All language subtitles for 247D4CAA35610EE61DC713D2019CB117_eng

West of Africa,

where Namibia meets
the Atlantic Ocean,

lies the Namib,

a desert the size of Portugal.

In this remote and arid realm,

temperatures can
approach 50 degrees.

In places, annual rainfall
is just five millimetres.

Seemingly untouched by humans
in 55 million years or more,

this timeless desert
possibly the oldest on Earth,

has given rise to
more life than any other.

Strange and marvellous specialists,

share this wondrous Eden with giants.

From its skeleton coast...

through the sea of sand...

lo the haze of distant mountains,

this apparently forbidding desert

hides secret water sources.

And, if you know where to look,
enough moisture can be found to survive.

Even thrive.

There are still places on Earth
that remain pristine,

where wildlife flourishes.

These are the last regions
that could be called

Eden.

This land appears to be so dry,

that it's almost inconceivable,

that it could be an Eden.

And, yet, itis.

This is the only desert
that supports a population of lions.

Closely monitored by scientists,

this five year old female,

has been living alone
these past months.

She hasn't eaten for a week.

Her solitary prowling may take her upto
80 kilometres a day in search of prey.

And, finally, she's caught
up with a herd of the only antelope

that can survive
the intense heat of the dunes,

South African oryx.

As many as a hundred thousand
live here.

A system of blood vessels
under their black and white faces

allows them to keep cool heads
when others can't.

Standing more than a metre
tall at the shoulder,

they outweigh her by 45 kilograms.

Almost-metre-long rapier horns
have been known to impale a lion.

Without cover to hide an approach,

the odds are stacked against her.

Over distance,

she can't outpace an oryx.

In a sprint, she has the edge.

But only if she can close
the gap to 15 metres or less.

Once oryx get into their stride
at 65 kilometres per hour,

further pursuit is futile.

In the fine balance
between predator and prey,

the scales have tipped
in favour of the antelope.

For now.

By midday, temperatures
exceed 43 degrees.

If she launched an attack now,
she'd face heat exhaustion.

But she's survived this long by
listening to the rhythms of the desert.

In the early afternoon,
the sands begin to whisper.

As air is heated by the sun,

it rises and cool air
rushes in to replace it.

The Namib's wind-whipped sand
skews the odds

to her advantage.

And she knows it.

With oryx sheltering nearby,

once again she must close
the distance.

Now,

the drifting veil blurs
her outline.

The incessant hiss,
muffles her foot falls.

This will supply the food
and, crucially,

the moisture a lion needs
for a week.

Uniquely, this desert
can even provide for a big cat

that's mastered its mysterious
ways to triumph in an age-old conflict.

Rolling plains make up
around half of the Namib.

They may look bone dry and barren,

but water still finds a way
to trigger new life in this Eden.

This is a paradise
to the giant of the bird world.

Standing two and a half metres tall,

the ostrich.

They may seem conspicuous out here

but mounted on that periscope neck

are the largest eyeballs
of any land animal,

bigger than their brains.

They can spot a predator one
and a half kilometres away.

And since the Namib provides
scant cover for would-be hunters,

Ostriches abound here
in the tens of thousands.

Those featherless drumsticks
help radiate heat,

allowing these birds
to tolerate temperatures

of 48 degrees Celsius.

With little or no competition,

they have the pick of the
Juiciest insects and roots.

Supplying them with all
the water they need.

But for this 4-year-old male,
Just coming of age,

it's females, not food,
that preoccupy him.

It takes succulent shoots
to sustain a brood of chicks,

and new vegetation
only arrives after rainfall.

Until then,
despite explicit advances,

he's got little hope of breeding.

Yet his luck could be about
to change.

Storm clouds are gathering.

A little more than half a centimetre
of rainfall.

And it could be all they get this year.

Still, it's enough.

The ostrich females
are now in a mood for romance.

Just what a lusty youngster
was hoping for.

But that's not what she
has in mind.

He doesn't know it yet,

but he's already lost the mating game.

A booming, amplified call
announces the arrival of an alpha male.

That's how to make a big hit
with the hens.

