had learned or even heard of.

One particularly chilling account described how colonial authorities once instructed local communities to lay down their weapons and gather in a specific place — only to open fire on them once they arrived. Men, women, and children alike.

Standing there listening to Abraham explain it, the room grew very quiet.

On the fourth floor of the museum there is a lovely restaurant and bar with sweeping views over the city. From there we were able to look down over Windhoek, including the iconic Christuskirche — the historic German Lutheran church that many guides refer to as the “Church of Peace” — glowing softly in the evening light.

Our official farewell dinner for the OAT portion of the trip was held at the lovely Stellenbosch Wine Bar & Bistro.

The meal looked wonderful… but my stomach still had other plans.

Earlier that day I had managed a piece of dry toast; from the prix fixe menu here, I ordered the steak with rice.

Once again, the rice won.

Abraham found a grateful recipient for the steak — the parking attendant guard outside the restaurant.

So although my culinary adventure in Windhoek was somewhat limited, at least someone went home happy.

By the end of the evening we said goodbye to the group as the OAT portion of the trip came to a close.

But the journey isn’t over yet.

Tomorrow Lynn and I head out to the Cheetah Conservation Foundation, where the next chapter of the adventure begins.

Slideshow of Namibia portion HERE.

I never get a percentage from any links I include – but! – if you are curious about Overseas Adventure Travel and want $100 off, call them at 1-800-955-1925 and request their amazing catalog, tell them you were referred by Sandy Shepard, customer number 3087257, and get $100 off your first trip! The catalog is what all good dreams are made of!

Day 22: Sossusvlei: Big Daddy, Belly Bumps, and a Marble at Dune 40

Posted on by Sandy
A “uni-oryx”!

The dunes of Sossusvlei are the kind of place that almost doesn’t look real. Photographs help, but when you actually arrive the scale of it all is hard to comprehend.

These dunes sit inside Namib-Naukluft National Park, which covers roughly 49,000 square kilometers—one of the largest national parks in Africa and among the largest protected areas anywhere in the world.

The Namib Desert itself is also believed to be one of the oldest deserts on Earth, somewhere around 55–80 million years old.

The name “Sossusvlei” is itself a little linguistic mash-up of the region’s history. Sossus comes from the Nama language and means “dead end,” while vlei is an Afrikaans word meaning “marsh” or “pan.” Put together, it roughly means “dead-end marsh”—a place where floodwaters once flowed but now simply stop, trapped by the surrounding dunes.

Even in a desert this ancient, life persists in surprising ways.

The circles are right above the darker line, middle of the photo

On the drive, Abraham pointed out the mysterious “fairy circles.” These perfectly round patches of bare ground puzzled scientists for decades. One leading theory now links them to sand termites that live underground.

Unlike the towering termite mounds you see elsewhere in Africa, it’s simply too dry here for that kind of architecture. Instead, the termites build their entire colony underground—what Abraham jokingly called their “mansions beneath the sand.”

Termite societies are surprisingly sophisticated:

• a queen and king who reproduce (the queen can lay thousands of eggs per day)

• workers who gather food and maintain the colony

• soldiers whose job is to defend it

Unlike bees, termites actually have a king, and the queen isn’t constantly surrounded and “coddled” the way a queen bee is.

Even the desert has its own little civilizations.

Where the Sand Came From

Before we reached the dunes themselves, Abraham crouched down and drew a rough map of Namibia in the sand.

He explained something called the “Red Line.”

North of the line are mostly subsistence farmers. South of the line are the large commercial farms. The line originally served as a veterinary boundary meant to prevent foot-and-mouth disease from spreading between herds, but over time it created a kind of economic divide.

A goat raised above the line and a goat raised below it can have very different market values. Like N$20 versus N$300.

Then Abraham explained something else remarkable.

The sand of the Namib dunes—and even the famous Namibian diamonds—both originated in South Africa.

Over millions of years the Orange River carried sediment and minerals westward. Ocean currents and wind redistributed the sand along Namibia’s coast, and eventually the wind pushed it inland, forming the enormous dunes we see today.

When diamonds were first discovered along Namibia’s coast, the ostriches became accidental casualties.

Like chickens, ostriches swallow small stones to help grind food in their gizzards. The story goes that they sometimes swallowed the diamonds, mistaking them for grit.

A Slow Start (Thanks to the “African Massage”)

Many people visiting Sossusvlei line up early at the park gates when they open at dawn, which can create a bit of a morning scramble.

We, however, avoided that entirely.

The road leading into the park is what Abraham cheerfully calls an “African massage.”

Between the bumps, corrugations, and everyone urging him to slow down, we arrived after the early rush had already passed through.

Sometimes taking it slow has its advantages.

Dune 45 and the Road to Big Daddy

Our first stop was Dune 45 (later, when we returned, Lynn and Mary climbed partway up the slope to get the classic “standing on a Namib dune” photo).

But the real objective lay farther ahead.

To reach the final stretch of dunes you leave the paved road and continue on deep sand tracks that require true four-wheel drive.

Which, apparently, not everyone fully appreciates.

On the way in we spent about twenty minutes helping two young couples who had completely buried their car in the sand.

The sign does in fact say you must have 4WD, but one suspects someone had reasoned:

“Oh hey, Subaru is a four-wheel drive… it will totally do it.”

It did not.

While the guys tried digging and pushing, one of the girls stepped barefoot under an acacia tree after removing her flip-flops—only to immediately begin pulling thorns out of her feet.

This desert does not suffer fools lightly.

We ultimately had to leave them there because we simply couldn’t get the car out.

Later, however, Lynn spotted them at Deadvlei, which means they did eventually escape their sandy predicament. (We tried to help a second car that also got stuck – though they had a strap for us to try to pull them out, the second we put pressure on the strap, it snapped.)

Big Daddy

See the person on the left?
Person ->
the slope in the back is what I “sand skied” down (keep reading…)

The largest dune in the area is Big Daddy Dune, rising about 325 meters (roughly 1,000 feet) above the desert floor. 1,000 feet doesn’t sound that high. It’s high. Believe me.

A narrow knife-edge ridge runs all the way to the top.

Barbara and Lynn were able to walk ½ way to Deadvlei, but had to quit there. Mary and Brigitte did make it all the way to Deadvlei, took photos, and headed back. Janice and Deb bear-crawled up a small section of the side of Big Daddy just to reach the ridge but immediately turned around and walked down.

Jean-Marie thought about following me but couldn’t manage it without poles—one step forward, two sliding steps back.

Those poles turned out to be absolutely critical. The wide baskets kept them from sinking into the sand. Janice had actually found them on Amazon and I immediately bought a pair; it remains unclear why she didn’t bring them and had to bear-crawl her way up instead.

I was about twenty yards behind them.

Step.

Sink.

Step.

Sink.

Yep, that little stick in the middle…that’s me.

Eventually I reached the ridge.

And then I realized the real challenge wasn’t climbing up.

It was deciding whether to go all the way to the top.

I followed a small lizard up the ridge and started counting my steps.

I kept telling myself:

You’re not coming back here in this lifetime.

That thought turned out to be surprisingly motivating (if sobering).

Step.

Sink.

Step.

Sink.

The Ridgeline Encounter

Just as I reached the crest, something funny happened.

The ridge narrows dramatically at the top, and four people were coming down: two men and two women.

The ridge is barely a few feet wide.

The first man tried stepping off the ridge to go around me and immediately sank to mid-calf in the sand.

“No, no!” I called. “You can’t step off!” (Note: ChatGPT had cautioned me about that, when I had looked up the idea of climbing the dunes.)

He corrected course. I turned sideways, he turned sideways, and he walked past. The two women did the same.

The last man, however, was…how shall we say…a very large gentleman, wearing a bright yellow shirt that said “Lithuania.”

There was simply no graceful way for him to pass me.

So we basically rubbed bellies as he edged by.

I laughed and may have made a dramatic “Ohhhhh!” noise.

He turned bright red.

And his friend—already past us—burst out laughing.

Then they continued down the ridge.

And suddenly . . .

I was alone.

