163 CYCLE TOURING ZAMBIA

 Shenanigans on a bike - By Leana Niemand

BOTSWANA (2) & ZAMBIA (2)
 1346 Kilometres - 28 Days 

13 April – 10 May 2022

PHOTOS

 

13 April – Katima Mulilo, Namibia – Muchenje Campsite, Botswana – 101 km

Shortly after 8 a.m., Linda and I biked out of the sad-looking town of Katima on our final ride in Namibia. The area was pan flat, and one could understand why the Chobe River forms such a considerable floodplain.  The going was effortless and we reached the Namibia-Botswana border early. Crossing into Botswana was smooth sailing, and we continued to Muchenje camp, situated on a large swampy area sporting an abundance of birdlife. Linda had enough of pitching her tent and chose one of the already pitched tents, which offered a few luxuries. Her upgrade was most likely due to the campsites being grassless and pitch dark.

Later we cycled to a nearby shop, bought a few beers and sat on the deck until darkness fell.

 

14/15 April - Muchenje Campsite – Kasane – by car

As riding through the Chobi National Park wasn’t possible, Linda organised a pick-up to take us to Kasane. Linda again opted for comfortable accommodation in town, and I preferred the Thebe campsite. At least, this time, it sported a lush lawn and covered area.

The best time of the morning was spent doing the usual rest day chores and buying a Botswana SIM card.

After much deliberation, it was decided to stick to Linda’s original plan to cycle directly from Kasane to Victoria Falls.

 

16/18 April – Kasane, Botswana – Livingston, Zambia - 83 km

At around 8.30 a.m., I met Linda and biked the short distance to the Botswana/Zambian border via the new bridge. The bridge is quite impressive and makes the old ferry obsolete. The crossing was uncomplicated but it still took longer than anticipated. Eventually, we got going and, as always, I found my new country fascinating.

Zambia is the first country since leaving Cape Town where I saw the bicycle in daily use. The Zambians seem to bike more than people from other countries and use their bikes to transport goods to the market. Roadside stalls sold interesting squashes or pumpkins (not sure what), sugarcane and charcoal. The people we met during the day were super friendly and made us instantly feel at home.

The easy pedalling made for an early arrival in bustling Livingstone, where we opted to bunk down at the popular Jollyboys Backpackers.

The following morning, Linda and I visited Victoria Falls, where the abundance of summer rain sent such a large amount of water downstream and over the falls, one could hardly see due to the spray. The raincoats rented at the entrance came in handy as the fog was so severe it felt like we were caught in a massive downpour.

 

19 April – Livingston – Zimba – 80 km

Linda packed for her return flight to the USA and I prepared to pedal onwards to my next destination, Malawi, more than 1000 kilometres away. I was in no hurry as I planned on cycling half days to make the best use of my time in Zambia. Not much happened during the day except for markets selling veggies, charcoal and wood. People were super friendly and interested in where I was from and where I was heading. Midday, I pulled into Zimba, a tiny community featuring basic lodging. The Trekking guesthouse offered rooms at a mere 150 kwacha and included welcoming and helpful staff and staying; hence, a no brainer.

 

20 April – Zimba – Choma – 114 km

Winter was fast approaching, and the temperature a mere 15°C riding out of Zimba. The way was gently undulating, but a stiff breeze slowed the pace considerably. At least the temperature improved, but it remained cold as I didn’t think the mercury ever rose above 26°C.

The route led past peaceful villages, roadside vendors selling fresh veggies and jovial Zambians on bicycles. A few were carting produce while others gave people a ride to their destinations. Others were collecting or drying grass to be woven into sleeping mats or used in the building of traditional huts.

Towards the end of the day, the weather came in and I was mighty pleased to reach Choma without getting soaked. A room at the Choma Hotel came at 175 – 250 kwacha, and thus no need to look any further.

 

22 April – Choma – Monze – 102 km

Emerging from the room, I discovered the rain had subsided, thank goodness. Pedalling out of Choma, the clouds were still lying low but, fortunately, it never rained.

The route was dotted with small but busy villages where I was greeted with big toothy smiles and friendly greetings of “Welcome to Zambia” and “have a safe journey.” It brought a smile to my face.

Roadside markets sold pottery, drums and wooden sculptures. Although I stopped to chat, they understood I couldn’t buy anything. They looked surprised that one could cycle from Cape Town, and I considered it better to inform them of my route around the world.

Reaching the small town of Monze, I opted for a room as the city is a mere 180 kilometres from Lusaka, and I didn’t want to rush. On enquiring about a guesthouse, I was walked there by a friendly Zambian who further accompanied me to the supermarket. My shopping drew much attention, and whatever was placed in the basket was observed with great interest. As can be expected, the poor man was bombarded with questions, and on asking him what was said, he explained they wanted to know where he met the white woman. Hahaha!

