… only (fortunately) I’m not dead!
Jill dropped me off at Birmingham airport nice and early. Very early, in fact, because she had to get back home again to work in the afternoon. This meant that I had over six hours before my flight departed to Walvis bay, Namibia, via Frankfurt and Johannesburg. This was because I was too mean to pay for a taxi later in the day, and I didn’t fancy taking the train with a huge box and an expedition duffel weighing something like 36kg. More on that later.
I chose to be deposited at the “Premium drop-off car park”, mainly due to the aforementioned luggage, which “only” cost £7, due to the fact that I collected a luggage trolley (“only” £2, non-refundable) and unloaded at haste, leaving Jill with a quick peck on the cheek to drive home again. This also meant it was only a short walk to the airport entrance, interrupted by having to unload everything from the trolley, manoeuvre it all past the anti-terrorism bollards and load it all back on to the trolley again, repeating the same procedure at the sliding doors. Once inside the terminal, I wheeled down to the Lufthansa check-in desk, where fortunately there was a lady busily tapping away at her keyboard. I enquired if were possible to check-in my baggage early, but was politely informed that would not be possible until at least three hours before the flight departed.
With that news, I wandered the length of the terminal looking for a convenient space to camp out for at least three hours until I could at least liberate myself of my luggage. Eventually I chose a spot between Caffe Nero and the ForEx ATM machine, where I could park up my trolley and settle down for a long wait. The worst thing about this was that I could see coffee and food being vended from my vantage point, but couldn’t partake myself, due to not being able to leave my luggage unattended for fear of it being removed and destroyed, a fact that was relayed to me frequently over the airport PA system. Worse still, all of the tables in the cafe seemed to be permanently in use by corporate keyboard-warriors, who had taken advantage of the venue to sit and do corporate things with their laptops, seemingly for ages. When the opportunity arose and one of the latter vacated a convenient table, I sprang in to action and barricaded the table with my trolley. Keeping an eye on my luggage, lest it be taken outside and detonated by bomb disposal, I managed to queue up and obtain a coffee and a sandwich for lunch, before returning to my slot next to the ForEx ATM, vacating the table for someone else’s use.
More time passed and the caffeine began to take effect and I absolutely needed to visit the little boys room. I pushed my trolley to the other end of the terminal building again and it became apparent that I wasn’t going to be able to get myself and my luggage in to the bathroom. I pondered the situation for a while and a cleaner appeared from the ladies. “Is there any possibility you could look after my bicycle while I use the gents?”, I asked. “We’re not supposed to”, she said, “but go on then…”. Duly relieved I once again returned to my spot.
Finally, around 3 pm, the check-in opened. Quite a queue had built up by this time, but given that I’d been there for about 3.5 hours, and that my fully-laden trolley didn’t fit between the belt barriers, I felt totally justified in jumping the queue. The lady at check-in was the same one as earlier, so at least she knew the score. My luggage was weighed, excess baggage was paid, my duffel zipped off on the belt and my bicycle was returned to me to take off to the oversized baggage area a short distance away and I was relieved to be unburdened of it. Now I could begin the normal process of security, duty-free and yet more waiting for the gate to be announced and open.
I won’t bore you with the details of the flights, but something like 26 hours later I was approaching Walvis bay in an Embraer jet, flying over a desert that I was planning to cycle across later. I peered through the window at a barren, sandy, dry landscape, punctuated by rocky outcrops and crossed by the (very) occasional track. Since I released details of this, my latest challenge, I had been increasingly more and more concerned that I had bitten off more than I could chew. I knew that people had cycled the route I was planning to ride, but in three days? Even the background to this latest adventure was also somewhat sketchy – I hadn’t planned on doing this at all; this whole escapade had started from an invitation by an ex-colleague to ski across the Namib sand dunes, from Elim to the sea, fully supported. I signed up to the adventure and purchased my flights, only for my plans to be torpedoed a few weeks later when he tore his ACL. The trip was postponed to September, to a date that I simply could not make. I attempted to cancel my flights, but the refund would have been negligible. I attempted to claim on my travel insurance, but the insurance company refused my claim. I was stuck with a flight and that was that. Nevertheless, I had to be able to salvage something from the situation, surely? That’s when the idea of taking my bike with me unfolded. I began to have my first doubts when I created the YouTube video you may have seen earlier. Obviously, I set it to dramatic background music for effect, but as I sat back and admired my completed work, the seeds of doubt started to germinate in my mind. As I looked out of the window of the Airlink jet, those seeds flourished in to full-grown plants and I very much began to doubt myself again
I didn’t have time to dwell on this feeling, as shortly we landed at Walvis Bay airport, disembarked and walked across the tarmac to the terminal. The queue for immigration was long and slow, despite the fact that I had already completed my online “visa on arrival” some time before. I connected to the airport Wi-Fi and checked to see if my luggage had arrived – I had a tag on my bike and another tracker (Stella’s dog tracker) in my duffel – which it had. That in itself was a huge relief. If either had not, it would put my entire plan in jeopardy.
Immigration and customs took about 30 minutes, after which I went to the baggage carrousel and retrieved my duffel, and to “oversized baggage” for my bike. The box had taken a real battering, so I hoped it was OK. I grabbed a free trolley (not £2, Birmingham airport!), dumped everything onboard and passed to the arrivals hall, where I was met by a pre-arranged transfer by “The Flying Coffee Pot”. After pleasantries we wheeled the trolley out to the car park where the driver directed me to a Toyota Corolla Cross. I raised my eyebrows, thinking to myself “not sure the box is going to fit in there” and the driver was voicing the same thoughts. I explained that I had advised them I would be arriving with a large bike box, but the message had obviously been lost along the way. Nevertheless, by dint of much seat adjustment and pushing and shoving we managed to get the bike, the duffel, the driver, another passenger and myself in to the car and set off for Walvis Bay town centre, 15km distant.
After dropping of the second passenger at her hotel, we drove to Flying Coffee Pot HQ, where we swapped the Toyota Corolla for a Toyota minibus, an entirely more appropriate vehicle for the 35km drive from Walvis Bay to Swakopmund, where my accommodation had been booked. As we drove along the seafront road from Walvis to Swakop I chatted to the driver about this and that, about my plans (cue look of disbelief), about the huge number of ships visible off the coast (fishing, tourism and maintenance, apparently) and about the string of luxury apartments I saw (rich South Africans).