Just me and the wind.

From the ridge you can see the dune slope away, but then it curves downward out of sight. Somewhere far below lies Deadvlei, the famous white clay pan filled with ancient dead trees.

From where I stood, those trees looked like matchsticks. No, something smaller. Splinters.

To be clear, from the top, you cannot actually see the full descent if you are contemplating going over the side. The dune curves inward, hiding the middle of the slope.

I stood there for a while.

If someone else had been doing it . . .

If there had been someone to even grimace or give a “thumbs up” to . . .

If someone had been waiting at the bottom . . .

It would have been so much easier.

I walked down a little from the ridge following some faint old footprints in the sand.

“Maybe here,” I thought.

Then I saw another set farther down and tried that spot.

Then I walked back up again.

Back and forth I went, having a very serious conversation with myself.

The climb up the ridge had been a physical triumph.

But that first step over the side – instead of making a 180 and walking down the ridgeline?

That was entirely mental.

Finally I stopped negotiating with myself and simply took one step forward.

Once I did, gravity took over and there I was – sand-skiing down the face of the dune.

And yes—

I was the only one in our group who did it.

And I did it completely alone.

No witnesses.

No encouragement.

No one even to take a photo.*

(I did photograph my footsteps once I reached the bottom, but they don’t really convey the scale of the thing—you can only see the tracks from the lower slope up to the crease in the dune. The ridge itself disappears from view.)

But *I* know what it took to make that first step.

And honestly?

That moment may have been the bigger triumph of the day. One cup plus of sand in each shoe notwithstanding.

*NOTE: I had no idea that Abraham was at the bottom, taking photos of me as I started my ascent. Those are included, above. 🙂

The Lithuanian Reunion

Later we stopped at Dune 40, where I decided to leave one of H’s cremarbles.

At the base of the dune there’s a large acacia tree with a huge knothole high up on the trunk.

That seemed like the perfect place.

H would have loved this landscape.

Abraham held the cremarble up so I could photograph it against the dune. When I came back he asked where I had placed it.

I told him.

He said he would think of H every time he visited that tree.

And I’m quite sure he will.

As I went back to visit the tree one more time before leaving, a vehicle pulled up.

Out stepped the same four Lithuanians from the ridge.

They recognized me immediately.

“You got down,” they said.

I tried to explain that I had gone over the side, though the language barrier made that tricky.

Then the thinner man—the one who had laughed earlier—walked up to me and gestured.

Clearly he wanted to re-create the ridgeline moment for himself.

So naturally I rubbed bellies with him.

Mary nearly collapsed laughing.

The big Lithuanian turned bright red all over again watching the “reenactment,” and I’m quite certain his friend now has a story about him that will be told for the rest of his life.

Sesriem Canyon

After returning to the lodge and grabbing a much-needed nap, we headed out again to visit Sesriem Canyon.

The name Sesriem comes from the Afrikaans words for “six thongs.” Early settlers supposedly stitched together six strips of oryx hide to lower a bucket down to reach water at the canyon bottom.

Standing down in the canyon is strange because the rock looks almost artificial—like concrete poured around river stones.

That’s because the canyon walls are made of conglomerate, ancient sediment where gravel and stones were cemented together by minerals when water once flowed through here far more regularly.

We took about a 40-minute round-trip hike, and I tried my best to capture the strange beauty of those walls.

Sunset on the Deck

Back at the lodge we had time for another short rest before Abraham gathered us on the deck above the bar to watch the sunset.

He had set up a small sunset bar—bubbly, wine, beer, the works.

Amazingly, the red turned out to be the exact same Tokara Shiraz that Mary had loved during our tasting at Tokara in Stellenbosch earlier in the trip—even the same vintage.

Of all the wines he might have found in the Namib Desert . . . !

The sun slipped behind the mountains, the desert turned gold and then purple, and we sat there drinking first bubbly and then Tokara Shiraz in the middle of the desert.

Not a bad way to end a day that had started on top of Big Daddy.

And, out there in the knothole of a huge old acacia tree, one of H’s cremarbles is now part of the Namib, calmly experiencing the sunset over Dune 40.

A small traveler in a desert that has been here for tens of millions of years.

And just for the record:

I was the only one who climbed the ridge.

And the only one who stepped off. 🌄🏆

I never get a percentage from any links I include – but! – if you are curious about Overseas Adventure Travel and want $100 off, call them at 1-800-955-1925 and request their amazing catalog, tell them you were referred by Sandy Shepard, customer number 3087257, and get $100 off your first trip! The catalog is what all good dreams are made of!

Day 21: The Longest “African Massage” — Swakopmund to Sossusvlei

Posted on by Sandy

Today we drove from Swakopmund to Sossusvlei, a journey of roughly six hours across the Namib Desert.

Or as Abraham described it:

“Today you will experience an African massage.”

He was referring to the road.

The road — if we are being generous with that term — is mostly corrugated gravel, which means the vehicle vibrates continuously in a way that rattles every bone in your body.

At one point we were sitting behind Jean-Marie and Brigitte when a screw fell out of the bottom of his seat.

Then another.

At that point Lynn and I just started laughing, because what else can you do?

African massage.

The Herero and Nama Genocide

Before leaving Swakopmund this morning, Abraham took us to a quiet cemetery outside town.

It commemorates one of the darkest chapters of Namibia’s history: the genocide of the Herero and Nama peoples by German colonial forces between 1904 and 1908.

At the time, Namibia was known as German South West Africa. When the Herero people rose up against colonial rule in 1904, the German military responded with extraordinary brutality under General Lothar von Trotha.

His orders were explicit.

The Herero people were to be driven into the desert and eliminated.

German forces pushed them into the Omaheke Desert, poisoning water sources and blocking escape routes. Thousands died of thirst and starvation.

Those who survived were placed into concentration camps, where forced labor, disease, and starvation killed many more.

Historians estimate that roughly 80% of the Herero population was killed.

The Nama people, who resisted shortly afterward, also suffered devastating losses — roughly 50% of their population.

Many scholars consider this the first genocide of the 20th century.

Today Germany has formally acknowledged the genocide and in 2021 announced a €1.1 billion development package intended as a form of historical reconciliation.

But the issue remains deeply controversial.

Many Herero and Nama leaders argue that the program is not true reparations, since the money goes to development projects rather than directly to descendants of those affected.

Standing in the cemetery, surrounded by simple unmarked burial mounds, it was hard not to feel the weight of that history.

Even more striking: the cemetery now sits amid modern homes and mansions.

History does not disappear.

It just gets built around.

The Road to Sossusvlei

Once we left Swakopmund behind, the landscape opened into vast desert plains.

Along the way we saw several wildlife sightings — what our group jokingly calls ALT (Animal-Like Things) and BLT (Bird-Like Things) sightings.

Among them:

  • a blue wildebeest (too fast for a photo)
  • oryx, perfectly adapted to desert life
  • a jackal
  • three ostriches

Even when animals appear only briefly, they make the immense desert landscape feel alive.

We also stopped for a photo op at the Tropic of Capricorn – an imaginary line encircling the Earth at about 23.5 degrees South of the Equator, where the sun appears directly overhead during the Summer Solstice.

Solitaire

About halfway through the drive we stopped in the tiny settlement of Solitaire.

“Town” might be too strong a word.

Solitaire consists of a gas station, a small shop, and a few scattered buildings — but it has achieved near-legendary status among travelers because of one thing:

Apple pie.

The bakery here is famous throughout Namibia for its homemade apple pies, which have been fueling desert travelers for decades.

Sadly, we didn’t have time to stop for pie today.

But we will be driving past again on the way back to Windhoek.

Hope springs eternal.

Solitaire is also known for its collection of old rusted cars, scattered around the desert like art installations — relics from another era of desert travel.

While we were there, I spotted a small blonde mink-like creature darting across the ground. Abraham didn’t see it, so its identity remains a mystery.

A WWII Desert Escape

Not far from Solitaire, Abraham pointed out a remote rocky area associated with an extraordinary World War II story.

Two German geologists — Hermann Korn and Martin… (the details vary depending on the source) — had been working in the region when the war began.

