We Get Pwned
 

[still] Namibia 14-24/02

Damaraland

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The gravel road unwound through some of the most thinly populated and driest Namibian countryside. Long before we ever learnt about this place and dreamt of riding our bike across, its native nomadic inhabitants, the hunter-gatherer San (Bushmen) and the herders Khoisan (Hottentots) had been almost entirely chased away by white settlers, missionaries and venturers alike. Leftover villages were scattered in the [insert yawn here for the predictable adjective] vast territory. From time to time a Himba man with his cattle would appear in the horizon, a speckle in the infinite stretch of ochre, white and blue.

As time passed by, the occasional paths stopped turning into the bush to indicate a village or the remains of it: we were finally alone, hundreds of miles between us and the next human settlement. This was Damaraland, one of the driest environments on Earth.

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A chameleon crossed our path, so we stopped to check it out (sorry for the man-handling little fella').

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Above the barren veld rose a flat gradient of blue. Thorny shrubs, tufts of grass and acacia trees swarmed the reddish earth like stubs of hair on an unshaven face. We drove across this sameness for hours, like an alien craft interrupting the astonishing vacancy of the veld. No typical African mud-and-dung huts, nobody walking with their stuff on their head, no women crouching alongside the road, waiting for a lift. No-one. Then the gravel lost its tan and shone white in the midday haze. Luring us to push on, the Khowarib Gorge, where the land suddenly swelled from zero to 1600m.

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In the 20s Germany had to let Namibia go, so the country went to join the Southern-African Union. Until the 1990 independence some 6000 fenced farms were leased or sold by the aperheid government to the new white settlers who flocked in, leaving the "natives" no option but make house in the 10 "reserves". In the North there was Kaokoland (nowadays Kunene), home to Herero and Himba; the fringes of Kalahari in the South-East became the last frontier of the San; the Topnaars retreated to the Namib. And on the central plateau the Damara, one of the three groups that use a click-accented dialect, established Damaraland. Even today the arid territory is not officially protected, but offers sanctuary to wildlife: zebra, Springbok, Oryx, Kudu, giraffe, suricates, birds and reptiles. Rumor has it that even desert elephants and lions still roam some of the more remote corners of this veld. And this time the animals that wandered about were not unfazed by our sudden and noisy apparition, like the Etosha herds. The encounter would last only for a brief moment, leaving us dumbfounded, wondering if it had been a day-dream or not.

Soon the Grootberg pass forced the road towards east. A jacquard of lava lingered under brittle grasses, few meters high cactuses and freakish stumpy trees with water-filled torsos.

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Clusters of enormous rocks were laying around in the fuzzy veld, strange toys forgotten behind by some nowhere-to-be-seen giants.

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Pass the granite Lego, we rolled into Kamanjab, where the newest overlanders' joint (complete with overland album where we could spot familiar faces like Margus & Kariina, Alper & Esther, the Vidals) welcomes non-African vehicles for free. Our original plan was to take our first shower in a week, do some launder and feast on the famous Namibian farmed game, but Oppi Koppi was to become more than just a pit stop for us, protein hungry, dirty vagabonds. For one, as we arrived on the infamous 14th of February, we celebrated the Valentine's Day for the first time, the main incentive being the specials on the menu: butternut soup, zebra sirloin with veg and, yes, ice-cream! As camping was free, splurging on the very reasonable dinner set menu was a no-brainer.

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And as South Africa was already on our radar, it was time to start practicing our braai skills, sporting boerwors, farmed game and the famous termite mushrooms we had chased in vain in Etosha a week ago.

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The rest camp was a hippy garden of sorts: prickly bushes, cactuses, pod bearing trees that Ana felt inspired to wear as instant jewelry.

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An unedited photo with our campsite scalded in the surreal sunset.

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Malaria Scare

Two days later we were ready: showered, shampooed, hairstyles, well rested. We had started to get used to and take for granted all these first world luxuries - heated water (actually running water), T.P., electricity and easily available plug, right by the tent. Long were forgotten our scruffy days in the Congo, when we would save any drop of water and milligram of soap, washing our hands by squeezing a tuft of grass heavy with morning dew. But one of the bad memories, if not the worst of them all, was to come back and haunt us once more.

