LOST IN
A dusty, dry, distant red planet, as enigmatic and alien as Mars, the Kalahari had us hooked the first time we pitched camp under its brittle-boned camelthorn trees. It began as an impromptu side trip on a tour of South Africa, many moons ago. Lured by the remoteness of the destination and the romance of Mark and Delia Owens’ true-life wilderness tale Cry of the Kalahari, we filled up our tiny hire car with tins and a two-man tent and hit the road.
Heading out that morning in the burning sunshine, we had no inkling the 250km road north out of Upington – the last frontier of civilisation before arriving at what today is known as the Kgalagadi Transfrontier Park (KTP) – was to become our regular route back ‘home’. A Daliesque landscape, seemingly empty save for a smattering of skeletal trees, would lay complete claim to us; offering sanctuary tinged with adventure and the welcome-gift of a second career.
It’s that sort of place. Where you sketch out a future in the sand by