Unwilling to fight, they escaped into the desert and hid in a cave for two and a half years.

Eventually one of them became ill and had to seek medical help in town. When he did, authorities discovered that his companion was still living out in the desert.

Both men were ultimately arrested.

Their story later inspired the book “The Sheltering Desert.”

Living in the Namib Desert for two and a half years voluntarily is difficult to imagine.

Strange Desert Plants

We also stopped to look at several desert plants used by indigenous San hunters.

One was the milky bush, which looks a bit like a cactus but is actually something quite different. Its sap is highly toxic and was historically used to poison arrow tips for hunting.

Even touching it requires caution.

We also walked out to see a quiver tree, whose hollow branches were once cut by San hunters and used to carry arrows — essentially a natural quiver. (“Milky bush” in the above photos top left; others are the “quiver bush”.)

When you tap the branches, they sound hollow, almost like knocking on wood.

The desert is full of ingenious adaptations.

Into the Dunes

Along the road we passed through dramatic mountain formations and rocky passes where the geology shows clear signs of tectonic uplift — layers of ancient igneous rock pushed upward over immense stretches of time.

It’s the kind of landscape that makes you feel very small.

Sossusvlei Lodge

By late afternoon we finally arrived at Sossusvlei Lodge, right on the edge of the Namib-Naukluft National Park.

Our “room”
Dining area

Tomorrow morning we get up very early — out the door at 5:30 a.m. — to try to catch sunrise on the famous red dunes.

African mistletoe: pretty but parasitic
Acacia pods: full of protein
Weaver bird
Acacia
Weaver bird “condo”
Poop guide. With poop (oryx)

A few of us went for a walk around the grounds with Abraham, particularly learning how to distinguish poop. (What is it with Africa and poop?) We also talked a lot about the weaver bird nests…and not to stand underneath one, as, often, since they are built so that snakes cannot get in, snakes fall out. Eep!

Lynn and I skipped the group dinner tonight. After arriving late and eating lunch at nearly 3:00 p.m., neither of us was particularly hungry.

Instead we bought a bottle of wine, sat outside, and watched the desert sunset.

As we sat there, a jackal and an oryx casually wandered past in the fading light.

I tried to take a photo, but by then it was nearly dark.

Some moments are better simply watched.

Tomorrow: the giant dunes of Sossusvlei at sunrise.

Which, if the photos I’ve seen are any indication, may be one of the most spectacular landscapes on the planet.

I never get a percentage from any links I include – but! – if you are curious about Overseas Adventure Travel and want $100 off, call them at 1-800-955-1925 and request their amazing catalog, tell them you were referred by Sandy Shepard, customer number 3087257, and get $100 off your first trip! The catalog is what all good dreams are made of!

Day 20: Skeleton Coast — 210,000 Seals, Sorghum Lunch, and the Long Road Back

Posted on by Sandy

Today we drove north along Namibia’s Skeleton Coast, a stretch of shoreline famous for fog, shipwrecks, and one of the most overwhelming wildlife spectacles on earth.

The drive itself is long and starkly beautiful — the Atlantic on one side, the desert on the other, and almost nothing in between.

Our destination was Cape Cross, home to the largest Cape fur seal colony in the world.

But first, a bit of history.

The name Cape Cross dates back to the Portuguese explorer Diogo Cão, who landed along this coast in the late 15th century and erected a stone cross (padrão) to mark Portuguese exploration. That cross gave the place its name — and the original now sits in a museum in Germany (“lifted” during the German occupation of this area), though a replica stand at the site today.

History is never simple here.

Two Hundred And Ten Thousand (give or take)

Cape Cross hosts about 210,000 Cape fur seals.

When we first stepped out of the vehicle, we heard what sounded like . . .

cows.

Then . . . goats.

Then something in between.

Only after a moment did it click that every single sound was coming from seals.

The colony stretches as far as you can see — rocks, beach, and dunes covered in a moving carpet of fur.

And then . . .

the smell hit.

There is no delicate way to describe it.

Imagine:

  • hot fish
  • fermented seaweed
  • wet dog
  • and approximately 210,000 digestive systems working simultaneously

All gently baking in the Namibian sun.

Your brain goes through phases:

First 30 seconds:

OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT SMELL

Three minutes:

Okay . . . I can survive this.

Ten minutes:

Look at the BABIES.

And the babies are fantastic.

Huge dark eyes. Soft silver fur. Awkward scoot-flopping movement.

The colony is deafening — mothers calling to pups, bulls barking, waves crashing, wind blowing across thousands of flippers slapping sand.

It’s like standing inside a living ecosystem engine.

Male seals live 25–30 years.

Females can live up to 40.

And somehow all 210,000 of them seem to be having a conversation at once.

The Walkway Incident

The viewing area at Cape Cross includes an elevated wooden walkway that runs along the edge of the colony.

Before we went out, Abraham gave us one very important instruction:

If a seal climbs onto the walkway, back away slowly and do not confront it.

Noted.

At one point Brigitte and I were standing on the walkway, completely transfixed — open-mouthed — staring out at the thousands upon thousands of seals covering the beach.

Suddenly a seal bellowed loudly right behind us.

We grabbed each other in absolute panic, convinced that a massive bull seal had somehow gotten onto the walkway behind us.

Nope.

The seal had simply scootched underneath the walkway and decided to make his presence known.

From below.

I’m fairly certain he was laughing.

The Funny Part

The truly funny part is what happens when you leave.

After about ten minutes away from the colony, the entire Namibian coastline suddenly smells fresh and wonderful.

Perspective is everything.

A Detour for Lichen

On the drive back from the seals, Abraham pulled off the road to show us something that at first glance looked like . . . nothing at all.

Just pale patches on the desert gravel.

But when we looked more closely, the ground was covered with lichen, some of it decades — even centuries — old. These delicate organisms survive in one of the driest environments on earth by absorbing moisture directly from the coastal fog that drifts inland from the Atlantic. Abraham poured some water on a patch – which transformed.

They look fragile because they are.

A single footprint can destroy growth that took many decades to form. For that reason visitors are asked to stay on specific paths and tread very carefully.

It was one of those quiet reminders that in a desert landscape that appears empty, life is actually working very hard just to exist.

Lunch, Namibian Style

After the long drive back south, Abraham took us to a small local restaurant he knew for lunch.

Here we were introduced to a very traditional Namibian way of eating.

The centerpiece was sorghum paste, which you pinch off with your fingers and use as a scoop for the food on your plate.

Our dishes included:

  • black-eyed pea mash
  • spinach (which Abraham cheerfully admitted were essentially local weeds)
  • chicken pieces
  • beef stew

The spinach came with a bit of sand still in it, which only added to the authenticity.

After we ate, a local a cappella group came in and serenaded us.

One of the songs was “The Lion Sleeps Tonight,” which felt particularly appropriate given where we are. I sent a Marco Polo video to a few friends, because sometimes travel hands you moments that are too delightful not to share.

The Township

After lunch Abraham offered to take the group through the DNC township outside Swakopmund.

Townships in southern Africa developed during apartheid-era spatial policies, and still house the majority of working-class residents. The one we passed through consisted largely of corrugated metal and cardboard structures, one pressed against the next in dense rows.

Cardboard house upon cardboard house upon cardboard house.

Everyone but the wealthy lives there.

Some members of the group chose to walk through the area with Abraham and speak with residents.

Lynn and I opted to sit that portion out.

Travel sometimes offers windows into other people’s lives that are important to see — but also difficult to process in the moment.

Back to the Hansa

We returned to the Hansa Hotel late in the afternoon.

Dinner was scheduled for the group, but I quietly opted out.

Instead I ordered room service, including a Namibian classic dessert cocktail called a Dom Pedro — ice cream blended with Amarula, the cream liqueur made from the marula fruit.

Research purposes, obviously.

Getting a bottle of this back home for Sharon and Stacey to try is going to be my next big life goal.

My current goal, however, is to finally get the blog caught up, which after several very full days had fallen a bit behind.

