Namibia: A Country of Vastness
NAMIBIA (Part 1)
1,109
Kilometres - 16 Days
4
March – 22 March 2022
NAMIBIA (Part 1)
1,109
Kilometres - 16 Days
4
March – 22 March 2022
Prelude
Namibia began as a rumour on the horizon—an expanse of heat, silence, and possibility waiting beyond the Orange River. After months of cycling through countries thick with humidity, colour, and noise, the idea of crossing into a land defined by space felt both daunting and irresistible. I didn’t know then how the desert would test me, or how its vastness would strip each day down to its essentials. All I knew was that the road was pulling me north, toward a country where the elements rule without apology. This chapter begins at that threshold—one foot on familiar ground, the other stepping into a world shaped by wind, stone, and time.
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 landscape 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 between 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.
Epilogue
The Namibian roads stretched me thin, its heat pressed against my limits, and its winds carved patience into my bones. Yet it also offered moments of grace—ghost towns reclaimed by sand, wild horses grazing at the edge of emptiness, storms that stitched strangers together, and reunions that softened the hardest kilometres. By the time I rolled into Windhoek, rain on my shoulders and family waiting, I understood that the desert gives and takes in equal measure. What it leaves behind is the quiet knowledge that some landscapes stay with you long after you’ve left them behind.
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