After about 30 minutes we rolled past KFC in to Swakopmund – cue conversation on the merits of KFC and how it’s not at good as “Hungry Lion” – and shortly afterwards arrived at the Secret Garden Guest-house, where I was booked for a couple of nights. I was pleasantly greeted by one of the staff, “Hello hello”, which I noticed was a fairly common way to greet people – always twice – “Good morning good morning”, that seemed very pleasant and welcoming. I was shown my room and the driver and I took my bike box up the stairs to what I can only describe as a very pleasantly appointed suite, complete with kitchen, sitting room area, bedroom and bathroom. It had been well over 24 hours since I had set off from Worcester, but finally, I had arrived.
I sat for a little while, but as it’s not in my character to sit still for long, I started to unpack my bike and check it over, to make sure it had survived the trip. The box was intact, but the handle holes were torn and the corners bashed in. I don’t think the baggage handlers had been kind to it. Rather curiously, the company undertaking the transfer from Swakop to Sesriem (Go2 Tourism Shuttle) had insisted that the bike be in a box, but advised that they were unable to bring my box back from Sesriem for the journey back to the UK, so I had brought my bike in a special bike bag and put that in a box. This meant that I could leave my bag in Swakop for the return journey to the UK, while still being able to transport my bike in a box to Sesriem. What a faff!
I tore the duct tape off the lid – therein lies another story; I’d bought a roll of duct tape with me to tape it back up again, but it had been “confiscated” in Johannesburg – lifted out the bike bag, unzipped it and peered inside. Everything appeared to be intact, at least nothing was terribly bent or broken. I may have let out a sigh of relief. So far, at least, things were going according to plan.
Reassembly of the bike could wait until the following morning. It was gone 4pm on Saturday now and I wanted to go to the supermarket to buy some snacks for the ride back from Sesriem later in the week. I knew the supermarkets were open on Saturday, but I wasn’t so sure about Sunday.
I wandered off in the general direction of the SuperSPAR (yes, same logo) as I thought that looked like a good candidate. It took only 15 or 20 minutes to walk there, after consulting Google maps, and I grabbed a basket and went inside. In was looking for something like flapjacks, or anything with a reasonable amount of carbohydrates, to replace the energy I would be burning off, plus I wanted to buy a couple of bottles of water. I had a two-litre camelbak and a couple of 750ml bidons, so that was 3.5 litres, but I wanted to ensure that I wasn’t going to run out of water. In the end, I came away with some “peanut brittle” bars, a bag of tropical fruit and nut mix and a packet of Haribo, plus a couple of small bags of biltong, a dried, cured meat snack, and two, 2 litre bottles of water. I wasn’t 100% satisfied with the selection, but it would have to do. With my purchases in hand, I returned to the Secret Garden.
I wanted to explore Swakopmund, but as I had the following day (Sunday) free, there was no rush to to this. I did, however want to have dinner at “The Tug” restaurant on the seafront, but Inga, the owner of the Secret Garden guest-house had told me that it was already fully booked, so I walked down to the seafront and made a reservation for Sunday evening. On the way there, I was waylaid by a man who was selling ornately carved palm tree seeds, about the side of a gold ball. I don’t remember how much they were, probably not expensive, but he asked me my name and quickly carved “Steve” in to the skin. I guess he was convinced that once he’d done that I would have to buy it, but unfortunately he lucked out with me. If you’re called “Steve” and are anywhere near the seafront in Swakopmund head on down there. You might get a discount.
After that, the jetty was calling; it looked very picturesque in the light of the setting sun. The wooden jetty was built by the Germans in 1915 and at nearly 300 metres long, is somewhat impressive. I strolled down one side, paused at the end to look out over the South Atlantic – next stop Brazil, some 6,000 km distant. I returned on the other side of the jetty, thinking to myself how pleasant the scene was, especially as there was a small group of indigenous Damara playing traditional music nearby. Very evocative.
Swakopmund
I awoke early, despite not having a large fluffy dog jabbing me for her breakfast – that would be Jill’s pleasure for the week! It was not yet time for breakfast, so I made myself a cup of coffee and set-to with my bicycle assembly task. Before I boxed my bike, I had cable-tied pipe insulation around all of the frame tubes and removed anything that might have become damaged in transit – bottle cages, handlebars, pedals, saddle, etc. Additionally my bike has couplings in it, so that it comes apart in to two sections. This makes it easier to pack in to a box and easier to assemble, as there’s no need to remove wheels, mudguards, racks, etc. I was making good progress before stopping for breakfast. I went down to the breakfast room and helped myself to copious amounts of cereal, toast, ham and cheese, washed down with coffee and juice, before returning to my room to complete the job in-hand. Before long I was happy with the result; everything seemed to be working OK and all that remained was to load my panniers ready for the transfer to Sesriem the following morning.
With the bike ready, it was time to go out and explore Swakopmund. I’d found a walking tour online, which I thought would be a good way to discover the town. Rather than setting off where the tour suggested, I thought I’d start it outside on Bismark street. Just down the road was the Prinzessin Rupprecht Heim, a historic building constructed in 1902. Originally built as a military hospital for German colonial forces. Today, it operates as a hotel, maintaining its characteristic German colonial architecture.
I walked about as far south as I could, arriving at “Tiger Reef” beach bar and grill, and “Tiger Reef” campsite. Both were deserted, as we were now about as close as you could get to midwinter, although the weather still seemed very pleasant, there were very few campers. A word about “camping”, as it doesn’t seem to mean the same in Namibia as it does in the United Kingdom. In Namibia, “camping” seems to refer to renting a huge 4×4, such as a Toyota Land Cruiser, Ford Ranger, or similar, fitting it with a roof tent, then driving to a “campsite” that has all the facilities you may need, such as a restaurant, a bar and perhaps a swimming pool! I continued towards the beach, past a sign that said “4×4 Parking Only!! You, yes, I mean you will get stuck”, where I stood and gazed at the distant sand dunes and snapped a photo. As I was walking back, a woman appeared pushing a bicycle – out for a Sunday ride and we had a brief discussion about life, the universe and everything. Well, cycling.