Of course that still leaves processing today’s photos . . .

including approximately 210,000 seals.

Stay Tuned.

Tomorrow, we leave for Sossusvlei (which I keep humming to Phil Collins’ “Sussudio”) . . . about a six hour drive. Without traffic. Inflatable seat cushion, comin’ out.

I never get a percentage from any links I include – but! – if you are curious about Overseas Adventure Travel and want $100 off, call them at 1-800-955-1925 and request their amazing catalog, tell them you were referred by Sandy Shepard, customer number 3087257, and get $100 off your first trip! The catalog is what all good dreams are made of!

Day 19: Namibia — Walvis Bay, Swakopmund, and the Dunes of Sandwich Harbour

Posted on by Sandy

We said goodbye to Cape Town and flew north to Namibia, landing in Walvis Bay — a place where the Atlantic Ocean meets the Namib Desert in a way that feels almost improbable.

From the air, the landscape looked like someone had taken a giant paintbrush and swept endless shades of tan and rust across the earth. No trees. No green. Just dunes, ocean, and sky.

At the airport we were met by Abraham, our Namibian guide, who would be taking care of us during this portion of the trip. On the drive he filled us in on life in Namibia — marriage customs, education, unemployment (currently around 36%), and the realities of healthcare in a country where the population is small but the distances are enormous.

Namibia feels vast.

Swakopmund

We are staying in Swakopmund, which is one of the more unexpected places I’ve ever seen.

Imagine a tidy German seaside town, complete with colonial-era buildings, bakeries, and neat streets — except it’s wedged between the Atlantic Ocean and the Namib Desert.

Palm trees line the streets, the ocean fog rolls in from the coast, and just a few miles inland the dunes begin.

It feels a little bit like someone picked up a town from northern Germany and dropped it into the desert. (“Swakopmund” means the mouth (“mund” in German) of the Swakop River.)

Sandwich Harbour: Where the Dunes Meet the Sea

This morning we set out for Sandwich Harbour, which sits inside the Namib-Naukluft National Park and is one of the few places on earth where giant desert dunes crash directly into the ocean.

Getting there involves serious dune driving — the kind where the vehicle climbs steep slopes of sand and then slides down the other side in long sweeping arcs. Our driver navigated the dunes like a rally racer while the Atlantic surf pounded below. Mary did her best not to urge the driver faster. Brigitte, a roller-coaster-hater, did her best not to whimper.

Along the way we saw jackals, springbok, and an oryx family. One had two young companions — the first looked about a year old and the other might have been only days or weeks old. I tried to photograph the tiny one with my telephoto lens, but it stubbornly refused to turn toward us.

See the person?
See the jeep?

Wildlife photography is often an exercise in patience.

Flamingos, Pelicans, and the Color of Shrimp

The lagoons near Walvis Bay are famous for their birds.

We saw flamingos, but many of them were white rather than pink. Our guide explained that flamingos turn pink from eating shrimp and algae rich in carotenoids. Juveniles remain pale until they’ve eaten enough of the good stuff. (He kept saying it was due to eating “creatine” – I kept thinking of the consternation of bodybuilders as they slowly turned pink . . . so I actually looked it up.)

Apparently flamingos need about a year of shrimp consumption before they fully commit to pink.

We also saw large white pelicans, which develop a faint pink blush on their chests too.

Nature, it seems, enjoys color coordination.

Lunch by a Shipwreck

Eventually we stopped near the rusted skeleton of a grounded ship: the Shawnee, a tug that ran aground here in 1967.

The story goes that the Shawnee had successfully rescued a distressed oil tanker from a sandbar — only to have its own engines fail after ingesting too much sand during the operation.

A noble but unfortunate ending.

Right beside this wreck — because Namibia is apparently comfortable with dramatic picnic locations — the guides set up a full lunch for us: champagne, oysters, schnitzel, and assorted other delights, all served with the Atlantic wind blowing across the dunes.

Travel has its moments.

Diamonds in the Sand

One of the most surprising things about the Namib Desert is what’s actually in the sand.

At several stops our guide showed us patches of black sand. He poured some of it into my hand and moved the magnet underneath, which caused the grains to swirl and dance across my palm like iron filings in a science experiment. Magnetite.

Elsewhere we noticed the sand sparkling in the sunlight.

Those glittering flecks?

Mica.

And the tiny reddish grains scattered through the sand, making it turn a shade of pink?

Garnets.

Actual garnets.

Not the sort you’d set into a ring, but still — gemstones casually mixed into the desert.

And…what are those walls of flowing sand? “Sandfalls” (as in “waterfalls”).

Namibia does not lack for geological drama.

The Mystery of the Mussel Shells

In several places we saw strange white piles scattered across the dunes — far from the ocean.

Prehistoric shell beds?

No.

Our guide explained that gulls carry mussels inland, dropping them on the hot sand until the shells open from the heat. The gulls then return for an easy meal.

Nature’s version of cooking.

Nara Melon

Another plant that survives here is the nara melon, a strange desert fruit that grows on sprawling thorny bushes.

It’s an important traditional food source in the Namib Desert — both the fruit and the seeds are edible.

I somehow managed to forget to photograph it, which I regret because it looked like something that might have evolved on another planet.

Salt Pans

Driving back toward Walvis Bay we passed massive salt works — huge clear, or pink, evaporation ponds stretching toward the horizon.

The salt harvested here is shipped raw to South Africa for processing. The pink salt sometimes eventually appeares in markets labeled “Himalayan” salt. (If you see either a lighthouse or an ibex on the label, it’s actually Namibian salt.)

Production here runs around 35,000 tons per month.

Which is… a lot of margaritas.

Tomorrow we head north along the Skeleton Coast.

And encounter one of the loudest, smelliest wildlife spectacles on earth.

Slideshow of today HERE.

I never get a percentage from any links I include – but! – if you are curious about Overseas Adventure Travel and want $100 off, call them at 1-800-955-1925 and request their amazing catalog, tell them you were referred by Sandy Shepard, customer number 3087257, and get $100 off your first trip! The catalog is what all good dreams are made of!

Day 18: Blue Buses, Constantia Wine, and Saying Goodbye to the Cape

Posted on by Sandy

Slideshow of all photos from Cape Town portion HERE.

After several days of early departures and tightly scheduled adventures — Table Mountain, penguins, Cape storms, and our rather thoughtful “difficult discussion” about poaching — the final full day in Cape Town began with a gift:

We didn’t have to meet until 9:30 a.m.

Huzzah.

A small gang of us — Barbara, Ari, Ilana, Mary, Fran, Mike, and I — walked down toward the Victoria & Alfred Waterfront. I had a mission before anything else: the UV filter on one of my camera lenses had cracked when we were in Kruger. Abe had promised to help me find a replacement in Stellenbosch and then again in Cape Town, but that never materialized; suddenly, it was the weekend, and everything was closed.

After a bit of frantic Googling, I discovered that a small camera shop on the waterfront was actually open on Sunday.

Success.

Not only did they have the correct filter — they had exactly one left in the size I needed. I bought it immediately, along with a spare for the other lens “for good luck,” and donated the cracked one to what the shop owner cheerfully called their “oops wall.”

Camera crisis averted.

Lunch at the Waterfront

Before boarding the bus, we stopped for lunch at TimeOut Market, which has rapidly become one of our group’s default feeding stations.

Mary and I noticed a plate being set down at the Greek stall — Opa! — and immediately asked what it was.

We ordered it on the spot.

Mary declared it better than Greece, which is a bold statement. I haven’t been to Greece so can’t give it that sort of review, but it was certainly excellent — especially for something that technically counts as “fast food.” While Fran, Ari and Ilana split a wood fired pizza, Mike opted for the peri peri prawns – DEFINITELY not enough napkins for that endeavor!

The Hop-On Hop-Off Bus

From there we boarded Cape Town’s famous hop-on hop-off “Blue Bus.” The full loop takes about 2½ hours and winds through much of the city and surrounding hills.

My companions very kindly informed me that they would be “relying on me for my great photos,” which was both flattering and mildly stressful considering the bus was in constant motion.

