Eden by another name
November 2017 in the drought-ravaged north of Namibia, the hides of dead animals were draped over bones like macabre tents. Sharp rocks crackled as we rolled, driving between the remains of two giraffe and about a dozen mountain zebra. It became clear, once we got out of the vehicle to investigate, that thirst had drawn the animals to what was once a stream. Desperation had coaxed them there; a genetic signal sending them on a misguided bearing, and on finding no water, without an ounce of strength left, they had succumbed here in this rocky gully, enveloped in a suffocating shroud of heat.
The Land Rover we were travelling in was by contrast a kinetic island of shade and sustenance. We drove with the windows open, air-con being a luxury that Garth Owen-Smith and Margaret Jacobsohn seemed to abhor. Garth was at the wheel beside me and Margie was in the back, one of their Staffordshire terriers asleep on her lap, the other alongside, belly up, tongue lolling. The dog let off a deadly fart and we drove with our heads out the windows for a