I carried on walking up the seafront, past the National Marine Aquarium (closed), enjoying the fresh sea breeze. There was some interesting flora, although I wouldn’t be able to identify it if you asked me.
Soon I reached the jetty, where a couple of Damara women were setting up their crafts for any prospective tourists. I did not succumb to their sales pitch, although they did offer a photo opportunity, which I took.
The promenade continued for about a kilometre, before arriving at “The Mole”, a sea wall originally designed to provide protection for the harbour, but which quickly caused the harbour to silt up, rendering it unsuitable for large ships.
From the Mole I walked inland, past some exclusive looking hotels and restaurants, past the museum and the striking red and white lighthouse, erected in 1902. Just past the lighthouse is a memorial to the German Marine Expedition Corps, with bronze soldiers atop a rock. Beneath them is a plaque inscribed with many names upon it. The First Marine Expedition Corps was a heavily armed German naval infantry unit dispatched to the colony of German South West Africa (modern-day Namibia) in 1904. Ordered by Kaiser Wilhelm II, they arrived to reinforce the Schutztruppe and violently crush the Ovaherero and Nama uprisings during the 1904–1908 genocide. The memorial is to honour the German marines who died during the suppression of the 1904–1905 uprising, but amidst ongoing demands for reparatory justice and land restitution, the monument remains a heavily contested symbol of colonial trauma and unresolved history for descendant communities. So says Wikipedia. Although I did not see them, Google informs me there are a number of monuments and memorials to the Ovaherero and Nama, in Windhoek, in Swakop’s African Cemetery and Shark Island (Lüderitz), which was the site of a notorious concentration camp where thousands of Nama and Ovaherero prisoners were detained and subjected to forced labour. Writing this retrospectively, as I am, I was unaware of this sad period of history. It does raise the question of why the memorial to fallen German soldiers is in pride of place in the centre of Swakopmund, yet the memorial to the indigenous peoples is hidden away in the outskirts…
Past the memorial and on to Tobias Hainyeko Street, which I had walked on yesterday on my way to the SuperSPAR, I headed towards the Kristall Galerie, which holds a large quantity of crystals and gemstones, including the largest known quartz crystal cluster on display in the world. It was shut. There were a number of large rocks and crystals in front of the building, which were very impressive, so I was a little disappointed not to be able to go inside. Namibia is one of the largest producers of gem-quality diamonds, in addition to many other minerals, including uranium. Just over the road from the Kristall Galerie is Swakopmund Police Station, which bears no interest, apart from the fact that in 1991, as a young postgraduate, I applied for a job with the Swakopmund Police. I was not successful in my application.
Walking a little further past the SuperSPAR I arrived at the Swakopmund Hotel and Entertainment Centre, originally constructed in 1901 as a grand railway terminal. The current railway station a little further out from the centre replaced it in 1993 and is entirely unimpressive. My walking tour then indicated I should walk past the Namib High School, another large colonial building constructed by Germany in 1913, which still serves as a school today (with a large more modern extension). Opposite the school is the second oldest building, the Lutheran church in Namibia, built in 1912, with stained-glass windows donated by the town of Bremen and the original organ from Stuttgart.
Turning right I walked along Daniel Tjongarero Avenue towards the town centre again. More German colonial buildings were the order of the day. I have read in some tour guides that Swakopmund is “more German than Germany”, but having visited Germany on a number of occasions, I would repudiate this statement. By this time I was more interested in Cafe Anton, which most certainly had some traditional German ware, including apple strudel and black forest gateau, but I opted for a large sausage roll and some lemon meringue pie, and a nice cup of coffee.
After lunch, I walked down towards the Mole again, with the intention of visiting Swakopmund Museum. At least that was open. I was waylaid by the large collection of people at the bottom of the hill plying their crafts. While there were a number of interesting pieces, I’ve reached the age where I have accumulated enough tat and can usually resist the urge to buy more. I was won over by a small dish though, so that went in to my pocket.
I spent a couple of hours in the museum, which had a good collection of local artifacts and told quite a story about the establishment of Swakopmund. There was a selection of stuffed animals too, which had me concerned about running in to any brown hyenas – they look quite fierce. The museum was the brainchild of Dr Alfons Weber, a local dentist, who won a competition to promote tourism in Swakopmund. It was officially opened in an old warehouse in Roon Street on 17 December 1951. Construction of the new museum began in 1958 on the site of the Imperial customs warehouse, which was damaged by the auxiliary cruiser 'Kinfauns Castle' on 24 September 1914 and subsequently destroyed by fire. It was officially opened on 5 March 1960. An interesting ethnological display, historical section, and mineral collection, along with reconstructions of the Adler Pharmacy and the former dental practice of Dr Alfons Weber, are among the many fascinating exhibits.
By the time I had left the museum time was marching on, so I returned to my guest-house, picking up a couple of Energy Ba! by Bakalland in another supermarket. I’m not sure where they are made, but they looked idea for the job in hand.
I had an early reservation for dinner at The Tug (6pm), mainly because I wanted to get back to the guest-house for an early night. The Go2 transfer to Sesriem was collecting me at 6.30 and I had to be up early to get ready and take my bike and luggage down to the gate. The Tug has many good reviews and recommendations, mostly for it’s seafood, as you can imagine, with it being located at the start of the jetty. I’m not a huge seafood lover though, although I’m prepared to be convinced. It was a fantastic location – watching the sun slowly sink over the horizon. I asked the waiter for his recommendations and went with those and I was not disappointed with the result. The portions were far too large though. I’m not a dainty eater, but I struggled.
It was a short walk back to the Secret Garden, where made my final preparations for the following day, including rationalising clothes – anything I took with me now I’d have to bring back on my bike; packing everything in to my holdall, which was staying here. After double-checking everything, I had a shower, set my alarm clock and went to bed.
