From Dust to Delta: Birding Through Namibia’s Contrasts

I had always thought of Namibia as a land of vast ochre dunes and sun-bleached horizons—the kind of place where water is more legend than reality and where birds, if they exist, must have evolved to survive on sheer stubbornness alone. And then, I met the real Namibia—a land of startling contrasts, very few people, an amazing history, and a quiet, enduring charm.

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Zambezi: A Land of Abundance

A week before, I found myself trading the parched, sunbaked landscapes of Kunene—where every plant seems to have been designed as a medieval weapon—for the lush, river-laced wilderness of Zambezi. If Kunene is Namibia in sepia tones, Zambezi is a full technicolour explosion. Here, instead of skeletal acacias clinging to life, there are towering jackalberry trees shading thick undergrowth, and instead of desperate, dust-covered oryx, there are hippos wallowing in rivers like they own the place (which, to be fair, they do).

As always, birds were my trusty barometer of place. In Kunene, I marvelled at the sheer resilience of life—desert-adapted species like Rüppell’s Korhaan, Bare-cheeked Babbler, and the Dusky Sunbird eking out an existence in a land that could pass for Mars in a tourism campaign. Meanwhile, in Zambezi, the challenge wasn’t finding birds, but deciding which dazzling spectacle to focus on first. Was it the thrill of watching a Pied Kingfisher hover over the water, or the striking sight of a White-crowned Lapwing darting along the riverbanks? Perhaps it was the unexpected elegance of a Black Crake weaving through reeds, or the calm charm of a Laughing Dove perched nearby. Every turn offered a new highlight.

The Carmine Bee-eater, however, remained elusive—a fiery crown jewel of Zambezi’s birdlife that I couldn’t claim for my checklist. We did, however, see their nesting spots—a multitude of small holes peppered along the riverbanks—but according to our river guide, they had already migrated. Still, that was just one small shadow in a landscape filled with light.

But birding in Zambezi isn’t just a feast for the eyes—it’s a full-sensory experience. One of the highlights of my time here was a pair of river tours led by a boat operator whose knowledge of the region’s wildlife was as deep as the waters we navigated. I really loved the guy and enjoyed his stories... With an easy storytelling style, he painted vivid pictures of the ecosystem’s delicate balance, pointing out the silent crocodiles lurking beneath the surface and the ever-watchful fish eagles perched above - both of these too far away for my short-sighted eyesight... Each trip was a treasure trove of nature sightings, from bee-eaters swooping low over the river to the dazzling flashes of Malachite Kingfishers darting between reeds. Here, the air hums with the calls of weavers in their manic nest-building frenzies, while unseen kingfishers emit sharp, scolding protests from tangled riverine thickets. And at night, the river's edge takes on a new kind of magic. One evening, I sat on the shore, enveloped by a sky ablaze with stars, their brilliance unchallenged by artificial lights. The world seemed to hold its breath, silence stretching endlessly, interrupted only by the occasional cry of some unseen night crawler. It was a moment of perfect solitude, a scene made for late-night reflection, where the vastness of nature made everything else feel small and insignificant. The moonlight reflects off the water, hippos grunt in the distance, and what I thought might have been the eerie whoop of a Pel’s Fishing Owl drifted across the shallows. Or was I dreaming? It was my ambition to spot one, but without a clear sighting, I couldn't claim it. Still, the moment was perfect—tranquil, mysterious, and steeped in the kind of quiet magic that makes you question the boundary between reality and wishful thinking.

Unlike the classic birding hotspots frequented by dedicated twitchers, my excursions tend to be dictated by wherever my work takes me—whether immersed in community discussions or surveying their agricultural fields and landscapes—and if that means birding in the middle of a work trip, so be it. I don’t  always get the luxury of chasing the rarest lifers in the most famous locations, but I take what I can when I’m in the field, and frankly, that’s already a privilege beyond words.

Kunene: A Harsh, Beautiful Expanse

Kunene does not yield easily to those who cross it. My two stays in this austere, unforgiving land felt like journeys through a world sculpted by wind and time. Here, the landscapes stretch into infinity, painted in hues of rust and ochre, broken only by jagged rock formations that stand like silent sentinels against the sky. The dust is omnipresent—coating skin, clothes, and camera lenses in a fine, unshakable layer. Yet, within this starkness lies a rugged beauty, the kind that demands patience to appreciate but rewards tenfold.

Despite its desolation, Kunene is teeming with life. It is a land where resilience is not just an advantage but a necessity. The desert-adapted elephants, moving in slow, deliberate strides, leave ghostly prints in the dry riverbeds, tracing paths that have existed for centuries. Springbok flicker across the plains in the shimmering heat, and oryx stand statuesque, their sharp silhouettes blending seamlessly into the sunbaked backdrop. And, of course, there are the birds—rarities that survive in an environment that seems to reject all excess.

Here, Rüppell’s Korhaan struts defiantly across the gravel plains, its camouflage a perfect deception. Bare-cheeked Babblers chatter among thorny shrubs, and the haunting call of a Grey-backed Sparrow-Lark echoes through the silence. There is a particular satisfaction in birding in Kunene—it is not easy, but every sighting feels like a hard-won discovery, a reminder that life persists even in the most unforgiving places.

Kunene was also a place of unexpected meetings. At my lodge, I struck up a friendship with Steve, the hotel manager—a man with a thick accent and an even thicker repertoire of nature stories. Our evenings were spent barbecuing under the endless desert sky, sharing tales of wildlife, travel, and the quirks of life in Namibia. He even arranged an impromptu birding safari, revealing hidden pockets of avian life I would never have found alone.

Then there was the fleeting but memorable encounter with a Brazilian geological expedition. Over hurried conversations, we realised we shared the same looming uncertainty—our respective works, which had brought us to this rugged land, might be coming to an abrupt end as whispers of a global lockdown grew louder. COVID-19 was creeping closer, and none of us knew how much longer we had before borders would slam shut.

A Journey Cut Short

The contrast between my time in Zambezi and Kunene could not have been sharper. One, a land of vibrant abundance, where life thrived in overdrive; the other, a realm of quiet endurance, where survival itself felt like an act of defiance. Yet both were undeniably Namibia—one country, two worlds, each with its own rhythm, its own demands, and its own beauty.

But just as I was settling into the rhythm of this journey, reality struck. My time in Namibia was cut short, and what was meant to be an extended stay was abruptly ended by the global COVID lockdown. Flights were being cancelled, uncertainty loomed, and the landscapes I had hoped to explore further faded into the distance far sooner than I had planned.

Would I go back? Absolutely. Would I plan to stay longer, perhaps foresee a weekend to visit the majestic falls or stand at the borders of four countries? Without hesitation. Would I finally track down the elusive Carmine Bee-eater? One can only hope.