Good day from Walvis Bay, Namibia! I have survived the endless expanses of gravel roads and sparse civilization, happy to be at the Atlantic Ocean and a not-so-sketchy internet cafe. Due to the length of time I have to report on on the blog, I'm going to start from the beginning in instalments. Here are days one and two!
Waking before the sun rose on Saturday I made the final preparations for the trip- carrying my bags to the car, reminding myself not to inadvertently kidnap the apartment keys, and making a final check of my belongings. Thankfully these tasks were not overwhelming, since the day before had been spent dropping my large auxiliary baggage off at the McClungs, picking up last minute supplies at Pick n Pay, and filling up both Aslan and the borrowed Jerry Can with gas.
It was a difficult day, as it also marked the termination of my All Nations internship, warranting sad farewells and sweet reminiscing of my chair-cleaning first days at the office. By 1:30, though, I was on my way back to Cape Town, where I ran my last errand to the ritzy waterfront mall to pick up my last tool for the journey- my paternally-mandated satellite phone. If, Reader, your imagination snaps on with visions of Star Trek at my mentioning such a gadget, allow me to direct your mind's eye towards Jurassic Park instead. The heavy, brick like contraption that I am lugging around in my trunk still now not only boasts a 90's era screen and body, but includes, hilariously, a half-foot long antenna about the width of a ski pole that clicks into place when in use. Though it can manage only about 10 minutes of talk time per battery charge and demands 2 dollars a minute to call anywhere in the world, I am still in awe of its ability to get my parents on the line despite the absence of any sort of pay phone or cell phone reception, as long as I have a clear sky on my hands.
Toukam and I said our final goodbyes (for our 2 week separation) at about 7:45 on Saturday morning, marking the beginning of the Old School Adventure that I have been dreaming of since February. Driving cautiously down the cement ramps of the parking garage, I adjusted to the significantly increased weight of Aslan resulting from the water, gas, tent, sleeping bag, oranges, and luggage that was now in tow. Without any hindrance I quickly made my departure from the Mother City, bidding farewell to Table Mountain, now tamed after my on-foot domination of its rocky facade.
The first landscape that I encountered was of rolling lush green hills that harbored thick fog in their folds and magnificent views from their peaks. Being that it was so early on a Saturday morning, I encountered few cars on either side of the road and enjoyed the view as the hills turned into rocky, more mountainous bodies. A c0uple hours in, I stopped at a small town called Citrusdal, where I became acquainted with the tiny town scene that would become commonplace outside of Cape Town. I grabbed a cheap cup of coffee in a lonely coffeeshop and stretched my legs. Soon, though, the N7 beckoned me again and I was quickly back in my beloved Corolla listening to one of the 25 CD's I burned beforehand.
Landscapes changed again and suddenly I found myself speeding through wide open plains of rocky soil. On both sides, I spotted miniature examples of Table Mountain and eventually spotted a roadside picnic table at which I could feast on what would quickly become an Old School staple- peanut butter and honey sandwiches washed down with a fresh orange. While dining, I acquainted myself with another frequent visitor on the adventure- silence. Besides the sometimes howling wind, there was nothing to hear. It was and is a silence I appreciate, especially when accompanied by such amazing scenery.
My Lunch Spot
Continuing on, the drab plains steadily started including more splashes of unexpected color- in the form of wildflowers beginning to bloom. Though they were not carpeting the ground like they will in mid August, they were still impressive to see- like the rebellious hippies of the botanical world. I couldn't resist stopping on the side of the road to take their picture.
Along with the coming of spring, the flowers marked my impending arrival in Springbok, South Africa. Nearly 600 km from Cape Town, Springbok is a smallish town huddled amongst some low, boulder-covered hills. Understandably, the town survives off the swarm of tourists who come in the spring to oogle at the endless expanses of wildflowers. That being said, the town was pretty much empty, pending the festival of blooms that is yet to come. I found my B&B, the Elkoweru Guest House, and settled into my "room," which proved to be a furnished tool shed, complete with running water and toilet, television, and comfortable beds. Besides having to stoop down whenever moving around the room, I found it to be quite comfortable and definitely worth the $15 dollar rate.
After settling myself in the room, I took a walk around the town, starting with an abandoned copper mine, called "Blue Mine," which was the first mine to produce an "economically feasible" amount of copper. Though nothing more than a hole in the ground, it represents the prosperous industries that come and go on this continent- providing wealth for only a moment before things abruptly change. Next, I encountered a monument to a falling fort that had once stood in the middle of the town. Though I was unsure of the legality of my exploring it, it was covered with some of the coolest plants I've ever seen- specifically a kind of succulent that looks like it came from Mars.
Martian Succulent
For dinner, I went to one of the few restaurant in Springbok- a pizza take-out place. There, after polling some locals, I ordered a chicken, mayo, and mushroom pizza, which along with being way too big for me to eat was extraordinarily delicious. The chef said that "America isn't ready for his pizzas," so I was thankful that I was. I slept well that night in the shed, and woke up early in the morning to again pack up the car and leave, but not before having a fantastic breakfast in the empty dining room of the guest house. It was a delicious meal of bacon, sausage, egg, and yogurt, and it was a good start to the day.
