Second Africa Page

Saturday 11 April 1998

Up at dawn this morning for a long drive from Namutoni to Okaukuego, where we exited Etosha National Park. Then southwest to Swakopmund. Everywhere are giant red termite mounds popping up among the mopane scrub.

Swakopmund is a little piece of Germany set down on the coast of Namibia, and Deutsche is the language of choice here. It's Easter Weekend and the only room we can find is at the Bahnhof Casino and Hotel. This big, glitzy complex has just been created from what remained of the old train station. It is another example of many similar misguided public works we've seen along the way. In New Zealand, Australia, the Mascarenes, South Africa, and now in Namibia we've come across these giant, gaudy, government-built casinos that theoretically will generate revenues for the commonweal. For the most part they seem quite short of patrons and must be costing a lot to keep open and maintained.

For the sake of maintaining good relations, Dan and Kaaren each contributed $20 at the blackjack tables.

Sunday 12 April 1998

As we drove out of town this morning these handsome Herrero ladies were collecting seaweed, still dressed in their Sunday best.

Twenty k's south along the coast from Swakopmund is the town of Walvis Bay. It's a grubby little port city that is a holding of South Africa, though it lies completely within Namibia. This is our last chance to provision before heading into the Namib Desert.

The road changed from macadam to gravel at the edge of town . . . it was the last sealed road we'd drive on for the next 1000 kilometers. The land quickly becomes parched and barren as we travel south through spectacular red dune seas and dry, rocky river canyons. We see another vehicle only every hour or so.

From high up on the escarpment we spotted a shady lunch spot down in the dry gorge of the Kuiseb River . . . when we got there we found our spot already occupied by Peter and Kristal Kunstler, whom we'd met days before at Okaukuego. It was a delightful coincidence and we celebrated with a lunch of wine, cheese, bread and Oryx biltong.

We stopped in a little village for petrol. They had a nice, new-looking gas pump, but no electricity. So the attendant delivered fuel with a hand-cranked pump. Tyler woke up a little meerkat that was asleep in a shady spot alongside the station, and fed it some chips.

A long, hot afternoon later we pulled up to our little tent-house at the edge of the Sossusvlei dunes. Ty went out at dusk to explore for bugs and birds.

Later that evening at dinner we met Bushman (we never did learn his real name). Bushman is an Afrikaner who grew up on a ranch near Reitfontein. He's spent his whole life trying to learn the ways and skills of the San bushmen. We made arrangements with him to guide us on a hiking trip the next morning into the Sossusvlei dunes.

Monday 13 April 1998

In order to get a headstart on the heat, we were up and ready to go at 0500. While we were loading up the car a handsome, fortyish-looking guy dressed in raggedy shorts and old loafers introduced himself as the fourth member of our group. He asked if he could ride with us for the 50-km drive out to the starting point of our hike. This is how we got to know a quiet, thoughtful man named Jeannot Krecke. He's a pretty special person. When we asked him about himself he told us that he's an ex-professional soccer player, but that he's best known as a sailor and explorer of Arctic seas . . . only later in the day did he mention in passing that he also happens to be Majority Leader of Parliament in Luxembourg. He'd come to Namibia to inspect some public works projects his government has invested in, and took a day off to hike through the dunes.

The dunes at Sossusvlei are the highest in the world, rising over 300 meters above the riverbed where we parked. Except for Polar Regions, it must be just about the harshest climate on the face of the earth. On the average, rain falls here only every five years or so. Each organism of this fragile ecosystem is uniquely adapted to take advantage of what little moisture condenses here from fog that rolls in from the sea each night. It is so dry that nothing rots when it dies. If a body is not scavenged, it just desiccates into a dried-up husk that remains until windblown sand erodes it into invisible bits.

We started hiking at 0600. The going was sometimes strenuous: when climbing the dunes, for every two steps taken forward, you slide back one. Walking through a land so apparently empty of life is unnerving, but at the same time breathtakingly beautiful. The wind naturally sorts different sizes and colors of sand, sculpting a pastel landscape into giant sinuous curves and hills and hollows.

At one point we crossed an ancient pan in which stood the blackened skeletons of camelthorn trees that died of thirst a thousand years ago. Bushman loves this barren land and knows in minute detail how every plant and animal fits into its particular niche and is dependant upon the well-being of all the other flora and fauna in the region. He showed us how perfectly an Oryx turd is 'designed' to provide the ideal environment for grass seed to germinate when enough moisture is present.

By 1100 we got back to where we'd parked, and ate our breakfast. By then it was starting to get real warm. Bushman drove us to what was left of a small muddy 'lake' that was all that remained of a tremendous flood that had occurred several weeks earlier. Probably from the same rains that flooded the Aoub at Etosha, because here too it was the first time water had flowed in twenty years. People came from all over Africa to see the phenomenon. The lake developed over a kilometer wide pan that had been totally desiccated for all those years, and now had again already shrunk to a muddy wallow. We couldn't get to the water's edge because of the thick, sticky mud, but even from a distance we could see churning masses of catfish that within a day or two would be left high and dry.

This turned into a very long day. It was afternoon by the time we said our goodbyes and left Sossusvlei. We'd been hiking through the sand under a brilliant sun since dawn, and we still had to cover more than 600 kilometers over unmarked dirt roads to our next destination at Fish River Canyon. Miles from anything that looked remotely habitable we came across this little family slowly heading somewhere. They thought we were a pretty odd bunch.

Despite getting lost a couple of times we made it to the Fish River Canyon okay, pulling up to the National Park Gates at Ai Ais a little before midnight. Ai Ais proved to be a total bust. First the guard wouldn't let us through the gate into the park. Then they had no record of our reservation (we'd paid in full for the room weeks before). The room they finally gave us was small, old and dirty and the hot water wouldn't work (and this at a hot springs resort!), the staff was surly and the food terrible. Don't go there.

Tuesday 14 April 1998

Today is going to be another long one on the road. We've got over 900 kilometers to cover to get to our next accommodation in Capetown. Now we're on the main North-South highway, it's macadam and the two-lane road is in pretty good shape. The official speed limit is 120 kph but is wholly ignored, and most traffic is going about 150. Even at that speed now and again we're passed by muscle cars going probably over 200 kph. What's most disconcerting is that a two-lane road is treated as three lanes, with the centerline conceded to passing traffic. Cars pass anytime they want, even when confronted with oncoming traffic. If you see a car coming at you, in your lane, you're expected to make room for them by driving onto the shoulder. It feels like anarchy on the highway . . . a nonstop game of Chicken. The whole time we were in Africa we never saw anyone get a speeding ticket.

Big hassles at the ZAR/Namibian frontier. For some reason the Namibian border guards decided to pick on us. They went through all our stuff and made a big stink about us leaving the country with the Himba headdress we'd purchased in Windhoek. We didn't know if they were shaking us down for a bribe, or what . . . we wouldn't know how to offer one anyway. We showed them our receipts and documentation, and finally after an hour of fussing around they sent us on our way.

Southward to Kapstadt.

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Third Africa Page . . .