Sesriem
I woke before the alarm, hopped out of bed and dressed. My bike was in a box, as prescribed by Go2 and my panniers and handlebar bag were ready. I carried my huge box downstairs to the gate and returned to my room for the rest of my luggage. Just as I was descending the stairs, the doorbell rang – there was my ride, a few minutes early. The driver, Linus, greeted me (“good morning good morning”) and we carried my kit out to the minibus, an impressive looking Toyota Quantum, which looked like a HiAce on steroids. It had been jacked-up and had chunky BF Goodrich All-Terrain tyres. It certainly looked the part. We loaded my huge bike box, which puzzled Linus – he couldn’t understand why they asked for it to be in a box at all. I climbed in to the front passenger seat and we set off. I thought we were perhaps going to collect some more passengers from their usual pickup point, but Linus said I was the only one from Swakopmund and there was only one other person for collection in Walvis Bay.
We were soon on the coast road heading south with the Monday morning commuter traffic and before long we arrived at the “Sands Mall”, an impressive-looking shopping mall, which felt a little out of place on the edge of the desert. I chatted with Linus as we waited for the other passenger to arrive; I noted that there was a Woolworths in the mall, as well as a “Hungry Lion”. Linus agreed with his fellow countryman that “Hungry Lion” was significantly better than KFC, so I vowed that as soon as I arrived back at Walvis Bay I would try and sample the wares.
After 10 minutes or so, Linus’s second passenger arrived (it turned out to be a lady that was on the same flight as me from Johannesburg), so with luggage loaded, we set off. Linus explained that the trip would take about 5 hours, but we would stop a couple of times on the way to stretch our legs. We negotiated the roadworks just outside Walvis Bay, where there were some serious upgrades being undertaken to the link road between the port and the highway, then we were on the C14, a road with which I was to become very well acquainted with. After 15 km the tarmac disappeared and we were driving on graded gravel and sand. This didn’t appear to slow Linus down at all, and we continued at an improbable pace of between 100 km/h and 120 km/h, only slowing for the occasional corner. The minibus seemed to cope incredibly well with the conditions, while I sat and pondered the prospect of riding these roads in the opposite direction. The road was mostly straight as a die, running through parched sandy, flat terrain, with the occasional track branching off to who knows where? After about an hour, some low, rocky outcrops appeared, but the terrain was very desolate. After an hour and a half or so, Linux explained that we were descending in to the River Kuiseb Canyon. Of course, there was no river, later I was told that it had rained in April, but not since, but the canyon was clearly cut by a river at some point. After climbing out of the canyon, we stopped at a viewpoint to stretch our legs for 15 minutes, before resuming our journey. This next section of the road was much more undulating and therefore much more interesting, but the road surface went from bad to worse! There were sections where Linus had to slow down, even! As we were climbing up out of another river canyon, this time the Gaub, we saw a group of four cyclists struggling up the hill. Linus had mentioned that four cyclists had been spotted and here they were, still struggling on. The worrying thing was that they’d spent several days arriving this far. I was going to attempt the entire desert crossing in three.
Not long afterwards we passed the sign for the Tropic of Capricorn, but we didn’t stop for photos. It didn’t matter, I would see it on the way back. After another 1.5 hours we arrived at Solitaire, the aptly named settlement with a population of 92. Solitaire hosts the only service station between Sesriem and Walvis Bay, or Windhoek. It also boasts a bakery, officially known as McGregor's Bakery famous for serving what is widely considered the best apple pie in Africa. Started by the late Scottish adventurer Percy "Moose" McGregor, it serves massive slices of warm pie alongside fresh cream, savoury pies, and gelato. With a selection of car wrecks and abandoned tractors, it is a popular stopover for tourists heading to the sand dunes at Sossusvlei. This was our second stop to stretch our legs and while very much tempted, I did not sample the apple pie.
From Solitaire, only about 80 km remained to Sesriem, but again, the roads were not conducive to a fast trip. We also had to cross some low passes. After one, I noted that we seemed to be driving downhill for rather a long time. I did not relish the thought of reversing the route. Eventually we turned off of the C19 for Sesriem, and miracle of miracles, we were on a smooth, asphalted road. This continued for 10 km or so, before we arrived, at Sesriem, our final destination.
We had arrived in Sossus Oasis, essentially a fuel station, shop and campsite all rolled in to one. Here, we unloaded my bike and panniers, and we were met by an employee of Sossusvlei Lodge/Desert Quiver Camp. I would be staying at the latter. Initially there was going to be no way that we were going to be able to get my bike/box in to the Toyota land Cruiser, but this was quickly resolved by removing it from the box that I probably never needed in the first place. We then drove the short distance to the Lodge to drop of the first passenger, followed by the 5km to Desert Quiver Camp to unload my luggage. The “Camp” was unlike any other campsite I’d ever been to and I’d describe it more as a luxury cabin than anything else. I didn’t have time to explore initially, as we dropped off my bike and luggage and then returned straight away to the Lodge for lunch.
After a buffet lunch, I walked across to the bar/pool area, as this was the only area where Wi-Fi was available. I sat for a short while and updated Jill as to my whereabouts, then drank in the scenery. It really was something special; the stark contrast between the golden desert sand, the blue sky and the distant mountains. After a short while, I returned to the “Adventure Centre”, where I hitched a lift back to Desert Quiver Camp and arranged another lift back to the Lodge later for dinner.
Back at the camp I set to reassembling my bike ready for the desert traverse in a couple of days time. I removed the cable-tied pipe lagging, screwed the two halves of my bike together and bolted back on all the components I’d removed for transit – the pedals, bottle cages, derailleur, handlebars, etc. I inflated the tyres (they must be deflated for the airlines) to 40 PSI, no harder, as I would need the pressure to be lower to give more grip and better comfort on the bad roads.