All eyes are on him.

Impeccable poise.

An elegantly executed waft
to the wind.

And a neck dip to die for.

It's a shimmying show-stopper
of a performance.

He scores a perfect 10.

Won over by his masterful moves,

a female lowers her wings
in acceptance.

He'd better start rehearsing
his song and dance routine.

He'll be ready the next time
the rains come.

In a year.

Maybe more.

Every desert yearns
for the promise of rain,

but in the Namib
it's the cue for a magical display,

as seeds that have lain dormant
for up to 15 years

turn desert into
wildflower meadows.

Far downstream, another amazing
transformation takes place.

Sleeping riverbeds awaken.

And are flushed by rain

that may have fallen two days ago,
250 kilometres away.

A long-awaited respite,
from dust and drought.

For a female ostrich,

it's a baptism for her
new brood.

Now, even the largest animals to walk
the Earth can quench a giant thirst.

Desert elephants.

Around a 150 have chosen
to live in the Namib.

Seeping away within days,
the runaway waters

are a fugitive memory.

But in this desert
they continue to make life possible.

It's said that an elephant
never forgets.

And to find their daily food,

this herd relies on
the 34-year-old matriarch

and her powers of recall.

None more so than her calf.

In the driest years,
all calves may perish.

As she leads the herd down
a sun-baked riverbed,

things don't look promising.

But under their feet lies another of
the Namib's secret water sources.

A hidden oasis.

An aquifer locks surface
rainwater in the rock itself.

Throughout Namibia,
these underground reservoirs,

some of the largest in the world,

sequester around a third
as much water as flows in its rivers.

It may be more than 30 meters down,
but one type of tree,

the ana,

has roots long enough to tap
into this precious groundwater.

And the matriarch knows that
their branches are festooned

with succulent
protein rich pods.

The problem is,
someone got here first.

A solitary bull.

At over four meters tall,

plus that trunk,

he's plucked pretty much
all the pods within his six-metre reach.

Just a few more up there.

But the patient matriarch knows
she can make the most of his impatience.

Pretty soon he'll get frustrated enough
to shake things up a little.

At up to twice her weight,

he has the bulldozer power
to dislodge all the pods he needs.

And more.

This welcome shower of pods
does more than whet their appetites.

It refuels the herd for their commute
to the next food stop

the matriarch has in mind.

Unlike other deserts,

Namib's life-sustaining ground waters,

have made possible the seemingly
miraculous survival of elephant families

that pass down their wisdom
from generation to generation.

Beyond the dry river beds
with their hidden aquifers,

the Namib's western realm
rolls away to the horizon.

This scorched land
may never see a drop of rain.

Braving the 48-lepdegree
furnace heat

a yearling black-backed jackal.

Leaving family behind,
at her age she has to forge a new life.

Food here is scarce.

But she knows the far horizon

offers an unexpected promise
of plenty.

After 16 kilometres,

a breath of welcome sea breeze.

The Atlantic Ocean.

The desert stretches for 1600 kilometres
along Namibia's west coast.

Treacherous seas led
early mariners to name this place

the Skeleton Coast.

But these storm-turned waters
are fertile and teem with fish,

making this desolate coastline
a paradise

for up to a million Cape fur seals...

In some of the
largest colonies on the planet...

drawing in hundreds of jackals
from far and wide.

The pupping season offers her
the chance to found her independence

on the biggest feeding
opportunity of the year.

So, surely a jackal can
Just help itself.

But some of the pups already
outweigh her.

They have teeth at one end.

And you can't risk tangling
with a 100 kilograms of angry mother.

Youngsters are just not experienced
enough to hunt on their own.

Could she join a pack?

This family is not about
to share their kill.

She needs a different strategy.

Jackals are the ultimate scavengers,

a service that can help limit
the spread of disease.

Since as many in one in five
seal pups die of natural causes,

it's a trade-off
between species.

Yearlings are feeding
on carcasses.

And they're too hungry
to care about hierarchy.

Now, she can eat.

And slake her thirst.

The jackals are not
at the top of the food chain.

This brown hyena comes equipped
with a jaw that can crack bones.

