Wild horses – Their survival remains a treasured mystery

[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]Text by Beccy Mair | Main photo by Paul van Schalkwyk

| This article was first published in the Flamingo April 2008 issue. Information has been adapted accordingly.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]

Wild horses? In Africa? Everyone thinks of encountering lion, leopard, elephant, rhino and buffalo. But it’s true; there are also wild horses. How these magnificent animals came to be in Namibia and how they survive the hot, dry, hostile climate has all the ingredients of a myth. But their legend hasn’t grown through generations of tale telling. It has many beginnings, each arriving at one perfect end.

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A round 50 – 280 feral horses roam the plains of the Namib Desert, depending on fluctuations in quality and quantity of grazing available. Through their grim determination to live, they evoke a sense of wonder and admiration for their gallant survival.

Their backyard is 350 square kilometres of desert, but you can view them one kilometre north of the B4 and 22 kilometres west of Aus. An easy-to-reach viewing station built at Garub Plain lures them with a modern water tank, put there especially. They share it with the indigenous locals; oryx, springbok and ostrich, travelling miles to reach it every few days. The horses drink first, the oryx wait. Then, according to a pecking order laid out in front of me, the ostrich are last to quench their thirst. Compared to ‘normal’ horses, the desert-adapted ones move more slowly, sweat less and can survive without water for five days. Their immune system is apparently so complex that it aids recovery from almost anything out there in the wilds.

I arrived with no preconceptions, just my camera and a love for all things equestrian. I stood in silent appreciation, exhilarated to the core. Up close and personal without invading space or privacy, these wild, spiritual and majestic animals made me feel sublimely insignificant. Timeless hours passed, I looked out onto a life that was wild and carefree, and was envious. The shutter of my camera was on quick release as I tried to grasp in a single frame this, their enigmatic life.

Two thirds of the Namib’s horses gathered in that one spot, seemingly oblivious to our presence. A foal, fragile yet robust, wary yet as wired as any baby to indulge in short bursts of energy, had his mother and the whole herd looking out for his welfare.

We witnessed a fight between two striking stallions. A lone male approached with a confidence bordering aggression. He tried again and again to muscle in, but was met by the leader of the group and shown the door in no uncertain terms. Both horses reared up onto their hind legs, curled back their lips and put on an extraordinary display of horse hierarchy and dominance.

All around me, shutters on cameras clicked and whirred, framing horses in action, dirt swirling around their feet, their aggression inflicted through powerful kicks of the front legs. The glare of the sun ricocheted off the near-white landscape, making my eyes water, but glare or no glare, my cheeks were wet with tears of awe. Nearby, one horse limped. Its injury looked serious and would no doubt cause it to die sooner than is fair or right, but nature is sometimes cruel. I still hope that he made it.

How did these horses arrive in Africa? There are several theories, none proven, that give them their mythical status rather perfectly. Obviously not indigenous, they were most likely brought from Europe.

There’s talk of a well-off German, Baron Hans-Heinrich von Wolf, who built Duwisib Castle, 160 kilometres north of Garub, for his American wife and set up a stud there. Could the desert horses be descendants of stud-farm escapees?

Or maybe they are descended from survivors of a late 19^th-century shipwreck at the mouth of the Orange River. A delivery of thoroughbreds had left Europe for Australia but had never arrived, their boat becoming yet another skeleton on Namibia’s notorious Skeleton Coast. Did these horses live and make their way north in an outstanding display of survival of the fittest?

Another theory is that they are descended from cavalry horses shipped from Europe in the First World War. With no war left to fight, did they manage to make a life for themselves in the desert?

Whatever their true origin, they are from thoroughbred stock, because the horses looked sleek and fit. Their coats shone like molten velvet beneath the hot African sun, highlighting every muscle on their lean, athletic bodies. Long, unkempt manes shouted feral and untamed. Free to be wild and thriving on it.

These handsome animals have adapted miraculously to a barbaric climate of extreme heat and drought. Their count of nearly 300 dropped to around 80 with severe droughts in 1992. Today’s increase to about 150 is a massive success, demonstrating the horses’ boundless stamina and drive to survive.

The Namib Wild Horses Foundation was founded with the objective to conserve and protect the wild horses. They conduct research and monitor the population; assist the Ministry of Environment and Tourism with management decisions regarding the horses; receive and administer funds for the benefit of the horses and educate the public with regard to the difficulties the animals face.  The dry season is best for viewing because there is little water to be found elsewhere in the desert. For those who want to learn more about the legend that is these desert horses of Namibia and want to aid in their survival head to: www.wild-horses-namibia.com.

On our way back from Garub grab a piece of exemplary apple pie at Solitaire. It is baked by Moose, whose baking according to traditional German recipes is famous throughout Namibia.

The story of these desert horses of Namibia is one of survival fit for a book of fairy tales, yet a long way from being confined to just a page or two. Some are set on getting to the root of whence they came. However, a romantic part of me hopes that nature will supersede science and that their origin and secrets of survival will remain a treasured mystery.

At time of print Beccy Mair was a photographer and travel writer based in England.

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