Animal Stories

CAT

There is a ghostly white cat that lives in the dry creek bed behind our flat. At times we think the feral animal may have succumbed to hunger or disease but then, months later it will be seen sitting in the grasses or creeping in predatory step after some unseen rodent. One night in January, while Krysta was still living alone in Windhoek, she arrived home at midnight after a night out with colleagues and quickly fell asleep.

It had rained that day, causing the river bed behind the flat to flash with a steady stream. The windows had remained open during in an attempt to allow fresh air to move in and out of the house throughout the day. No entrepreneur in this country had come up with a smart way to incorporate screens into the barred window frames so the flat was open to anything smaller than a football, assuming an intruder could get past the gates, walls, and electric fence.

At 2 A.M., Krysta was awoken by the haunting sound of mewing cat . . . somewhere in the house. In a dazed state, she got out of bed and looked into the dark living space / kitchen.

“Meeeeew . . . meeeew.”

Flipping on the light, there in the room was the dirty white damp cat running in circles and making the ghastly almost screaming sounds. Quickly, she grabbed for her keys, and fumbled to unlock the gate and sliding door which had to be unlatched from the inside. Turning back, she could no longer see the animal. Was it behind a couch? Was it real? How much wine did I drink? Then came the most unsettling thought of all . . . Had somebody let this cat in?

She moved into the darkness of the second bedroom and switched on the light. Nobody. The second bathroom was clear too, leaving no more hiding places inside. Returning back to the living room, there was no sign of the cat. After tentatively peeking behind every the couch, chairs, and t.v., it seemed as if the area was clear. She looked toward the open patio glass door and realized that she had also left her bedroom door open.

She must have checked under the bed twenty times to see if somehow the cat had evaded her, but no luck. It was not to be found. It must have left through the sliding glass door . . . right?

Sleep came only when exhaustion took over. The fear could not be shaken, laying in the dark, that if her eyes were to close, the diseased, dripping, ghostly cat that could walk through walls, would crawl onto her chest, lean over her face, and scratch her eyes out.

 
KLIPSPRINGER

With a free weekend, Luke and Krysta had the urge to get out of the city and onto those desolate gravel roads. That July weekend they headed to Luke’s favorite place in the country, the Hakos Guest Farm. Having been there once before, he now felt strongly that he knew these hills and short mountains like the back of his hand. He assured his wife that he knew where they were at all times.

They took a nice hike, going to the well on the riverbed and around the canyon where the wild zebras feed on grasses. It was about time to turn around and get back to camp so a sunset could be enjoyed and a fire could be built, so Luke announced they were taking a shortcut. During the hike down with a view from a higher elevation, Luke noticed that the river bed to which they were heading, wrapped around a large rocky hill so that one could essentially walk in a clockwise direction from the junction at the front of the hill, to the well in the back, then continue around to the original junction.

To Luke, it was not going how he’d planned. They found their way to a game trail that was creeping along the hill, but it refused to turn right, back toward the junction. Energy waning and sensing she’d been duped; Krysta sat down on the trail and stared down into the canyon.

“I can’t go anymore.”

To Luke, this felt like one of those stories in Backpacker magazine where people meet their demise in the woods. Any second now, a Hyena would jump out of the rocks and eat them for dinner.

“Stay here, I’ll be right back” he told his forlorn wife.

He then sprinted up the slope to his right so he could see where his junction had gone. He scanned the hills and shadows trying to find a known point, and talked himself into one where he was certain a canyon had clung to the side of the trail. Running back to his wife, he acted as if this is exactly where they were supposed to be. With suspecting eyes, Krysta followed. Being behind her husband, she could not see the anxiety in his face or the sweat on his forehead.

They made it high enough to get a glance once more at the hills below. Luke didn’t recognize it. This was wrong. Krysta knew something was up. She could see through the BS and wondered why Luke was sweating so much more than she was. She then saw him get excited.

“Look, over there! You see those white rocks? That’s where we need to go! Do you see?”