Once on the tarmac this wasn’t a problem and I soon sped along to the Sesriem entrance of the Namib Naukluft national Park. I stopped at the first barrier, where the park ranger was a little surprised to see me, and explained that I wanted to purchase a permit for the days that I would be riding through the park later in the week. In retrospect, I might not have needed a permit, because nobody asked to see it. He pointed me to the inner gate a few hundred metres down the road and off I rode. It only took a few minutes to fill in the form and purchase my permit, which I folded up and put in my pocket, then rode off back through the outer park gate towards the Sossus Oasis. I popped in to the shop to peruse the wares, of which there weren’t that many and purchased a soft drink. Sitting at the tables outside, people came and went, filling up their 4×4’s and topping up with food and drink for the evening barbecue, or braai as it would be more usually called in South-African parlance. All kinds of nationalities came and went, but I noted a couple speaking Romanian, a language which I am attempting to learn, if for nothing else studies show that learning another language can significantly delay the onset of symptoms of dementia. I attempted a little conversation, but as is often the case, their English was far superior to my Romanian.
I drank my bottle of coke and rode back to my “campsite”, where I finished unpacking my bags before walking the short(ish) distance to the bar to take advantage of the Wi-Fi. If I had brought some swimming trunks with me I might have taken advantage of the pool too. I may have taken advantage of another Hansa beer.
At 7.15 pm my ride back to the lodge arrived and 5 minutes later we were there. There was a buffet starter and a selection of meat and fish on the braai for main, plus accompaniments and dessert. I polished of a light starter, grabbed a plate and headed to the braai for my main. The man attending to the meat explained that he had Kudu, Springbok, Impala and I also saw Zebra and other rather unusual offerings. And beef. I asked what he recommended and had a small selection of things that you wouldn’t normally eat. Now, I’m not a vegetarian, not anywhere near it, but I felt a little uneasy about eating African game. I’m not sure why. None of it is endangered and to be honest it probably creates far fewer carbon emissions than raising beef, but it still felt a little wrong. I had no qualms about eating the desserts. With dinner done and dusted, I hitched another lift back to the campsite, where I sat outside for a while admiring the stunning night sky, before retiring to my room.
Sossusvlei
Tuesday was another early start. Today it had been arranged for me to visit Sossusvlei dunes and Deadvlei, a dry clay pan, at the end of the Tsauchab river. The river rises in the Naukluft mountains and runs towards the coast of Namibia, but as its path is blocked by the dunes of the Namib desert, it never arrives, drying out in the salt pan of Sossusvlei. My ride to the Lodge was arranged for 6.30 am, as the gates to the park opened at 7.30. This early departure is because the light at sunrise provides the most spectacular time to appreciate the scenery. Our driver for the day was Gabes, a cheerful person who explained that originally he was from the north of Namibia, near the Angolan border, but had moved south for work. Our party consisted of a lady from South Africa, a French couple, a German couple and myself. We all boarded the hotel’s Toyota Land Cruiser, with multiple rows of seats and open sides. Gabes joked that it was “fully air-conditioned”, and passed us some blankets, as it was pretty cold, around 2°C. We queued up at the park gates with all the other 4×4’s and tour buses then, at 7.30 exactly, the park gates were opened.
We hadn’t gone far in to the park, before we pulled over to one side, as Gabes had spotted some emu in the distance. They were too far away to photograph to be honest, but that didn’t stop me trying. Unfortunately the photos I took were rubbish, so they didn’t make the cut. We drove a little further on and stopped again, as there were some springbok nearby, which I managed to take a half decent photograph of.
When the rest of the party arrived, we jumped aboard and drove a short way to Sossusvlei, where Gabes had obviously been busy, setting up a picnic breakfast for us all. We sat and ate in the totally surreal surroundings, chatting until it was time to leave. We drove back via the same road (there is only one road); once again stopping from time to time to snap photographs of wildlife, including a very brazen Oryx, who didn’t seem at all bothered by our presence. The afternoon was spent at leisure, but I did record a video for social media. The next three days would be spent in the saddle, with little or no access to the Internet, plus with some serious miles to ride, I had no idea if I’d even have time to post much, if at all.
The Challenge, day 1
Breakfast was available at the lodge from 6.30, and I wanted to take advantage of this to fuel up before I started. Day 1 was going to be a long day at just over 100 miles. I set the alarm clock for 5.30 and had everything packed and ready, so it was simply a case of waking up, grabbing my bike and heading out. I rode the short distance to the campsite reception, where I handed in my key, then rode the 5km or so to the lodge. I received some curious looks as I parked my bike up outside the restaurant. I don’t think many cyclists visit. I ate a hearty breakfast of porridge, toast and coffee as quickly as I could, anxious to get on the road. All done, I walked to my bike, wheeled it past the reception and out in front of the lodge. I had plotted some routes on my Garmin GPS, so I loaded the route, pressed “start” and rode off. This was it! Only it wasn’t. “Map contains no routable data”, or some such message, the Garmin said. I pressed the “OK” button and started again. “Map contains no routable data”, it said again. I hoped it wasn’t going to do this every few metres? “Map contains no routable data”… Oh bugger! I pressed “Cancel route”. “Are you sure?”, it said. “Yes”, I pressed. I decided I didn’t need navigation. There was only really one road anyway.
I turned left at the exit of the lodge on to the tarmac section of the route. Here we go. At least the first 10km should be easy, I thought. The tarmac was welcome at least, as I rode towards the east, towards the sunrise. The occasional tour bus and 4×4 was heading in the opposite direction, probably to the early morning Sossusvlei excursion. The road rose, almost imperceptibly, but as I was to discover later, when looking at the track, the first 40 miles (60km) were almost exclusively uphill. Apart from one slight corner, the road was also straight as a die until the junction with the C19, where I was presented with a choice: left, Walvis Bay, right, Maltahohe. I wasn’t presented with a choice of road surface though, that was it, the tarmac ran out. The next 350km more or less, would be dirt.
I stopped, had a drink of water and snapped some photos. I’d been riding for about 45 minutes and covered 10km, roughly. A bit of mental arithmetic meant 12.5km/h. If I could keep that average up, the day’s route would take me at least 12 hours. Unfortunately, I knew that this average speed was unlikely, given the road surface that lay in front of me. “Oh well”, I thought, “It’ll take as long as it takes…” Once again, the long straight road headed in to the distance, disappearing between rocky outcrops of hills on both sides. According to the USGS maps, the mountain to the right was Rotterkaum, 1,194 metres. The hill to the left does not have a name. Neither do most of the others. I pushed off and tentatively bumped along the road. It wasn’t too bad, at least, not yet.
