Immanuel is taking us on a treasure hunt.

Immanuel is a guide at Ai Aiba Lodge, our home for the next few days. The lodge sits among a cluster of granite rock boulders in Namibia’s Erongo Mountain Conservancy. We’ve come here to see the not-so-famous prehistoric rock art that peppers the region. The rock paintings here are overshadowed by their older and more celebrated cousins, the rock engravings of Twefylfontein. The paintings are estimated to be around 2,000 years old. But the engravings at Twefylfontein garner more research funds and more attention, so the rock art, unprotected and unpreserved, is left to the elements and interpretations of amateur archeologists. Unadorned, unhindered by ‘do not touch’ signs, walkways and souvenir shops, the rock art brings the visitor closer to ancient Namibia, closer to the ghosts of history, than the engravings a hundred kilometers up the road.

The day is well underway by the time we meet Immanuel at 7:30 a.m. An early riser by nature, I’m bolted awake at 5 a.m. most mornings since our arrival in Namibia, and this morning is no different. After a few minutes wrestling my pillow into submission, I fumble for the flashlight and make my way around the room, trying not to disturb Jon, my life and travel partner, who’s still snoozing along with the rest of the lodge guests. I slip on pair of jeans and shrug into a sweater to ward off the morning chill. I brew a cup of tea before unlatching the door of our chalet and stepping out onto the verandah to settle into the big teak chair. Then I wait for the African morning to show itself.

In the dark stillness, my senses are heightened.  Mosquitoes buzz around my head. A troop of baboons up in the mountains barks sharply – something is annoying or frightening them. The doves stir and softly call their good mornings to each other. This is comforting. Not only because the call of the dove is enchanting, it also means daylight is coming and my dark fears will soon dissipate. And then I hear heavy thudding. There is no mistaking whatever is making the noise is close, coming closer, it’s heftiness thumping across the savannah. Then it stops and snorts. My eyes strain in the blackness. This is Africa, and the dangers are real. My imagination, a peak performing trait of mine, doesn’t disappoint. Rhino, I decide. The fact that rhinos have terrible eyesight doesn’t deter me from being convinced that this rhino not only has 20/20 vision, he’s coming for me. But I’m too fascinated to move.

In the moments that follow, the sun lazily makes its way to the horizon, and the expanse of the flatlands, and my thudding nemesis, takes shape. There he is. And I laugh at myself. The light has transformed my murderous black rhino into a frisky Hartmann’s zebra.

We watch each other for a minute, then he resumes his pacing and snorting. Another zebra appears, and then a family of baboons comes into view, making their way to the waterhole. A springbok prances across the grassland and the air suddenly fills with birdsong. Now that everyone is up, it’s time to get on with what we came here for.

——–

We meet Immanuel after breakfast. We introduce ourselves and Immanuel explains that since it’s just the two of us, we can explore as much as we want. We board the open canopy Range Rover and he slowly eases the vehicle along the winding rutted trail, avoiding the worst potholes and rocks that lie in wait along the route. Within minutes, we catch sight of giraffe. Several jigsaw brown and white heads poke out above the flat stunted rows of trees and shrubs but we still need Immanuel to spot them for us. His trained eye catches the invisible. One male giraffe tries unsuccessfully to mate with a fairly disinterested female. A couple of grey baboons scamper away from our approaching vehicle. A herd of Hartmann’s zebra, with their distinctive pure black stripes, skittish and shy, bolt at our approach and run across the trail in front of our vehicle. A Damara red-billed hornbill inspects us from his perch atop a camelthorn tree. And everywhere, straw nests of swallow weavers droop from acacias and camelthorns.

Two young Oryx, with their striking sword-like horns, watch us suspiciously as we pass. Immanuel navigates around a perfectly preserved pair of Kudu horns attached to a bleached skull, reminding us that years of drought have taken a toll on the wildlife, as well as the human population.

The air smells of barn and straw and the warming breeze sends the scent of sage drifting across the desert floor. It’s vast and open. What seems to be vacant desert transforms into a savannah teeming with life as we learn to observe, to wait, to listen.

We stop often, sometimes to climb out of the vehicle and explore the area on foot. Sometimes to watch life going on. Sometimes we just sit in the jeep and take it all in.

