Travelmag
  • Europe
  • Americas
  • Asia Pacific
  • Central Asia
  • Deals
  • Africa
  • Editorials
  • Pole to Pole
  • Middle East
  • Home
  • About
  • Write for Us
  • Home
  • About
  • Write for Us
Travelmag
Travelmag
  • Europe
  • Americas
  • Asia Pacific
  • Central Asia
  • Deals
  • Africa
  • Editorials
  • Pole to Pole
  • Middle East
  • Africa

A fast pedal through Namibia’s deserts

  • 13/05/2014
  • Charlie Walker
Campsite at the foot of dune 45
Total
0
Shares
0
0
0

Under cover of darkness, I once again illicitly camped in a national park. I pitched my tent up against the foot of “Dune 45” (the forty-fifth dune east of Sossusvlei) and slept a few hours. The morning saw me packed up and sat 100m high on the dune an hour before sunrise. It was cold, windless and utterly silent. As dawn approached, colour slowly bled into the faint black-and-white world in which I had trudged blindly up the steep sand.

Campsite at the foot of dune 45

The stillness was finally broken when headlights flickered in the distance and the convoys of tour trucks began to arrive. Somnolent groups spilled out of their vehicles and began to climb the dune. Cadences of German language and the odd twang of Australian-English floated over to my perch which was thankfully further along the dune ridge than they cared to climb.

Back on the northward road and taking lunch rests at the strategically spaced petrol stations that drag in tourists and horrendously overcharge them for everything in their little “general store”.

At one of these remote outposts (aptly-named Solitaire), I sat and watched for a while from a distance as a steady stream of tourists climbed out of their cars in their crisp safari suits and scrutinised/photographed my laden bicycle with its tatty panniers and a pair of pants drying on the handlebars. They would then retire to the cafe to sip coffee or ice cold drinks while I hunkered under a tree eating cold rice from last night and ignoring my attendant flies.

When people see me with the bike, they ask the usual questions: where from/to? How long? Why? Why? Why? I either answer truthfully and sound (at least, to my ears) arrogant and self-satisfied, or I play down my journey and inevitably seem evasive and odd, surly even. Either way, the overriding impression usually seems to be one of incomprehension. So be it. I see the secret things that only a camping vagabond can see.

Zebra fenced inThat night I was woken by a noise at 3am. An almost-full moon dazzled overhead. I had been too tired to lift my bike over the fence so had once again camped next to the road. A zebra stood no more than 5 meters from me. Its crepuscular white stripes glowing in the moonlight. I was obviously stuck between the two fences. It wandered off along the fence only to reappear five minutes later and pass at arm’s length from me. After a couple struts up and down this eerie witching hour catwalk, the zebra began testing fence posts with its head, soon found a weak one, knocked it over and was free again.

Glorious clouds rolled over the land and I crossed the Tropic of Capricorn as a few drops of light rain fell, my first since Cape Town. In this cool air I made a small pass through some odd looking hills and was approaching the coast again when my rear axle snapped. I’d never known this to happen before and sadly had to hitch a lift for the final stretch to Swakopmund.

1305141948666_orig

A weekend of rest set me straight and, with a new axle (and a few replaced spokes), I headed a little further north. A salty haze hung heavy and thick over the coast when I woke on the beach. I turned inland once again and began climbing. The grey pall over the water shrank behind me and the sun bleached everything in sight to a dizzying white. My increasingly-familiar bike and I gradually rose up to 1700m and rejoined a main national road for the final 150 miles to the capital.

The road was narrow and frightening. I was often forced abruptly off the tarmac. On one of these occasions the jagged edge of the road made an eight-inch long tear in the side wall of my rear tire. It was evening so I pitched my tent behind a bush and stitched up the rent in the tire. When I got up in the dark to fit it to the wheel I stepped on an ants’ nest and a few hundred small biters streamed onto my bare feet. While hopping comically around in my pants, trying to brush them off, I narrowly avoided stepping on a scorpion as long as my thumb. It turned to face me for a while then backed cautiously away before I could grab a sandal to swat it.

Thousands of large armoured crickets strove to cross this road. One would be flattened by a vehicle and then another would scuttle over to feed on the yellowish mess. This cannibal interloper would inevitably be crushed in turn and a third hungry fool would wander into the line of tire. Thousands of splodges of these crickets dotted the road and, for variety, the odd foot-long millipede with a shiny black shell and countless orange legs would join the foray and become a leggy pancake.

Armoured cricket

With my nearly knackered tire, I just managed to make it to Windhoek having dealt with four punctures in one morning. I crossed a bridge where I was mugged with a friend by (seven men with knives) in 2006 and found a place to stay.

My time in Namibia is nearly over. I’ve seen little of her people. There are only two million and few live in the areas I’ve passed through. But I feel the country’s land has revealed itself to me. It is as bewitching as it is barren and vast. It has been a good place to re-acquaint myself with the routines and surprises of life on the road.

My new bicycle (built from the parts of several old bicycles) is now a little better known to me. I don’t love it: it’s too small for me and we’ve had some problems but we seem to be building a reasonable working relationship. I dub him “Little Bastard”. Maybe I’ll grow to love him.

Much more by Charlie Walker on his very excellent blog, or donate to his chosen charities here.

Related posts:

  1. From Birmingham to Albuquerque on two fast wheels The ultimate road trip is by motorcycle, and in the USA it has to be Route 66 - and on...
  2. Pedal slowly for insight Five countries, eight states: Shetal Shah reckons the humble bicycle is the best way to melt into local cultures....
  3. Pedalling through Romania – fast past dogs When Glen Rooney proposed cycling across Romania he didn't get a lot of encouragement. Instead he was warned of dangerous...
  4. Spin, pedal, pump – biking in the Valleys, Wales The Valleys, South Wales, has stunning landscapes and opportunities to cycle, kayak, cave and more. Lucy Barker clips on her...
Total
0
Shares
Share 0
Tweet 0
Pin it 0
Charlie Walker

Previous Article
  • Editorials

Eliminating risk: how to travel in absolute safety

  • 13/05/2014
  • Sydney Senske
View Post
Next Article
Traffic light sign
  • Europe

Copenhagen, perhaps Europe’s most civilised great city

  • 13/05/2014
  • Colin Todhunter
View Post
You May Also Like
View Post
  • Africa

5 Reasons why your next safari adventure should be Namibia

  • Robert
  • 23/06/2022
View Post
  • Africa
  • Deals

How many days in Kenya is enough?

  • Paul Woollacombe
  • 16/06/2021
Madagascar rice
View Post
  • Africa
  • Asia Pacific

A surreal drive across Madagascar’s highlands

  • John Gimlette
  • 17/01/2021
View Post
  • Africa
  • Deals

Top South African holiday resorts

  • Paul Woollacombe
  • 06/11/2020
View Post
  • Africa

A bad day in Fez for one slightly skinny chicken

  • Michael Edwards
  • 17/10/2020
Kibera slum Nairobi
View Post
  • Africa

It used to be ‘Mzungu!’ Now ‘Corona’ is a Nairobi greeting

  • Lee Ruddin
  • 01/07/2020
Mucabal woman, Angola
View Post
  • Africa

A journey through Angola, with contrasts and surprises

  • Lesley Pritt
  • 05/05/2020
Elephants in the Central African Republic
View Post
  • Africa

On safari in the Central African Republic

  • Lesley Pritt
  • 24/04/2020
Travelmag
The Independent Spirit

Input your search keywords and press Enter.