From that moment forward I tried to settle in to a routine. Ride for an hour, or about 10km, stop for a drink, perhaps a snack, take some photos, continue riding. Rinse, repeat. The landscape was gradually changing, with the sun rising higher in the sky, casting long shadows and beams of yellow sunlight far in to the distance. I guess you either like this kind of thing or you don’t. I remember in the early 1990’s when I decided to take a position working in the Antarctic for the British Antarctic Survey, people fell in to one of two camps. There was either the “wow, that will be fantastic, what an experience” camp, or the “what on earth do you want to go there for?” camp. There was no in-between. As I pedalled towards the mountains, I knew that this landscape, this experience, was of the same ilk.
After a couple of hours I reached the Namib Naukluft National Park sign. There was nobody there to ensure I had a permit. I didn’t think there would be, to be honest, but I’d done things by the book. I bumped over the cattle grid in to the park. Occasionally, the surface was OK, allowing me to make better progress and I saw perhaps 18km/h on my Garmin, but most of the time I was bumping along at 10km/h on rough gravel or washboard. The worst surface of all was deep sand, where I could barely move. One moment I could be pedalling, the next I would plough in to an area of deep sand. My tyres would squirm underneath me and my speed would reduce rapidly. Occasionally I might be able to plough through the sand to a harder layer beyond, or perhaps steer out of the sand on to a firm surface. Mostly I would just grind to a halt and be forced to walk.
While planning the trip, I had made some decisions on what kit I would bring with me. Obviously I have “too many bikes”, but for this trip there was only one candidate, my Thorn Sherpa, a bike designed with this kind of thing in mind. I had fitted the fattest tyres I could – Schwalbe Marathon Plus Tour 26×2.0, a tyre renowned for it’s puncture resistance and with a chunky tread pattern that might help me stay upright. Normally I would ride with clipless pedals, but I’d taken them off and replaced them with some cheap MTB flat pedals, partly so I could ride in hiking shoes, partly so I wouldn’t need to unclip my feet in a hurry when I needed to put my feet down. This latter modification saved me in deep sand a number of times, when I was unable to recover a slide and had to plant a foot down. It didn’t always work though, and I ended up in a pile on the side of the road more frequently than I would have liked.
It was just after one of these such incidents, where I had resorted to walking for a few hundred metres, when I met the group of four cyclists I had seen on Monday. They were just starting to descend a hill which had cost me quite a lot to climb, due to the soft sand. I pulled across the road and stopped for a chat – why wouldn’t I? I can’t imagine it’s that often that you would meet another cyclist in the Namib desert! It transpired that they were a group of French cyclists, with matching blue and white Breton tops, emblazoned with the message “Cap ou pas cap?”, cycling from Cape Fréhel in Brittany to the Cape of Good Hope. According to their Instagram account this is “A cycling adventure from Cap Fréhel to the Cape of Good Hope, shared by a brother and sister!” Our conversation was short and succinct. They wanted to know what the road ahead was like, and so did I! I don’t think they were impressed when I told them it was pretty bad, with soft sand. Bearing in mind I had seen them only two days previously, they hadn’t made a great deal of progress. I later discovered from their Instagram account that they’ve been on the road for over 300 days.
My first goal was to arrive at Solitaire at about 80km, or half way. I knew there was a roadhouse there and a cafe, where I could get something to eat. I also calculated that however long it took me to get to Solitaire, it would take me about the same amount of time to arrive at the day’s destination, a lodge called “Valley of 1000 Hills”. Originally the plan was for me to stop at a different camp, only 40km north of Solitaire, but that was closed for refurbishment, so “Valley of 1000 Hills” was chosen as a replacement. The only problem was that this made the first day a 170km ride, instead of 120km. The truth of the matter was that the first and second days were both too far, as was to become obvious later.
It was nearly 2pm by the time I arrived at Solitaire, after nearly seven hours on the road. Following my logic, it would be at least another seven hours before I arrived in “Valley of 1000 Hills”, or around 9pm, possibly later. Darkness fell around 7pm, but that didn’t bother me, I had good lights and would be OK, despite the road. Nevertheless, as I had the opportunity to connect to the Wi-Fi at the roadhouse I sent a message to Jill, asking her to call “Valley of 1000 Hills” and let them know that I was on my way, that I did not know what time I would arrive, but that it would be late. This didn’t worry Jill, she’s had plenty of experience of me riding “all night” Audax events and not arriving until the following morning, so she relayed the message as requested. That done, I ordered a small pizza and a slice of apple pie from the roadhouse restaurant, McGregor's Bakery.
Given that I already knew I was going to be pressed for time, I only stopped long enough to eat and drink at Solitaire, before heading straight back out again. I turned left on to the C14 now, which was if anything, worse than the C19. The C14 probably saw more traffic and as such had much more washboard surface and deep sand at the edge of the road. As a result of this, people tended to drive where the road was smoothest, irrespective of whether that be on the left, in the middle, or on the right. I saw no reason to do any different, although I did try and return to “my” side of the road when I saw traffic coming. This didn’t always work when traffic was approaching from behind though, as with the constant headwind I couldn’t always hear the traffic coming. It didn’t seem to matter, because traffic would pass me fairly cautiously on either side. They probably understood the situation and adapted accordingly.
I saw a couple of graders on this part of the road, slowly making their way along, scraping away the surface corrugations, leaving the road temporarily in a slightly better condition. I would see one in the distance, travelling only slightly slower than I was, so it would take me quite a while to catch it. In this period, I could usually ride at a half-decent pace, maybe 12km/h uphill and 18km/h downhill. The best place to ride was in the tyre tracks, as these had rolled the surface every so slightly smoother. I caught up with the grader just as it turned off of the road at a temporary caboose, the day’s work done.