He takes any kill he wants.

And she can't afford to be reckless.

She may have lost her meal

but she's found her place
in the social order here

and has proven
she can make it on her own,

thanks to this annual offering
from ocean to desert.

But, by remarkable alchemy,
the chill waters of the Atlantic

have a far more profound effect
on life in this desert Eden.

Here, vital freshwater
is offered up to creatures far inland.

Rolling away from the sea
for as much as 60 kilometres

and cresting 240 meters high,

the tallest dunes on the planet.

By the withering heat of day,

without a scrap of shade,

they're seemingly uninhabitable.

Yet, as night falls,
the Namib's temperatures drop

to a comfortable 10 degrees Celsius.

They come alive

to become the richest
dune habitat on Earth.

The size of a ping pong ball,

the desert rain frog.

To avoid frying to a crisp

by day

this amphibian hides deep in the sand.

But when the conditions are just right,
he emerges to feed.

Trudging up to 45 metres,

he calmly noses around for insects,

while a Namaqua dwarf adder

primes itself for ambush.

But this tiny snake can only strike prey
closer than 10 centimetres.

A Parabuthus scorpion

uses hair-like feelers
to detect the tiniest movement.

And frogs are also on his menu.

The frog mustn't stir

or he'll trigger a deadly attack
from her stinging tail.

But waiting's what he's good at.

At last, a colony of termites

busily harvesting dune grass.

They're packed with protein and fat.

He'll force down up to a hundred
in a sitting.

But lingering can be dangerous.

It's just a harmless golden mole

snaffling his share of the termites.

Before he can go back into hiding,

the frog must hold his nerve

and wait until dawn draws near.

Only then will the desert
give up its most precious gift.

Coastal fog

creeps up to 65 kilometres inland

over the dunes.

As it condenses on grass stems,

dew droplets wet the ground below.

Pressing his belly onto the damp sand,

this amphibian absorbs all the moisture
he needs through his skin.

Before retreating into
the safety of his burrow

orice more.

For a few hours at dawn,

before the sun burns
higher and hotter,

the dunes are bathed
in the cool sea mist

dousing this thirsty land
with twice as much water as rain

for 100 or so days a year.

At least 48 different creatures
rely entirely on the fog,

many found nowhere
else on Earth.

A headstand beetle hikes to the highest
and wettest point of the dune,

the equivalent of you or me
climbing Mount Everest. Twice.

It tips hard won
dew drops down its back

and provides the mouth-watering meal

a Namaqua chameleon
needs to survive here.

The Namib fog supplies
Just enough moisture

for the hardiest of plants to take root.

Dune grass can be
almost two metres tall.

And each stalk is a smallholding,

farmed by one of the desert's most
abundant and hardworking inhabitants,

Dune ants.

Hidden among the stems
are their livestock,

tiny sap-sucking scale insects.

The centimetre-long ants
protect the scale insects

from potential predators

and milk their micro herd

for a reward of sugary honeydew.

It's a harmonious existence.

Each tussock is a tiny utopia.

Incredibly, the Namib's fog

also offers life

to giants.

Towering almost six metres,
the tallest animal on the planet,

even the giraffe can get
all the moisture it needs

from fog-drenched leaves.

With the help of this most
ethereal of the Namib's water sources,

around 360 giraffes prosper

in one of Africa's most hostile regions.

In the past, their numbers were managed

by lions.

A solitary female
and her family specialised in hunting

these one and a half ton
herbivores.

Old habits die hard.

But, without backup, she has
no chance of taking one down.

Over the years, human persecution

not only took the lives of her pride

but brought Namib's lions
to the very brink of extinction.

Now, with careful protection,
the population is stable

at around a hundred and fifty.

But, today,
there's an even greater threat.

The latest data suggest the
temperature here has increased

by almost
one and a half degrees Celsius.

The precious and unexpected
water supplies

that sustain this place
could dwindle and disappear.

From this ancient landscape
has sprung one of the most marvellous

collections of desert creatures
on Earth.

With our help,

the ageless rhythm of life

could prevail

in this magical
mirage of an Eden.