 

23 April – Monze – Mazabuka – 62 km

I dragged my heels a tad as I waited for the sun to warm the air and, as a result, it was 9 o’clock before I pointed the bike in the direction of Lusaka.

The sun came out, and so did the butterflies and the flowers, making for pleasant biking. Sadly, the excellent road enjoyed to date deteriorated and turned into a narrow potholed affair. Still, the pleasant conditions prevented me from losing my sense of humour, and I stopped numerous times to snap a few pics. Taking pictures of people usually resulted in them running away or running towards the camera, but mostly they want money.

Villagers were cutting and collecting the tall grass growing by the side of the road. Not only does the African savanna contain a diverse community of organisms that interact to form a complex food web, but it provides ample grazing for livestock. The grass is further widely used in rural housing and the making of brooms, brushes and other household items.

 

24 April – Mazabuka – Kafue – 83 km

I was nearly fooled into thinking the ride would be downhill, but alas, that wasn’t the case. There weren’t as many villages as the previous day and I pushed on to Kafue. Besides informal markets selling woven baskets, mats and other items, not much happened. The main reason for overnighting in Kafue was spotting a Pick-n-Pay as it seemed all I did was cycle and eat. A secondary reason was that I intended to meet Caron in Blantyre on May 21 and it was far too early.

The problem with stopping early was I seemed to eat my way through the remainder of the day. I’ve developed a taste for Nshima, one of Zambia's staple foods. Maise or corn is the most popular staple, and Nshima makes up the main component of Zambian meals. It’s made from corn flour and usually served accompanied by a "relish" stew and vegetables, and I noticed it’s often eaten by hand. Known as pap at home.

Most interesting was the next-door mosque and disco which seemed in competition.

 

25/27 April – Kafue – Lusaka – 45 km

I must’ve chatted to each person as there wasn’t much more to do. For the first time, I met another cyclist pedalling in the opposite direction. He, too, had to break his Cairo to Cape Town journey due to Covid and spent two years on home soil in Australia. He has now resumed his quest and, much like me, is ambling along in no hurry to get anywhere.

Cycling into a capital city, especially an African one, can be nerve-wracking but biking into Lusaka was pretty straightforward. However, it came with the usual crowded pavements where people traded their wares, leaving no space for the sidewalks’ intended purpose. The traffic was bumper to bumper and didn’t move at all. Most amazing was a chap herding goat, right in the city centre and across the main road using the pedestrian bridge. The goats obediently followed instructions, and all except one (we all know one like that) made their way up and over the bridge. Watching what appeared total chaos brought a smile to my face as I realised I was firmly entrenched in the African way, where people are slow to move but quick to smile.

I eventually continued to Broads Backpackers, which sported lovely units under thatch.

So peaceful was it, I stayed the following day, took the bike for a service, and searched for camping gas for my stove.

The following day I rode out of Lusaka and straight into a fierce headwind. Five kilometres down the drag, I made a U-turn and returned to the guesthouse, as pedalling into a headwind is no fun.

I met with Dimitri the next day, an extraordinary chap and a true adventurer. Dimitri has achieved incredible challenges and is currently circumnavigating the world by human power only. If he can’t walk or cycle, he rows. He plans to bike to Cape Town and then row to Brazil. Go well, Dimitri!

 

30 April – Lusaka – Chinyunyu Hot Spring – 88 km

The weather was much improved, and I eventually cycled out of Lusaka. For once, it felt like I’d the slightest of tailwinds, a welcome change to the continuous breeze I previously pedalled into. The map indicated a hot spring, and I stopped to investigate. The place isn’t commercialised and consequently came without any facilities, apart from toilets but without water. The water from the spring was boiling and it was impossible to submerge even a hand or foot. Further downstream, people used the water to wash and do laundry, but it was still boiling.

Seeing camping only came at 50 kwacha, I stayed put. Later, Peter Gazzard, whom I’ve known via Facebook for many years, also pulled in. It was fantastic to meet him as his round-the-world cycle ride of more than eight years is nearing its end. Also camping at the spring was Phillip, who had been biking with Peter for a few days. It’s always great to have company, and we talked about our lives on the road.

 

 

1 May – Hot spring – Gambit Guest House – 70 km

Peter and Phillip headed further south, and I churned my way up the hills toward the Malawian border, still a few days’ cycling away. The road deteriorated somewhat from our overnight spot as the countryside became hillier and the route narrower and more potholed. I swear a small car could’ve been swallowed by one of them. Villages were few and far between, but I uncovered one to replenish my dwindling water supply.

