Etosha to Windhoek via Everyone’s Favourite German Restaurant.
I’m writing this on a bitterly cold Thursday morning, somewhere between the barren beauty of Namibia and the looming chaos of the Mata-Mata border post. The heater’s battling to keep up, my coffee’s half-dead, and I’m reflecting on the last five days with all the romanticism of a war veteran recounting the good times between the shellings.
Etosha. The place of salt pans, lions, cheetahs, and—let’s be honest—a disturbingly large population of middle-aged German men in khaki socks and Teva sandals who would definitely push a child out of the way for a better leopard sighting.
Let’s rewind. We began at Okaukuejo. The gate opening time was a suspiciously specific 7:09AM. Not 7. Not 7:10. Seven. Oh. Nine. German precision meets Namibian timekeeping. And they enforced it. So there I was, up at 5:30AM, five coffees in, pacing like a lion with anxiety. By 7:08, my eye was twitching. By 7:10, we were finally released like cattle from the kraal. Safari time.
As always, I had no plan. That’s my brother’s job—he of the spreadsheets, schedules, and subtle passive aggression. I was to be back at camp by 9AM or risk eternal familial shame. Fine.
So I headed out, channelling the spirit of a slow safari drive. Twenty kilometres an hour. Birds chirping. Zebras grazing. Springboks everywhere. Sunrise painting the plains like a travel magazine cover. Life was good.
Then I saw it. A safari vehicle, 2km off, stationary. Ten people, nine standing. No one stands for a springbok. That’s just science.
Cue the transformation from Zen guide to Max Verstappen. I did an elegant 50kph neck-snap down the gravel—Etosha’s generous speed limit is 60, which honestly feels illegal in itself. I joined the convoy of safari vehicles already halfway to hell and full throttle ahead.
Here’s where the wheels came off—figuratively, not yet literally. The guides were doing 90kph. Most of them couldn’t even speak to their guests due to closed canopies. It was like watching the Indy 500 if the drivers were jacked up on biltong and had no concept of right of way.
We arrived just in time to miss the lions crossing the road, naturally. But then, miracle of miracles, another male lion ambled into view—on my side. With a few polite (illegal) overtakes and some strategic nudging, I got into a decent position. Rule of thumb: Get in, get your shot, and get out. Don’t sit across the road blocking it like a wildlife influencer with a God complex.
Still, it was a solid win. Back at camp by 8AM, crisis averted, coffee topped up.
From there we hit the road to Halili, home of leopard dreams and very little else.
Morning two. Drive out of Halali. Boom—two cheetah males lounging next to the Etosha Pan like they owned the place. We spent an incredible half hour with them before they remembered they were cats and went full comatose.
No leopards. Again. And yet, the park offered its weird and wonderful fringe cast: blue cranes in the wild (tick), some rare birds (tick), and enough springbok to restock a rugby team’s mascot division.
The next leg to Namutoni was a scenic marathon. Hours of dry beauty and a few suspiciously suspicious tourists. On arrival, the dream ended: our Land Cruiser’s steering rack gave up. No more drives. No more predators. Just me, my thoughts, and the haunting calls of lions and hyenas I could hear, but not reach.
While my dreams disintegrated, I had time to unpack both bags and emotions, which brings us to the real trip report: Etosha’s holy trinity of camps.
Okaukuejo:
Honestly? Not bad. Lovely waterhole where we just missed a black rhino. Friendly staff. Everything clean. The surrounding plains are prime for lions. My room’s aircon was broken, so I got moved. The new room’s aircon? Also broken. Naturally. But breakfast was solid and the coffee did its job.
Halali:
A tale of potential betrayed. Scenic location, actual hills—rarer than functioning guest relations. Leopard country, or so they claim. Maintenance is in freefall. Staff were rude, the food offensively overpriced, and the other guests… look, if you’ve ever seen someone in a rooftop tent threaten to key a rental Hilux over a lion, you’ll understand. It’s that crowd.
Namutoni:
The belle of the Etosha ball. Outdoor showers, deep baths, marble tiles—the full safari honeymoon package. Service was mostly great, although reception had all the warmth of a tax audit. Still, luxury lived here. The area around the camp teemed with predator energy. Shame the vehicle decided to throw a tantrum.
From there, we cruised into Windhoek for a pitstop. Not much to say—big city, traffic, minor existential dread.
Except Joe’s Beerhouse. Now that’s worth writing home about. Meat. Everywhere. I had five different types of game on one plate. Things I’d usually photograph from a distance, now seared and sauced. Slightly awkward but delicious. The beer flowed, the waiters laughed, and for a brief moment, all was right in the world.
And then, at 5AM the next morning, we left. Bleary-eyed. Cold. Slightly hungover. Onwards to Mata-Mata, and the red dunes of the Kgalagadi.
Stay tuned for Chapter 5.
“The Kalahari and the Coughing Leopard – If It Moves, It’s Either a Jackal or a Mirage.”
Wildlife Beyond the Lens 