The first thing I notice, in our treks, is that there is an enormous mount of vegetation – papyrus and lilies on the river, palm trees on the banks, crocodiles and hippo and even some salt islands. We rent a mukuro (a traditional dugout canoe) and paddle down the Delta...
Consequently, we're now on the road parallel to the B8, which follows the river, only its more of a dirt track than a road and full of potholes – huge potholes that we're hitting every 30 seconds. We bumping along, being thrown around wildly, but still I'm coping. And then, without warning, we come to a halt. I look out of my window and see the wheel is encased in thick mud...
Over dinner, and a beer, the family ask me question after question (Why do I travel like this? Am I lonely, on the road alone? Do I want to get married? If I do marry, will I give up this nomadic lifestyle? Aren't I afraid, hitching around Africa?) I answer as best I can and then start pressing them for details of of their own life, out here in the boonies. Of course, they have plenty of good stories - camping trips out in the bush, growing up without tv, few modern appliances and a lot of electricity outages. Ah yes, and constant bouts of malaria...
After my intrepid hitching adventures and nights under the stars, I feel I'm due a few days of it. In the evenings, after cooking, we head off to the nearby floodlit waterhole, complete with observation platform, and one night are rewarded by sight of an elephant and her baby arriving to quench their thirsts. My only 'complaint' is that I don't get to spy a black rhino but, other than that, it is too marvellous for words...
And then, as the sun sets, I look again, and then look once more for I cannot believe it. The dunes are now red – fire-like red, a deep and powerful red, a red so intense that it burns like a thousand suns. And though water might be scarce, in a climate where temperatures reach 45 degrees by day but drop to freezing at night, there is still life...for as I look down at my feet, I see a tiny lizard run in front of me...
We set off, trekking on foot to the Dead Man's vlei, an area so barren that even desert plants failed to grow there. Hundreds of years ago, a drought had struck and the existing habitat had been cut off from the river. Now I saw the result. Around me stood acacia and camel thorn trees scorched black by the sun. In simple terms, they were there because it was too hot for them to decompose...
But as the price of gems fell, little by little, people deserted the town. Boom to bust in less than half a century, it was left to the mercy of the elements – in the shape of harsh, relentless sand that blew in. No surprise then that the buildings crumbled and are now in ruins, shells of their original elegant structures...
Spying a tree, on the opposite side of the road, I trudge over, pull out my water bottle and settle down to wait. I drink in the solitude. Indeed, it's so peaceful, so serene, so empty that I accidentally doze off.
I am awakened with a start. A group of boys are peering over me, curiously. I reckon they're about 11-12 years old. Most are barefoot but they aren't dressed in rags and they definitely don't look malnourished. They're smiling broadly at me and laughing amongst themselves...
For the most part desolate, four times larger than the UK but with a population of scarcely 2 million people, Namibia was still not a major tourist destination when I visited there in 1997. Indeed, on my return to Europe, several people I spoke to had no idea where even to place it on the Africa map. But what did I care about its non-notoriety? I wasn’t looking for tourists, simply an adventure...
I've come prepared, with a backpack full of water, a floppy hat and some serious sunscreen. And so we begin our ascent, which takes us the best part of an hour, to the first plateau. It's not as difficult as I thought it would be, though I'm glad I'm fit (and laid off the beer last night). But it's only when we start the second leg, do I realise how arduous the trek really is. I gulp at my water...