One thing I refrained from doing in Africa is overtaking anyone on a bicycle, as it inevitably results in a race. No sooner had I passed and they started pedalling like the clappers. It usually doesn’t last long, and I soon catch up, resulting in the same procedure. Best, therefore, to stop, have a snack and water and hopefully, they will be gone by then.

The pavement’s condition and the hilly terrain slowed the pace, and I called it a day on spotting Gambit Guesthouse. Deborah, the lady in charge, walked me to the market to buy food but, in the end, she didn’t like the look of the food and suggested purchasing the ingredients and preparing it herself. How kind of her. The food consisted of nshima and relish made with rape leaves, ground peanuts, onion and chillies. The meal was surprisingly delicious.

 

2 May –

My lack of planning came back to bite me in the ass. On closer inspection, I realised the route between Lusaka and Malawi is relatively rural, offering few villages and none of the usual supermarkets or ATMs. The map indicated barely any facilities, and I thought better of it and thus returned to the previous town to get cash.

This simple exercise turned out to be most exciting and took the entire day. It involved waiting by the side of the road until a bus or minivan appeared. The trip was a lengthy process as people were continuously picked up and dropped off. Not only people but also livestock and other produce. How a minivan can transport such a large amount of luggage and people remains a miracle. We were squashed in like sardines, with babies on our laps and chicken at our feet. If I believed the process fascinating, my presence was even more intriguing to the other passengers. Kids couldn’t stop giggling, and others shyly peered over their mothers’ shoulders while a few seemed downright scared to death.

Eventually, three machines later (all offline) and following a long wait at a fourth one, I managed to withdraw money and could buy more coffee as that’s one thing I didn’t want to run out of. The return trip was even slower but, eventually, I made it to the guesthouse sporting money in my pocket and ready to tackle the final 400-kilometre stretch to the border.

 

3 May – Gambit guest house – Luangwa Bridge Camp – Kunda Camping – 80 km

Never assume anything, my dear friend Dan always said - that the road would descend to the Luangwa River was clearly incorrect. Gosh, I can’t remember a hillier road, and the headwind I rode into tried to push me back up the hills!

Still, it remained interesting. Villagers were making and selling charcoal, and others were harvesting sorghum. On reaching the sad-looking town of Luangwa, I turned down to the Luangwa Bridge Camp, a lovely spot right on the river. I soon realised I’d camped here previously as I remembered jumping into the pool, clothes and all!

Also camping were three other campers and they were fascinating to talk to.

 

4 May - Luangwa Bridge Camp – Kacholola – 64 km

I woke early and was on my way shortly after 8 a.m., an early start for me. From the low-lying Luangwa bridge, the road snaked uphill for the best part of the day. This sparsely populated area was densely wooded, with only the occasional village to break the monotony and fill up with water, which got the village kids into near hysterics.

On reaching Kacholoda, I thought I’d done enough climbing for the day and located a guesthouse. This simple exercise brought out the entire village and soon I was in a room. Albeit without a bathroom except for an outside toilet which required squatting over an open hole in the ground while spiders and cockroaches crawled out. The French fries ordered made up for the lack of bathroom facilities.

 

5 May - Kacholoda – Nyimba – 44 km

I don’t think the place I stayed at was all kosher as the police came to check on my well-being and handed me their telephone number. I didn’t know what to make of it but locked the door and didn’t venture out. Early morning my bladder drove me to the hole in the ground, and I was on my way earlier than usual.

Although I was assured by many that the route east was “flat”, it was, as anticipated, not the case. At least it wasn’t all uphill like the day prior. In fact, it was pleasant riding past numerous small settlements where kids chanted, “how are you, how are you?” Reaching the busy market town of Nyimba, I pulled into the comfortable-looking Taitana Lodge.  Even though it was barely 10 in the morning, I desperately needed a shower. The lodge consisted of various bungalows, and even though I opted for the bottom of the range, it was a lovely unit with a double bed, en suite and bar fridge. The complex further had a bar and restaurant under large trees, a real haven. It thus didn’t take long before I was served a plate of nashima and a Mosi.

 

6 May – Nyimba – Chengirani/Petaule – 65 km

I emerged early as ladies started sweeping the yard; it’s what they do in Africa. I sat on the steps drinking my coffee, wondering if the dust created was worth the few leaves collected. Eventually, I saddled my unwilling old iron horse and proceeded towards the Malawian border.

I wasn’t far from the overnight stop I had in mind; and it gave ample time to stop, chat and take a few pics. I thought it astonishing the responsibility these young kids have. Never in a million years would a child in western culture be saddled with the responsibility of looking after babies or valuable assets, e.g., cattle. I meandered on, watching ladies doing laundry in the river; others were collecting water from a communal well or winnowing produce. All this happened as kids, in near hysterics, called, “how are you, how are you?”

