If there’s one thing you should know about the Cape Peninsula, it’s that it’s stunningly green. And as a Vancouver gal, I don’t give that sort of credit lightly. So, as you can well imagine, when I bid Cape Town farewell early in the morning on May 20, it was a bittersweet departure from the familiar green mountain slopes. But it was also just the beginning of a grand adventure with an overland company called Nomads, and the companionship of a multinational group of campers.
If I were to tell you everything about my time in Namibia, I’d produce a novel. You probably don’t want to scroll through all that, so I’ll focus on my favourite part about this land of contrasts. Just know, Namibia was incredibly special because it’s where my mother is from. She grew up in Windhoek, and I’ve always wanted to see where she came from.
The Road from the Cape to Keetmanshoop
That first day, the Cape rains cleared and gave way to the orange crags of the Cederberg mountain range and a fertile valley bursting with citrus fruits ripe for harvest. At mid-afternoon we stopped at Piekenierskloof and sampled from several bottles of wine in the estate’s cellar, selecting a few to enjoy under the canopy of stars awaiting us in the desert. We only travelled as far as Markuskraal that first day, and thereafter, we took aim for the border and crossed into Namibia.
In this harsh environment, very little survives. And anything that does puts up defences. The roadside was lined with tangles of wicked-looking thorns—white spindles nearly two inches long, and waxy green plants that our guides explained look innocent enough, but the milk is poisonous enough to blind a person if it gets into their eyes or kill them if digested.
After a few long days of travel, we were falling into a routine. We would set up camp in the rust-coloured dust and oppressive Kalahari heat, and crack jokes about doing the sand walk between the ablutions block and the tents so as to not rouse the sandworms. Then my new friends and I would cannonball into the frigid pool at our rest camp and after towelling off, settle down for a few rounds of card games.
Namib-Naukluft National Park
Nearly a week into our trek and a day before we were due to arrive in the German Bavarian beachside town Swakopmund, we set off from our rest camp an hour before dawn in a state of sleep-deprived delirium, aiming for Namib-Naukluft National Park.
The Namib Desert is the oldest in the world—formed nearly 60 million years ago, it’s older than the Sahara, even the Antarctic tundra. It’s burning orange dunes are breathtaking. Changing wind patterns over millions of years blew the white sand from southwestern Africa’s Atlantic coast inland, scraping with it iron filaments that the salty sea air caused to oxidize. We learnt this later that same day when a bushman guide took us out into the wide open plains of the Bushman’s Desert at sunset, but more on that further down.
Climbing Dune 45
As the dawn light spread its fingers across the sky, it failed to penetrate the heavy bank rolling in. Curling tendrils of fog draped like white blankets over the rocky escarpment. This long narrow strip of desert experiences heavy fog at least half the year, which poses a danger to ships, as evidenced by the rusting hulls of dozens and dozens of shipwrecks from every era that define the Skeleton Coast. Still, I knew the colours of the desert would not be nearly so striking agaisnt a slate-grey sky, and the disappointment was like a stone in my stomach.
However, the overcast morning meant we were able to make a relatively swift ascent of Dune 45 upon arrival in the park. It’s not the highest—that’s Dune 7, but it is accessible. I’ve read many travellers advise on their blogs to take your shoes off when you climb. I say don’t. Yes, your shoes will quickly fill up with sand and I spent five successive days banging them together every time I felt the grit between my toes. As annoying as it was, still don’t. After the sun comes up the sand reaches a scorching temperature. I learned that the hard way in Queensland. Also, there are stinging critters and nasty thorns hiding in the sand.
Laughing as we sank into the sand and tripped over our own feet careening down the dune, we arrived breathless back at our truck to freshly prepared hot coffee. Then we transferred to a smaller Jeep to drive to Deadvlei.
Departing the Dunes for the Dead Valley
Bumping over the sand moguls, we caught our first animal sightings. That’s a lie. Until now, our only sighting was of a couple of giraffes grazing roadside south of Keetmanshoop, and they were too far away to properly admire, so we were terribly excited. First, a black-backed jackal on a mission, for he was moving too quickly to get a good look at. Then, an oryx with a beautiful tan and black-striped hide and scimitar-sharp horns.
Our Jeep deposited us at the foot of a dune, and we began the one km walk to the dead valley. By this time of morning, the cloud cover was blowing inland and the jewel-blue sky peeking through. As promised, the burnt orange and sky-blue contrast was striking. With the sun now bearing down on us and losing two steps for every one we gained going up the side of the dune, we were a bit breathless when we crested the dead valley.
Now, a word about Deadvlei. Millions of years ago this area was flush green in no part thanks to life-giving water. But as the sand dunes shifted and cut this fertile valley off from its river supply some thousand years ago, the camlethorn trees perished. Their petrified remains in the shrivelled up clay pan folded between the dunes are a sight to behold. For it would have appeared that every tourist in Namibia at that present moment was at or heading toward Deadvlei.
Seriously, it came as a shock. We’d been on the road for five days at this point with barely a hint that Namibia is inhabited. The dunes were crawling with people and resembling ant colonies.
Rest Camp in the Bushman’s Desert
After a wonderful morning in the park, it was time to embark. We got back on the road to our rest camp at Sossus on Foot, but first we pulled off in Solitaire for a square of apple pie at Moose McGregor’s Desert Bakery. Jojo, our guide, had been singing its praises for at least two days. While we were enjoying our warm, crumbly desserts, the banded mongooses approached us with their paws up, hoping for nibbles.
At camp, we were whisked away by yet another jeep to venture out into the veld at sundown. Our barefoot bushman guide rumbled across the plain, and we stopped to gaze at a herd of oryx sprinting into the sunset, before he put his foot to the pedal again and took us back into the dunes.
The Plains of Sossus on Foot
The Namib Desert is an inhospitable place. Yet, the bushmen have been able to survive in its harsh conditions for thousands of years. Our guide explained how they find water in the roots of camelthorn trees that burrow deep into the ground. How they’ll take an empty ostrich egg and stick an acacia root in and seal the top off with honeybee wax, then stick it in the ground where it’ll collect precipitation. They use the venom of the six eyed crab spider to coat their arrowheads and when they hunt they always cut off the tail of downed game so other hunters will know it’s been claimed.
At the end of a long day, we pitched our tents in a circle out on the plain and tipped our camper chairs backs so we could glance at the sky, tipsy on the Piekenierskloof wine. Though the days are hot, the nights are cold, and we had our hoods up and tin mugs of piping hot tea between our icy fingers. This is perhaps the most amazing part about camping in the Namib Desert. We’ve seen the Milk Way every night. The midnight sky is streaked with a dusting of stars, and if we look long enough, we’ll see the split-second streak of a meteor. One of us, unfortunately, was looking in the wrong place at the wrong time and missed it. Luckily, we had had a few days to work on our astrophotography, and managed to capture a nice timelapse of the night sky. Just look up!