Into the Desert’s Heart
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Chapter
1 - Battling the Elements
Crossing
into Namibia
Crossing
into Namibia was less about paperwork and more like stepping into a vast,
untamed canvas. The Orange River shimmered beside us, its waters a rare
softness against the desert’s hard edges. At Vioolsdrift, the border post was
little more than a cluster of buildings, yet stepping across felt momentous.
With our PCR tests waved through, we were free to chase the horizon.
Our
first communion with Namibia came in the form of a petrol station
breakfast—greasy eggs, strong coffee, and the promise that no journey should
begin on an empty stomach. Amanda drove ahead while I biked on the last stretch
of tar, savouring the smoothness before the gravel roads claimed me.
The
road wound along the Orange River, a ribbon of silver cutting through
desolation. Stark cliffs rose on one side, the river’s shimmer on the other, a
contrast so sharp it felt almost theatrical. In the meantime, Amanda discovered
a riverside resort with camping tucked against the water’s edge. Finding me
without internet became its own adventure—she retraced her path like a
childhood treasure hunt, finally waving me down with news of the lodge.
By
evening, the desert softened. The pool reflected the fading sky, the bar
offered its comforts, and the sun descended in a blaze of orange and pink. We
gathered around a crackling fire, the stars pricking the sky one by one. It was
the kind of night that made every kilometre worthwhile—a reminder that the
road, however demanding, always holds moments of grace.
Into
the Furnace
Leaving
the riverside camp felt like parting with an oasis. I knew that the stretch
ahead might be the last glimpse of water or pavement until Walvis Bay, and the
thought carried a quiet weight. The 80-kilometre dirt road to Ai-Ais surprised
me with its smoothness; the ride felt almost effortless, as if Namibia was
offering me a gentle introduction before revealing its harsher truths.
By
midday, Amanda passed me in the car, her wave a fleeting reminder that
companionship sometimes moves at different speeds. The road was nearly
deserted—only one vehicle all day, the manager of Ai-Ais’s resort. The
emptiness was profound. The forecast had promised almost forty degrees, but a
breeze stirred just enough to keep the flies at bay.
Twilight
painted the sky in shades of red, and we cooked pasta instead of lighting a
fire, knowing there were no shops or supplies for miles. As night fell, the
heat pressed down like a heavy blanket. I left the flysheet off the tent,
surrendering to the desert’s sounds—the rustle of unseen creatures, the whisper
of wind through dry grass.
It
was a simple day, stripped of distractions, yet it carried its own perfection.
In the silence of Ai-Ais, I felt both exposed and embraced, as if the desert
itself had drawn me into its rhythm.
Onto
Hobas Lodge – A Battle against the Wind
The
desert woke early, and so did I. By dawn, I was already on the road, determined
to steal a few cooler hours before the forecasted heat arrived. The climb began
almost immediately, the road rising into a headwind that pressed against me
like an invisible wall. Each pedal stroke felt monumental, my speed dropping to
a crawl—six, seven kilometres an hour. Progress was measured not in distance
but in stubbornness—one stroke, then another.
By
midday, the wind finally eased, but relief was short-lived. A swarm of flies
descended, relentless in their pursuit, orbiting me like tiny drones. Their
buzzing filled the silence, a maddening chorus that tested my patience more
than the climb itself. Just when irritation threatened to overwhelm me, Amanda
appeared like a mirage, slowing the car beside me and extending a bottle of
water through the window. That simple gesture—cool water in the furnace—was
salvation.
The
landscape itself was both tormentor and muse. The Fish River Canyon stretched
out in the distance, vast and ancient, its gorges carved over millions of
years. The sight stole my breath, reminding me that endurance is rewarded not
only with survival but with beauty. Every exhausting kilometre had led me here,
to this view that dwarfed my struggle.
By
the time I reached Hobas Lodge, fatigue had settled deep into my bones. Relief
washed over me when Amanda revealed her surprise: a chalet instead of a
campsite. A shower, a bed, four walls to keep out the baboons that prowled the
grounds—it felt like luxury beyond measure. That night, as I lay in comfort, I
thought of the canyon outside, its silence stretching back through time. My own
battle with wind and heat seemed small against its immensity, yet somehow, I
felt part of its story.
Chapter
2 - Moments of Wonder
At
the Edge of Time
The
morning began with anticipation. Just ten kilometres from Hobas Lodge lay the
canyon’s main viewpoint, and I was eager to see it. Amanda drove us there—the
road wound toward Hell’s Bend, where the land suddenly opened into immensity.
The Fish River Canyon revealed itself in a sweep of stone and silence, plunging
nearly 550 meters into the earth. Standing there, I felt both small and
infinite. It was staggering to imagine that this chasm began to form 120
million years ago, when Gondwana split apart, and the Fish River carved deeper
into the rising continent.
The
canyon was more than geology—it was a reminder of time’s vastness, of how
landscapes endure while human struggles flicker briefly across their surface. I
lingered at the viewpoint, letting the scale sink in, before pressing on.
Back
at the lodge, I saddled up, and the road carried me past relics of human
effort: a weathered lime kiln, a sturdy railway bridge, each whispering of days
gone by. Amanda and I reunited briefly at the Canyon Roadhouse, then parted
again, each following our own rhythm toward camp.
Our
destination was Canyon Farm Yard, a short 60-ish kilometres away, stripped of
electricity and Wi-Fi; it’s a place where nightfall meant surrendering to the
natural world. As darkness settled, the sky erupted with stars—sharp,
brilliant, unpolluted by city lights. I lay back, listening to the desert’s
quiet symphony, and felt the canyon’s presence even miles away. It was a night
of pure connection, a reminder that sometimes the absence of modern comforts is
the greatest gift.
Floods
and Detours - Canyon Farm Yard – Seeheim
Dawn
broke quietly at the Canyon Farm Yard, the kind of silence that makes a cup of
coffee taste richer. By six, I was already awake, savouring the ritual of
boiling water on the stove, the steam rising into the cool desert air. By
eight, I was on the road, the day stretching ahead in dusty promise.
A
few kilometres in, the journey shifted. The road was closed, swallowed by
flooding, and I was forced onto a detour across the Naute Dam wall. The sluice
gates were wide open, unleashing torrents of water that thundered into the
river below. It was a spectacle of raw power, a reminder that even in this arid
land, water could still command the stage.