Seeing I was hungry upon arriving at my intended spot, I ordered Chipsi Mayai, a popular street food consisting of a chip omelette. It was precisely what the doctor ordered!

 

7 May – Chengirani – Kasane – 87 km

The huts in the villages seem to change as I head further east. It should be mentioned that the United Kingdom colonised Zambia, and the Republic of Zambia only achieved independence in 1964. Over the past 100 years, Zambian life has therefore been greatly affected by explorers, missionaries, and industrialisation. Livingstone and other explorers from Europe led missionaries to the central part of southern Africa. They organised caravans and brought Christianity, firearms, and new building techniques, such as the sun-dried bricks still used in certain provinces. I find this quite sad as most of the methodologies were suitable for Europeans and not Zambian culture, history, or lifestyle.

In any event, I made my way to Kasane grinding into a stiff breeze and was accompanied by a multitude of Zambians on their squeaky cycles carting anything from drums of homemade beer to stacks of eggs. The bicycle taxi is further in great demand as it’s inexpensive albeit slow.

In Kasane, I stopped at Tiko Lodge, a non-profit community-based organisation recommended by Peter Gazzard and couldn’t wait to order chips and eggs!

 

8/9 May – Tiko Lodge, Kasane – Chipata – 92 km

For once, the mercury rose to 30°C, making for pleasant riding. Not much happened, or I was in a dream world. The few times I stopped to fill up with water brought the usual well-meaning attention. The biggest misconception is that cycle tourers get paid to ride. Imagine that! The general impression is that our governments pay us or that we sell our photographs. If that were the case, I would bike until I fell off the bike! Little do people realise one pays for every item required with hard-earned cash. I guess the concept of cycling for pleasure has never occurred to them.

Chipata was my last stopover in Zambia, and it took a while to find a suitable place to rest my head. It wasn’t cheap, but better than pedalling the 6.5 kilometres back to the campsite spotted earlier.

Seeing I was comfortably ensconced in my abode, I stayed one more day. The main reason for staying was to change money as I don’t like doing it at the border, and the map indicated no ATMs until Lilongwe. I further read one needed a PCR test, and some even mentioned insurance. Fortunately, the insurance was only for vehicles, and as the hospital was in disarray, I left without achieving anything. 

 

10 May – Chipata, Zambia – Unknown village, Malawi – 87 km

The distance to the border was scarcely 20 kilometres, and I crossed without any difficulty. I’m always amazed by the change of scenery, food and culture after crossing a border. Sugarcane was sold in abundance, and one hardly ever spotted anyone without chewing on a piece. The potholes became more prominent and the villages and bicycles more frequent.  During the day, stands sold grilled meat and chips. Stopping to purchase a portion of fries, the entire neighbourhood came to witness this unusual event. Kids in near hysterics called “Azungu, Azungu, Azungu!” The word Azungu, also known as muzungu, mlungu, musungu or musongo, means “wanderer”, originally pertaining to spirits. (Maybe that’s why the kids are so fearful). The term currently refers to foreigners, not only white people. It’s very similar to Farang, Barang, and Falang in Asia. It’s further uttered with the same amount of enthusiasm.

Midway to Lilongwe, I called it quits on spotting what is known as a Rest House. The place was rather basic, and I don’t think the walls had seen a drop of paint in years. The bedding was equally old, and it appeared washing bedding wasn’t a daily occurrence. Taking into consideration the rate was only between 1.5 – 4 US$, I didn’t complain too much. I can shower when in Lilongwe!

161 CYCLE TOURING NAMIBIA (2) - PART 2

                                                 Shenanigans on a bike - By Leana Niemand

 The Compass Points North

NAMIBIA (2) – Part 2

1 490 Kilometres - 21 Days 

PHOTOS

PDF

VOICEOVER

 

 

Chapter 1: Into the North

 

Northward, with Termite Mounds as Compass

We rolled out of Windhoek for the 70-odd kilometre ride to Okahandja, with the kind of optimism only a first day can bring. The city’s bustle faded behind us, replaced by the wide shoulder of the highway and the steady rhythm of our wheels. A tailwind nudged us forward, as if Namibia herself was offering a gentle push into the journey. The road sloped northward, and with each kilometre the landscape grew greener, more generous, more alive.

It wasn’t just the vegetation that caught my eye. Along the roadside rose enormous termite mounds, some taller than us on our bicycles, their tops mysteriously aligned to the north. Everyone seemed to have a theory—prevailing winds, magnetic fields, some secret language of the earth—but none explained the uncanny precision. I found myself pedalling in silence, wondering if these mounds were nature’s compass, pointing us toward something larger than geography.

However, besides the enormous termite mounds, we encountered massive mushrooms. Known as Omajowa, these mushrooms grow at the base of termite mounds in Namibia’s central and northern parts.