Cape Town from above has a striking geography — neighborhoods climbing the slopes, the ocean constantly appearing and disappearing between buildings, and Table Mountain looming behind everything like a massive stone guardian.

One photo I took was of District Six (discussed before, where an entire neighborhood was displaced)… I hadn’t quite realized that after they bulldozed all these family homes and relocated family upon family, NOTHING had happened. It’s just fields. Scandalous.

A bit later, our Blue Bus ride glided along one of the most dramatic stretches along the Atlantic Seaboard, where the road threads past some of the most absurdly expensive real estate on the continent — beachfront homes that seem to climb directly up the mountain.

Towering above them are the Twelve Apostles, a series of jagged sandstone buttresses forming part of the Table Mountain range.

I took a lot of photos of them — partly because they’re beautiful, and partly because the name is mildly misleading.

There are not twelve.

Depending on how you count, there are somewhere between fifteen and eighteen distinct peaks. No one seems to agree on the exact number.

But “The Seventeen Apostles” probably didn’t have quite the same ring to it.

Abe had also told us the local legend explaining the “tablecloth” of fog that often spills over Table Mountain. According to the story, a Dutch pirate named Jan van Hunks once got into a smoking contest with the Devil himself on the slopes of nearby Devil’s Peak. They smoked their pipes so furiously that clouds of smoke poured over the mountain — which, according to legend, is what we now see whenever the fog rolls in.

It’s a very Cape Town explanation for meteorology.

Constantia Valley: The Oldest Wines in South Africa

When the bus loop ended, most of the group headed back toward the hotel. But Mike and I had unfinished business.

The previous day we had driven through Constantia Valley, the oldest wine-producing region in South Africa and one of the oldest in the Southern Hemisphere. Vineyards were first planted here in the late 1600s, and by the 18th century Constantia wines were famous throughout Europe.

Napoleon Bonaparte famously requested them during his exile on St. Helena.

So naturally Mike and I felt it was our duty to investigate.

We grabbed an Uber and headed up the valley.

The first winery was lovely — calm, historic, and exactly the kind of setting where you can imagine colonial governors pretending the Empire was running smoothly while sipping sweet wine (luckily, now they have lovely whites and reds in their tasting menu).

After finishing there we discovered that a small internal shuttle bus runs between several estates.

Unfortunately, by the time we boarded it had begun to rain, and the bus was absolutely packed with people heading to the next winery. When the bus got there, the driver stopped, to “wait out” the downpour.

I turned to Mike and said, “We have to beat these people.”

So we jumped off early and ran through the rain down the steep driveway to the next estate.

We arrived soaked — but secured the very last available table.

Victory.

A Sommelier Surprise

Even better: the sommelier who greeted us (“Walter”) turned out to have taken the Court of Master Sommeliers introductory course around the same time I had done mine during COVID (the period when they shipped tasting kits to your house and you learned the wines of the world over Zoom, from tiny bottles at your kitchen table).

Instant wine nerd bonding.

We talked about South African wine regions, the evolution of Constantia beyond its historic sweet wines, and how the whites here are becoming increasingly respected.

At one point he simply left the bottles on the table, trusting us to pour at will.

Note: I drink about half of whatever is poured for me. When I go wine tasting, generally, if the pour is “healthy,” I drink enough to get the nose, taste, etc., then point out to the person delivering the wine that I “will be pouring out the rest” into the “dump bucket” – making it clear that I really did mean that they should only pour me about ½.

Mike, on the other hand, approached the opportunity with admirable enthusiasm.

By the time we left, I was calling him the ‘Dump Bucket,’ and he was feeling quite cheerful.

The Pegasus “Blue Box” Debacle

Meanwhile, back in the world of logistics, we were dealing with a small saga involving something called Dr. Yezman’s “Blue Boxes.”

Back even before setting foot in Africa, I had received a promise from Abe that he or someone in his family could pick up The Blue Boxes for Dr. Yezman. She had ordered them from the office manager at Pegasus, but I had to pay in Rand. Abe kept being very “no worries” about it. However, as the weekend rolled in, I realized he really hadn’t done anything about it (though I had been stuffing his pockets with Rand all week). After lots of round-about calls, 3 a.m. What’s App texts to Dr. Y, the owner of Pegasus disavowing any knowledge (and even disavowing that he HAD an office manager), things were sorted. Abe’s daughter had gone to fetch them – everyone was a bit put out that it was the weekend but again, I had been assured “no worries” for weeks – and the package arrived for me to pack it to head to the plane.

Oh. My. Word. Big boxes. Small, 44 pound max checked bag. Lynn took some. I took some. I was not the most happy person ever. But we got the bags zipped and so so far, so good.

Farewell Dinner

That evening the group gathered for our farewell dinner at a restaurant along the Cape Town waterfront.

We had driven past this restaurant in the “Blue Bus”…a lovely setting— water, lights reflecting off the harbor, the hum of evening activity.

But the real headline was the steak.

It may genuinely have been one of the best steaks I’ve ever had.

After weeks of traveling together, the dinner had the slightly surreal feeling of a last day of summer camp — everyone exchanging contact information, promising future visits, and reflecting on the strange fact that people who were complete strangers a few weeks ago now feel like familiar characters in your daily life.

Tomorrow we leave South Africa and fly to Namibia.

A completely different landscape awaits.

I never get a percentage from any links I include – but! – if you are curious about Overseas Adventure Travel and want $100 off, call them at 1-800-955-1925 and request their amazing catalog, tell them you were referred by Sandy Shepard, customer number 3087257, and get $100 off your first trip! The catalog is what all good dreams are made of!

Day 17: Table Mountain, Penguins, Poaching, and the Complicated Beauty of the Cape

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We began the day at Table Mountain, because when in Cape Town, you go up the mountain. The cable car (technically a rotating gondola) carried us upward into blue sky… and then later, back down into pure whiteness as the fog rolled in like a curtain being drawn.

At the top, the landscape felt almost other-worldly — flat, windswept, dramatic. At moments it reminded me of Machu Picchu, but with ocean on three sides. We walked, took in the views, and I found a perfect place to leave an H marble. I also watched volunteers clipped into carabiners rappel down the sides of the cliffs to clean trash from the mountain face — a reminder that even in the most spectacular settings, humans leave fingerprints (and sometimes more). It was definitely chilly up there, and I was absurdly grateful to discover that the gift shop included a coffee concession — shades of Austria, where H always insisted that every mountaintop has an entrepreneurial soul ready to pour you a proper grosser brauner.

By the time we descended, the fog had swallowed the cable lines entirely. I took a quick photo (above) – the gondola wires vanish into nothing — though on the way up it had been a vertiginous drop, clear views for miles in every direction. From infinite horizon to pure white curtain in less than an hour.

Boulders Beach — The Penguins

From there (after lunch) we headed to Boulders Beach in Simon’s Town, home of the African penguins.

They are heartbreakingly adorable. They mate for life. Both parents share incubation and chick-rearing duties. Historically, they would lay two eggs. Now, because of food scarcity and environmental pressure, most successfully raise only one.

They are currently listed as critically endangered.

Part of the pressure is industrial fishing. Massive foreign trawlers — Taiwanese fleets were specifically mentioned — harvest sardines and anchovies in such volume that the penguins’ food chain is disrupted. Abe said he believes his grandson’s generation may be the last to see them in the wild.

That landed heavy.

The “Difficult Discussion”: Poaching for Survival vs. Poaching for Profit

One of OAT’s four “pillars” is a Difficult Discussion — an honest conversation about a controversial topic tied to the region. Ours was about poaching — specifically abalone and rock lobster in this area.

The speaker was from Abe’s village — Abe had actually been his Sunday school teacher decades ago. He explained how illegal abalone harvesting works: one diver goes out, but he needs lookouts, cleaners, runners. The economic benefit ripples outward. It’s not just one man feeding his family — it’s multiple families surviving off the same risk.

He argued that government investment in legal abalone farming could transform the community: jobs from security to processing to logistics, tax revenue, stability. Instead, foreign companies once ran large fish processing plants here, then abruptly pulled out, leaving behind huge decaying buildings and economic collapse. Abe’s mother had worked in one of those plants.

