First Light at the Fish River Canyon.
Anxiety clawed at me as I jolted down the deteriorating dirt track.
My frustration at missing the sunset over the Fish River Canyon had turned to apprehension.
With twenty kilometres to go and the sun already touching the horizon, I knew the last thirty minutes of the hazardous drive would be in darkness.
Reflecting on the cause of my current predicament, I irrationally cursed the large tourist bus ahead of me at the border post between South Africa and Namibia - travelers just like me.
I had the misfortune of arriving a few minutes behind them at the border post.
The immigration officers set to work steadily processing the tourist group as I waited impatiently.
With a satisfying clunk, the immigration officer finally stamped my passport two hours later.
“Welcome to Namibia,” he said warmly as he handed my passport to me.
Glancing at my watch as I set off, I registered the time - 2 pm. The Fish River Canyon Lodge was five hours away across dirt roads, and I knew sunset was 6 p.m. I naively hoped I could make the journey more quickly over the Namibian C-grade dirt roads.
Checking the rear-view mirror periodically, a satisfying plume of dust marked my progress as I passed solitary sheep farms, and at times it seemed I would get my wish to arrive before dark.
Until thirty kilometres out.
Forced to engage the car’s diff lock, I reduced speed to a crawl over the rapidly deteriorating dirt track.
Driving gingerly across the loose rock, thoughts of photographing the sunset over the canyon dissolved.
I now simply hoped that I didn’t pick up a puncture - I knew my vehicle had a spare wheel underneath, but changing a wheel on the uneven surface in the dark would be difficult.
The lodge was expecting me, but without mobile reception, I would be unable to notify them of any problem.
As the Namibian night turned jet-black, I discerned the lodge’s welcoming lights twinkling in the distance with relief.
Easing the car into the lodge, I glanced up at the multitude of stars and finally smiled.
It was impossible to remain chagrined as the Milky Way gleamed above me in a night devoid of light pollution.
A meal and a glass of wine waited for me, together with a comfortable bed -- and the world’s second-largest canyon would certainly be there tomorrow. Who knows -perhaps dawn light would be even better than sunset.
My alarm shrieked pre-dawn, cracking the silence of the canyon and momentarily confusing me.
Making my way slowly onto the deck of my cliffside chalet with a pot of steaming coffee, I set up my camera on the tripod and wondered briefly if I was existing solely in the liminal space between daylight hours.
As dawn crept over the eastern horizon, textures and patterns revealed themselves in the arid desert landscape below.
Night gave way to daylight, and with the primordial landscape laid out before me, I reflected that surely no coffee had ever tasted better. .
Namibian Seafood, Portuguese Soul
Relieved, I crested the final ridge on the windswept desert road into Lüderitz.
The lonely 6-hour journey across the jarring dirt road from the Fish River Canyon was finally behind me.
There, barely a hundred metres in front of me, stood a magnificent Oryx.
Desert adapted and the national symbol of Namibia, the skittish antelope is endemic to the area but was always tantalisingly out of reach of my short 40mm camera lens.
This one was different — Regal. Unafraid.
Straddling the middle of the road, he imperiously locked eyes with me.
Coasting to a quiet stop less than fifty metres from him, I couldn’t believe my luck.
Fumbling for my camera, heart pounding, I dialled in my settings and lowered the electric window.
That unexpected sound was enough to startle him, and in a clatter of hooves, he bolted, leaving me utterly crestfallen at the missed photo opportunity.
Haunted by “the one that got away,” I rolled into the dusty town of Lüderitz at lunchtime. The cry of gulls and smell of the ozone-rich ocean air pulled me out of my despondent reverie — the editor of the magazine I pitched before departing had been firm — “We want wildlife photos.”
“First time in Lüderitz?” Alta Villa’s hostess asked me, “Go enjoy the Cataplana at the Greek Fisherman. You won’t eat anywhere else afterwards,” she told me with a knowing smile.
At first blush, the idea of an earth-shattering traditional Portuguese meal deep in the Namib Desert seemed unlikely, but after the Oryx incident, I needed a glass of wine and a good meal.