The day ended in a campsite with bungalows, a stroke of luck as the north wind picked up and rain swept across the plains. We were grateful not to be in tents, listening to the storm from the comfort of solid walls. Travel teaches you to appreciate small mercies: a roof, a hot shower, a dry bed.

 

A cold wind from the north

The following morning, the weather turned against us. Cold rain soaked through my skimpy clothes, and I cursed my lack of preparation. My sister’s twenty-year-old rain jacket—thrown into my bag almost as an afterthought—became my salvation. Teeth chattering, we sped down the road, stopping only when necessary. By the time we reached Wewelsburg, 92 km from Okahandja, we were half-frozen but relieved. The farm campsite greeted us with a menagerie: a massive dog, peacocks strutting like royalty, goats bleating, cattle grazing. The owners fired up the “donkey,” a wood-fuelled boiler, and the hot shower felt like redemption. Amanda and I claimed the old bus as our shelter, while Linda pitched her tent. That night, wrapped in blankets, we surrendered to sleep early, the rain drumming its lullaby.

 

Kindness of Strangers

Fog hung thick the next morning, but soon lifted, revealing a landscape unchanged yet somehow softer. My clothes were still damp, clinging cold against my skin, but the ride carried us steadily toward Otjiwarongo. The monotony of the road was broken by kindness: a traffic officer stopped us, not to reprimand, but to hand out high-visibility belts. His gesture was simple, practical, and unexpectedly moving. In a world where cyclists often feel invisible, here was someone ensuring we would be seen.

Otjiwarongo offered respite. Amanda, ever resourceful, found a self-catering guesthouse at a fraction of the usual price. We shopped for food and beer, then lazed about, grateful for rest. For Linda, it was only her third day of cycling, two of them long hauls, and I thought the pause necessary as journeys are not measured only in distance but in the balance between effort and ease.

 

The Meditative Cadence of Cycling

The road beyond Otjiwarongo stretched 123 kilometres to Otavi, like a ribbon across the plains, long and lonely, yet strangely comforting. There is a particular rhythm to days like these: the hum of tyres on tarmac, the horizon unbroken, the body settling into a cadence that feels eternal. The landscape offered little drama, but in its quiet way, it was beautiful. Each kilometre was a meditation, each breath a reminder of how simple life becomes when reduced to the essentials of movement, food, and rest.

Otavi appeared like a mirage, where Amanda found a rest camp with a tiny swimming pool. We dangled our feet in the cool water, sipping Windhoek draught, and laughed at the absurdity of luxury in miniature. It wasn’t the size of the pool that mattered, but the ritual of reward: a cold beer, tired legs, and the satisfaction of distance covered. Travel teaches you to celebrate small victories.

 

 

Chapter 2: Into the Green, Toward Etosha

 

Elephants in Bwabwata, and the constant presence of wildlife.

The following day, a stiff breeze slowed our pace, but the scenery shifted. The further north we rode, the lusher the land became. Trees thickened, grasses grew tall, and the air carried a sense of abundance. Tsumeb awaited, a town I had heard of countless times but never visited. Amanda, ever resourceful, found inexpensive digs, and I knew I would miss her when she returned home. Her knack for finding hidden gems had saved us more than once.

We lingered in Tsumeb for a reason: Etosha National Park. Linda arranged a guided tour, while Amanda and I opted for a self-drive tour. Etosha was not just a park; it was a revelation. The summer rains had transformed the land into a banquet, and the animals responded in kind. Elephants lumbered across the plains, giraffes stretched impossibly toward the treetops, and antelopes darted like shadows. Birds filled the sky, their calls weaving a chorus that seemed endless. I grinned until my cheeks ached, snapping photographs until my fingers cramped. It was abundance made visible, life in its rawest form, and I felt humbled to witness it.

 

Waving goodbye to Amanda

In Tsumeb, Amanda waved goodbye and return home to daily duties, her absence felt heavier than expected. Linda and I continued toward Grootfontein, where the Hoba meteorite lay in wait. At sixty tonnes, it is the largest single meteorite on earth, a relic from the cosmos that landed here some eighty thousand years ago. Sitting alone beside it, eating jelly sweets, I wondered what people made of it millennia ago. Did they see it as a gift from the gods, a warning, or simply a curiosity? For me, it was a reminder of scale: how small we are, how vast the universe remains.

I continued to Grootfontein where Linda had already uncovered accommodation so affordable I suspected she had quietly sponsored me. Our host served gin and tonic, and we laughed at our luck. Later, we dined at the Kitchen Café, sitting in the garden until late, talking of routes and possibilities. Travel is not only about landscapes but also about the generosity of strangers and the unexpected gifts of hospitality.