Soon
after, the pavement returned, and with it a tailwind that carried me swiftly
toward nearby Seeheim, only 67 km away. The ride felt effortless, the kind of
momentum that makes you believe the road itself is cheering you on. By
afternoon, I rolled into the Seeheim Hotel and Camping, a place that charged
dearly for its comforts yet stood nearly empty. Even the pool came at a price,
unless you ordered food or drink. Amanda, ever resourceful, made a supply run
to Keetmanshoop, returning with crisps and beer—our own version of luxury.
That
evening, I sat with a drink in hand, grateful for the chance to connect online,
even if it meant paying for overpriced Wi-Fi. Outside, the desert stretched on,
indifferent to our small victories. Inside, we carved out a pocket of comfort,
proof that even in the most remote corners, companionship and resourcefulness
can make a place feel like home.
The
Price of Comfort
The
ride from Seeheim to Alta Kalkhofen was mercifully short, just over fifty
kilometres, and the pavement made for smooth, swift progress. Yet what struck
me most that day wasn’t the road—it was the price of rest. Namibia’s
accommodation costs loomed like a shadow over every stop, a stark contrast to
the ten-dollar rooms I had grown accustomed to in Southeast Asia. Here, each
bed or campsite seemed to demand a small fortune, as if the desert itself
charged admission.
Amanda
and I had heard whispers of a campsite at Alta Kalkhofen, and we were
determined to make it our refuge. The lodge was simple, its comforts limited to
the reception area where electricity and Wi-Fi flickered like rare luxuries. We
charged our devices, posted updates, and nursed beers as if they were tickets
to connection. Outside, the desert stretched dry and unyielding, yet that
evening the sky broke open with rare rainfall. The drops fell like blessings,
soaking the parched earth, a reminder that even here, life waits patiently for
renewal.
As
night settled, Amanda and I began plotting our next adventure—a side trip to
Kolmanskop, the ghost town near Lüderitz. The thought of retracing kilometres
on the bike didn’t thrill me, so we decided to leave my bicycle and our camping
gear behind, trading pedals for wheels. The desert had taught us resilience,
but it had also taught us pragmatism: sometimes the straightest path to history
is through compromise.
Chapter
3 - Wild Horses and Kolmanskop Ghost Town
Ghosts
in the Desert
The
morning began with the clatter of loading gear into the car, a temporary
surrender of bicycle and camping kit. The staff at Alta Kalkhofen were kind
enough to store our belongings, freeing me to chase history on four wheels
instead of two.
The
road unfurled like a ribbon across the Namib Desert, vast and silent, its
emptiness almost overwhelming after the crowded vibrancy of Southeast Asia.
Descending from the escarpment near Aus, the desert stretched into infinity, a
landscape stripped bare of distraction. Amid this solitude, we spotted
Namibia’s wild horses grazing near Garub. Their presence was both improbable
and magical—creatures surviving against the odds in a place that seemed
designed to resist life.
Kolmanskop
rose from the sand like a mirage, its crumbling houses half-swallowed by dunes.
Once a diamond boomtown, now a ghost town, it carried the eerie beauty of
abandonment. The entrance fee and restricted visiting hours felt like barriers
to intimacy, denying us the golden light of sunrise or sunset. Yet even in the
harsh midday glare, the town whispered of greed, labour, and decline. The
desert had reclaimed what ambition built, leaving only silence and sand.
Lüderitz
offered contrast—a town alive with colour and sea air. Against my expectations,
we found a modestly priced room in the heart of town, proof that Namibia was not
only for the well-heeled. The shower felt like redemption, washing away desert
dust, while strong Wi-Fi finally allowed me to update my blog.
Yet
the day carried shadows. In a small shop, I watched a woman dismiss a Namibian
man with brusque impatience, rolling her eyes at his surname. Her tone softened
when she turned to us, but the damage was done. The moment was a reminder that
racism still lingered here, woven into daily exchanges. It was disheartening, a
jarring note in a day otherwise filled with wonder.
By
evening, the desert chill returned, and we wandered to the waterfront. Dinner
was simple but delicious, the service warm, the atmosphere gentle. As the sun
dropped behind the horizon, the day closed with a balance of beauty and
unease—ghost towns reclaimed by sand,
Echoes
of Kolmanskop
We
set out for Kolmanskop with the casual assumption that the gates would open at
nine. To our surprise, they swung open an hour earlier, and by eight, we were
wandering through the ghost town’s eerie remains. Sand had claimed the houses,
spilling through doorways and windows, filling rooms where miners once lived
and dreamed. The silence was profound, broken only by the crunch of our
footsteps and the whisper of wind through broken glass.
Kolmanskop
was more than a ruin—it was a monument to ambition and exploitation. Diamonds
had drawn people here, carving a town out of the desert, only to abandon it
when the wealth ran dry. The dunes crept back, patient and unstoppable,
reclaiming what had been taken. I thought of the National Geographic article I
had read, its words echoing in my mind as I stood among the ruins: the brutal
past, the labour, the greed, all etched into these crumbling walls.
After
hours of wandering, we left the ghost town behind, carrying its silence with
us. On the drive back to Alta Kalkhofen, the desert offered a gentler gift—wild
horses grazing in the distance, their silhouettes etched against the horizon.
They seemed to embody resilience, living proof that survival was possible even
in the harshest of landscapes.
By
evening, we were back at the lodge, my bicycle waiting patiently in the shed.
The day had been a journey into history and back again, a reminder that the
desert holds both ghosts and miracles, and that every mile carries echoes of
what came before.
https://www.nationalgeographic.com/travel/article/eerie-fascinating-pictures-kolmanskop-desert-diamond-ghost-town
Storms
in Bethanie
The
ride to Bethanie should have been easy—forty-six kilometres of gradual
climbing—but the headwind turned it into a battle. It felt like each gust wanted
to push me back to my starting point, slowing progress, demanding patience. By
the time I reached the settlement, perched at 1,100 meters, Amanda was already
waiting at a guesthouse that proudly claimed to be Namibia's oldest hotel. Its
charm was irresistible, and we chose comfort over camping, surrendering to the
lure of a proper room.
