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Travel Talk

Northern Namibia's sliver of fertile wetland is a legacy of colonial land-swapping

From our camp near Chobe National Park in northern Botswana we headed north to the Namibian border and, thanks to a deal cut between colonial powers more than 100 years ago, it was a short drive. We pulled in to the border post at Ngoma, presented our passports to a friendly immigration officer, and crossed into the eastern end of the Caprivi Strip, a 400 km-long sliver of land appended to Northern Namibia.

During the late 19th century scramble to carve Africa into colonial slices, the Germans laid claim to large chunks of land on either side of the continent. They called one of them German South West Africa (now Namibia) and the other German East Africa (now Tanzania). Trouble was, their two colonies were separated by the British protectorate of Bechuanaland (now Botswana), and the Germans dearly wanted a trade route between their eastern and western territories. They approached the problem by laying claim to British-administered Zanzibar and with that as a bargaining chip negotiated a deal with the British. In return for retaining Zanzibar without an armed fuss the British gave the Germans a narrow slice of Bechuanaland that linked German South West Africa to the Zambezi River. And so was born the Caprivi Strip, a bizarre eastward pointing finger of Namibian territory that separates Botswana in the south from Angola in the north.

The Caprivi Strip never did fulfill its original purpose. The Zambezi River, which the Germans had hoped would complete their strategic east-west corridor, proved to be un-navigable. But the strip is a rare fertile oasis in a country consisting almost entirely of desert and dusty thorn-covered savannah. Today, with a population of 65,000 people, the Caprivi is one of the most densely populated regions of Namibia.

Our drive north along the partly paved B8 road from Ngoma to Katima Mulilo took us through the traditional territory of the Ovambo people. By far the largest ethnic group within Namibia the Ovambo, who combine agriculture with animal husbandry and fishing, still live in mud-and-reed huts thatched with grass from the river. Most of the villages we saw had only about a dozen dwellings, one or two small kraals made of vertical poles, and a single well. In the past each cluster of these small circular dwellings was home to a village matriarch and her extended family and, although the old matriarchal system is gradually breaking down, the Ovambo people still live much as they did hundreds of years ago. Women, often with infants strapped to their chests, carry water on their heads, grind grain in wooden mortars by pounding the seeds with long poles used as pestles, and cook over open wood-fired hearths. The men still cultivate crops of maize, sorghum, and millet with primitive hoes, and catch fish in the channel-ways and shallow pools of the rivers.

It is the rivers that nourish the land and sustain life in the Caprivi for both the people and the animals. Eastern Caprivi is almost completely encircled by rivers. Bounded on the north by the broad floodplains of the Zambezi and on the south by the Linyanti swamps and Chobe River wetlands, it is Namibia's only true water country. When heavy rains cause the Zambezi and Chobe to flood more than half of eastern Caprivi may be under water.

We paused briefly in Katima Mulilo, the nerve centre and regional capital of East Caprivi. Located on the banks of the Zambezi River, it is a beautiful town with a large central tree-lined square and modern facilities including a supermarket, bottle shop, and post office. We topped-up the Toyota, restocked our supply of bottled drinking water, and continued along the well-paved B8 highway, through open riverine forest dotted with termite mounds.

It was still early when we turned off B8 and followed a gravel road for 20 km to Namushasha Lodge. Our rustic chalet, perched on the banks of the Kwando River, overlooks reed-lined channels of the broad floodplain. Like most of the rivers in northern Namibia the Kwando heads in the mountains of Angola. After flowing south across the Caprivi Strip it swings east to form the border between Namibia and Botswana. But, before reaching its confluence with the Zambezi, the river changes names, first to the Linyanti, and finally to the Chobe. Even more confusing, the border is officially defined as the deepest channel in the maze of intertwined channels that comprise this multi-named river. At present no one can agree which channel qualifies and the matter has been referred to the international court in The Hague.

At Namushasha Lodge we arranged an evening game drive to Horseshoe Lagoon with local guide Jacko and bounced off along narrow dirt-track roads in the Land Rover he had converted to an open-sided safari wagon. The lagoon, actually an ox-bow lake that sweeps across the vast reed-covered floodplain of the Kwando River, is the closest source of water to Caprivi National Park. But our hope of seeing great herds of animals coming down for a drink was not to be. Except for a herd of elephants milling about in the forest and the local game-guard the place was deserted. Jacko parked his Rover beside the lagoon, produced a cooler full of cold beer, and while we waited for the animals to appear he told us more about the area.

Despite its large human presence Caprivi has a fairly diverse wildlife population. But the two game reserves in Eastern Caprivi, Mudumu and Mamili, are both small and unfenced. The local animals wander far beyond the Game Parks and others stray in from the huge Chobe National Park just across the river in Botswana. Elephants strip trees, knock over kraals, and stomp through cultivated fields, antelope relish the tender shoots of freshly planted crops, and lions are known to sneak across the river for an easy meal of domestic beef. Not surprisingly the farmers regard the large game animals as pests and local hunting has reduced their numbers in the Eastern Caprivi. But, according to Jacko, steps to reduce poaching and involve the local population in conservation programs are having an effect.

The game-guard at Horseshoe Lagoon is one of many local villagers who have been hired by WWF and Namibia's Endangered Wildlife Trust to help stem poaching in the Eastern Caprivi. Even more effective is a program that gives local communities a stake in the tourist market. Visitors pay a nominal bed-night surcharge to stay in Caprivi's parks and the money goes directly to compensate farmers. More animals mean more tourists, and the surcharge gives local people a direct financial benefit from each tourist visit. As a result most villagers now recognize the benefits of a healthy wildlife population and the stocks are gradually rebuilding.

When it became obvious that no animals were going to appear I asked Jacko if I could photograph a nearby termite mound. It was only a couple hundred metres back in the forest, but he hesitated and went to consult with the game-guard. Apparently a female lion had been hanging around the guard-house and they weren't sure where she was. They decided it would be safe if we went as a group – no sign of the lion but I learned more about termites and their curious mounds than I bargained for.

The volcano-shaped mound we examined is about five metres high and flares out to a base more than 15 metres across. But most of the nest is below ground, Jacko told us – a labyrinth of tunnels and air-shafts that include underground fungus gardens and a royal chamber where the gigantic queen, attended by an army of workers, spends her life producing eggs at the staggering rate of one every two seconds. The huge above-ground mound is not a random pile of sand but rather a carefully engineered wind scoop that provides ventilation to the entire nest through a system of tunnels and conduits. How millions of individuals from countless generations of insects are able to co-ordinate their work and build such a complex structure, one grain of sand at a time, remains a mystery.

"They are very tasty too," the game-guard added. During the rainy season when the termite colonies swarm, millions of winged fertile males and females fly off on a random quest for new nest sites. The local villagers regard them as a delicacy. They are fried and then winnowed by tossing them into a breeze to separate the wings from their protein-and-fat-laden bodies. Fortunately we were there in the dry season and deep-fried termite was not on the menu.

The Kudu steak we were served back at the lodge was excellent – but I couldn't help wondering if there was a connection between my meal and the lack of game at Horseshoe Lagoon.