That dreadful morning debuted with a weird feeling in my stomach. By midday my bones and knuckles were aching like hell. At night I was sporting a decent fever, but not too high, so we decided to postpone our departure, to see what was up with that. The next day the cycle restarted: more fever, more head aches… al day I was laying down in my tent, powerless, weaken. The paranoia was on: Ana was reliving the Matadi moment, I was growing more convinced by the hour that I had malaria. On top of all these, we knew that Esther, with whom we had traveled in Congo and who was a bit ahead of us now together with Alper, has been hospitalized in Windhoek with malaria. She had started the treatment with some delay, maybe a couple of days, and she was now suffering from kidney failure, a common but nasty malaria complication. She had been receiving dialysis for about a week and she was about to be repatriated in Germany. Their adventure was over. We decided it was not the moment to take risks, so I started taking Lonart, an equivalent of Qartem, immediately.

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Malaria candy, bought from Zambia.

The next morning we were helped by locals to summon medical assistance at the newly built, but quite desolated village clinic. They had malaria tests alright, the kind that had already been proven unreliable in Ana's case. I had already taken 2 doses of antimalarial medicine, of course the test came out negative. A proper blood test was available only 500 ams away, in Windhoek. And the nurse, who I can't imagine had ever treated or even met someone with malaria, assured me I was fine. 10 euros and two cute ziplocks with Indocid and multivitamins later, I was back home. And back on Lonart.

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Pain-killers + multivitamins from the "doctor"

As it is the case in Romania, Europe or the US, in Namibia not a lot is known about malaria. The country is out of the severe transmission map, besides, we were in Kamanjab, a few thousands inhabitants village. My best bet was to follow the correct antimalarial treatment scheme. So I did, taking my time to recover and rest. A few days later in Windhoek it was too late to trace the plasmodium germs in my blood. So this will remain a big question mark. Was is, or wasn't it? I guess I'll never know. Three days later I was back on my horse, pushing on westwards.

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Saying good-bye to Melissa, the daughter of Vital, owner of Oppi-Koppi

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On the road again

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The record mileage was hard to believe, even for us

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The Namibian touristic agenda is quite extensive, and of course nothing is free. Lonely Planet has never been our traveling bible, so we skipped the local "must-see"s and took the sketchiest off-road route towards Skeleton Coast. Our plan was to reach Walvis Bay by sunset. The daylight had a surreal quality to it, tempering colors, melting away topographical features that were fighting for contrast under the scorching sun. Every time we would stop for a brief water break we could hear nothing but our own voices: the land appeared lifeless, smelling of heat and drought, only interrupted by twisted corpses of thorn trees without their melted Camembert clocks. The sky was wider and higher than any we had seen before, smeared with theatrical cloudscapes that kept coagulating and dispersing.

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Namibian veld

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It was one of the greatest rides of them all. The Namibian veld dissected by this adrenalin-pumping clutch-burning tyre-roasting road. We were discovering it kilometer by kilometer of rock crumble, stopping at a vantage point from which we could view it all. Rushing up on a blind hill, bent down into a corkscrew like the famous Laguna Secca turn. This stretch would make a beautiful rally stage, negotiating a water thirsty desert that eventually fades away into the ocean ravaged Skeleton Coast. It was rainy season, but rain rarely falls here. All the river beds were dry, their sandy bottoms ghostly reminders of a once breathing body of water. At some point we took a small road, a thin line on the map, and got lost for some time in a labyrinth of sandy deviations.

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Dry riverbed: wide, deep, sandy, difficult to cross 2up

The massive Brandberge, the "burnt mountain", towered at 2573m over the unmitigated flatness of the veld.

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Then all that was left was formlessly horizontal. West, east, north and south, ever the same, only the wood poles with their sagging electricity cables still standing. The sky was smudged with cloud, and the wind was bringing in from the frozen coastal waters a salty smell of thunderstorm. Through the distant rains that were hanging down from the clouds like soaking laundry, we could barely see Mt. Spitzkoppe, to the left of the road.

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Then we entered on the Skeleton Coast through a strange field of lichen in bloom (a reserve and national park).

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The cold Benguela current was blowing mercilessly, so we rushed by the swish white suburbs of Swakopmund, the capital of all adrenaline-junkies. For wads of cash one can skydive, sandboard or do anything here, so this was not our place, not our budget. On the outskirts of the outskirts of the town we drove by the Topnaar township: shacks of any description in the sandy plain littered with all sorts of debris, a landscape where mountains were man-made out of trash.

We had last seen the desert 8 months ago, in Mauritania, and the Atlantic more than 2 months ago, in Gabon. We would see them both again, side by side, dunes melted right into the ocean, in the Namib Naukluft. Ochre dunes, a salty crust wrinkled over the land, ocean roaring beyond the horizon.

