‘We’ve lost our head- banging youngst ers in the middle of nowhere’

showers welcome us. From Orupembe we make our way into the dry Khumib riverbed and follow the river south until it meets up with the Hoarusib River. Here our Tracks4Africa GPS software proves its worth because about half an hour before sunset, the bleep tracking our progress informs us that we are heading north. We had mistakenly turned into a tributary of the river and destroyed our chances of reaching Puros that evening. For the first time, we have to camp wild. We pitch our tents in soft sand under some palm trees, make a fire, photograph the incredible night sky and sleep in absolute soundlessness. We continue south in the Hoarusib riverbed towards Puros the next day. The area is home to desert elephant, rhino and lion and we marvel at a couple of curious giraffe and their adaptability to the harsh desert environment. Then Thundercat announces accelerator problems via radio. We limp into Puros to find the one mechanic in town has gone to Sesfontein. We have no choice but to push on – covering the 100-kilometre stretch to Sesfontein along possibly the most badly corrugated road in Namibia. We let Thundercat go ahead, knowing we’ll catch up with Mike if he breaks down. It gives us time to stop often for photographs. This is a big mistake. The bad road conditions mean we have to pick our way around bushes and dunes, sometimes veering off track for more than a kilometre. On one such detour, Mike’s vehicle breaks down, and we miss them entirely. We have no radio contact (their battery ran flat), no way of knowing where they are. We reach Sesfontein alone and stare at the setting sun. Thundercat doesn’t have a GPS, road map or radio. We’ve lost our whooping, head-banging youngsters in the middle of nowhere. The falling night feels cruel. Six torturous hours later, Thundercat hobbles into town with a bottle of Captain Morgan and a big story. At our hotel, we sit well into the night as the three youngsters breathlessly regale us with their moments of despair: driving at 20 kilometres per hour and eating cold baked beans. After further tales of magnanimous locals, I am flooded with relief and gratitude. The rest of our trip goes without incident (although we do end up towing Mike’s Defender 280 kilometres to Swakopmund). The youngsters start to look more and more like desert bandits, noses covered in bandanas and hair tousled with dust. Nobody is complaining, everybody is happy. And that Landy is still bouncing to the rhythm like crazy.