I told him about otters back home cracking small abalone on their chests, infuriating licensed divers. He laughed and said here it’s baboons. They wait for certain tides and moon conditions, swarm the exposed coastline, and strip it clean. “And you don’t argue with baboons,” he added. Fair.

It was one of the more nuanced discussions we’ve had — not romanticizing poaching, but not ignoring the economic realities either.

The Cape of Good Hope

When we rounded the bend toward the Cape, the wind came howling and the rain hit sideways. This is not a gentle landscape. The Cape of Good Hope marks the southwestern tip of Africa — not technically the continent’s southernmost point (that’s Cape Agulhas), but historically the psychological turning point for European sailors.

Sir Francis Drake once described it as “the fairest Cape we saw in the whole circumference of the earth.”

Many sailors might have disagreed in the moment. The Cape became infamous for shipwrecks — violent currents where the Atlantic and Indian Oceans collide, unpredictable weather, hidden reefs. It was once called the “Cape of Storms” before being rebranded “Cape of Good Hope” for marketing purposes (hope sells better than storms).

The word “Cape” refers to a promontory — land that juts into the sea — and here, the mountain range literally runs into the ocean.

Constantia Valley — Tomorrow’s Adventure

Driving back, we passed through Constantia Valley, the oldest wine-producing region in South Africa (and among the oldest in the Southern Hemisphere). In the 17th and 18th centuries it was famous for sweet wines — Napoleon Bonaparte famously requested Constantia wine during his exile on St. Helena. European royalty prized it.

Apparently today the winemakers in Constantia have broadened the wines to accommodate different (non-sweet-wine-centric) palates — but that’s tomorrow’s investigation. Mike, Fran, Mary, Barbara, Ari, Ilana and I are plotting a hop-on hop-off bus and ferry situation, then Mike and I will be branching off into the valley ourselves to see what wineries we can hit for a tasting before the farewell dinner. If the weather cooperates. It looks a bit nasty . . . Raincoat and umbrella time.

Abe’s Story — Khoi, Afrikaans, and Identity

On the drive, Abe shared more about his own background.

He is of Khoi descent — historically labeled “Hottentot” by Dutch settlers, a term now considered derogatory. The Khoi lived along the Cape coast; the San (sometimes called “Bushmen”) were more inland. Abe’s heritage is mixed — Khoi and Germanic. Under apartheid, people of mixed heritage were categorized as “Coloured,” a bureaucratic label that carried severe legal consequences.

He explained how Afrikaans — often seen as “the language of apartheid” — is actually a polyglot language shaped by Dutch, Malay, Khoi, and other influences. Yet in school, until 1994, only “Standard” textbook Afrikaans was acceptable. The version spoken in his community — with borrowed words and local inflections — was reprimanded as improper.

He became an activist at 12 during the Soweto uprising. He didn’t speak English well then — studied it in school but didn’t use it. So he taught himself through television, determined to become a better activist.

He had wanted to be a doctor. Then a teacher. But as an activist under apartheid, employment doors were closed. Banks wouldn’t hire him. He went into theological studies instead. His family were civil servants — teachers, pastors, ministers.

He mentioned Cry, the Beloved Country by Alan Paton (which I downloaded for the flight home). Paton later testified during Nelson Mandela’s 1964 treason trial. Mandela avoided execution; the sentence was life imprisonment and many say that it’s due to Paton’s testimony on his behalf.

Apartheid itself literally means “segregation” in Afrikaans.

He also reminded us that the word “Boer” means “farmer” — once descriptive, now often pejorative. “Aardvark” in Afrikaans literally means “earth pig.” Language is layered like that.

One particularly complicated issue: under apartheid, all non-white groups were lumped together legally. Today, in certain university admission systems, “Black” applicants may receive priority over “Coloured” applicants, which creates its own tensions. Faith, our home host, had mentioned that her daughter — strong grades — did not receive placement under such quota systems. The woman on the phone had reportedly told her so directly.

South Africa is not simple.

Pants Are Getting Tight

Let me also just say: three full meals a day is… aggressive. At home I don’t eat three. Here it’s breakfast buffet, plated lunch, plated dinner, and usually wine or local beer. If you leave food on your plate, someone asks what’s wrong.

My pants are registering the data.

Tomorrow we do not meet until 9:30 a.m.

Huzzah.

I never get a percentage from any links I include – but! – if you are curious about Overseas Adventure Travel and want $100 off, call them at 1-800-955-1925 and request their amazing catalog, tell them you were referred by Sandy Shepard, customer number 3087257, and get $100 off your first trip! The catalog is what all good dreams are made of!

Days 14–16: Wine, Words, Freedom, & the Long Road to Cape Town

Posted on by Sandy

The last you saw your fearless traveler, we were being told “Good luck” by the Kruger gate while pinned between elephants.

Since then: vineyards, revolutionaries, perfume chemistry, language monuments, prison guards, penguins-to-be, and one very long stretch of early wake-ups.

Let’s work backward.

Day 16 (Today): Gardens, District Six, and Christo Brand

Up at 6. On the bus by 6:30. Packed breakfast boxes (suboptimal).

First stop: Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens.

Set against the eastern slopes of Table Mountain, Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens is widely considered one of the world’s great botanical gardens — focused entirely on indigenous South African flora. King proteas. Fynbos. Sculpted pathways. And the mountain rising behind it like it owns the sky.

It’s often listed among the seven best botanical gardens in the world — alongside places like Kew Gardens in London, Singapore Botanic Gardens, Rio de Janeiro’s Jardim Botânico, the New York Botanical Garden, Montreal Botanical Garden, and Brooklyn Botanic Garden. Lofty company — and honestly, standing there, completely deserved.

Abe guided us from the upper slopes downward, explaining medicinal plants, fynbos ecosystems, and how shockingly resilient some of these species are in fire-prone landscapes. We crossed the “Boomslang” bridge — a sinuous elevated walkway named after the snake — which quite literally snakes above the canopy, giving you that slight vertigo thrill of being suspended between air and leaf.

After that, we were released with simple instructions: “Just head downwards and you’ll get to the gate.”

I was particularly taken with the bonsai garden — serene, disciplined, centuries-old miniature trees calmly existing as if they are not the one plant form I cannot keep alive for love or money.

Bastards.

From there, we went to the District Six Museum.

District Six was once a vibrant, multiracial neighborhood in Cape Town. Under apartheid’s Group Areas Act in the 1960s, it was declared a “whites-only” area. More than 60,000 residents were forcibly removed and relocated to barren townships on the Cape Flats. Homes were bulldozed. Communities erased.

The museum is powerful in a quiet way. Street signs. Personal objects. Stories written directly onto sheets, then the words painstakingly stitched in tiny chain stitches. It is not abstract history — it is lived memory.

We walked through town afterward (“keep your bags in front”), and later heard from Christo Brand, one of Nelson Mandela’s prison guards on Robben Island. Brand was 18 when Mandela arrived and eventually developed a respectful relationship with him. He later wrote a memoir, Doing Life with Mandela. Hearing him speak added nuance — it’s one thing to hear about imprisonment; it’s another to hear from someone who stood on the other side of the bars and changed.

Dinner tonight will be at Marco’s African Place, known for traditional African cuisine and live music — think game meats, bobotie, and rhythms that make you want to move even after 15,000 steps.

Tomorrow: Table Mountain (weather permitting), our OAT “controversial topic” discussion (poaching for subsistence vs. commercial abalone trafficking), Cape Peninsula, Boulders Beach penguins, and the Cape of Good Hope.

Sunday: largely on our own, farewell dinner at The Butcher Shop & Grill.

Monday: Cape Town to Walvis Bay, Namibia.

And yes — back to the 44-lb checked bag and 15-lb carry-on discipline.

Day 15: Franschhoek, Language, and Limo Logistics

Yesterday we drove up to Franschhoek, about 45 minutes from Stellenbosch.