The terrain was more open here, more sandy and less scrub. There were still mountains and hills on the horizon, but more distant than before. The time passed quickly and the miles passed slowly and it was gone 6pm before I arrived at my next significant milestone – the Tropic of Capricorn. This was marked by a large roadside sign, which obviously I had to take a photograph of, so I stopped to do just that. I’d been riding for 11 hours now, and had ridden only 130km (80 miles). The sun had dipped below the horizon and an orange glow hung to the west. The sign sported a good collection of stickers and graffiti, accumulated over the years. I wished I could have added an Amicii Dog Rescue sticker, but I had none.
I had been descending for quite a while now, not noticeably and not that I could take advantage of the downhill, due to the extremely rough and sandy road. Immediately before the Tropic sign I’d actually given up riding on the road at one point as it was impossible. It was actually easier to ride alongside the road in the desert. I’d been up to 3,800 feet; higher than Mount Snowden, but had scrubbed off a lot of that altitude in the last 50km. Now I dropped down to 2,400 feet as I entered the canyon carved by the Gaub river. The different scenery made a pleasant change, but what was not so pleasant was the steep climb back out of the canyon to regain the 1,000 feet in altitude that I’d lost. The road was OK though, so I ground away in a low gear, slowly making progress. As I ascended the hill slowly, a 4×4 heading in the opposite direction to me slowed and rolled down his window. “Everything OK?”, the driver asked. “Yep, all OK”, I replied. It was definitely “dimpsy” now and I had turned on my front and rear lights. I’m sure he must have wondered what an earth I was doing out here in the dark. There wasn’t much traffic by this time of the day, so I was assured that someone was concerned for my welfare.
I pushed on in the dark. My Garmin was telling me I’d done 140km, so I had maybe 30km to go. That would normally take me about an hour-and-a-half, so I was thinking maybe another couple of hours? Maybe I’d arrive around 9pm? Or a bit later? Little did I know as I rode along in the dark, that frantic telephone calls were occurring in the background. Naomi (at least I think it was Naomi – I’m rubbish with names) from Valley of 1000 Hills had called Jill to ask if she’d heard from me. She hadn’t, obviously, as I had no mobile phone SIM, and wouldn’t have had any signal anyway. She’d called Hanneke at African Wanderer, who’d made the booking for me, with the same result. With that, she and Heidi, another of the staff had decided to unilaterally implement a rescue mission, whether I needed rescuing or not!
And so it was, at about 8pm, I espied a car approaching from the opposite direction, which slowed and stopped – the driver’s window wound down and a voice called out, “Are you Steve?” “Yes”, I replied. “We were worried about you, so we decided to come and look for you”, Naomi replied. I couldn’t argue with that.
I don’t remember if they asked if I wanted a lift or not, but to be honest I’d had enough by then and was happy to be “rescued”. They folded the seats down in the Toyota RAV4 as I removed my panniers and we squeezed the bike in, then set off for the lodge in the dark. I was about 5km short of the turning for Windhoek which I’d been anticipating so much, to get me off of the terrible C14, but in truth I was about 20km from the lodge, which would have taken at least two hours at the pace I was riding, probably more. The trip in the car seemed to take an eternity, probably because Naomi was driving very cautiously, especially after turning off of the Windhoek road and on to the track leading to the lodge. The track seemed to go on forever, winding up and down between rocky outcrops.
Eventually we arrived at the lodge and walked the final 100 metres or so to the main building, where a few guests were just vacating to head to their cabins. I was asked what I wanted to do, and in what order. Basically, the response was shower, eat, sleep, not necessarily in that order! The first thing I really needed to do was to connect to the Wi-Fi, so I could let Jill know that I’d arrived. With that done, I sat down at a lone table and tucked in to a very tasty meal. After I’d eaten, Franz, the manager drove me to my cabin (yes, it was that far), where I elected to leave my bike in the car and just grab my panniers. “Breakfast is at 8”, he said, and left me to it.
The cabin was small, but tastefully appointed. The biggest issue I had was that the lighting was fairly dim. Franz had explained to me that the cabins run on a 12 volt solar system and there was no mains electricity, hence no opportunity to charge phones, etc. This didn’t matter, as I had power packs, but I desperately needed a hot shower. “We have plenty of that”, I’d been told, and he was quite correct. Each cabin had it’s own solar water heater, so my prayer was answered. Fed and showered, the only item that remained in my list was sleep, and that came very easily.
Day 2
I slept well, as can be imagined, but awoke early, as I tend to do. At home, if I’m still asleep past 6am, I’m usually roused by a large hairy nose, reminding me that it’s breakfast time and my body clock is adjusted to that. Truth be known, I’d have preferred to have breakfast much earlier than 8am, so I could be on the road at first light. Instead I ensured that everything was packed and ready so I could leave as soon as possible. Today was a much shorter day – only 120km, but at yesterday’s average pace of 12km/h, that was still shaping up to be a 10 hour day. As 8am approached, I walked up to the main building, arriving perhaps a little early. Franz and Heidi were already there and the breakfast buffet was already laid out. I was offered bacon, sausage and egg, which I gratefully accepted and sat down to munch away on some cereal. The cooked breakfast arrived and I went to make some toast and asked Heidi if it was OK for me to make myself some sandwiches for lunch. “I’ll ask the kitchen to make you some”, she said. What service! By the time I’d eaten my eggs and drank copious amounts of coffee, the sandwiches were ready and so was I.
Franz and I walked down to the car, where I’d abandoned my bike the previous night. We removed it and I put it to one side. One job I absolutely had to do was to lube the chain and adjust the gears. One of the most frustrating things of the previous day was that every time I’d reached for a lower gear, it just didn’t work. Franz kindly offered to fill my water bottles, while I set to with the mechanicals. While I was doing this, I noticed that the lower S&S frame coupling had come loose. If this had loosened any further the frame would have probably broken and the trip would have been over. Undoubtedly it was a result of the constant jarring on the corrugated roads. I tightened it with the special tool and clipped my panniers on to the rack and I was ready to go. I thanked Franz for the hospitality and set out down the track towards the main road.