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Walvis Bay to Windhoek

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Only a couple of manic gourmet travelers like ourselves could drive for hundreds of miles through the desert, bushcamp in the sketchiest spots and save every penny, in order to afford half a dozen of oysters. But we had been obsessing over the Walvis Bay oysters since 2008, and our efforts and stinginess was rewarded: the mollusks were plump, nutty, with a perfect brine. Mmmmmmmmmmmm……

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It was already night when we started driving again in the direction of Windhoek. We were determined to push as mush as we could, so that we would have less Ks in the morning till the South African embassy, where we had to apply for our visa.

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We had no idea when we stopped that we were bushcamping again in an exceptional place. Then the sunrise was more than convincing.

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The capital city felt exhausting. From the manic streets to the black township where even the public grill was on the way to become some sort of meat mall.

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But we had driven all this way only to submit our RSA visa application, a simple enough affair, we naively thought. Romania is not part of Schengen (and will not be for a long time), so Romanian citizens must apply and pay for a quite expensive visa. Immediately we understood that was not going to be easy: spartan working hours, aggressive and condescending personnel, high fees. Firstly, our application was denied: they suggested we apply in our country of origin. We considered crossing directly to Botswana and try there, or simply cut South Africa from the itinerary. The third day they agreed to take our files in, but only after we payed 85 euros in visa fees and 70 euros for the faxes that this embassy would presumably send, we were informed that we were now facing a minimum 10 working days waiting time for a response. That meant while our passports could be rotting in some drawer at the RSA embassy, our Namibian visa could expire, placing us in an even more delicate situation. We tried to plead with this people, they just don't care, though. 99% of all overlanders don't need a visa for South Africa, they just roll into the southernmost point of the continent. Is this the end of our 28000 km adventure, will we be denied access to a classic overlander's milestone? Will we have to scramble for a last minute exit out of Namibia? We just don't know. We are sad, we are hopeless, we are angry.

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Update: a week has passed since, and nobody could be bothered to process our visa applications. We keep calling the embassy, wasting more money, more time. It feels like we hit a dead end.

You Kick Us Out Through The Door, We Get Inside Through The Window
 

Sometimes cheekiness and resilience pay off �
The cheap drama: 3 days of begging to get out referral visa applications in (a referral visa is a visa that must be approved by the embassy in your home country), 14 days of international calls and lies, 3 days of picketing the embassy in Windhoek, 85 euro for the actual stamps, 70 euro for docs that were never faxed to the embassy in Romania (who pocketed this fee?), 1000 km of detour to avoid waiting for a response in expensive Windhoek.
The (almost) unexpected result: 7 days to the expiration date of our Namibian visa, we got the permission to enter South Africa. We're going to the Mother Town! Hopefully this visa, never approved by the embassy in Bucharest, is valid.

Into The Wild
 

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That's how our day begun: hundreds of Springboks, dozens of giraffes and oryx. We had embarked, the two of us, plus Vital (owner of Oppi-Koppi), on what was to become our own booze fueled Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas trip.

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First we needed to observe the tradition and drink a bottle of ginger spirit, to avoid a flat tyre. At the Sesfontein village joint, where we stopped to stock on the lucky-charm drink and beer, a regular Monday was at play: people were chatting and liquid-dancing to the blasting jukebox, pool was being played with a golf ball, nickels were being dropped in the poker machine.

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Then we were out of the map. The end of the road was only the beginning of the journey. We were driving across the unpeopled, formless, oldest desert in the world, the pro-Namib. The vacancy, the remoteness, the sheer implausibility of the place was astonishing. Wisps of dry shrubs covered the earth with a scabby pattern of circular, barren patches, like enigmatic landing spots of some past flying saucers. The average diameter of these patches: 5�8 m!

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These are the so-called �fairy rings� of Namibia, one of the most enigmatic phenomena in the desert regions of southern Africa. To date, the bioassays conducted in soil samples collected from these sites failed to support any proposed explanation for this patterning (localized radioactivity, termite activity, growth inhibitors released by dead Euphorbia damarana plants etc). But the relative permanence of fairy rings in the pro-Namib desert is believed to be critically linked to the optimal functioning of the ecosystem. The fairy rings may be some sort of adaptive response to extreme arid conditions, facilitating capture, storage and recycling of limited resources.

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But this was not the only strange feature of the landscape. Chunky trees rose swollen with water. Crumbling rock scattered. Winds honed lava outcrops. And in this world of the Oz, a lonely telephone, to give a call to the gods.

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This is not officially designated as a wildlife reserve, national park or protected area. But locals know: the place is teeming with wild desert lions and desert elephants, and many other animals.

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To go deeper into the wild, we had to descend into the dry river bed. The sandy bottom was full of elephant poop and eventually we spotted some foot prints. Everything was so quiet, and we were cruising at almost zero speed, trying to make as little noise as possible. 15 meters high acacia trees shaded the river bed so vast that we were unable to see the banks, our lilliputian vehicle lost, dwarfed, nullified. Then the bull appeared, and suddenly the astonishing scale of the landscape made sense.