On arrival, the convivial atmosphere at the Greek Fisherman immediately cheered me. Sunlight streamed through the fishing nets overhead, erected to shade diners from the hot desert sun.
The proprietor, Francisco Carvalho -- a passionate Portuguese transplant who arrived two decades ago in Lüderitz with his father’s clam-shaped “Cataplana” copper pots and never left -- welcomed me warmly as he handed me my Cataplana himself.
“The secret to the Cataplana,” he proudly told me, “is in the use of fresh ingredients — lobster, squid, prawns and white fish — all sourced daily from the local harbour, together with simple staples of garlic, onion and pimento.”
The dish, seemingly simple in preparation, is complex in flavour. The deep red colour from the pimento sets your senses alight well before the first sublime mouthful.
Francisco may have since replaced his father’s copper pots, but the exquisite dish remains a gastronomic delight,
I fall into deep conversation with Rob and his wife, seated next to me — we recognise one another from an earlier stay at the Fish River Canyon Lodge, and quickly share histories and backgrounds — our different origins swept away by our shared meal and a glass of Chenin Blanc.
This becomes a theme of the rest of my Namibian journey — the meeting of many of the same people and families in the dusty destinations of the Namib Desert, the connections becoming deeper with shared experiences and meals.
People that we may otherwise never have had the good fortune to meet.
Fog-shrouded and wind-blown Lüderitz had crept into my heart and provided a balm for the “One that got away”.
Satiated with good food and even better company, I knew it would soon be time to leave.
This time, for the towering, ochre dunes of the Sossusvlei, 500 kilometres of gravel roads to the north.
Before that, I wanted to visit the decaying diamond town of Kolmanskop near Lüderitz. I had driven past it on the way, its ghostly facade inviting exploration.
Echoes of Greed in the Namib Desert
“Is it always windy here?” I asked the admissions clerk as I shivered in the foggy dawn light.
I waited for him to hand me my photography permit, “Yes, but today is unusually calm,” came his unexpectedly droll reply.
The relentless wind had whipped in from the frigid Atlantic Ocean since the night before, shrieking with a fury I was sure would lift the roof of the Alta Villa guesthouse.
Desert sand lashed across the asphalt on the ten-kilometre drive from Lüderitz to my destination, the ghost town of Kolmanskop, obscuring the road entirely at times.
I couldn’t even discern where the oryx had appeared before me yesterday – no doubt it had found shelter behind a dune to escape the sandpaper blast of the wind today.
Taking my permit, I gazed up at the silent ruins of Kolmanskop, a desert town built by German settlers after the discovery of alluvial diamonds in the early 1900s. The diamonds were so plentiful, legend has it, that they could be gathered by hand in the glinting moonlight.
The deserted town seemed to gaze back at me through broken, tortured windows – windows to the soul of a bygone era and untold wealth – now left crumbling and decaying as the desert ate it, claiming it once again for itself.
Surprised to find myself alone, I walked up to the town, marvelling that visitors are left to leisurely explore the ruins unsupervised.
Every day, the ceaseless wind piles fresh sand at the doors and windows.
Inside, broken glass lies on the wooden floors and rusted metal sags from decaying roofs above.
Carefully, I make my way through the homes of the town’s quartermaster, baker, butcher, and the eerie Krankhuis – hospital in German - where I uneasily peer down the dark corridor, reluctant to explore its recesses further.
Wondering how the ruined town is still somewhat preserved, I only learn later, on the formal tour, that all the buildings were constructed from German-imported wood, iron, and cement.
The dry Namib Desert air slows the inevitable decay of the hardy materials imported by the settlers – paint peels slowly, floorboards warp reluctantly, and the iron pillars remain strong enough to keep the roof on.
Even the building sand was imported – the Namib Desert sand too fine and smooth for the town’s construction.
The diamond town is a testament to early German engineering and ingenuity.
As I make my way to the dance hall and brothel, I am surprised to discover a ten-pin bowling alley, together with a gymnasium – old wooden horse included.
The decaying town is a mirage of European excess and wealth.
Gazing out of the window across the featureless desert, I naively believed the town’s residents had actively mined the diamonds themselves.
