On one such occasion, we – that is, Toddler and I – decided to drive as far east as we possibly could. East, because that is where the sun rises, and even with a toddler there needs to be some kind of method behind the madness. We departed the capital early on a Friday morning and managed to reach Gobabis about three hours and two failed pit stops later. For those thinking of undertaking the same journey, don’t waste your time stopping at the Kalahari Padstal – there’s nothing resembling a padstal here, not even cheap instant coffee – and the only shop in Witvlei sells little more than Coke and Simba chips. At least Toddler managed to stretch his legs and hug a water tank, which is currently one of his greatest obsessions.

In Gobabis, we stopped for supplies (because who thinks of packing anything when embarking on a great escape mission?) and decided to turn northwards for the final stretch. Forty-something kilometres later, we ran out of biltong and simultaneously realised our internal batteries needed recharging, so we headed for the nearest (and most probably only) accommodation on the C22 to Otjinene: Hippo Farm. Now, just to avoid any potential disappointment, do not expect to find any hippos here. There is a large metal cutout of a hippo mounted on the farm gate, but that is as close to this semi-aquatic creature you are going to get.

However, as could be expected, there are plenty of real farm animals on this farm, including a pigsty featuring about five generations of swine of all shapes and sizes, and countless shades of pink. As a designated quarantine camp for livestock due for export, Hippo Farm also accommodates a selection of fancy-looking cattle, as well as some sheep, an ostrich and a somewhat distorted, but apparently thorough-bred horse. There are also chickens, guinea fowl and pigeons, in addition to three farm dogs and a couple of cats. More than enough to keep Toddler on a roll for the rest of the afternoon, while I followed him around to make sure he does not step on the great variety of doodoo, as should be expected in this kind of environment or, heaven forbid, get bitten by a snake or some other creepy crawly. After watching, naming and mimicking the animals became boring, I coaxed Toddler into running a one-man race on the red Kalahari sands, while he made the occasional stop to watch a dung beetle cross the dust road, and collect random objects of interest. When this activity had run its course, we headed back to the farmyard to spend some time on the playground, do a bit of swinging and check out the treehouse, which towers over the lush green lawn in one of those iconic, ancient camelthorn trees. Toddler depleted his energy right in time for dinner which, of course, was marked by perfectly braaied meat on the open fire, as the sun was setting over the surrounding savannah landscape.

As we turned in for the night to the sound of the windpomp clicking and turning, I came to the realisation that fancy frills and well-planned activities are overrated when you can have an exciting toddler-led adventure. Even better when it is in the middle of nowhere. Spectacular but nonetheless fascinating and delightfully entertaining! A random yet well executed escape.