"Everyone, please get into the car.”

It’s already dark and we’re in a post-sundowner, pre-prandial state of advanced relaxation. Our dinner is simmering gently. We’ve covered a long distance today and we’re loth to leave the comforting glow of the camp fire, no matter what Russell, our guide, has in mind.

“Everyone, get in the car. NOW!”

This time, we move. Bundling ourselves into the Land Rover, we shut the doors, then immediately open them again to let the entire camp staff clamber in on top of us. The only ones left outside are Russell, who is scanning the vicinity of our camp with a powerful torch, and Boas, the crew leader who has boldly stepped forward as his wingman.

As we squint out into the darkness, it’s hard to make out what the problem might be.

“Ah. See that really high wall, just behind our tents,” says somebody, after a few moments. “That’s not a wall. That’s an elephant.”

With eyes like saucers, we joke nervously about unexpected dinner guests. The elephant is simply huge.

We shouldn’t really be surprised to receive such a visitor. We’re camping in the heart of desert elephant territory, on the bank of the dry Hoarusib riverbed just outside Puros in the Kunene region of northwest Namibia. On our approach, late in the afternoon, we passed a small breeding herd with a tiny youngster peeping out from under its mother’s belly. Our campsite is completely unfenced; piles of sunbaked dung under the camelthorn trees bear witness to regular comings and goings. This bull has just as much right to be here as we do. But we have no idea what its intentions might be.

A nail-biting fifteen minutes pass. At last, the elephant moves on, casually, leaving our camp untouched. The cook declares our dinner salvageable. There’s relief all round.

For us, as visitors to this savagely beautiful and remote corner of Namibia, an elephant in the camp is a minor inconvenience – a thrill, even – or at the very least, something to giggle about later. But for the locals, living with large animals is a daily headache.

Early the following morning, the clatter of francolins shakes us awake. The campsite appears elephant-free, so we breakfast in peace then head into Puros to pick up a few necessities from the village shop.

Puros is a tidy enough place, though lacking in kerb appeal. Spread over a wide desert plain backed by crumpled hills, its shacks seem randomly scattered, as if blown into position by the wind. Resplendent in the midst of this sandy villagescape is Sara, manageress of the shop. She’s traditionally dressed in a voluminous Herero frock topped by a matching headdress. Ahead of us at the counter are two Himba women who are also traditionally dressed, their upper halves rubbed with ochre and their bottom halves draped in skins.

We mention our elephant episode, and Sara gives a knowing smile. The villagers have an uneasy relationship with desert elephants, but their presence brings benefits. In times past, women had to trek down to the riverbed to draw water, but competition with elephants made this hazardous and unhygienic. An appeal was launched, funds were raised and a new, elephant-proof well was built within the village. Life became that little bit easier. What’s more, visitors are intrigued by the elephants, and the campsite prospers as a result.

Many of those who breeze into Puros on an overland tour have little inkling of the complexities of life here. But we’re travelling with a new company, Conservancy Safaris, which makes a point of explaining the back-story in fascinating detail – partly because it’s owned by the communities themselves.

Community-owned tourism has been gathering momentum in Namibia for some time. Twenty years ago, most rural Namibians saw large wildlife either as a threat or as a commodity to be exploited through poaching. The creation of conservancies – regions in which communities take on the responsibility of managing the land in exchange for the right to profit from its flora and fauna – has since caused a fundamental shift in attitudes.

One way for a community to profit from its environment is to run a safari lodge. There have been several successes in this regard, proving that when rural Namibians buy into this model, wildlife flourishes. However, Conservancy Safaris hopes to go one stage further by applying the principles of community-owned tourism to tour programmes. It’s a radical concept in a region which has no entrance fees: at present, safari operators can bring groups into a conservancy for a few days’ wildlife-watching and then move on without having contributed anything to the local community.

Tours with Conservancy Safaris cover five conservancies – Puros, Orumpembe, Sanitatas, Okonjumbo and Marienfluss – in northwest Namibia, a dramatic, wildlife-rich area of around 13,500 square kilometres with a human population of well under 2000, most of whom are semi-nomadic Himba and Herero pastoralists.

“The aim is to turn the idea of tourist as voyeur on its head,” says anthropologist and conservation expert Dr Margie Jacobsohn, one of the company’s advisors. “We believe in empowering local people to assume the role of hosts and conservationists, rather than to be simply seen as exhibits or, even worse, as irrelevant.”

But how can a small, scattered community of Himba and Herero herders with little tourism experience and even less capital set up a safari company?

The process began in 2008, when forward-thinking Swedish philanthropist Anders Johansson offered a start-up loan, backed by advice and support from IRDNC, an NGO specialising in natural resource management. Russell Vinjevold, an experienced guide with just the right blend of gentle diplomacy and stubborn dedication, was brought in to lead the business. Through numerous visits with elders and other community members, a framework was pieced together.

A Conservancy Safaris camping trip offers comfort – your tent is pitched for you, delicious meals appear magically before you – without fuss. Prices are high; in return, you’re offered access to people and places that are out of the reach of most visitors, plus the reassurance that when the company becomes profitable, community funds will grow. And you might, like us, find yourself flung headlong into a hands-on conservation project.