It is only later that I learn that across from the town, and without the amenities, stood the austere mining compound. Local indigenous Namibians, particularly Nama and Ovambo men, were recruited under duress and economic desperation for two-year mining contracts. Living under harsh conditions and unable to leave until their contract term had ended, they toiled under immense hardship for little reward.
On leaving, the miners were scanned with Africa’s first X-ray machine to ensure no diamonds were smuggled out of the compound.
Few of their names are remembered, save for Zacharias Lewala, the local railway worker who found the first diamond by accident.
Their history and story lie buried in the Namib Desert more deeply than those of the German settlers.
I feel a pang of hunger and the call of lunch – perhaps another Cataplana.
As I leave Kolmanskop, I turn one last time to look at the yawning facade of the Quartermaster’s house, the town whispering to me of greed and desire, and the lengths we will go to for riches.
“Church of the Open Sky”
Phrrrooaaarrr!
The unexpected sound-blast of liquid propane gas mixing with air and igniting in the balloon’s burner startles me out of my pre-dawn reverie.
Just in time, I glance up to see our pilot, Milton Kirkman, flare the burners as he prepares our hot air balloon for flight – the blinding blue-white jet of flaming gas stabbing into the dark sky and casting everything into stark relief.
Slowly, the echoing Namib Desert quiets, and darkness returns before the next flare and accompanying roar!
The colossal balloon envelope still lies crumpled on the desert sand, a nearby fan poised to cold-inflate the envelope before the hot burner takes over.
For the first time, I wonder if this is really a good idea.
Looking at the wide-eyed guests around me, forgotten coffee cups cooling in their hands, I see I am not the only one.
Waiting for our hot air balloon flight over Sossusvlei and the antediluvian Namib -- the oldest desert in the world -- we huddle in tight groups beside our assigned baskets.
Slowly, the envelopes begin to rise, first with cool air and then with flares of hot gas.
As they take shape, I imagine the bird’s-eye vistas awaiting me as I peer white-knuckled over the basket rim.
Yesterday afternoon, I walked alone through the Deadvlei as the sun set. My cramped and stiff legs sank awkwardly into the soft sand after the six-hour drive from Lüderitz, mostly over teeth jarring dirt roads.
The dry pan revealed desiccated 900-year-old camelthorn trees left grasping for the sky after shifting sands cut off their sparse water source centuries ago.
The desert hypnotised me at ground level, but I couldn’t stop wondering what lay behind the crested dunes around the pan.
This flight is set to change that.
“All Aboard!” comes Milton’s command, as the now fully inflated balloon strains against its mooring ropes.
An excited scramble ensues as if no one wants to be left behind, even though rationally we know the balloon won’t lift off without everyone aboard.
With everyone finally safely in the basket and the dawn sun cresting the horizon, the mooring ropes are cast off.
Our ascent is barely perceptible as we rise gently on the morning breeze.
As the first balloon aloft, I watch from above as the rest of the flotilla takes off – splashes of bright colour on the dun-coloured canvas of the Namib below.
The moment arrives - awe-struck, our balloon falls silent – stretched out before us, from the Atlantic Ocean in the west, to the distant eastern horizon, lies the Namib Desert. Endless dunes and mountains carved onto the earth, seemingly forever.
The words of Tom Blake, an early surf pioneer spring to my mind, for surely this was what he meant when he coined the phrase “Church of the Open Sky”.
The rest of the journey passes too quickly, punctuated by moments of excited chatter, the crackle of the balloonists' two-way radios passing on key information such as wind speed, altitude, and direction, and the intermittent roar and echo of the gas flares to keep us aloft.
“Brace!” comes Milton’s terse instruction as we approach our landing target.
I wonder, alarmed as we scud across the desert floor, our speed now much more apparent with a close visual anchor to focus on – is this going to hurt?
Everyone is in the brace position. Everyone clutches the rim nervously.
Thump! A series of jarring thuds rocks the basket as we skip across the desert sand.
Crump! The basket judders and slides across the sand before coming to a halt.
We laugh nervously as we realise we have landed safely.
“Right! Who is hungry?” asks Milton, and a balloon full of people cheers.