the only way to take this journey was to treat it as an adventure. Weâd done as much forward planning as we could and hoped that weâd anticipated most things that could go wrong. If problems started to grow into obstacles it would be time to re-think what we were doing. Well, now it is time. After a coffee and a walk on the beach the decision is made to forget about pursuing the satellite phone problem any further; weâll just work with the phone as it is, which means keeping it continually plugged into the Troopyâs battery so that itâs always charged and ready to use.
We have the Troopy serviced by a particularly pleasant GermanâNamibian who, we later learn, called up his friends to come and admire the Troopy. He tells us that it would be much easier to sell the Troopy in Namibia than in South Africa and asks if weâll agree to give him first option to buy when weâre finished with it. We agree in a flash. Apart from the window crack the car still looks brand new but I hate to think what it will be like in ten monthsâ time.
On our last afternoon in town we take a two-hour flight over the desert to Sossusvlei. This is the sort of flying that youâd never get away with in more regulated countries, and Neil is rapt. Weâre 30 to 40 metres above ground, zooming down gullies, between red dunes, flashing by ostrich and gemsbok at eye level. Then circling over Sossusvlei and the valley that weâd driven down days before with Sonje and Gigi. Then dive-bombing seal colonies and abandoned diamond mines before scooting back up the coastline where the sea breaks directly onto high golden dunes. What an amazing place.
The house weâve been renting is on a corner opposite the beach and itâs exposed and windy cold. It comes with a night watchman, a young thin man who curls up like a cat on his polar fleece to keep warm and who always waits for us to greet him in the mornings before going off duty. Neil has insisted on giving him a meal every night. It started with half a pizza, but by the last evening I was making enough chilli con carne for three. His plate and cutlery are always left washed and neatly stacked by the side door.
We wake up on our last morning in Swakop to the famous fog. Itâs very eerie: everything is grey, black and white, and even though they are going slowly, oncoming cars appear from nowhere then disappear again, lost in space. Landmarks are invisible and road signs unreadable, and it takes us twice as long as it would normally to find our way out of town.
On the way up the coast road to the seal colony of Cape Cross, we detour in to see the famous sand golf course at Henties Bay. Itâs built on dunes with fairways of sand and greens of grass, but with the coastal fog still hanging around, itâs a deserted and slightly spooky scene.
The Cape fur seal colony is something else. No fog, but the smell is unmistakable: a mixture of urine, wet fur and rotting carcasses, as mangy black-backed jackals slink around preying on the young and infirm. Weâre tempted to stay a night at the beautiful Cape Cross Lodge but settle on lunch after hearing the cost.
To get to Spitzkoppe, our next destination, we must retrace our steps to Henties Bay and now we notice for the first time little piles of rocks and empty bottles at intervals beside the road, always on the western side. It becomes apparent that these are individualsâ markers indicating the turn-off to their favourite fishing spot down on the shoreline, and they are the only sign of human presence in this barren, misty landscape. At Henties Bay we turn eastward and itâs not long before we can make out the red Spitzkoppe peaks hovering on the horizon, even though weâre still a couple of hours drive away.
Up close Spitzkoppe is just like the postcards: a towering mass of orange-red granite peaks sitting like an island in the middle of flat semi-desert, reminiscent of Kata Tjuta in
We have the Troopy serviced by a particularly pleasant GermanâNamibian who, we later learn, called up his friends to come and admire the Troopy. He tells us that it would be much easier to sell the Troopy in Namibia than in South Africa and asks if weâll agree to give him first option to buy when weâre finished with it. We agree in a flash. Apart from the window crack the car still looks brand new but I hate to think what it will be like in ten monthsâ time.
On our last afternoon in town we take a two-hour flight over the desert to Sossusvlei. This is the sort of flying that youâd never get away with in more regulated countries, and Neil is rapt. Weâre 30 to 40 metres above ground, zooming down gullies, between red dunes, flashing by ostrich and gemsbok at eye level. Then circling over Sossusvlei and the valley that weâd driven down days before with Sonje and Gigi. Then dive-bombing seal colonies and abandoned diamond mines before scooting back up the coastline where the sea breaks directly onto high golden dunes. What an amazing place.
The house weâve been renting is on a corner opposite the beach and itâs exposed and windy cold. It comes with a night watchman, a young thin man who curls up like a cat on his polar fleece to keep warm and who always waits for us to greet him in the mornings before going off duty. Neil has insisted on giving him a meal every night. It started with half a pizza, but by the last evening I was making enough chilli con carne for three. His plate and cutlery are always left washed and neatly stacked by the side door.
We wake up on our last morning in Swakop to the famous fog. Itâs very eerie: everything is grey, black and white, and even though they are going slowly, oncoming cars appear from nowhere then disappear again, lost in space. Landmarks are invisible and road signs unreadable, and it takes us twice as long as it would normally to find our way out of town.
On the way up the coast road to the seal colony of Cape Cross, we detour in to see the famous sand golf course at Henties Bay. Itâs built on dunes with fairways of sand and greens of grass, but with the coastal fog still hanging around, itâs a deserted and slightly spooky scene.
The Cape fur seal colony is something else. No fog, but the smell is unmistakable: a mixture of urine, wet fur and rotting carcasses, as mangy black-backed jackals slink around preying on the young and infirm. Weâre tempted to stay a night at the beautiful Cape Cross Lodge but settle on lunch after hearing the cost.
To get to Spitzkoppe, our next destination, we must retrace our steps to Henties Bay and now we notice for the first time little piles of rocks and empty bottles at intervals beside the road, always on the western side. It becomes apparent that these are individualsâ markers indicating the turn-off to their favourite fishing spot down on the shoreline, and they are the only sign of human presence in this barren, misty landscape. At Henties Bay we turn eastward and itâs not long before we can make out the red Spitzkoppe peaks hovering on the horizon, even though weâre still a couple of hours drive away.
Up close Spitzkoppe is just like the postcards: a towering mass of orange-red granite peaks sitting like an island in the middle of flat semi-desert, reminiscent of Kata Tjuta in
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