No
sooner had we unpacked than the sky darkened. Clouds rolled in, heavy and
theatrical, and lightning split the horizon. Then the heavens opened. Rain
poured down in sheets, transforming the courtyard into a shallow lake. Staff
scrambled to keep the kitchen dry, but water seeped in relentlessly. Power
flickered, then failed, plunging the town into darkness. Inside, we were safe,
dry, and grateful for our choice. Outside, the storm raged, turning the ground
into mud.
Dinner
was simple—boiled potatoes and pasta salad—but the staff's kindness and warmth
made it memorable. Stranded workers and a farmer unable to reach his land
joined us, their presence turning the guesthouse into a refuge. Conversation
flowed easily, stories mingling with the sound of rain hammering the roof. News
arrived of washed-out roads, warning against travel. The storm had trapped us
together, weaving strangers into a temporary community.
By
morning, the rain had not relented. The farmer remained, unable to reach his
fields, and Amanda was advised to stay put. We accepted the delay and chose to
explore Bethanie instead. The town revealed its layered history: the Lentia
Lutheran Church of 1899, its predecessor from 1859, and the sobering story of
the first recorded land sale. A German representative had “purchased” land from
the Nama people, who saw land as communal, not property. The transaction marked
the beginning of dispossession, a legacy that still echoes.
Walking
through Bethanie, I felt the weight of history pressing against the present.
The storm had forced us to pause, but in that pause, we found perspective—on
resilience, on community, and on the enduring scars of colonial ambition.
Chapter
4 - Endless Roads
Armoured
bush crickets—nature’s warriors.
The
morning sun rose over Bethanie, painting the sky in soft hues of orange and
pink. Ahead lay a daunting 140 kilometres, a long backtrack toward
Keetmanshoop. Retracing steps is never a joy—the road feels heavier when it is
familiar, and the mind resists the repetition. I tucked my camera away, saving
energy for the ride, though the desert still offered its curiosities.
Armoured
bush crickets scuttled across the asphalt, their bodies thick and defiant. They
were nature’s warriors, armed with spikes, capable of vomiting, even squirting
blood to deter predators. Watching them march across the road was a reminder
that survival here demanded ingenuity, whether insect or human.
The
kilometres stretched endlessly, each one a test of patience. By the time I
rolled into Keetmanshoop, fatigue had settled deep into my bones. Relief came
in the form of Amanda’s foresight—she had already found a guesthouse, sparing
me the search after such a long day.
That
evening, I let the exhaustion wash over me, grateful for shelter and
companionship. The desert had demanded endurance, and I had given it.
Keetmanshoop was not a destination of wonder, but it was a place of rest, and
sometimes that is enough.
Nama
villages - Keetmanshoop to Tses
The
day began with errands in Keetmanshoop—cash from the ATM, a new pump from the
outdoor shop—small victories that felt essential before tackling the road
north. By mid-morning, I was back in the saddle, the famed B1 highway
stretching ahead. Cycling highways has never been my favourite; the monotony is
numbing, the scenery unchanging, and the roar of trucks a constant reminder of
vulnerability. Yet with Linda due to arrive in just a few days and five hundred
kilometres still between Windhoek and me, there was no choice but to press on.
The
road was narrow, shoulders almost non-existent, but traffic was mercifully
light. In the distance, Brukkaros Crater rose like a silent sentinel, its vast
caldera a reminder of Namibia’s ancient volcanic past. I longed to explore it,
but time was not mine to spend.
By
late afternoon, and after less than 90 kilometres, I rolled into Tses, a tiny
Nama village of scattered houses, a school, a shop, and a church. Amanda had
already secured a room at the church guesthouse, a modest refuge that felt like
a gift. For just 200 Namibian dollars, we had two single beds, a kettle, a
fridge, a fan, and even a communal kitchen and TV room—comforts that seemed
extravagant after days on the road.
Arriving
early gave me time to rinse my cycling gear and wander through the village.
Children gathered, their laughter rising as they posed for photos, their joy
infectious. It was a moment of connection, pure and straightforward. But the
day had one last test in store. As I walked, a massive thorn pierced straight
through my shoe and into my foot. The pain was sharp, immediate, a reminder
that even the smallest details of this land could demand resilience.
That
night, I lay in bed with my foot throbbing, reflecting on the paradox of the
day: the monotony of the highway, the warmth of the village, the sting of the
thorn. Namibia was teaching me that beauty and hardship often arrive hand in
hand, and that survival here means embracing both.
Conversations
in Gibeon.
The 96-kilometre
ride from Tses to Gibeon carried little drama—just the steady rhythm of
asphalt, the occasional roadwork, and the hypnotic repetition of pedal strokes.
Yet the destination held more than rest; it carried stories.
Amanda
had gone ahead and found accommodation in Gibeon, another small Nama settlement
tucked quietly into the landscape. The guesthouse was modest, just 500 Namibian
dollars, but it offered comfort and a chance to connect. In the evening,
conversations with locals opened windows into the past. They spoke of
invasions, of colonial scars that still marked the land and its people.
We
visited the grave of Hendrik Witbooi, a leader whose name carries weight in
Namibia’s history. Standing there, I felt humbled. Witbooi had resisted German
colonial forces in the late 19th century, his defiance etched into memory even
as the land bore the wounds of genocide and dispossession. The silence of the
graveyard was heavy, yet it carried dignity—a reminder that resistance, even
when crushed, leaves echoes that endure.
It
was sobering to reflect on how deeply colonial legacies run, not only here but
across continents—Africa, the Americas, Australia. Discrimination and
superiority had carved wounds that generations still carry. Yet in Gibeon, amid
quiet streets and warm hospitality, I felt the resilience of people who
continue to live, remember, and resist forgetting.
That
night, as I lay in bed, I thought of the day’s ride—uneventful in distance,
profound in meaning. Sometimes the road itself is plain, but the stories it
leads to are anything but.
Rest
in Mariental
I
was jolted awake at the crack of dawn by the clucking of chickens, a rural
alarm clock that pulled me from sleep before the sun had fully risen. Silina,
our host, offered a simple but generous breakfast, a gesture of kindness that
set the tone for the day. With food in my belly and gratitude in my heart, I
set off, torn between ambition and ease—should I push the 150 kilometres to
Kalkrand in one go, or stretch the ride into two gentler days?