I refueled Aslan and got back on the N7, mistakenly thinking that I would reach an ATM before the Namibian border, 125 km away. On the drive to the border, I saw only a handful of cars as the mountains gave way to more level terrain. Soon, though, I arrived at the border post, where all of my paperwork checked out and the officials could not answer my query regarding the Namibian border office's ability to take credit cards or provide an ATM. Hoping for the best, I got back in the car and crossed the Orange River into Namibia, where uniform-less officials took and processed my paperwork without problem until they told me that no, my credit card was not a valid way of paying the 180 rand (about 22 dollars) road tax.
They offered a way out, though, by taking my passport and allowing me to drive to a nearby service station, which allegedly had an ATM. It was a short drive, but when I arrived and attempted the "Bank Windhoek" ATM, it provided me only with a cryptic message referencing its inability to "Process the Transaction." Holding my panic at bay, I then attempted the pseudo-ATM next to it, which resulted in similarly ambiguous failure. The gas station attendant, being extraordinarily unhelpful, said that she couldn't do anything while a fellow traveller pointed me in the direction of the neighboring guest lodge. There, I was met by the Namibian housekeeper, who told me that it wasn't allowed for her to use the card machine and the owner, away in Cape Town, could not give permission. The panic became irresistibly palpable.
I returned once again to the gas station, now at a complete loss of what to do. Knowing that I wouldn't get anywhere talking with the attendant, I asked to talk to the manager of the gas station. From behind the counter the stout white Namibian lady asked what I wanted. I once again explained my financially-strained situation to her, to which she replied that she couldn't do anything. I asked if there was any way I could get the cash with a 50 rand surcharge given to her, and she once again told me that it wasn't possible. Eventually, I told her, exasperated, that all I needed was 50 rand to have enough to be able to get beyond the border. Either tired of an obnoxious American or moved to generosity by my plight, she gave me a 50 rand bill and told me to leave. Embarrassed slightly by my degradation to a beggar because of my own irresponsibility, I hopped back in the car and sped back to the border.
There, I found that I had misheard the official and needed another 20 rand to get through the border. Aghast at this turn of events, I began sifting through my car looking for loose change. Coming up short, I tried to reason with the official, who would not budge in her demands. Again panicky and desperate, I turned to a lady who was coming through the border and, allowing my desperation to override my humiliation, asked if she would give me 15 rand (less than 2 dollars) to get me through the border. Recognizing the look in my eye that signaled that she was my only hope, she smiled and gave me 20 rand, saying "And they say South Africans aren't nice!" With that, I was handed my cross border salvation and triumphantly gave the official the money she wanted- every last cent.
Shaken by the whole situation, I pressed on into Namibia. What greeted me first was a landscape of complete, utter desolation. I may have been raised in the deserts of Arizona, but the expanse that I faced was lunar in its complete lack of life. There was no vegetation in sight and the only embellishments to the environment were large, black rocks that spotted the ground. It was a relief when this ground morphed into a more hospitable plain, complete with sparse bushes and low mountains.
Namibian Desolation
With my cashless situation still painfully real, I hoped to run into an ATM before I turned off the main road to make my way towards Fish River Canyon, where I was to sleep. This hope was soon proved naive as absolutely no sign of human life, besides some passing cars, showed itself after passing the border. Absolutely nothing. Knowing that I did have enough gas and water, I continued on, turning off the paved highway onto the first of many dirt roads that I would take.
The dirt roads, though sometimes necessitating slow going, are actually quite good, and Alsan handles them like a champ. Instead of turning off towards the canyon and my campsite, I decided to continue on for another 20km to Ai-Ais, a town that I knew had gas and hoped would have an ATM. Weaving my way between rocky cliffs and red mountains, I eventually made it to the surprisingly green Ai-Ais, which was actually more like a small resort than a town. At the gate, I was greeted by two guards, who smiled when I asked about a way to procure cash, saying that Ai-Ais was still under construction and had nothing of the sort. Increasingly distraught, I had a quick lunch near the river and went back the way I came, this time turning north towards Hobas, the camp site.
My Lunch Spot
The guards had recommended that I stop at Canon Lodge, a resort on the way to Hobas that they said had an ATM. After taking the 1km sandy road to the resort, I quickly found out from the kindly owners that their credit card machine had no way to get cash. They told me further that the nearest ATM would be in Keetmanshoop- both too far to get there and back before the end of the day and out of the way of the route I had planned. Thankfully, one of the owners' friends piped up and said there was a bank in Bethanie, the town I was to stay at the next night.
I left the Canon Lodge and tried one more place. Bypassing the turnoff to the campsite, I drove to the Canon Roadhouse, where I found a kid-sized dose of salvation. The people there initially said there was no way for them to do anything, but when I went back to the car, I had an idea. I looked in my passport wallet and found 6 American dollars. Hoping for the best, I asked if they could change them to Rands. At first they said no, but then the chef came out from the back and, after some negotiation, gave me an exchange. I had cash!
On my cheery way to the campsite, I had a run-in with some ostriches. There were three on the road- two on one side, and one on the other. As I slowed down to pass them, the two on one side decided at the last moment to join the other one and nearly ran right in front of the moving car. I was grateful when there was another change of mind and they returned to their side. Though it may not have been a collision, it could easily have been one- Old School Adventure material!
I soon got to Hobas, where I signed in for my camp site and got a permit to drive to the lookout point for the canyon. Fish River Canyon, it turns out, is the second largest canyon in the world. The view was fantastic and I enjoyed using my binoculars to get even better views of the bottom. It was a serene end to a hectic day, and I was exhausted by the time I pitched my tent, had some more Peanut Butter and honey sandwiches, read one of Floyd's books, and went to sleep.
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