Just deserts
On driving a thousand kilometres through Namibia — alone
From the air, Namibia’s sand dunes look like mocha frosting, all creamy swirls and tufted peaks, with just a single paved roadway snaking its way from north to south. But the sweet, comforting connotation did little to quell my nerves as I flew to Namibia’s southern end for my first few days.
Somehow as I ticked the required boxes ahead of a press visit to Namibia, it didn’t cross my mind that the tourism board was asking whether I drive standard or automatic for a reason. As it turned out, the tour they planned for me involved hitting the road. A lot of it: I was going to be driving 1,000 kilometres across the oldest desert in the world. By myself.
On the ground, the dunes, which can reach several hundred metres in height, appear far less innocuous. That impression was only heightened when my tour group encountered a truck full of locals stuck in the sand on the way to the Sperrgebiet, the site of Namibia’s decommissioned diamond mines, which is now a national park. In high winds, the dunes wander at rates of up to 16 metres a day, turning today’s road into tomorrow’s tire trap.
While Ronen, our guide, helped dig t hem out, I climbed and slid with the two small children of the French family who was on my tour. “Maman! I have sand in my shoes!” threeyear- old Amélie announced once we’d resumed our drive toward Pomona, a deserted mining town. These ghost towns are the main reason to come this far south; most visitors go to museum- like Kolmanskop, where the retouched paint in the gymnasium seemed as vibrant as when the miners cleared out 60 years ago.
The desert feels alive in Pomona, which you need a permit to visit. There, the old skeletons of homes have long lost their battle with the dunes, and the snaky sound of creeping sand and rusted tin roofs waving in the wind make for a haunted death rattle. The foreboding knot in my stomach, however, had more to do with my own impending drive. “Are you sure this is safe?” Amélie asked as our car lurched over a dune. With Ronen behind the wheel it was, but I felt less confident about my own prospects driving to the north.
My first day trip looked to be a good trial run. I had to drive 40 km to GocheGanas, a wildlife reserve and spa on the outskirts of Windhoek, Namibia’s capital. The first 25 km were easy- peasy. But then I turned off the tarred highway for a gravel route.
In the sand, my car felt as slippy as Bambi on ice whenever I hit 40 km an hour, half the speed limit ( most people drive 4x4s; my rental car was an entirely inappropriate Volkswagen Golf ). When I finally made it to the lodge, sweaty and late, I was ushered straight to the spa, where the masseuse used sand fresh from the dunes to knead my still- clenched muscles.
I was supposed to go on a game drive next – GocheGanas is home to rhinos, giraffes, zebras and nearly two dozen other species — but Katharina, the lodge manager, urged me to wait till later in the day when more animals would be out. The prospect of a sunset safari is pretty much a no- brainer except that car rental agency prohibits travellers from driving after dark.
Katharina offered to have one of the resort’s Jeeps lead me back to the main highway after dinner, but in the end we found an even better solution: two of the resort’s cottages — all thatched roof, hardwood, mosquito-netted, Colonial elegance — were unoccupied that night. Instead of a white- knuckled drive back to Windhoek, I drank South African cabernet at dinner and then sat on my deck, staring at the stars before bedding down and departing early the next morning.
I hit a local artisan market about an hour in for my first break; another hour later, I was back on the road, backseat full of wooden giraffes, salad bowls and tongs with etched handles, and tribal masks, all handcarved. And then it was just me and the desert.
The trunks of camel thorn trees, pale gold in the sun, kept fooling me into thinking I was spotting giraffes; though I didn’t see
THE SAND AND RUSTED ROOFS WAVING IN THE WIND MAKE FOR A HAUNTED RATTLE.
much wildlife from the road ( mostly baboons), the drive was thrilling. It wasn’t the scenery — Namibia’s most picturesque roadways aren’t tarred, and I was playing it safe. But getting myself from one end of the country to another, just me and that VW Golf full of wooden handicrafts, felt like a remarkable achievement.
I spent my final night in Namibia at Pelican Point Lodge, a nine- room eco l odge built on a remote stretch of coastline. Sandwiched between the wild Atlantic and tranquil Walvis Bay lagoon, it’s unreachable by car, so I left mine in town; when it was time to leave, I hitched a ride back to the parking lot where I’d left it with hotel staff.
As we drove past the thousands of flamingos that come to the lagoon from all across Southern Africa to feed, I described to them the long trip home ahead of me, and the one I’d just taken.
“This is a very good experience for you,” Helen, Pelican Point’s manager, told me. “It’s not only the things you saw here. Now you know that you are very strong. You are a very strong woman.” And that’s exactly how I felt.