The
road was flat, the scenery unchanging, a hypnotic rhythm of asphalt and
horizon. Hours passed in a blur of sameness, the landscape offering little
distraction. Yet there was a strange peace in the monotony, a meditative
cadence to the ride.
By
afternoon, I rolled into Mariental, a village that felt weary, its streets
subdued, its energy muted. Amanda was waiting at a Wimpy restaurant, sipping
tea as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She had already found a
guesthouse—a small haven with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, and a
lounge, all for 600 Namibian dollars.
The
decision was easy. With the sun still high, we abandoned plans for further
kilometres and surrendered to comfort. The guesthouse became our refuge, a
place to rest, to breathe, to enjoy the luxury of space and quiet. After days
of relentless riding, the pause felt indulgent, but necessary.
That
evening, I reflected on the balance between endurance and rest. The road
demands persistence, but it also rewards those who know when to stop. In
Mariental, amid the stillness, I found renewal.
The
Endless Ribbon of the B1
The
B1 highway stretched ahead like a ribbon of asphalt, narrow and unyielding, its
monotony infamous among travellers. I understood its reputation now—mile after
mile of sameness, trucks thundering past with little room to spare, the scenery
refusing to change. It was a road that tested patience more than strength, a
reminder that not all challenges come in the form of mountains.
Midway
through the ride, the sky shifted. A gust of wind swept across the plain,
carrying with it a few teasing drops of rain. I scrambled into my jacket,
bracing for a storm, but just as quickly as it arrived, the rain vanished,
leaving only a cool breeze in its wake. The desert seemed to enjoy its tricks,
offering relief and frustration in equal measure.
Amanda,
ever resourceful, had unearthed a hidden gem in Kalkrand, just 80 km away—a
simple room for just 200 Namibian dollars. With no campgrounds in sight, the
thought of pitching tents in the wild was replaced by the comfort of four walls
and a roof. The day, which had begun with dull repetition, ended with
unexpected ease.
As I
lay in bed that night, I thought of the highway’s endless ribbon. It had
offered little beauty, but it had carried me forward, and sometimes that is
enough. Progress is not always thrilling; sometimes it is simply steady, and
steady is what gets you there.
Crossing
the Tropic of Capricorn
I
lingered in Kalkrand that morning, reluctant to leave the quiet comfort of our
simple room. Two cups of strong coffee delayed my departure, but eventually the
B1 highway beckoned, its asphalt stretching a hundred-odd kilometres north to
Rehoboth, our destination for the day.
The
ride carried echoes of Australia’s Stuart Highway—long, straight, and
unforgiving. Each cattle grid felt like a marker of progress, a small
punctuation in the monotony. Then, a familiar sign appeared: the Tropic of
Capricorn. I couldn’t resist stopping, leaning my bike against the marker, and
snapping a photo. It was a ritual I had performed before, but repetition didn’t
diminish its meaning. Crossing a line of latitude is more than geography—it is
a reminder of movement, of journeys that span continents and years.
By
late afternoon, I rolled into Rehoboth, weary but content. Amanda had already
secured a budget self-catering accommodation, and when I arrived, the fridge
was stocked with cold beers. Her foresight felt like a gift, a small act of
kindness that turned fatigue into celebration.
That
evening, we sat together, sipping our drinks, the desert’s silence pressing
gently against the walls. The day had been long, the road monotonous, but the
Tropic of Capricorn and Amanda’s quiet gesture transformed it into something
memorable. Sometimes joy lies not in grand discoveries but in small rituals and
shared comforts.
Chapter
5 - Arrival in Windhoek
Into
Windhoek with Rain on My Shoulders
The
morning began under a low, heavy fog, lending the road an almost mystical calm.
For a brief while, cycling felt serene, the mist wrapping me in quiet. But
serenity gave way to struggle. The B1 narrowed, trucks thundered past, and a
headwind rose, relentless against my progress. The road climbed into the Auas
Mountains, each ascent demanding more than my weary legs wanted to give.
Fatigue
pressed hard, and then the rain came. Droplets fell just as I reached the
summit, nearly 2,000 meters above sea level. It was unexpected, almost
absurd—rain in Namibia, at the very moment when exhaustion threatened to undo
me. Yet the storm carried its own gift. The last fifteen kilometres tipped
downhill, a thrilling rush into Windhoek, rain streaking across my face, the
city rising ahead like a promise fulfilled.
Reunion
waited at the end of the descent. My sister and Linda were there, their
presence a burst of joy after days of solitude and struggle. We celebrated with
a feast—Col’Cacchio pizzas devoured with laughter and relief. It was indulgent,
but it felt deserved.
The
following day was a public holiday, the city quieter than usual, shops
shuttered, plans postponed. Repairs for the bike and laptop would have to wait.
Instead, we rested, letting the pause settle in, savouring the simple fact of
arrival.
Windhoek
was not just a destination—it was a culmination. The fog, the wind, the climb,
the rain, and finally the downhill rush had carried me here. The city marked
both an ending and a beginning, a place to gather strength before the road
stretched onward again. Namibia taught me that survival is not just about
enduring the elements—it is about finding beauty, kindness, and connection in
the most unlikely places.
Hospitality
in Windhoek
Windhoek
buzzed with activity, a city alive with errands and reunions after the long
road north. Linda and I set out with purpose, our agenda full. At the bike
shop, mechanics worked deftly, filling our tubes with sealant—small injections
of resilience for the kilometres still to come. My laptop, battered by travel,
was dropped off for repairs and later returned, revived and ready. These
practical tasks carried their own satisfaction, each one a step toward
readiness for the journey ahead.
The
day’s true gift came in the evening. Erma, a dear friend, and her husband,
John, welcomed us into their home for a barbecue. Their hospitality was warm,
effortless, the kind that makes strangers feel like family. The smell of
grilling meat mingled with laughter, the glow of firelight softened the edges
of the day. In their company, I felt the richness of connection—the reminder
that journeys are not only measured in kilometres but in friendships rekindled
and kindness shared.
We
returned home content, the city’s hum fading into quiet. Windhoek was more than
a waypoint; it was a place of renewal, of repairs and reunions, of hospitality
that stitched the road’s hardships into something softer. Namibia had tested me
with wind, heat, and distance, but it had also offered beauty, resilience, and
generosity. In Windhoek, those threads came together, weaving closure into this
chapter but not the end of the road.