Before heading to Franschhoek, we stopped at the Afrikaans Language Monument (Afrikaanse Taalmonument), dramatically positioned on a hill outside Paarl. From a distance it looks almost futuristic — a cluster of pale concrete forms rising out of the earth like something both sculptural and symbolic. Up close, you realize every curve and angle is deliberate.

The monument was unveiled in 1975 to mark 50 years of Afrikaans being recognized as an official language. The tallest, tapering column — soaring 57 meters into the sky — represents the rapid growth and future aspirations of Afrikaans. A second sweeping arc symbolizes the European roots of the language, primarily Dutch. A lower, rounded form represents African influences, while another element nods to Malay and other linguistic contributions. The structures do not stand isolated; they lean toward one another, intersect, and create negative space between them — visually suggesting that Afrikaans did not emerge from a single source, but from convergence. The open archways and curved walls frame the landscape beyond, reinforcing the idea that language is not static, but expansive.

Architecturally, it feels part monument, part modernist (Brutalist) sculpture garden. The pale concrete shifts color in the light. Pathways lead you upward in stages, so that as you climb, the shapes seem to rearrange themselves. In photos, the lines are bold and clean against the sky; in person, they feel almost kinetic, like frozen movement.

And yet, the monument carries complicated history. Afrikaans evolved from 17th-century Dutch but was shaped over time by Malay, Portuguese, Khoisan languages, and the voices of enslaved and indigenous communities. During apartheid, however, Afrikaans became associated with state power and was imposed as a language of instruction in Black schools — sparking the 1976 Soweto uprising when students protested being forced to learn in it. Standing at the monument today, you feel both pride and tension: celebration of a language’s evolution alongside awareness of the era in which it was politically weaponized.

It is a monument that reaches upward — literally and metaphorically — toward a more inclusive future, while standing firmly in a complicated past.

Franschhoek means “French Corner.” It was settled in the late 1600s by French Huguenots fleeing religious persecution in France after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. They brought viticulture knowledge that helped shape South Africa’s wine industry.

We visited the Huguenot Memorial Museum, which traces that migration and the cultural imprint left on the valley. The memorial itself features a central female figure symbolizing religious freedom, with architectural elements referencing the Holy Trinity and spiritual refuge. The gate was locked, so our photos are from afar — liberty viewed respectfully at a distance.

Inside the same grounds is the First South African Perfume Museum — and I went back three times (not solely because one of my favorite clients is https://theperfumeguy.net/ ).

Perfume history is wild. The Romans used scent not just for the body but for clothing, fountains, even walls. They flew perfumed birds through dinner parties. “Cologne” comes from Köln (Cologne, Germany), where Eau de Cologne was first created in the 18th century. Napoleon was famously obsessed with fragrance — reportedly consuming dozens of bottles of cologne a month (jasmine). His wife, Josephine, preferred the stronger scent of musk. Her perfume was so strong, that 50 years after her death, you could still smell it in her boudoir. Scent has always been power, ritual, seduction, medicine.

We had lunch at Wiesenhof, a coffee roastery and eatery. Our places were set with baseball caps reading “Coffee Snob.” The meal ended with a layered mint-and-Amarula drink (called a Springbok) that required one to perform a small dance emulating a Springbok at a watering hole, and then attempting to grab the glass with one’s teeth and down it in one gulp.

The diameter of the glass opening was… ambitious.

Tom tried valiantly.

From there, a splinter group of us hired a limo to visit wineries my manager had suggested. Due to delays, we had to drop one and settled on two: the first, Delair Graaf, a showpiece estate purchased and transformed by a diamond magnate who ripped out the old plantings and redesigned everything into an art-filled statement property; the other Tokara, a more traditional estate.

I was able to convince Ari to hold up one of Jim’s marbles against the mountains – then as he threw it into the bushes surrounding the vineyards, I caught the marble in midair. I wanted to leave one of H’s marbles by a sculpture I know he would have liked – but the security was watching me like a hawk.

We had fun! We tasted. We debated. We actually identified flavor notes. Tracey and Mary were especially taken with the hand soap and lotion at the first estate.

It was glorious.

Day 14: From Kruger to Stellenbosch

We flew from Kruger to Cape Town — arriving to news that the international terminal had experienced a fire, knocking out power. Luckily we were domestic; baggage claim was a guessing game, but manageable.

On the drive to Stellenbosch, we passed a building known locally as “The White House,” where Robert F. Kennedy gave his 1966 “Ripple of Hope” speech at the University of Cape Town during apartheid — speaking about freedom and moral courage in a time of repression.

We also stopped near Drakenstein Prison, where Nelson Mandela was released in 1990 — the famous image of him walking hand-in-hand with Winnie, fist raised. Ironically, just across the road is the former estate of F.W. de Klerk, the apartheid-era president who negotiated Mandela’s release.

In Stellenbosch we stayed at the historic Stellenbosch Hotel — charming, but with several flights of stairs that reminded everyone exactly how much luggage they had brought.

We visited L’Avenir Estate, where Ryan Bredenkamp guided us through the vines and cellar. We tasted MCC (Méthode Cap Classique), rosé, Chenin Blanc, and two expressions of Pinotage. One bottle bore the Old Vine Project seal — awarded to vineyards older than 35 years, with the planting year listed. Another vineyard there will qualify this year.

The rosé was a “Pink Pinotage,” pale and elegant, reflecting the shale soils. Their premium Pinotage used a glass stopper rather than cork — a nod to French style but avoiding cork taint. The punt of the bottle was striated, and when placed over a King Protea bloom, it fit perfectly — art meeting geometry. The single vineyard Pinotage was so strikingly good, Mike (the planner of our merry band) schemed on how to get it back to the States…until Ryan told us that they had a distributor in San Francisco! Of course Mike is in Florida, but shipping of any number of bottles is ~$25. Score!

That evening we had our home-hosted dinner with Faith and her husband Reggie. The group was split among three hosts – Mary, Lynn, Mike, Ari and Ilana and I were together (yay). “Home hosted meals” are one of the 4 pillars of an Overseas Adventure Trip (controversial subject; home hosted meal; day in the life; charity/school visit). Faith had risen from entry-level work in the wine industry (“when I couldn’t even use a corkscrew”) to leading tours and managing operations. I had watched a YouTube oral history of her beforehand, which startled her delightfully when I referenced it at her driveway.

It was warm, generous, human.

So yes.

We have moved from elephants pushing trees to perfume empires to apartheid history to rosé on shale.

And tomorrow: penguins.

Africa does not do one-note days.

And neither, apparently, do we.

I never get a percentage from any links I include – but! – if you are curious about Overseas Adventure Travel and want $100 off, call them at 1-800-955-1925 and request their amazing catalog, tell them you were referred by Sandy Shepard, customer number 3087257, and get $100 off your first trip! The catalog is what all good dreams are made of!

Day 13: Bloats, Appeasing Spirits & Elephants, and “Good Luck”

Posted on by Sandy

We breakfasted watching a bloat of hippos lounging on the far bank of the Crocodile River, directly across from Buckler’s.

Yes, a bloat.

Massive gray bodies half in, half out of the water, occasionally yawning like they were late for something prehistoric. We took photos. Many photos.

Off to Kruger we went. Though we had headed out at 0-dark-30 – because guided cars can get in half hour before self-driven cars – the “computers were down” and we lost our advantage.

The morning soundtrack included one of the local doves. Our driver told us that in the early hours its call sounds like “work harder,” and by late afternoon it shifts into something distinctly resembling “drink lager.”

Honestly? Accurate.

Things were, as they say, “quiet,” so the drive became less about sightings and more about learning.

Elephants eat 18 to 22 hours a day. One stomach. They digest only about 10% of what they consume. Unlike giraffes, they are not ruminants — they do not rechew their cud — so much of what goes in comes out remarkably recognizable.

Which we confirmed.

Because yes, our driver picked up a fresh pile of elephant dung and calmly began breaking it apart in her hands. (I forget if I mentioned that – way back in Entabeni – Abe and our driver Isaac had a contest with who could spit a round of impala poo the farthest. Why yes, yes they did. “Because it’s just grass.” Urk.)

