The Compass Points North
NAMIBIA (2) – Part 2
1 490 Kilometres - 21 Days
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.
