Letter from Windhoek

Kaokoland in north-western Namibia is heaven on earth, says Lloyd Zandberg. But first you have to get there…

Aflat tyre is like a fly in your beer glass, something that requires your immediate attention. The only thing worse than a flat tyre is a flat tyre in the heat of the day, on a long and lonely stretch of dirt road, in the middle of Namibia. At the end of last year, my grandfather and I travelled to north-western Namibia. He’s a geologist and studied rocks while I took photos.

Namibia has some of the most scenic landscapes in the world, and I reckon the most scenic of them all are in the Kaokoland region. No one has ever gone there, then returned and said how awful it was and that they’re never going back. I haven’t been to Mars (yet), but I believe Kaokoland has more postcard-worthy places than the red planet.

Our tour started in Windhoek. We bought supplies, packed the bakkie, checked the tyres, and hit the road: Otjiwarongo, Outjo, Kamanjab, over the mountain that looks like an elephant from a distance, past Palmwag and all the way to the Hoanib River, where my grandfather wanted to look for marble and granite.

Someone asked me the other day where Damaraland begins and ends, and where it hands over the reins to Kaokoland. Geographically, it’s hard to say. According to my dad, who was expounding on this point around the braai fire one evening, it’s just after Khowarib “where the Hoanib River crosses the road”. Khowarib is so small that the whole village could fit into an ice rink. I know the place where the river crosses the road. As kids, we baked mud pies and built sand houses for whirligig beetles there.

“The river is considered to be the border between Kaokoland and Damaraland,” my dad said with sheep fat dripping from his chin. He’s been a tour leader for 30 years, so I believe him.

My grandfather and I stopped often on our trip – me to take photos of anything and everything, and him to look at rocks and stones with his magnifying glass. It slowed us down and we only reached the Hoanib on the second day. I was behind the wheel and I saw it from afar. It was 1.30 pm; Sesfontein was only 30 km further. My grandfather and I chatted away. I spoke about my love for McDonald’s and he talked about what happens to us after we die.

“I wonder where they want me to report to when I go,” he murmured, cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Who are ‘they’ and where are you going?” I asked.

“When I expire, move on…”

“Don’t say things like that. It’s morbid.”

“Morbid is fair.”

An uncomfortable silence settled in the bakkie.

Suddenly we heard a loud bang and the Hilux slid across the road. I found myself shouting: “If we both expire today, who will inherit your John Lennon painting?”

I gripped the steering wheel tightly. The bakkie left the road. It felt like a jolt of electricity was running up my arm to my neck. We finally came to a halt, the nose of the bakkie pressed up against an ancient camel thorn tree.

“Grandpa, cover your ears,” I said. “I’m going to swear.” “There’s a fly on your lip,” he said.

I swore and swore and scared the fly away.

My grandfather lit another cigarette and blew the smoke against the windscreen. I opened my door and got out. The rear tyre was in tatters. Strips of black rubber lay in our wake – it looked like liquorice scattered on a shop floor. Deep grooves cut into the earth, tracing our route from where the tyre had burst on the road to where we came to a standstill on the verge. I unpacked our camping chairs, firewood, camping fridge, fold-out table and two glasses. I opened a packet of chips. I built us a small lodge next to the road. I dug out a towel and used it as a tablecloth. Now we were ready.

“I guess I’ll loosen the wheel nuts,” I said.

“Kaokoland is no joke,” Grandpa said.

“And we’re not even there yet,” I replied.

I gripped the steering wheel tightly. The bakkie left the road. It felt like a jolt of electricity was running up my arm to my neck.