The Victorians didn’t believe in Gorillas. This is a fact and it’s just one of the many amusing facts about a group of people whose hubris apparently knew few bounds.  At one point they also famously decided that there was nothing left to invent, so closed the patent office (although it soon needed re-opening when someone invented yet another device for covering the sexually provocative legs of pianos.)

Anyway, back to Gorillas because ridiculous as it seems to us now, it is of course a default position for most of us to at least question the existence of something that isn’t there for us to see.  Put another way, there’s a chance we only find what we look for.

A story caught my eye this week on the BBC website showcasing a study conducted on Rock Hyraxes, the thrust of which was to question whether all the extensive snorting and whistling noises that they make add up to anything more than..well, snorts and whistles.  At first glance, the conclusion, like most scientific papers seemed to lie somewhere between “definitely’ and “probably not.” 

But one of the things that caught my eye was the suggestion that “The hyrax is one of only a few mammals which have syntax.” And this is where I’m reminded Victorians and Gorillas. Because I wonder which is more likely – that God singled out a few animals (people, dolphins, hyraxes and the odd parrot) to be able to talk, then got bored and left the rest out, saying “Let Them Make Only Meaningless Squeaks All the Days of Their Lives”?  Or that those are some of the few animals we’ve got round to paying attention to?  I think it’s also known as observer bias.

Most of the many mammals that I’ve spent time watching in Africa, whether elephant, lion, or the countless smaller species (including the hyrax) or the Gerbils, Hamster (RIP) or Guinea pigs that my sons now keep, seem to make pretty significant use of vocal communication (roughly on a par with that of my sons).  I wouldn’t mind betting that the overwhelming majority are pretty good conversationalists…if only someone will listen.

Of course none of this would really add up to a hill of beans if it didn’t illustrate quite so clearly the contrast between our collective position as custodians of the planet and our total lack of qualification for the job.  The Victorian refusal to believe in Gorillas is pure comedy, but today’s misunderstandings – from climate change to how to stop rhino poaching (another thought provoking article) - are far less funny.

The Castle was built during the 2nd World War by Italian prisoners of war.  In the 1980s a new section was added by present owner, Alex Nunes.  Occupying an austere location overlooking the Burma Valley in Zim's Eastern Highlands, The Castle is a small owner-run hotel.  It is pretty quirky: heaps of antiquey bits, and some novel design features, including a toilet built into great boulders (allegedly "the throne" used by the Queen Mum on her visit to the area) and a dumb waiter which yields delicious meals from what appears to be a large dresser in the corner of the dining room.  Many other high-profile bods, from politicians to movie-folk, have enjoyed g&ts on the battlements overlooking expansive views of forests and mountains.

During a three night stay at The Castle we enjoyed some lovely walks, runs and bike rides.  The area is great for birds and there is a Botanical Garden which is a little past it’s prime but still pretty.  There was one or two mandatory visits to the famous Tony's Coffee Shop for cake (it's not just cake...that doesn't do it justice at all...it is a culinary work of art, the memory of which lingers longer than the extra 3inches it will add to your waistline).

One of the things I’ve always enjoyed about travelling is the liquorice allsorts of people I find myself rubbing elbows with.  As a camp manager, where tourists came to look at the animals, I was often lodge-bound and ever so slightly crazy with cabin fever, so the variety of human life that passed through my patch provided no end of entertainment (I’m conscious that this little revelation is likely to spark mass paranoia amongst the holiday-makers, but really, look around...what d’you expect?).  I’ve had high-flying New York types that tripped out of helicopters for a dirty weekend and recoiled from the visitor’s book in case they incriminated themselves (small world that it is).  There have been mummy’s little darlings who refused anything to eat but fanta and bread, buried toothpicks in the sofas, and were rather light-fingered in the gift shop.  Other camp managers tell stories of a “goth” woman who insisted on seeing her orange juice squeezed in front of her and required mineral water to wash her hair...and this on a remote beach in East Africa.  I remember scratching my head over the menu for a diabetic, lactose and gluten-intolerant raw foodist, with an allergy to monosodium glutamate (sigh).  You get my point.

The locals can be a strange bunch too.  On a trip through Malawi, our 1958 Land Rover ground to an agonising, clunking halt, as only a Land Rover can, in a mosquito-ridden swamp called Kazilizili.  From behind a dark bush materialised a man wearing a broad hat fashioned from black bin bags and fishing line, strumming a jaunty tune on a homemade banjo.  He was joined by another rural type, clad in a fashionable, though grubby, Burberry trench coat, who brought a Tipex bottle to his nostrils, declaring in the Queen’s own English: “Where’s my snuff? Where’s my snuff?”  It’s not something that you easily forget, and inhabitants (or should I say inmates?) of Kazilizili still appear to me in disturbed moments.