But back to the elephant dung. Up close, you could clearly see green leaves — undigested and, more strikingly, unchewed. She explained that when you see a lot of unchewed plant matter, it often indicates an older elephant whose molars are worn down.

Elephants don’t have one lifelong set of teeth. They have six sets of molars that move forward like a conveyor belt over the course of their lives, roughly one new set every decade. By about 60 years old, they’ve worn through the final set — and without grinding ability, survival becomes difficult.

All of which we discussed while she was holding a turd in her hand.

Because that dung is useful.

Burned, it repels mosquitoes. Used medicinally, it plays a role in traditional healing. Including — yes — for pregnancy.

If a woman near the end of pregnancy is believed to have “caught” a bad spirit in the womb, she may be given tea made from elephant dung, because elephants are revered as devoted mothers.

Pause.

We are, in fact, calmly discussing elephant poo tea.

Safari does expand the mind.

This led to a long conversation about ancestral spirits and rituals. Our driver spoke about her mother, Elizabeth. Her mother must be dead, given the conversation. Since Elizabeth was not married when she became pregnant, certain rituals were required to properly acknowledge and appease ancestral spirits. These things are not folklore to our driver — they are part of the architecture of daily life.

We learned and were walked through a practice of walking around an amarula tree to ease spirits and appeal to them if you are having trouble in your life – involving, I think, first a smoke offering to the East (if your mother was married) or West (if not), then around the tree to the other directions. (She didn’t do this part). Talking all the while. This is followed by violently spitting water in the four cardinal directions and talking to your ancestor (here, Elizabeth) and her dead male relatives, who are responsible for figuring out what ancestor was being a bad actor and giving bad luck. Elizabeth’s male relatives had to be appealed to, since she was not married when the driver was conceived. If the mother had been married, then you start by appealing to the father and his mother, then go down the line. The water spitting, she did.

We learned about the buffalo thorn tree, whose thorns grow alternately forward and backward. If someone dies violently or unexpectedly, a branch is cut, words are spoken inviting the spirit into the sprig, and it is brought to the body so the spirit does not wander. If that wasn’t done at burial and misfortune follows, the ritual can later be performed at the grave.

Some healing practices involve ground wild dog bones. Others involve teas from animal dung. From a modern epidemiological perspective, one might raise an eyebrow. From within the cultural system, it is continuity and protection.

The land holds science and spirit simultaneously.

We saw ostrich. A fleeting hyena. Wild/painted dogs running across the road after prey. A baby elephant no more than a day old, wobbling beside its mother.

And then the evening shifted from reflective to cinematic.

Kruger gate closes at 6:30 p.m.

We were going to make it.

Until we weren’t.

We rounded a bend and found the other half of our group (we’d been split into 2 jeeps) blocked by two male elephants — a younger bull and an older one engaged in some testosterone-laced posturing.

The younger bull stepped toward the older one, who was behind a tree to the side of the road. In that moment, the other jeep seized the opportunity and darted behind him to escape.

Unfortunately, that maneuver spooked the younger elephant.

He backed straight into the road.

Blocking everything.

Turned.

Started toward us.

Our driver began backing up — calmly, smoothly — until we collectively realized she hadn’t seen what was behind us:

An entire herd.

Two babies in the road.

Three adolescents.

And a VERY large mother to the side, trunk slung over her tusk in a stance that clearly translated to:

Try me.

We shouted.

“STOP. STOP. STOP.”

Brigitte – in the other jeep – later said they could hear us yelling from their jeep and couldn’t understand why we were “making so much noise” when you’re supposed to be quiet around elephants.

Yes.

You are.

Unless your driver is calmly reversing you from the frying pan into the fire.

The younger bull turned sideways toward the older male, wrapped his trunk around a small tree, braced his body, and tried — repeatedly — to push it over onto the older bull. (Yes, really. Photos below.)

He was committed.

The older bull stood his ground and performed a series of mock charges.

Tree: undefeated.

So now we were properly stuck.

Forward: agitated bull, now braced with all his might, attempting to clobber his rival with a tree.

Backward: herd with babies and a matriarch radiating consequence.

Meanwhile, another guided jeep approached from behind the large mom (thank heavens it was a guide and not one of the self-driven rental cars that had been making questionable life choices on our drives). They couldn’t see our situation because of the curve in the road.

All we could think was:

Please do not push them closer to us. We have enough going on.

The guides were talking rapidly on their radios in one of the local languages — switching between that and English, sometimes deliberately so we guests are kept a bit in the dark.

Our driver radioed the gate.

“There is no way we are making 6:30.”

The gate did not sound thrilled.

Another flurry of native language explanation from our driver — who, I will note, was normally unflappable but now had a certain . . . edge to her tone. (Perhaps she was reminding the gatekeeper that — Why yes, yes we HAD been forced to wait for them, missing our window of opportunity due to their computer failure that morning). The radio crackled. English this time:

“Mmf. Good luck.”

Which is precisely what you want to hear when you are pinned between two sets of elephants.

After what felt like a millennium but was probably 15 minutes, the younger bull abandoned his tree-toppling ambitions. The older bull stopped mock charging. The younger one stepped off the road.

We crept forward.

Creep.

Creep.

Creep.

No movement from the Peanut Gallery behind us (ha ha – ouch stop hitting me…)

Rev the engine to bolt AND—

Stall.

Yes.

The engine stalled.

But we restarted.

We escaped.

Nobody was smooshed.

As the last rays of sun were disappearing, we got to the bridge over the Crocodile River that precedes the gate out. Ilana took the photo here of what we were calling our “Bridge To Freedom” 🙂

On the drive back in the now dark, we were pelted by bugs . . . I was hit in the face by a bug so hard I had to wear my hoodie backward as a shield (and actually have a welt on my cheek.)

Boma dinner that night included Zulu children from about four to thirteen performing traditional dancing. They had waited for us because we were late. It wasn’t cold exactly — but watching them all dressed solely in traditional short skirts (standing with their arms folded across their chests waiting) made me feel cold just looking at them.

Dinner was wonderful.

And then I made the potato salad decision.

Potato salad that had been sitting outside. In a muggy African evening. Then waiting some more while we watched the performance. Marinating. Developing character. Quietly biding its time like a sun-warmed culinary assassin.

You know how your mother always said, “Don’t eat the potato salad that’s been sitting out”?

Yes.

That potato salad.

It was there. It was glossy. It looked harmless and delish. It had clearly been gathering strength in the heat, just waiting for an unsuspecting traveler to ignore maternal wisdom and say, “Oh, it’ll be fine.”

It was not fine.

At 3 a.m., vengeance.

Given a 1.5-hour van ride, a 3-hour flight, and another 1.5-hour van ride to Stellenbosch, I deployed Imodium.

It worked. Thank goodness.

At the airport, Janice spotted a bag featuring a hippo lounging on a couch. I bought her a coin purse and picked up some coasters for myself. Clemmie!!!!

I also bought warthog socks — one pair for me, one for Mom.

Mom once told a story about sitting poolside in Africa when a warthog trotted up, slipped, fell into the pool, and had to haul itself out.

Now that I’ve seen warthogs run full tilt, trip over nothing, and glare at the universe as if gravity personally betrayed them, I fully believe that story.

From bloats to buffalo thorn to “Good luck” at the gate, Kruger gave us science, spirit, adrenaline, and dung — sometimes all at once.

And we survived.

Slideshow to ALL the Kruger photos is HERE (Apple version) and HERE (Lightroom version).

Next up: We made it to Stellenbosch. 🍷 I’ll talk a bit about that next. While I did get the slideshow together of ALL the Kruger photos – which took like 45 minutes (linked above), I’ll try to insert more actual photos into the blog. Just . . . Tired. So Tired.

I never get a percentage from any links I include – but! – if you are curious about Overseas Adventure Travel and want $100 off, call them at 1-800-955-1925 and request their amazing catalog, tell them you were referred by Sandy Shepard, customer number 3087257, and get $100 off your first trip! The catalog is what all good dreams are made of!