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He allowed us to watch, and it was so quiet that we could hear him chewing on bark. Desert elephants don't need to drink every day and their tusks are smaller, due to the scarcity of nutrients in their environment. But this guy was an impressive size and we were hoping to see him again later, as we would set up camp downstream, into the river bed. Looking for a spot to pitch our tents we met more surreal creatures: slender giraffes, Oryx, ostriches, guinea fowls�

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Giraffe footprint: guess the walking direction!

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We enjoyed more red wine with our braai, then it was time to have some rest. Lying under our mosquito nets, we saw everything, we heard everything. The sky was white with stars, jackals and birds were calling their mates, the river was silent, smelling of heat and sand. It was one of the most relaxing places we ever slept in and we woke up when it was still dark, when the bull from earlier passed by our camp, snacking on more bark. We were humbled by the respect wild animals had for us, keeping the right distance from our camp, allowing us in their home for one surreal night. And we don't think we were under influence there, it is that simple. We live together, we share, we survive.

Of course, the sunrise was just as psychedelic, a white haze filling up the valley, deserts flower delicately scenting the dry, fresh air.

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Tea was brewed, sandwiches were fixed, tents were packed, careful to remove all traces of our ephemeral campsite. The sun was obliterating smell and vision, air too hot already. Jackals, antelopes, ostriches, baboons were going about their business.

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Going back we took a different way through the river bed, wondering at the huge exposed roots of the trees, unsuccessfully trying to picture the river flooded with water. Some fresh elephant poop and recent footprints appeared: two babies with some adults maybe. Incredulously, we followed them along, and here they were, a bunch of elephant mammas with the little ones, taking a lovely sand bath!

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With all the antelopes swarming the land, that had to be a predator's heaven. Soon we met the proof: fresh lion foot prints, lots of them, cubs with adults. We tracked them for a while, thrilled, but of course the lions remained elusive, minding their own business in the perfectly matching colors of the veld.

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Cub foot print

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Adult lion paw next to Ana's hand

As we drove on, the sandy bottom started oozing water, brittle desert plants giving way to a marshy field of tall grass, where another bull was enjoying his beauty mud bath.

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Exiting the river bed back into the veld, our party of three was still as boozed as the day before, but more quiet, nostalgic, really. Our awesome escape was coming to a close.

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On our way back we stopped again for the mandatory ginger liquor, but some beers later, 80 kilometers before Kamanjab, we remembered one must not drink and drive. So we parked at the Grootberg Pass Lodge, which belongs to a friend of Vitals, to collect our composure with the aid of several double gin and tonic. The lodge was built in an environmentally friendly way in a pristine conservancy, on the rim of the ancient Gondwana split, among 132 million years old volcanic mountains. But the night was young, the view was stunning, and our generous hosts proposed dinner and bungalows perching on the edge of the canyon. So we stayed. Tempering the pampering with two bottles of red.

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In our so-called Western world, we live far from the wild. We work hard to maintain the boundaries. Some even believe that we have become a species disconnected from the natural mechanisms of life. But in a place like this, one cannot help but wonder, “how could I possibly want more, something else?” Just open the eye into the world, and see.

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Somewhere Under the Rainbow
 

Namibia 1st-11th of March

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Windhoek. We needed to leave asap the only place in the world where the names of Nelson Mandela and Robert Mugabe meet at the same crossroads. After all, we had come only to collect a visa (done!), and to locate a friendly garage and supplier for spares to do some maintenance work on our Yamaha (postponed). The only shopping we could afford was a set of Heidenau K60 Scout. Looking quite solid, hopefully these are the last we shave on African roads. One front caliper rubber is broken, so I cleaned the caliper boots, something that needs to be done more regularly from now on. It was also imperative to change the oil, and the only option at that time was the Yamaha dealership. Huge prices there, all I'll say is that since I put on the Bel Ray 20W50, the clutch started to slip.

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Windhoek, where Mugabe + Mandela = L.O.V.E.

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The only somewhat affordable accommodation in Windhoek was this backpackers joint. We paid two beds, but of course we cuddled in one, happy that at least we had a decent wifi connection.

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I am having some work done in the hostel yard.

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TKC 80, done

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We had had a pretty intense week: Ana's b-day party, not in Cape Town, as planned, but among lovely people. We had also encountered 3 German dudes and their dog, determined to bicycle from Cape Town to Berlin in 4 months. Ahead of us, the rainy season was cooling off, epic cloudscapes still threatening with thunder, but already too week to spread their rainbows downy to the earth. Dry season was nearing, and we were loving the news.