 

Sharing stories around the campfire

We left Grootfontein with the ease of travellers who knew the road ahead would be gentle. The 60 kilometres to Roy’s Camp slipped by almost unnoticed, the tarmac smooth, the air forgiving. By early afternoon, we were already there, greeted by a camp that offered everything a weary cyclist could want: easy camping, a bar, a restaurant, and even a short bush walk. We saw no animals, but the silence of the bush was its own kind of company. That evening, the staff lit a fire, and we sat with other campers, drinking wine and sharing stories. It was one of those nights where strangers became companions, bound together by the glow of flames and the simplicity of travel.

 

The Lapas of Africa

“Come have a look”, Linda whispered, pointing towards the tiny dik-diks in camp. They were no more than 30-40 centimetres high and couldn’t weigh much more than 3 or 4 kilograms. To begin a day with such creatures felt like a blessing. We lingered over breakfast, leaving past nine, knowing the distance to Mururani Camp was manageable. A slight headwind slowed us, but it kept us cool and mercifully kept the flies away. Butterflies, however, seemed to multiply, fluttering around us as if escorting us northward.

Mururani Camp was a mere 70 km away and was laidback with a lush lawn shaded by a large lapa where we cooked and lounged. A shop on the main road sold cheap beers and snacks, and we spent the afternoon in easy contentment. These were the days when cycling was less about endurance and more about savouring the rhythm of life along the road.

 

 

Chapter 3: Between Rivers and Wilderness

 

Rhythm of the Road – onto Rundu

The ride to Rundu was long—137 kilometres—and demanded focus. We pressed on, each pedal stroke a small act of persistence. By the time we arrived, exhaustion had set in. Linda chose a more upmarket guesthouse, while I opted for the Backpackers, a choice that suited my budget and my taste for simplicity. Rundu itself felt like a frontier town, perched on the edge of the mighty Okavango River, where Namibia brushes against Angola. It was a place of contrasts: potholes and muddy puddles, yet also the promise of river sunsets.

 

Along the Okavanga

Leaving Rundu was delayed by errands—shops closed on Sundays, money difficult to draw on Mondays. By the time we finally pedalled out, it was nearly eleven. The road led us through rural settlements where traditional huts dotted the landscape, smoke rising lazily from cooking fires. Children walked to school, their classrooms little more than tin shacks. Life here was stripped to essentials, and yet it carried a dignity that humbled me.

Seventy-seven kilometres down the road we found Mukuku Rest Camp, where the owner offered us a boat ride along the Okavango River. We accepted, and as the sun dipped low, we glided across the water. Birds settled into treetops, their calls fading into evening. The river shimmered, reflecting the sky’s fire, and I felt an immense privilege to be there, suspended between water and sky, witness to a moment that belonged to no one and everyone. Travel is full of hardships—rain, wind, exhaustion—but it is also full of grace, and this was one of those moments when grace revealed itself.

 

Into the wild

Leaving Mukuku Rest Camp felt like embarking on an adventure that would immerse us in the heart of rural Africa. We navigated our bikes along sandy paths that crunched beneath our tires, and was relieved when the dirt road eventually transformed into smooth pavement.

The ride unfolded like a vibrant tapestry—110 kilometres brimming with life. Villagers dotted the landscape, skilfully gathering firewood and showcasing their colourful handicrafts at roadside stalls, their warm smiles inviting us to pause and connect with their world.

As the sun began its descent, we veered off the main road towards Camp Ndurukoro, which nestled itself along the tranquil banks of the Okavango River. The sunset was nothing short of magical; the sky erupted in hues of orange and purple, casting a spell over the landscape.

As night fell, we crawled into our tents, the sounds of hippos grazing nearby creating an enchanting symphony. We couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought of these massive creatures nudging our tents, the lawn offering them a soft invitation. With the whispers of the wilderness surrounding us, we drifted into sleep, hearts full of adventure and a hint of excitement for what lay ahead.

 

The locals know best – Learning the hard way.

Although our kind hosts at Ndurukoro Camp suggested a campsite further along the river,to view Popa Falls but Linda had hoped for a view of the Falls at another campsite. The ride was manageable, though the approach to Rainbow River Lodge tested our patience; still, we dragged our bicycles through the thick sand to the campsite that sat quietly on the river, the falls hidden from sight. Travel often teaches us that expectation and reality rarely align. Sometimes it’s best to follow the advice of those who know the area. Yet even without the view, the river offered its own serenity. Water moved with a quiet insistence, reminding us that journeys are not always about spectacle but about presence.