Crossing
into Namibia
Crossing
into Namibia was less about paperwork and more like stepping into a vast,
untamed canvas. The Orange River shimmered beside us, its waters a rare
softness against the desert’s hard edges. At Vioolsdrift, the border post was
little more than a cluster of buildings, yet stepping across felt momentous.
With our PCR tests waved through, we were free to chase the horizon.
Our
first communion with Namibia came in the form of a petrol station
breakfast—greasy eggs, strong coffee, and the promise that no journey should
begin on an empty stomach. Amanda drove ahead while I biked on the last stretch
of tar, savouring the smoothness before the gravel roads claimed me.
The
road wound along the Orange River, a ribbon of silver cutting through
desolation. Stark cliffs rose on one side, the river’s shimmer on the other, a
contrast so sharp it felt almost theatrical. In the meantime, Amanda discovered
a riverside resort with camping tucked against the water’s edge. Finding me
without internet became its own adventure—she retraced her path like a
childhood treasure hunt, finally waving me down with news of the lodge.
By
evening, the desert softened. The pool reflected the fading sky, the bar
offered its comforts, and the sun descended in a blaze of orange and pink. We
gathered around a crackling fire, the stars pricking the sky one by one. It was
the kind of night that made every kilometre worthwhile—a reminder that the
road, however demanding, always holds moments of grace.
Into
the Furnace
Leaving
the riverside camp felt like parting with an oasis. I knew that the stretch
ahead might be the last glimpse of water or pavement until Walvis Bay, and the
thought carried a quiet weight. The 80-kilometre dirt road to Ai-Ais surprised
me with its smoothness; the ride felt almost effortless, as if Namibia was
offering me a gentle introduction before revealing its harsher truths.
By
midday, Amanda passed me in the car, her wave a fleeting reminder that
companionship sometimes moves at different speeds. The road was nearly
deserted—only one vehicle all day, the manager of Ai-Ais’s resort. The
emptiness was profound. The forecast had promised almost forty degrees, but a
breeze stirred just enough to keep the flies at bay.
Twilight
painted the sky in shades of red, and we cooked pasta instead of lighting a
fire, knowing there were no shops or supplies for miles. As night fell, the
heat pressed down like a heavy blanket. I left the flysheet off the tent,
surrendering to the desert’s sounds—the rustle of unseen creatures, the whisper
of wind through dry grass.
It
was a simple day, stripped of distractions, yet it carried its own perfection.
In the silence of Ai-Ais, I felt both exposed and embraced, as if the desert
itself had drawn me into its rhythm.
Onto
Hobas Lodge – A Battle against the Wind
The
desert woke early, and so did I. By dawn, I was already on the road, determined
to steal a few cooler hours before the forecasted heat arrived. The climb began
almost immediately, the road rising into a headwind that pressed against me
like an invisible wall. Each pedal stroke felt monumental, my speed dropping to
a crawl—six, seven kilometres an hour. Progress was measured not in distance
but in stubbornness—one stroke, then another.
By
midday, the wind finally eased, but relief was short-lived. A swarm of flies
descended, relentless in their pursuit, orbiting me like tiny drones. Their
buzzing filled the silence, a maddening chorus that tested my patience more
than the climb itself. Just when irritation threatened to overwhelm me, Amanda
appeared like a mirage, slowing the car beside me and extending a bottle of
water through the window. That simple gesture—cool water in the furnace—was
salvation.
The
landscape itself was both tormentor and muse. The Fish River Canyon stretched
out in the distance, vast and ancient, its gorges carved over millions of
years. The sight stole my breath, reminding me that endurance is rewarded not
only with survival but with beauty. Every exhausting kilometre had led me here,
to this view that dwarfed my struggle.
By
the time I reached Hobas Lodge, fatigue had settled deep into my bones. Relief
washed over me when Amanda revealed her surprise: a chalet instead of a
campsite. A shower, a bed, four walls to keep out the baboons that prowled the
grounds—it felt like luxury beyond measure. That night, as I lay in comfort, I
thought of the canyon outside, its silence stretching back through time. My own
battle with wind and heat seemed small against its immensity, yet somehow, I
felt part of its story.
Chapter 2 - Moments of Wonder
At
the Edge of Time
The
morning began with anticipation. Just ten kilometres from Hobas Lodge lay the
canyon’s main viewpoint, and I was eager to see it. Amanda drove us there—the
road wound toward Hell’s Bend, where the land suddenly opened into immensity.
The Fish River Canyon revealed itself in a sweep of stone and silence, plunging
nearly 550 meters into the earth. Standing there, I felt both small and
infinite. It was staggering to imagine that this chasm began to form 120
million years ago, when Gondwana split apart, and the Fish River carved deeper
into the rising continent.
The
canyon was more than geology—it was a reminder of time’s vastness, of how
landscapes endure while human struggles flicker briefly across their surface. I
lingered at the viewpoint, letting the scale sink in, before pressing on.
Back
at the lodge, I saddled up, and the road carried me past relics of human
effort: a weathered lime kiln, a sturdy railway bridge, each whispering of days
gone by. Amanda and I reunited briefly at the Canyon Roadhouse, then parted
again, each following our own rhythm toward camp.
Our
destination was Canyon Farm Yard, a short 60-ish kilometres away, stripped of
electricity and Wi-Fi; it’s a place where nightfall meant surrendering to the
natural world. As darkness settled, the sky erupted with stars—sharp,
brilliant, unpolluted by city lights. I lay back, listening to the desert’s
quiet symphony, and felt the canyon’s presence even miles away. It was a night
of pure connection, a reminder that sometimes the absence of modern comforts is
the greatest gift.
Floods
and Detours - Canyon Farm Yard – Seeheim
Dawn
broke quietly at the Canyon Farm Yard, the kind of silence that makes a cup of
coffee taste richer. By six, I was already awake, savouring the ritual of
boiling water on the stove, the steam rising into the cool desert air. By
eight, I was on the road, the day stretching ahead in dusty promise.
A
few kilometres in, the journey shifted. The road was closed, swallowed by
flooding, and I was forced onto a detour across the Naute Dam wall. The sluice
gates were wide open, unleashing torrents of water that thundered into the
river below. It was a spectacle of raw power, a reminder that even in this arid
land, water could still command the stage.