“There’s no value in offering superficial encounters in contrived circumstances,” explains Russell. “Our guests are looking for authenticity. They want to discuss real issues with people who can give considered answers, from farmers to conservationists. Each trip evolves as we go, according to what we discover.”

Our trip had started with an early morning black rhino tracking expedition in the company of Garth Owen-Smith, pioneer of the conservancy concept. As the plump flanks of our chosen rhino receded far into the distance and we settled for enjoying the glorious Damaraland scenery instead, Garth had explained how the region’s community game guard network and conservancy system had helped eliminate poaching. “Before, rural people just referred to rhinos as rhinos,” he said. “Now, they talk about ‘our rhinos’. They take pride in their custodianship.”

In Puros we bump into a local legend on our way back from the shop. Dr Flip Stander, leader of the Kunene-based Desert Lion Project and a world expert in lion behaviour and biology, has a crisis on his hands. One of the prides he has been studying has been harassing the villagers and their livestock. Unseasonal rains further east have caused an exodus of oryx, zebra, springbok and giraffe from the Hoarusib gorge, the lions’ habitual hunting ground, so when night falls they have been prowling the few kilometres up to the village to stalk donkeys instead. Flip has tried translocating them to another area, but they simply walked back.
 

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By law, the community would be within their rights to declare the hungry lions problem animals and poison or shoot them. But the villagers appreciate the value of desert-adapted lions as a tourism draw and under the enlightened leadership of their conservancy chairman, Leon Kasupi, they are willing to support the Desert Lion Project in finding another solution.

Flip has the dishevelled, wild-eyed appearance of a man fighting sleep deprivation. He’s locked into round-the-clock fieldwork. He tracks the pride, which number three males and two females, via the radio telemetry gear in his Land Cruiser – a desert-battered vehicle which multitasks as his mobile research centre, lab, communications hub and, for those moments when a kip is possible, sleeping quarters. When he asks if we’d be willing to help monitor the lions while he works out a way to keep them out of trouble pending another translocation attempt, we agree immediately.

Down in the gorge, we discover we’re not the only ones that Flip has enlisted. A wildlife census team from the Ministry of Environment and Tourism, staff from nearby lodges and Lion Officers appointed by the local community have been drawn into the discussion and are assigned tasks. The lions are currently well spaced along the gorge and our job is to watch one particular female.

A cacophony of baboon calls tells us she’s close, but hidden. It’s a long wait before she appears, but when she does, close to sunset, she’s heading purposefully in the direction of the village. As she passes within a couple of metres of our vehicle, her gaze locks onto ours. This, I realise with a jolt, is what an oryx must feel like when it’s spotted by a lioness that hasn’t eaten for eight days.

Flip announces that the best way to keep the lions away from the village, tonight at least, will be to block their route by creating a barricade of bonfires and noise at the mouth of the gorge. We all volunteer to help.

“It’s not easy to stop a lion in its tracks,” says Flip. “I’ve tried making all sorts of racket, and they barely flinch. But you know the one thing they just can’t stand? AC/DC.”

True to our promise, we head down to the mouth of the gorge after dark. Quite a crowd has gathered. Three fires are blazing and there’s a strange mix of tension and party fever in the air. Some lithe young Italian women from the local luxury lodge are dancing in the firelight. It’s like rolling up at a secret rave on the edge of the known world.

Flip gives us a quick update: the lions are safely on the correct side of the barricade, some distance away, but they’re approaching. It’s time to rock the desert. He’s already rigged a sound system up to his Land Cruiser. He cues up an AC/DC track on his iPod and detonation-volume guitar riffs start reverberating across the gorge. “Let’s hope that does the trick,” he says with a wry smile.

The toxic combination of flames and heavy metal seems to work. The radio telemetry signal levels out, suggesting the lions have halted and are staying put at a safe distance. The party mood steps up a notch. When Rage in the Machine start screaming “I won’t do what you tell me” into the night, it sounds like a victory anthem. Flip visibly relaxes, settling himself in the sand for a drink and a chat, while others continue to keep an ear on the tracking system to make sure there’s no change.

But then, something worrying happens. The signal disappears. The lions have moved out of range, and we don’t know which direction they’ve taken. We will them to reappear.

“Here we are now, entertain us!” yell Nirvana through the speakers.

When at last Flip picks up the signal once again, the news is devastating. Somehow, one of the lionesses has made it past the barricade and is heading straight for the village. She must have made a tortuous diversion over the banks of the gorge to do so. Ashen-faced, Flip gets ready to set off in pursuit.

For us, the night is over. We’re disappointed that our efforts have fallen flat. But we wanted an authentic experience, and that’s what we’ve had. The hard truth is that not every conservation story has a happy ending.

There’s a footnote to this episode, however. Since leaving Namibia, I’ve kept track of the Hoarusib lions via Flip’s meticulous blog (www.desertlion.info/news.html). The males are still not quite cured of their donkey-eating habits, but the villagers continue to tolerate their occasional presence and are assisting in the search for a remedy. As for the lionesses, they have at last moved into a safe area, far from the village – and Flip believes some cubs may be on the way.