 

Through the Bwabwata National Park

The next morning, we pushed our bikes back to the main road, stocking up at the supermarket before heading deeper into Bwabwata National Park. The road stretched long and slow, lined with traditional huts and women gathering wood. Children walked astonishing distances to school, their classrooms little more than tin shacks beneath trees. Life here was stripped to essentials, yet it carried a resilience that humbled me. In the distance, elephants appeared—two grey silhouettes against the horizon. Even from afar, their presence was monumental, a reminder that this land belonged first to the wild.

We spent the night at Omega Police Station, where officers' friendliness softened the place's austerity. Their hospitality was genuine but straightforward, and I marvelled at how kindness appeared in the most unexpected corners.

 

The long ride to Kongola

The following day was a slog: 139 kilometres to Kongola, each pedal stroke heavy, each kilometre a test of endurance. The road offered little drama, only the familiar rhythm of huts, women carrying wood, and the endless horizon. In Kongola Linda chose a more upmarket guesthouse, while I settled into a local joint for 150 Namibian dollars. The room was basic, as expected, but the warmth of the people made it feel rich. Africa has a way of reminding you that comfort is not measured in amenities but in human connection.

 

Rivers, Rest Camps, and the Rhythm of Kindness

By morning, Linda decided she’d had enough of long, lonely stretches and opted for an excursion along the Kwando River. I lingered in Kongola, waiting for the single shop to open so I could draw money and top up my internet. Things move slowly here, and patience becomes part of the rhythm. Cycling out of the village, I noticed the sign to Camp Kwando and realised it led to my friend’s lodge. I turned back, curiosity guiding me, and soon found myself at Ivory Camp.

The camp sat directly on the Kwando River, within a hunting concession where hippos roamed freely. Koen, the manager, welcomed me with warmth, advising me to keep my bike inside lest the hippos grow curious. Later, I took a taxi into town for food and beer, the journey itself an experience. The driver stopped at each household, checked on people, offered rides, and ensured everyone was cared for. In the village, passengers were dropped off one by one, collected later with the same patience. It was community in motion, a living example of how interconnected life here remains.

That evening, Koen prepared a meal, and we sat outside listening to the wilderness. Hippos grunted in the river, birds called from the trees, and the air carried the weight of silence. News arrived that a neighbour had died of malaria, a sobering reminder of fragility. I realised I had yet to begin my malaria tablets, a lapse that felt reckless in the face of such reality. Travel is not only about discovery but about vulnerability, and Africa never lets you forget that.

 

 

Chapter 4: Toward Katima — Land Without Owners

 

Return to Kongola, and a rural ride to Katima Mulilo

I left Ivory Camp with the sounds of hippos still echoing in my ears, their grunts a reminder that wilderness here is never far away. The sandy track back to Kongola was lined with peaceful settlements, smoke drifting lazily skyward as women collected water and children carried wood. A stiff breeze slowed me, and I realised I would not reach Katima that day. Instead, I stayed another night in Kongola, a village perched between modernity and tradition. Electricity flickered uncertainly, water was scarce, and yet life carried on with a rhythm that felt timeless. I drank the local water, trusting my body’s resilience, half in defiance, half in surrender.

 

Onto Katima Mulilo

The next morning, I set out for Katima Mulilo. The road was long—120 kilometres—but effortless in its way. Women carrying wood and water looked at me with disbelief, their faces breaking into smiles once the shock passed. Children waved, their laughter chasing me down the road. The termite mounds that had towered further south were absent here, their soil repurposed into huts that stood sturdy for years. Along the roadside, makeshift stalls sold milk and meat, their freshness a mystery and their presence a testament to resourcefulness.

Nguni cattle dotted the landscape, their sleek hides shimmering in the sun. Indigenous to Southern Africa, they are hardy, adaptable, resistant to parasites, and tolerant of extremes. Watching them, I thought of resilience—not just of animals, but of people, of communities that endure despite scarcity, despite hardship. The cattle seemed to embody the spirit of the land: strong, unyielding, quietly dignified.

Katima Mulilo appeared at last, a town worn at the edges, sad-looking yet alive with possibility. I bunked down at the ABC Guesthouse, grateful for its simplicity. Africa’s slow way of life had seeped back into me, and I realised how much I had missed it—the unhurried pace, the acceptance of what is, the kindness that surfaces in unexpected places.

The following day, I lingered as Linda caught up but needed rest, and I had errands to run. Conversations with locals revealed something profound: here, land is not owned as I had always understood it. It belongs to everyone, a communal resource rather than private property. If I wished, they said, I could speak to the chief, and with his permission, build a hut. The idea struck me deeply. To belong not through ownership but through community, to be granted space by collective will rather than individual claim—this was a vision of home that felt both ancient and radical.