Soon
after, the pavement returned, and with it a tailwind that carried me swiftly
toward nearby Seeheim, only 67 km away. The ride felt effortless, the kind of
momentum that makes you believe the road itself is cheering you on. By
afternoon, I rolled into the Seeheim Hotel and Camping, a place that charged
dearly for its comforts yet stood nearly empty. Even the pool came at a price,
unless you ordered food or drink. Amanda, ever resourceful, made a supply run
to Keetmanshoop, returning with crisps and beer—our own version of luxury.
That
evening, I sat with a drink in hand, grateful for the chance to connect online,
even if it meant paying for overpriced Wi-Fi. Outside, the desert stretched on,
indifferent to our small victories. Inside, we carved out a pocket of comfort,
proof that even in the most remote corners, companionship and resourcefulness
can make a place feel like home.
The
Price of Comfort
The
ride from Seeheim to Alta Kalkhofen was mercifully short, just over fifty
kilometres, and the pavement made for smooth, swift progress. Yet what struck
me most that day wasn’t the road—it was the price of rest. Namibia’s
accommodation costs loomed like a shadow over every stop, a stark contrast to
the ten-dollar rooms I had grown accustomed to in Southeast Asia. Here, each
bed or campsite seemed to demand a small fortune, as if the desert itself
charged admission.
Amanda
and I had heard whispers of a campsite at Alta Kalkhofen, and we were
determined to make it our refuge. The lodge was simple, its comforts limited to
the reception area where electricity and Wi-Fi flickered like rare luxuries. We
charged our devices, posted updates, and nursed beers as if they were tickets
to connection. Outside, the desert stretched dry and unyielding, yet that
evening the sky broke open with rare rainfall. The drops fell like blessings,
soaking the parched earth, a reminder that even here, life waits patiently for
renewal.
As
night settled, Amanda and I began plotting our next adventure—a side trip to
Kolmanskop, the ghost town near Lüderitz. The thought of retracing kilometres
on the bike didn’t thrill me, so we decided to leave my bicycle and our camping
gear behind, trading pedals for wheels. The desert had taught us resilience,
but it had also taught us pragmatism: sometimes the straightest path to history
is through compromise.
Chapter 3 - Wild Horses and Kolmanskop Ghost Town
Ghosts
in the Desert
The
morning began with the clatter of loading gear into the car, a temporary
surrender of bicycle and camping kit. The staff at Alta Kalkhofen were kind
enough to store our belongings, freeing me to chase history on four wheels
instead of two.
The
road unfurled like a ribbon across the Namib Desert, vast and silent, its
emptiness almost overwhelming after the crowded vibrancy of Southeast Asia.
Descending from the escarpment near Aus, the desert stretched into infinity, a
landscape stripped bare of distraction. Amid this solitude, we spotted
Namibia’s wild horses grazing near Garub. Their presence was both improbable
and magical—creatures surviving against the odds in a place that seemed
designed to resist life.
Kolmanskop
rose from the sand like a mirage, its crumbling houses half-swallowed by dunes.
Once a diamond boomtown, now a ghost town, it carried the eerie beauty of
abandonment. The entrance fee and restricted visiting hours felt like barriers
to intimacy, denying us the golden light of sunrise or sunset. Yet even in the
harsh midday glare, the town whispered of greed, labour, and decline. The
desert had reclaimed what ambition built, leaving only silence and sand.
Lüderitz
offered contrast—a town alive with colour and sea air. Against my expectations,
we found a modestly priced room in the heart of town, proof that Namibia was not
only for the well-heeled. The shower felt like redemption, washing away desert
dust, while strong Wi-Fi finally allowed me to update my blog.
Yet
the day carried shadows. In a small shop, I watched a woman dismiss a Namibian
man with brusque impatience, rolling her eyes at his surname. Her tone softened
when she turned to us, but the damage was done. The moment was a reminder that
racism still lingered here, woven into daily exchanges. It was disheartening, a
jarring note in a day otherwise filled with wonder.
By
evening, the desert chill returned, and we wandered to the waterfront. Dinner
was simple but delicious, the service warm, the atmosphere gentle. As the sun
dropped behind the horizon, the day closed with a balance of beauty and
unease—ghost towns reclaimed by sand,
Echoes
of Kolmanskop
We
set out for Kolmanskop with the casual assumption that the gates would open at
nine. To our surprise, they swung open an hour earlier, and by eight, we were
wandering through the ghost town’s eerie remains. Sand had claimed the houses,
spilling through doorways and windows, filling rooms where miners once lived
and dreamed. The silence was profound, broken only by the crunch of our
footsteps and the whisper of wind through broken glass.
Kolmanskop
was more than a ruin—it was a monument to ambition and exploitation. Diamonds
had drawn people here, carving a town out of the desert, only to abandon it
when the wealth ran dry. The dunes crept back, patient and unstoppable,
reclaiming what had been taken. I thought of the National Geographic article I
had read, its words echoing in my mind as I stood among the ruins: the brutal
past, the labour, the greed, all etched into these crumbling walls.
After
hours of wandering, we left the ghost town behind, carrying its silence with
us. On the drive back to Alta Kalkhofen, the desert offered a gentler gift—wild
horses grazing in the distance, their silhouettes etched against the horizon.
They seemed to embody resilience, living proof that survival was possible even
in the harshest of landscapes.
By
evening, we were back at the lodge, my bicycle waiting patiently in the shed.
The day had been a journey into history and back again, a reminder that the
desert holds both ghosts and miracles, and that every mile carries echoes of
what came before.
https://www.nationalgeographic.com/travel/article/eerie-fascinating-pictures-kolmanskop-desert-diamond-ghost-town
Storms
in Bethanie
The
ride to Bethanie should have been easy—forty-six kilometres of gradual
climbing—but the headwind turned it into a battle. It felt like each gust wanted
to push me back to my starting point, slowing progress, demanding patience. By
the time I reached the settlement, perched at 1,100 meters, Amanda was already
waiting at a guesthouse that proudly claimed to be Namibia's oldest hotel. Its
charm was irresistible, and we chose comfort over camping, surrendering to the
lure of a proper room.