While we drive, Immanuel tells us his story. He comes from the north, above Etosha. We hear this a lot from the guides and staff at the lodges. There are few income opportunities in the north and much of the region is still very rural. To support their family and earn a basic income, many men and women leave their villages at a young age to work in the south – in Windhoek or one of the safari lodges. Immanuel’s wife and kids, who are 9 and 13, live in Windhoek, a three-hour drive from the lodge. He works for three weeks straight, then takes his three-day leave to drive to the city to see them. “That must be hard for you being away so much,” I remark. “Yes,” he replies, “it can be, but it’s what I must do for my family, so my children can choose their vocation.” One generation sacrificing for another, like his parents did for him.

Jon leans forward from the passenger seat. “Well you have a great job by the looks of it Immanuel. What a beautiful office you have here”. Immanuel smiles and nods, “Yes, I am very lucky. I love what I do.” I ask if he ever gets bored with guiding, and driving tourists around the reserve. He doesn’t hesitate. “No, never,” he replies. “I love showing people the history and the animals. There is always something interesting to see.”

Jon and I are his captive and appreciative audience. He points out intricate details of the rock formations, and how the crevices and fault lines create unique animal imagery. We hear the call of the Cape turtle doves. “Do you hear them?” asks Immanuel. We nod. “Do you know what they’re saying?” We shake our heads. “In the morning they sing, “It’s time for work”, but in the evening at the end of the day, they sing ‘It’s time for lager.” We all laugh at the well-worn joke. Clever birds.

Round, tawny boulders intersect the landscape. It’s like giant hands dropped enormous granite bowling balls from a great height, and left them where they landed. And we tiny humans must navigate them by clambering over them, balancing along precarious ledges and every now and then stopping to take in a view that consistently takes your breath away.

This is the backdrop for the infamous rock art of the San Bushmen who once dwelled, hunted and recorded life in this region. Tucked away among these ancient rock formations, finding the art takes effort. The graffiti dates back 2,000 years – early Banksy. Only the red ochre paint has survived the test of time, so some figures are missing heads, hands or feet, anything that was originally painted in less hardy hues of white or yellow. Many of the figures are giraffe, a few hunters, rhinos, elephant and kudu. Why so many giraffes, I wonder. Were they revered for some reason? None of them show hunting or killing giraffe so I wonder what they were trying to depict.

Hidden on the underside of a large flat-bottomed rock hovering barely a foot above the ground, we find the remnants of a graffiti mural. Stick men walk in a line with their hands on the shoulders of the man in front. Brawny Kudu and tall, spindly giraffe randomly intersect the humans. The artist would have had to lay on his back to draw the intricate scene. Why such a secret location? Are the drawings stories, warnings, messages, or the artist’s personal expression?

Lots of questions, but the answers are lost in the past. The San bushmen were artists, not writers.

It’s beautiful and quiet. Just the music of a host of birds singing and chirping to each other. It’s already well past the time we should have been delivered back to the lodge. We’re sitting at the summit of a particularly high and expansive rock, taking in the 360 view. No one wants to go back.

The resilient, beautiful Baobab tree of Namibia. The people and the tree endure lifes hardships.

Immanuel points to the stocky trunk of a gnarled, weathered tree emerging stubbornly from an outcrop above us. The Baobab tree. Immanuel explains this tree, and its brethren, live for hundreds of years and somehow thrive in the most arid, desolate and harsh conditions. I wonder if he means the tree, or the Namib people.

…………

There are four of us on the sunset drive This time we travel along a different trail, leading up to a plateau with rock art on and under every boulder. A flaming orange sun begins its descent, and once the gin and tonics are poured, we all wander around the plateau, doing our own thing – taking photos, exploring the nooks and crannies.

Immanuel stands apart from us, alone, silhouetted against the setting sun, leaning against a boulder, looking out towards the plain. Lost in his own thoughts. I imagine he is thinking about the family he sees only once every three weeks. About his children, their grades in school, their future, and what the next generation of graffiti will say about 21^st century life in Erongo. And then Jon bounces into view, saying brightly, “Hey Immanuel, take a look at this!”, and the moment is gone. Immanuel reverts to his role as impeccable host and guide. He leaves his reverie and smiles, bending to look enthusiastically at the image in the camera.