Through the window that runs the length of my thatched chalet the sun is setting over an expanse of desert. The sky over Sossusvlei is turning purple and the mountains a deep blue. Fellow travellers are waiting for me at the lodge; someone’s just knocked on my door to remind me. It’s sundowner time; there’s a picnic table, drinks in a cool box, dried meat and nuts, all packed and ready to go.
And where am I? Crawling around on my hands and knees looking for a power socket. It’s what I always do at the end of a day’s filming. But it doesn’t usually take this long. I get to my feet, glance at the spectacular view, curse that I’m missing it and decide there isn’t anywhere to recharge my camera batteries. I was told this earlier, but I wasn’t listening. I was toying with angles, working out shots, distracted by the ghost trees and their shimmering trunks, the mad bouncing of springbok across the plains. Practicalities seemed irrelevant then.
Recharging equipment could only be done in the main lodge – so it was there I set up camp. It came to typify filming in Namibia; I trailed extension leads, adapters and cables across dry riverbeds, past centuries-old welwitschia plants and along boardwalks littered with mopane worms. I became accustomed to power cuts, surges and temperamental generators. I had ‘notes to self’ everywhere, convinced I’d leave something behind. I was moving locations every two or three days and it wasn’t as if I could just pop back or ‘send a bike’ either. I wasn’t in London or even Europe. Here distances were vast.
I had come to Namibia to make films for the BBC World TV travel show, Fast Track. One featured the tour operator Wilderness Safaris and its work with Save the Rhino in Damaraland. In the foothills of the Etendeka Mountains I was to join holidaymakers in search of the black rhino. The area boasts the largest population in the world outside a national park, but the statistic did little to ease my apprehension. Given my limited time, had I taken on too much of a risk? What if we didn’t find any? I couldn’t go all the way to Namibia and end up ordering pictures from the BBC library!
In the meantime there were game drives to film that came with challenges of their own. I work for a travel show, not the Natural History Unit, so although my camera has a good zoom, it was pointless my guides thinking I could turn a dot into a gemsbok, or identify a particular zebra from the nick on its ear. I needed animals to come close and, ideally, not to move ridiculously fast. I told my guide Jack; he looked at me as if I hadn’t a clue what I’d let myself in for. I smiled sheepishly and we burst out laughing.
But he soon understood what I was after and, unlike the wildlife, willingly took direction. He drove the Land Rover forward and back over the same grassy plain for wide shots, mid-shots and close-ups. He splashed through a muddy puddle and thought nothing of my balancing on the bonnet and clambering onto the roof. And he spoke just as enthusiastically about rhino dung, footprints and rubbing posts on the fifth take as he did the first.
By day five I had everything I needed – except the beasts themselves. All we’d spotted was the odd shadow in a valley, the twitch of an ear in a bush. I’d filmed a clump of euphorbia for two hours with sweat rolling down my back, convinced the rhino we’d seen enter would emerge eventually. As the sun rose high in the sky, Jack dragged me away. “He’s asleep,” he said, still staring down his binoculars. “You can wait all day Karen, but nothing will change now.” I still gave it another hour before giving up.
On our last day we drove around in silence, neither of us wanting to acknowledge our disappointment. All afternoon I sensed Jack felt he’d let me down. Suddenly the radio crackled; it was the voice of one of the trackers ahead of us. A sighting! We hurtled along as fast as we could. I was thrown from one side of the backseat to the other; Jack wasn’t going to let this one get away!
And there she was – a hulk of a beast on squat legs grazing on a ridge opposite. I set up my tripod quietly and started filming, praying the wind wouldn’t change direction. We spoke in whispers and in awe. Dusk fell. I continued shooting for as long as I could, using every trick I knew to compensate for failing light. As the sky turned pink and a silhouette lumbered over the ridge and disappeared, the magic ended but the film was complete!
Now back in London, I sit under grey skies and spool through my footage. Namibia seems far away, but the country comes alive again. I see the sunrise in widescreen and hear the surf in stereo as it crashes over the sand at the Skeleton Coast. I spot the detail on the faces of the elephants which came close (enough) to fill the frame. And then I notice the small details I missed the first time round, the brightness in the eyes of the Himba people who painted my face with ochre and welcomed me to their village; the squeals of laughter as one of their children, keen to impress, tried to somersault over a dune but fell flat on his face.
Every picture, every sound reminds me of the wilderness and a way of life that seems foreign to me now. But I know that at the time it seemed the most natural, and exciting existence there was. Yet again I’m reminded of how lucky I am that my job takes me to some of the most remarkable places in the world.