No
sooner had we unpacked than the sky darkened. Clouds rolled in, heavy and
theatrical, and lightning split the horizon. Then the heavens opened. Rain
poured down in sheets, transforming the courtyard into a shallow lake. Staff
scrambled to keep the kitchen dry, but water seeped in relentlessly. Power
flickered, then failed, plunging the town into darkness. Inside, we were safe,
dry, and grateful for our choice. Outside, the storm raged, turning the ground
into mud.
Dinner
was simple—boiled potatoes and pasta salad—but the staff's kindness and warmth
made it memorable. Stranded workers and a farmer unable to reach his land
joined us, their presence turning the guesthouse into a refuge. Conversation
flowed easily, stories mingling with the sound of rain hammering the roof. News
arrived of washed-out roads, warning against travel. The storm had trapped us
together, weaving strangers into a temporary community.
By
morning, the rain had not relented. The farmer remained, unable to reach his
fields, and Amanda was advised to stay put. We accepted the delay and chose to
explore Bethanie instead. The town revealed its layered history: the Lentia
Lutheran Church of 1899, its predecessor from 1859, and the sobering story of
the first recorded land sale. A German representative had “purchased” land from
the Nama people, who saw land as communal, not property. The transaction marked
the beginning of dispossession, a legacy that still echoes.
Walking
through Bethanie, I felt the weight of history pressing against the present.
The storm had forced us to pause, but in that pause, we found perspective—on
resilience, on community, and on the enduring scars of colonial ambition.
Chapter 4 - Endless Roads
Armoured
bush crickets—nature’s warriors.
The
morning sun rose over Bethanie, painting the sky in soft hues of orange and
pink. Ahead lay a daunting 140 kilometres, a long backtrack toward
Keetmanshoop. Retracing steps is never a joy—the road feels heavier when it is
familiar, and the mind resists the repetition. I tucked my camera away, saving
energy for the ride, though the desert still offered its curiosities.
Armoured
bush crickets scuttled across the asphalt, their bodies thick and defiant. They
were nature’s warriors, armed with spikes, capable of vomiting, even squirting
blood to deter predators. Watching them march across the road was a reminder
that survival here demanded ingenuity, whether insect or human.
The
kilometres stretched endlessly, each one a test of patience. By the time I
rolled into Keetmanshoop, fatigue had settled deep into my bones. Relief came
in the form of Amanda’s foresight—she had already found a guesthouse, sparing
me the search after such a long day.
That
evening, I let the exhaustion wash over me, grateful for shelter and
companionship. The desert had demanded endurance, and I had given it.
Keetmanshoop was not a destination of wonder, but it was a place of rest, and
sometimes that is enough.
Nama
villages - Keetmanshoop to Tses
The
day began with errands in Keetmanshoop—cash from the ATM, a new pump from the
outdoor shop—small victories that felt essential before tackling the road
north. By mid-morning, I was back in the saddle, the famed B1 highway
stretching ahead. Cycling highways has never been my favourite; the monotony is
numbing, the scenery unchanging, and the roar of trucks a constant reminder of
vulnerability. Yet with Linda due to arrive in just a few days and five hundred
kilometres still between Windhoek and me, there was no choice but to press on.
The
road was narrow, shoulders almost non-existent, but traffic was mercifully
light. In the distance, Brukkaros Crater rose like a silent sentinel, its vast
caldera a reminder of Namibia’s ancient volcanic past. I longed to explore it,
but time was not mine to spend.
By
late afternoon, and after less than 90 kilometres, I rolled into Tses, a tiny
Nama village of scattered houses, a school, a shop, and a church. Amanda had
already secured a room at the church guesthouse, a modest refuge that felt like
a gift. For just 200 Namibian dollars, we had two single beds, a kettle, a
fridge, a fan, and even a communal kitchen and TV room—comforts that seemed
extravagant after days on the road.
Arriving
early gave me time to rinse my cycling gear and wander through the village.
Children gathered, their laughter rising as they posed for photos, their joy
infectious. It was a moment of connection, pure and straightforward. But the
day had one last test in store. As I walked, a massive thorn pierced straight
through my shoe and into my foot. The pain was sharp, immediate, a reminder
that even the smallest details of this land could demand resilience.
That
night, I lay in bed with my foot throbbing, reflecting on the paradox of the
day: the monotony of the highway, the warmth of the village, the sting of the
thorn. Namibia was teaching me that beauty and hardship often arrive hand in
hand, and that survival here means embracing both.
Conversations
in Gibeon.
The 96-kilometre
ride from Tses to Gibeon carried little drama—just the steady rhythm of
asphalt, the occasional roadwork, and the hypnotic repetition of pedal strokes.
Yet the destination held more than rest; it carried stories.
Amanda
had gone ahead and found accommodation in Gibeon, another small Nama settlement
tucked quietly into the landscape. The guesthouse was modest, just 500 Namibian
dollars, but it offered comfort and a chance to connect. In the evening,
conversations with locals opened windows into the past. They spoke of
invasions, of colonial scars that still marked the land and its people.
We
visited the grave of Hendrik Witbooi, a leader whose name carries weight in
Namibia’s history. Standing there, I felt humbled. Witbooi had resisted German
colonial forces in the late 19th century, his defiance etched into memory even
as the land bore the wounds of genocide and dispossession. The silence of the
graveyard was heavy, yet it carried dignity—a reminder that resistance, even
when crushed, leaves echoes that endure.
It
was sobering to reflect on how deeply colonial legacies run, not only here but
across continents—Africa, the Americas, Australia. Discrimination and
superiority had carved wounds that generations still carry. Yet in Gibeon, amid
quiet streets and warm hospitality, I felt the resilience of people who
continue to live, remember, and resist forgetting.
That
night, as I lay in bed, I thought of the day’s ride—uneventful in distance,
profound in meaning. Sometimes the road itself is plain, but the stories it
leads to are anything but.
Rest
in Mariental
I
was jolted awake at the crack of dawn by the clucking of chickens, a rural
alarm clock that pulled me from sleep before the sun had fully risen. Silina,
our host, offered a simple but generous breakfast, a gesture of kindness that
set the tone for the day. With food in my belly and gratitude in my heart, I
set off, torn between ambition and ease—should I push the 150 kilometres to
Kalkrand in one go, or stretch the ride into two gentler days?