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Beer, wine, braai and two joyful girls (Melissa and Ana)

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South African Merlot

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Meeting our fellow nomads, Daniel 1, Daniel 2 and Pirco

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Important health and visa information was exchanged�

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Clouds stretched a fading rainbow above�

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We pitched out nomad home under the stars and at 9 p.m. a full moon cast shadows over the veld

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A cheeky sun followed up the next morning

The little used road that links Windhoek to the southern part of Namib Naukluft was supposedly beautiful, but the ride exceeded our expectations. The gravel swirled up across a breathtaking succession of passes, hairpins cut through golden veld punctuated by wind-powered water pumps, travelled by families of thick furred baboons. Wild flowers were putting kuler to shame and quartz filtered the last rays of the day.

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I spotted a breach in this alpine bungee, in the monotonous horizontal of wire fencing, a chance, an opportunity. So I took it, and found another stunning wild camp.

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Translucent boulders scattered

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Months of wild camping paid off: we had become pretty good at smelling a good spot

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Another sunset…

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Another moonrise!

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We gathered near a fire, then the strong cold wind forced us inside. The spartan morning was fast, wind still blowing untamed, but luckily the air got hotter as we descent down to the desert. Our first stop was at the Tropic of Capricorn signpost. We were preparing to take the compulsory photo, when a guy on a BMW F 650 Dakar passed by. Minutes later Reiner, original from Cape Town and just returning from a 3 week solo ride through the region, came back. It was the beginning of a fun 3 and a half day marathon to the Mother Town; sometimes we rode together, sometimes we separated, only to meet again for a pie in Solitaire, a beer in Sesriem, or a chat about how we could not afford the ridiculous price for a safari in the famous Dead Vlei (another park forbidden to motorbikes). The gravel roads were excellent, wide and empty, only vast herds of hundreds of zebras, springboks, oryx, giraffes and ostriches shared them with us.

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Far from the Ecuator, memories of Sahara also lingered

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Riders understand each other: the gravel was fair, the sky deep, the rain threatened to come. But we rev our bikes into the black eye of the storm, confident that we would find over the next horizon a quiet place to camp.

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The smell of dry desert lingered, but the real drama was unfolding above; we needed to stop before the last 590 kilometers to the canyon and we knew had found the right spot, under yet another epic rainbow.

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After the fabulous show of the sunset, the morning felt calm and clear: we rode along the scarlet dunes of the desert, born thousands of miles away, in the Drakensberg mountains, from where the Orange River sweeps ochre sand into the cold Benguela current. The massive dunes - one of the most extreme and inhospitable ecosystems in the world - are stingily covered with detritus. This fragile layer of dry and dead plant and animal debris is the basis of food web in the desert. After a good night of fog, it can contain up to 60% of its weight in water, and as low as 2-4% during the day.

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Reiner

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A few hours of non-stop riding later we had arrived at the last turn towards our last Namibian target. Which we celebrated with the last couple of beers with Reiner.

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Crisp Windhoek Lager, another tank filled and another stretch of gravel to the second largest canyon in the world and the largest in Africa. Fish River Canyon opened below into a gigantic dolomite ravine, some 160 km long, up to 27 km wide and 550 metres deep. The river, 650 million years old, cuts intermittently into the dry, stony plateau, sparsely covered with drought-resistant plants. But it was the end of summer, so only a few long narrow pools still lingered.

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We spend a bit too much time gazing into the canyon, witting for the sun to set, snacking on a brief dinner. Setting off in the already deep darkness, we knew it was too late to reach our meeting point with Reiner. Riding at low visibility avoiding the wildlife proved quite demanding, so soon after we could exit the protected area we stopped to set camp.

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A lonely, romantic place, only the jackals kept calling into the night

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The last sunrise in Namibia. The next one would happen on South African territory, where we were about to proudly set a record, driving the first motorbike from Bucharest to Cape Town.

Kilometer by kilometer the sheer rock faded away into an infinite moonscape. It was the end of the world. Blue, flat, an artificial-looking sky floated upon an even stranger papier-m�ch� of sand and brittle gravel. Was that the right way? How could that surreal nothingness become something again?

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But suddenly we saw the tarmac snake, a cruel, perfect cut across the desert, leading straight to one of the most important borders, the one that separates black, vernacular Africa from the African America.

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We had butterflies in our stomach: we would soon cross, after nine months as intense as nine lives, into South Africa. After the fundamental Mauritania - Mali, Benin - Nigeria and DRC Zambia frontiers, we ventured again, full throttle, into the unknown.