In Etosha, we opted for silence, enjoying the sounds of the bush instead. We actually haven't figured out how to switch off my dad's bakkie's front loader, so we just turned the volume all the way down. Now, as we head to the Botswana border where we'll return to South Africa at last, Kev's turned the music off again, preferring my fabulous conversation (which is actually divided because I'm writing this at the same time). Actually, it's because he's in the mood for some peace and quiet (he's admonished me a few times for taking advantage of my poetic licence...)
As we drive, he's been unsuccessfully trying to figure out what goes on in the minds of birds. He can't understand why, over time, they haven't figured out not to fly low over the road. Why don't the mommy birds teach it to their babies? We've found the best practice is to let someone overtake us and then drive a reasonable distance behind them, letting the car ahead scare off the pigeons. We're also hoping that any upcoming traffic cops will pull our trailblazing friend off instead of us. Since Kev's quite a responsible driver, diligently slowing down to 80 when the sign indicates (which I must admit that I probably wouldn't do) and speeding up when it becomes legal to do so, we didn't really have anything to worry about when the cops would pull us over to check our licenses. That was before our front number plate fell off somewhere in Etosha, though. Now we're just waiting for that fine to come.
This concern has made Kevin an even more paranoid driver than usual. It was bad enough when he'd make me jump out the car every hundred kilometers or so because he was so concerned about getting a flat on Namibia's dirt roads. Now he also worries that every idiot standing on the side of the highway is a traffic officer. As we've passed few cars (hardly any at all in Namibia), any vehicle parked at a picnic spot does begin to look suspicious. I'm not the type to encourage corruption, so I was amused to hear two Afrikaans oomies at the border exchanging stories about the fines they received in Botswana that they couldn't bribe their way out of. As you drive through the gate, there's a big sign warning that the officials here have a zero-tolerance policy. Luckily, we haven't been pulled over for our missing number plate yet.
I don't know why those oomies would risk speeding fines anyway because there are so many donkeys, goats, and cows grazing next to the road. Even at 120km/h, hitting one of those if they decided to cross in front of us would result in a serious accident, so Kev slows down a lot when we pass a herd too (which is every few kms or so). We can't actually figure out why there are so many donkeys milling about. If they're used to pull carts, why are there tons of them just hanging around doing nothing? Maybe no one cares about them so they're just breeding on their own. Or maybe they're eaten here. But who do they belong to? There's no shepherd, no fences, nothing. It's seriously free range because it's not as though you only need to watch out for them near the settlements. They're all over the show. Where do they even find water? Maybe my dear friend Dorothy, who went to school here, can explain this mystery to me.
It's a bit annoying that the cattle is reducing our average speed so much because the bag of cherry tomatoes and cucumber I've had for breakfast in the car (we decided to give the set menu at Kang a skip as I wasn't likely to eat half of what they dished up) has been juiced by my body and made its way through my kidneys. Perhaps that's the answer to the water question above - maybe the animals get some of what they need from their food.