The
road was flat, the scenery unchanging, a hypnotic rhythm of asphalt and
horizon. Hours passed in a blur of sameness, the landscape offering little
distraction. Yet there was a strange peace in the monotony, a meditative
cadence to the ride.
By
afternoon, I rolled into Mariental, a village that felt weary, its streets
subdued, its energy muted. Amanda was waiting at a Wimpy restaurant, sipping
tea as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She had already found a
guesthouse—a small haven with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, and a
lounge, all for 600 Namibian dollars.
The
decision was easy. With the sun still high, we abandoned plans for further
kilometres and surrendered to comfort. The guesthouse became our refuge, a
place to rest, to breathe, to enjoy the luxury of space and quiet. After days
of relentless riding, the pause felt indulgent, but necessary.
That
evening, I reflected on the balance between endurance and rest. The road
demands persistence, but it also rewards those who know when to stop. In
Mariental, amid the stillness, I found renewal.
The
Endless Ribbon of the B1
The
B1 highway stretched ahead like a ribbon of asphalt, narrow and unyielding, its
monotony infamous among travellers. I understood its reputation now—mile after
mile of sameness, trucks thundering past with little room to spare, the scenery
refusing to change. It was a road that tested patience more than strength, a
reminder that not all challenges come in the form of mountains.
Midway
through the ride, the sky shifted. A gust of wind swept across the plain,
carrying with it a few teasing drops of rain. I scrambled into my jacket,
bracing for a storm, but just as quickly as it arrived, the rain vanished,
leaving only a cool breeze in its wake. The desert seemed to enjoy its tricks,
offering relief and frustration in equal measure.
Amanda,
ever resourceful, had unearthed a hidden gem in Kalkrand, just 80 km away—a
simple room for just 200 Namibian dollars. With no campgrounds in sight, the
thought of pitching tents in the wild was replaced by the comfort of four walls
and a roof. The day, which had begun with dull repetition, ended with
unexpected ease.
As I
lay in bed that night, I thought of the highway’s endless ribbon. It had
offered little beauty, but it had carried me forward, and sometimes that is
enough. Progress is not always thrilling; sometimes it is simply steady, and
steady is what gets you there.
Crossing
the Tropic of Capricorn
I
lingered in Kalkrand that morning, reluctant to leave the quiet comfort of our
simple room. Two cups of strong coffee delayed my departure, but eventually the
B1 highway beckoned, its asphalt stretching a hundred-odd kilometres north to
Rehoboth, our destination for the day.
The
ride carried echoes of Australia’s Stuart Highway—long, straight, and
unforgiving. Each cattle grid felt like a marker of progress, a small
punctuation in the monotony. Then, a familiar sign appeared: the Tropic of
Capricorn. I couldn’t resist stopping, leaning my bike against the marker, and
snapping a photo. It was a ritual I had performed before, but repetition didn’t
diminish its meaning. Crossing a line of latitude is more than geography—it is
a reminder of movement, of journeys that span continents and years.
By
late afternoon, I rolled into Rehoboth, weary but content. Amanda had already
secured a budget self-catering accommodation, and when I arrived, the fridge
was stocked with cold beers. Her foresight felt like a gift, a small act of
kindness that turned fatigue into celebration.
That
evening, we sat together, sipping our drinks, the desert’s silence pressing
gently against the walls. The day had been long, the road monotonous, but the
Tropic of Capricorn and Amanda’s quiet gesture transformed it into something
memorable. Sometimes joy lies not in grand discoveries but in small rituals and
shared comforts.
Chapter 5 - Arrival in Windhoek
Into
Windhoek with Rain on My Shoulders
The
morning began under a low, heavy fog, lending the road an almost mystical calm.
For a brief while, cycling felt serene, the mist wrapping me in quiet. But
serenity gave way to struggle. The B1 narrowed, trucks thundered past, and a
headwind rose, relentless against my progress. The road climbed into the Auas
Mountains, each ascent demanding more than my weary legs wanted to give.
Fatigue
pressed hard, and then the rain came. Droplets fell just as I reached the
summit, nearly 2,000 meters above sea level. It was unexpected, almost
absurd—rain in Namibia, at the very moment when exhaustion threatened to undo
me. Yet the storm carried its own gift. The last fifteen kilometres tipped
downhill, a thrilling rush into Windhoek, rain streaking across my face, the
city rising ahead like a promise fulfilled.
Reunion
waited at the end of the descent. My sister and Linda were there, their
presence a burst of joy after days of solitude and struggle. We celebrated with
a feast—Col’Cacchio pizzas devoured with laughter and relief. It was indulgent,
but it felt deserved.
The
following day was a public holiday, the city quieter than usual, shops
shuttered, plans postponed. Repairs for the bike and laptop would have to wait.
Instead, we rested, letting the pause settle in, savouring the simple fact of
arrival.
Windhoek
was not just a destination—it was a culmination. The fog, the wind, the climb,
the rain, and finally the downhill rush had carried me here. The city marked
both an ending and a beginning, a place to gather strength before the road
stretched onward again. Namibia taught me that survival is not just about
enduring the elements—it is about finding beauty, kindness, and connection in
the most unlikely places.
Hospitality
in Windhoek
Windhoek
buzzed with activity, a city alive with errands and reunions after the long
road north. Linda and I set out with purpose, our agenda full. At the bike
shop, mechanics worked deftly, filling our tubes with sealant—small injections
of resilience for the kilometres still to come. My laptop, battered by travel,
was dropped off for repairs and later returned, revived and ready. These
practical tasks carried their own satisfaction, each one a step toward
readiness for the journey ahead.
The
day’s true gift came in the evening. Erma, a dear friend, and her husband,
John, welcomed us into their home for a barbecue. Their hospitality was warm,
effortless, the kind that makes strangers feel like family. The smell of
grilling meat mingled with laughter, the glow of firelight softened the edges
of the day. In their company, I felt the richness of connection—the reminder
that journeys are not only measured in kilometres but in friendships rekindled
and kindness shared.
We
returned home content, the city’s hum fading into quiet. Windhoek was more than
a waypoint; it was a place of renewal, of repairs and reunions, of hospitality
that stitched the road’s hardships into something softer. Namibia had tested me
with wind, heat, and distance, but it had also offered beauty, resilience, and
generosity. In Windhoek, those threads came together, weaving closure into this
chapter but not the end of the road.
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