As I sat in Katima, I thought of the termite mounds pointing north, of elephants in the distance, of hippos grunting in the Kwando, of children walking miles to school. Each image was a fragment of Namibia, stitched together into a tapestry of endurance, kindness, and belonging. The road had carried me here, but the land itself had offered something greater: a reminder that home is not always a place you own, but a place where you are welcomed.

 

Crossing the Border into Botswana

Shortly after 8, Linda and I cycled out of the sad-looking town of Katima en route to our final ride in Namibia. The area was pan flat, and one could understand why the Chobe River forms such a considerable Floodplain. Nevertheless, going was effortless, and we reached the border early. Crossing into Botswana was smooth sailing. We continued to Mucheje Camp, situated on a large swampy area sporting an abundance of birdlife. Linda had had enough of pitching her tent and chose one of the permanent tents, which came with a few luxuries. Her upgrade was likely due to the campsites being grassless and pitch-dark at night.

Later, we cycled to a nearby shop, bought a few beers and sat on the viewing deck until darkness fell.

 

 

Chapter 5 – The Road to Zambia

 

By Car through Botswana

Since cycling through Chobe National Park was off the table and Linda not keen on biking in Botswana either, she arranged for a pick-up to whisk us away to Kasane. Once there, she opted for a comfortable place to stay in town. Still, I found myself drawn to Thebe campsite—where the lush lawn and covered area provided a delightful retreat under the African sky and right on the banks of the Okavango River. Here wildlife wandered freely and it wasn’t unusual to find Hippos in camp.

The morning unfolded, I filled my day with rest-day rituals—laundry, organising gear, and snagging a local SIM card to stay connected in this beautiful land.

 

Arrival in Zambia

With the first light of dawn breaking around 8:30 AM, I stepped outside Thebe Camping to meet Linda. Our bikes were ready, and excitement bubbled as we set off for a short ride across the stunning new bridge connecting Botswana and Zambia. This architectural marvel had indeed made the old ferry service a relic of the past, though the crossing took a bit longer than we expected.

Once we entered Zambia, I was immediately entranced by the vibrant landscape. For the first time since leaving Cape Town, bicycles were part of the daily rhythm of life. The locals had not only embraced cycling for commuting but also for transporting goods and people. Lining the roadside, colourful stalls overflowed with squashes, pumpkins, sugarcane, and charcoal—the essence of a bustling local economy. The warmth and friendliness of the Zambian people wrapped around us like a cosy welcome mat, making us feel right at home.

With the thrill of discovery pushing us forward, we glided effortlessly towards Livingstone, arriving eager to dive into the backpacker vibe at the lively Jollyboys. This place was alive with laughter, stories waiting to be shared, and faces reflecting the spirit of adventure.

The next day was nothing short of magical. We set off to witness the majestic Victoria Falls, nature's grand spectacle. Thanks to the abundance of summer rains, the falls roared with untamed power, and we were quickly enveloped in a mist that felt like nature's embrace. Those rented raincoats proved our trusted companions as we ventured through thick fog, our senses awash with the sheer magnificence of the cascading water—an awe-inspiring reminder of the earth's raw beauty.

 

Livingstone to Zimba

As Linda packed her bags for her return flight to the USA, I was excited for the adventures that lay ahead. While she turned towards home, my journey led toward Malawi, over 1000 km away.

Leaving the bustling markets behind, the day unfolded as a quieter ride, punctuated by charming roadside markets brimming with fresh veggies, charcoal, and exquisite carved wood.

Each person I met along the way radiated genuine curiosity. Their friendly smiles and questions about my journey painted a warm backdrop to the day as if they were part of my story. By midday, I reached Zimba, a quaint little community that welcomed me with open arms. Finding basic lodgings at the Trekking Guesthouse for just 150 Kwacha felt like striking gold—an unmissable opportunity. With helpful staff eager to share local wisdom, I knew I had found the perfect place to rest and recharge, readying myself for the adventures that awaited in Zambia.

 

Interlude: On Kindness

Kindness on the road is rarely grand. It arrives in small gestures: a traffic officer handing out reflective belts, a stranger offering a hot shower, a host pouring gin and tonic at the end of a long day. These moments are not planned, not owed, not expected. They appear suddenly, like butterflies on the roadside, and vanish just as quickly.

Cycling teaches you to notice them. When your body is tired, when rain soaks through your clothes, when the road stretches endlessly ahead, kindness becomes more than comfort—it becomes sustenance. It reminds you that the world is not indifferent, that people still see you, still care.

I have learned that kindness is not measured by wealth or circumstance. It is measured by willingness: to share, to notice, to give, and it's nowhere more visible than in Africa. 

160 CYCLE TOURING NAMIBIA (2), PART 1

Shenanigans on a bike - By Leana Niemand 

Into the Desert’s Heart

PHOTOS

PDF

VOICEOVER

 

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.