Desert Homestead Lodge - And the Lions with a Taste for Human Blood | Day 2

Marius plugs in his seat belt behind him not in front, presumably for comfort as his rather stocky shape would be constricted for the 5 hours bumpy ride through Khomas Highland and down the Escarpment. He didn't wear shoes whilst driving, and drove at a speed that was not comfortable for anyone, except perhaps for himself.

The Camel Thorn trees peppered the plains, some heaved under the strain of the grand nests built by the Sociable Weaver birds that can house up to a few hundred Weavers. They flit in and out of the mouths of the numerous holes that lead to a labyrinthine maze inside. These nests are a feat of engineering, designed in such a way that the rain can just slide off.

Marius himself will weave as many interesting stories on the way to the lodge. His most interesting one, though sadly the most macabre, was the regaling of his friend and ex-employer who was attacked and killed by a Desert Adapted Lion outside Hoanib Skeleton Coast Camp in the Northwestern region of Namibia. Desert Adapted Lions are largely monitored with tracking collars, however the battery on this lion's collar had run out according to Marius.

"My friend went out of his tent to take a pee. He got killed by the lion. The lion was an adult who had gone rogue after being kicked out of his pride. Now unfortunately, we cannot let this lion live. He has had a taste for human blood so the rangers went out, tracked it and killed it. Perhaps you have heard of the Tsavo Man-Eaters? A pair of lions, they were brothers, hunted the workers up and down the Kenya-Uganda Railway between March and December 1898. The lion pair was said to have killed dozens of people, with some early estimates reaching over a hundred deaths. They were clever. An unusually brilliant killing team that would know to walk on the roads to prevent them being tracked on the sand across the desert. But they had the taste for human blood. Like vampires, once a lion has a taste for human blood, no other dish will do."

I was familiar with this story as I had seen the film The Ghost and the Darkness, and although the same myths are circulated, (in most recounts embroidered) with most safari guides I speak to on this subject, it is still the best and most fascinating story about these powerful apex predators out there.

Desert homestead lodge

The wide valley in which the lodge is situated is sheltered by the Nubib, Tsaris and Naukluft Mountains, with a view reaching the distant dunes of the Namib Desert in the west.

We were chaperoned out across the planes on an open-truck group tour. Sitting behind us, Robert an elderly gentleman living in Uganda introduces himself as someone of British and not English descent. A backstory with a political undercurrent which I could have done without. Still as our conversations progressed we warmed to both him and his Maltese lady friend who had an unquenchable thirst for adventure that one could not help but be inspired by.

Sans any sightings of animals, the tour is billed as one of fauna and local flora. Small trees bear the scars of where the porcupines have gnawed at the bark, their only source of water during the drought.

The guide pulled the truck off the side of the road underneath a Sociable Weaver's nest and erected a foldable picnic table where gin and wines were served.

"You know gin, drinking gin, it helps keep the mosquitos off," Robert said, raising his glass and taking a shallow sip. Anastasia agreed, knowing this to be common parlance across the hospitality trade and the corporate world of Africa. The diplomats are regularly topping themselves up with huge wallops of gin still to this day. Robert's hand shook as he returned his tumbler to the table. On recognition of this he looked at me slightly embarrassed.

"I have an appointment to see my neurologist when I get home. It's not just my hands, I struggle to remember anything at all these days."

At night we're told to keep our shoes inside the lodge or else the Hyenas will take them. We had the best unobstructed view of the planes and dunes from our lodge, alight in the distance from a spotlight that illuminated a huge strip of land perhaps 100 feet away from the lodge. I watched from our patio until it was time to go to bed, wanting eagerly to see movement of any kind. Nothing.

Come morning, a smattering of opportunist Weavers dart in and out of the breakfast bar, sneak under the table cloths that are draped over the bread rolls and emerge victors with huge pecked-clumps of bread in their beaks. It was only one night at the Lodge, and today we are off to see Dune 45, the most photographed Dune in the world.