And then there are the nomads of the world.  While working in Kenya’s Rift Valley, a visit to market day in a Maasai village yielded a pair of handsome sun-burnished French folk, wearing what looked like school uniform, carrying a small backpack each.  They were in the process of walking from Cape Town to Jerusalem (as you do), trusting only in the generosity of people along the way, and a film has since been made about them.  We spent hours listening to their tales of soaking in the hot-tubs of South African millionaires, and of sharing meals with warlords in countries that you only hear about for all the wrong reasons.

Incidentally, this week I bought an apple pie from a lady dressed as a fairy standing at a Harare traffic light.  Apparently the apple pie, in addition to a good thing to have with a cup of tea, was also the secret to eternal life.  I’ll let you know how that pans out.

As the saying goes; “there’s nought stranger than folk”.

Amongst other things, social media has sanctioned the voyeuristic tendencies within many of us.  Consequently it’s now okay to keep a much beadier eye on the doings of others than previously acceptable, without being considered even a little weird.  Therefore, I am unashamed to admit that I get regular feeds on a few individuals through whom I vicariously enjoy adventures when reluctantly tethered to my desk, and therefore incapable of having any of my own.

Within a few weeks, a couple of these souls have embarked/are about to embark on pretty incredible personal journeys and every few days I read with a mixture of awe and envy of their latest exploits, bug-bears and conquests.  One of my Facebook friends, Julian Monroe Fisher, will shortly begin walking across the belly of Africa, from the coast of Mozambique to the Atlantic in Angola.  The second person is someone I regard with the same curious incomprehension as a fax machine: I have no idea what makes it tick but think it is quite marvellous in any case.   Well-known ocean rower, Roz Savage, is a few days into her mammoth 4000 mile solo row across the Indian Ocean.

The blogs relate a repertoire of interesting happenings thrown across their paths (Roz seems to be frequently pelted by flying squid), and describes the very human afflictions which make life on the explorer’s pedestal sometimes less than comfy.  From painful blisters to sunburn, annoying insects to homesickness... hurrah, they are mere mortals after all.  I find myself searching for what motivates these people to take up the mantle of extraordinary endeavour.  Much like my great grandfather, who set off from Scotland in the early 19 hundreds to carve a new life for himself in East Africa, I imagine that much of the reward comes from stepping off the well-trodden path and relishing the unexpected.

Whatever it is that galvanises such people, the interesting thing is that the inspiration they provide can come in many forms and you can take what you will from it.  Whether it means choosing a different country to visit next year or throwing in a tedious job to do something on your own, pushing your physical and mental limits in running that marathon, or reading a controversial author...the message for me is that boundaries are there to be pushed and only in doing so do we make room to grow (or, less philosophically, experience the novelty of being hit in the face by air-borne seafood).

Nature is frequently required to remind us diminutive little bipedals who’s boss. For all our technological prowess, at the end of the day we’re still squishy, pink and about as impressive as limp lettuce in the face of our world’s capacity to awe. While sometimes these reminders come in devastating quakes and giant waves, at other times they are beautiful and gently surprising. This year, the rains in Namibia have topped the charts, breaking 100 year old records in terms of quantity and wreaking havoc on roads and previously high-and-dry safari camps. Some places received a year's worth of rain in a month.  This is all relative of course. We’re talking about a country which enjoys over 300 days of sunshine annually (I know, sickening). So when we say it’s been a record rainy season, bear in mind that the creatures of the Namib mainly subsist on sea fog and may only see 100mm of rain in the whole year. But, if you happen to be a tok-tokkie beetle and have to stand on your head every morning to catch drops of fog running down your back for your morning cuppa, you might agree that in the desert, a little rain goes a long way. Ordinarily, the colours of the Namib and wider Skeleton Coast are vivid and captivating. In fact, you run the risk of sounding like a stuck record and exhausting your personal store of enthusiastic adjectives as you exclaim repeatedly how simply astonishing it all is. Add a little water to the equation and you have tumble-weed grass turning from gun-metal grey to psychedelic green and deep-red sand wearing a carpet of yellow flowers. Shallow mirage-like lakes of water appear for the first time in a decade beneath the giant dunes of Sossusvlei . Late afternoon electric storms paint the sky with bruised purple clouds and sheet-lightning. There goes that blue planet, got a new trick and showing off again... If you haven’t planned what to do with all those public holidays at the end of April/beginning of May, think about heading out to Namibia to witness nature’s little party in the desert.

Have a look at these great pics from the Kulala conservancy near Sossusvlei on our Facebook page. Give us a call on +44 1747 898104 if you'd like to know more about safaris in Namibia. *The above image was taken on Wolwedans in the Namib Rand Reserve.  Courtesy of Wolwedans.