There were rocks in every direction. To someone who had led them so far astray, it was ridiculous to trust that this same person recognized specific rocks. What choice did she have? Off he went on a new game trail in the opposite direction they had been traveling. As Luke bounded down to “the rocks” and Krysta marched to her known death, they ran into a Klipspringer couple. These acrobatic dwarfed antelope are fascinating to watch, capable of scrambling up cliffs like squirrels on a tree. The bond between the male and female is known to be strong and enduring, lasting until one of them dies.

“Look honey. Klipspringer. Now do you see why I brought you this way?”

She looked up, stopping on the game trail leading to nowhere, tired and weary. With a parched throat and growling belly she managed to mutter, “At least they’ll have something to eat for a while.”

(Note: Luke, who was keeping time, calculated that this side adventure only cost them 40 minutes of extra time and feels the adventure has enriched their lives. Krysta knows the debacle was a 2 hour detour and sometimes thinks her husband is an idiot.)

SNAKES

We have been told and have read that the Black Mamba snake is the most poisonous snake in the world, and has a bad temper to go with it. Its cousin, the Green Mamba, lives on our street. Because we live next to the mountains, they apparently are spotted more often in our neighborhood. During one of the first couple of weeks at the new flat, happy to be out of the hotels around the mall, Krysta was excited to go for a jog on a street with nice view of the surrounding dry mountains. Being hot and dry, a ten stride reprieve under a thick shady tree looked welcome. During those ten steps, a 2-meter long green snake dropped from the thick foliage above smacking the pavement just to her left. Luckily, the fall seemed to have dazed the serpent. From a safe distance, she watched it regain its composure and slither down the driveway onto a property. When later recalling the story to a trail guide who had lived his life in Namibia, he asked, “Did it kill the family?”

A snake killing a family doesn’t seem possible, but to our next door neighbors it is a realistic concern. The family has a large swimming pool and young children that spend every summer day splashing around. One evening we heard the unmistakable sound of a shotgun. What the eff-word. A couple minutes later, we saw the silhouette of a man, holding a rake. At the end of the rake was the dangling limp form of a thick snake. It was thrown into the creek bed behind our home. Hopefully the snake does not rise from the dead like the ghost cat.

During our trip to Rostock Ritz, blogged about previously, after an uncomfortable night surrounded by Jackals of very little danger, Krysta visited the rustic washroom. After flushing the toilet, she looked down to see the coiled tail of a snake. Maybe it was a relative of her jogging buddy.

BABOONS

Baboons are the worst. They have the unpredictable antics of a monkey caged in a hardware store, but they are as big as you and I. They are also as pesky as raccoons eating dog food.

A couple days before a trip to the Nakluft Mountains, Luke was dabbling in his trade for the week, bread making. One bread takes onions, cheese, and hoppy beer, then melds in fridge while the yeast rises and the flavors meld into a glorious orgy of carby goodness when baked. Part of us was more excited for the rolls than camping and hiking.

On arrival, Luke and William left Krysta and Sonia at the camp so they could pay for the site. Upon return, they could see Krysta holding a rock with her arm in a ready throwing position and Sonia held the gallon sized gas tank of the portable stove. The baboons had come from the riverbed with a surprise attack, going directly for the cardboard box with the food. They sat atop the concrete table and picked out the ziplock bag of gooey cheesy rolls.

Krysta, knowing how tragic such a loss would be, went on the offense. To Sonia’s shock, an expletive laced barrage of insults and threats were hurled at the wild beasts from her typically calm friend. Seeing the threats were having no effect, Krysta ran to the water spigot and turned it on full blast. Possibly they were like Gremlins, afraid of water. If only we had some chicken we could feed them after midnight.

The baboons left into the hills above the site. They could be seen lingering, staring back, likely in amazement at the gratuitous insults they just received by the creature from Wisconsin. Luke was happy the ladies were safe, but admits he was filled with rage upon picturing a family of baboons passing around rolls telling tall tales about what they had to go through to get them. The joke was on them though. We still had the butter.

Later that night, some little animal that looked like the Cheshire cat called a Spotted Ganet jumped up on the braii and stole the butter. Without a doubt, the little bastard took it straight to the baboons.