Arriving after dark the previous night had made me a little nervous even about the track to the main road. It was about 7km long and had appeared very twisty and bumpy, although mercifully it was mostly downhill. It still took me 40 minutes to cycle this far and there was even one section where I was forced to walk because of my nemesis, soft sand. I turned left on to the Windhoek road, towards the west. Thankfully, the road surface here was pretty good and I flew along at 15km/h or so and reached the dizzying speed of 32km/h at one point! This didn’t last, as after 8km I arrived at the junction with the C14, the road that had caused me such grief the previous day. I turned north, towards the Kuiseb river, still some 15km distant, and attempted to settle in to the rhythm of the previous day – ride one hour, stop for a drink, ride another hour…
Not long after I’d turned on to the C14, a group of three Israeli men at the side of the road stopped me to ask what I was doing. We chatted for a short while and they invited me to breakfast, which they were cooking at the side of the road. I politely declined, explaining that I had a long way to go. Shortly after that, a black Mercedes G-Wagon pulled alongside and again asked me what I was up to. We didn’t chat long, but he was Swiss and said he had driven here from Switzerland! Surely enough, as he pulled away, I spied the Swiss plate. That was pretty much my social interaction done for a while, as I plodded on towards the Kuiseb. Yet again the road varied from bad to worse, then after about 25km, I re-entered the Namib-Naukluft national park and there was a short burst of tarmac, only for a couple of kilometres, but it was very welcome. A few km after that, I began the descent in to the canyon that had been carved by the Kuiseb river. The scenery changed once again, from a flat, open desert landscape to rocky rifts, through which the river has cut. The river rarely flows above ground following uncommon rainfall events, but it continues to flow underground and supports a long ribbon of life as it heads towards the Atlantic ocean. It forms an important geological barrier, preventing the massive red dunes of the Namib desert encroaching further north. I stopped a few times to take some photographs along the way, before riding across the dry bridge and climbing back out of the canyon slowly.
The panorama returned to one of dry, open desert, with little or no vegetation. I rode onwards, towards my next checkpoint, a turning to the south-west, towards my destination of the day, Gobabeb research centre. I had the route loaded on to my Garmin, but earlier in the day when I tried to load it, I received the same message as previously, “Map contains no routable data”. Again, it didn’t matter, as there was a complete dearth of roads anyway and I was pretty sure I wouldn’t get lost. It would have been nice to know how far it was to the turning though. Or perhaps it wouldn’t. Frequently I’d look at my Garmin and note I ridden twenty-x km, only to look a little later and note that I’d not ridden twenty-x.1 km. The distance seemed to pass so slowly on occasions.
After a number of false-alarms, when arriving at a remote junction, I would check my whereabouts on Google maps (fortuitously I had downloaded offline maps) only to discover that I wasn’t there yet, I spotted a signpost in the distance, marked “Gobabeb”. No distance marked, that seemed to be the norm here, but as I’d ridden 53km, I calculated I had 67km to go. As it was about 1.30pm, I decided it was about lunchtime, so I propped my bike against the signpost and ate my sandwiches, provided by the lodge.
Lunch completed, I rode the couple of hundred metres to the Gobabeb junction and turned left. I had asked Franz at the lodge if he knew this road and he confessed that he didn’t, but he thought that because it was very much less-transited than the C14, it would probably be in a better condition. I had clung on to this idea with the anticipation of riding along the remaining 65km at a decent pace, arriving at my destination at a civilised hour, but alas, my hopes were dashed within the first 100 metres as I ploughed in to a sandy rut. I climbed off the bike a walked a while – riding was impossible – until the surface showed some sign of improvement then attempted to ride some more. I managed to struggle along for a while, weaving from one side of the track to the other, trying to find the best line. It was obvious that this part of the “road” hadn’t been graded in a long time, if at all. Occasionally flat areas of schist (a metamorphic rock) protruded in to the track, and while bumpy, these were actually better to ride on. The road rose for a few hundred metres, then levelled off and continued almost imperceptibly downhill. In fact, the entire afternoon’s cycling was mostly downhill, although I only lost about 900 feet in elevation, it seemed that every hill I crested was followed by a slight descent, then another hill.
There was little evidence of life along this road; only one vehicle passed me in the six hours it took me to ride this section. If anything had gone wrong, I would have had a long wait. With regards to communication, I had intended to purchase a mobile phone SIM in Swakopmund on arrival, but that proved impossible, as all the shops were closed. I also carried a tracking device called a Zoleo, which supposedly had the ability to send messages via the Iridium satellite constellation, but despite checking this in the UK before I left, I was unable to send messages in Namibia. It did have an SOS button, which was supposed to alert the GEOS Global Rescue network, who would dispatch helicopters, mountain rescue teams and perhaps even Thunderbirds. I needed to make sure I was in pretty dire straits before I pressed that big red button, for sure. It’s a shame I didn’t manage to purchase a SIM, because one of the signs of humanity I did see along the way was a solitary communications tower, bristling with mobile phone antennae.
Surprisingly, there were tracks leading off of this road, heading for even remoter destinations, mostly desert camps closer to the Kuiseb river canyon. Development has also recently started on a mine to the east of Gobabeb, where extraction of copper and gold will supposedly start in the latter half of 2026. The exploration company Bezant Resources expects the mine to produce somewhere in the region of 25,000 tonnes of copper a year when the facility is completed. Luckily for me, the mining traffic was not using the road that I was riding on!
About half way along the road to Gobabeb is a huge erratic rock, an “inselberg”, which served as the real-world filming location for the "Dawn of Man" sequence in Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey, the scene where a group of prehistoric apes are presented with a black monolith and learn to use bones as tools and ultimately, weapons. These days it is used more frequently as another desert campsite for people with 4×4’s. For me, it was a huge rock outcrop that appeared on the horizon, a waymarker to judge progress. It seemed to remain in the distance for an eternity, before I gradually pulled alongside it and finally it disappeared in to the distance behind me.
I kept hoping the road would improve, allowing me to ride faster, but the surface continued to be bad. This was going to be another late arrival, despite the shorter distance. Gobabeb knew I was coming, I had a reservation, so to speak, but I would imagine the vast majority of “guests” arrive in daylight. Gradually the sun sank to the horizon and the colours of the desert became more golden; at about 6.30pm came the sunset, then by 7pm it was dark. I turned on my lights, my front dynamo light cast a bright patch over the road ahead and I turned on my rear light, although I’m not sure why, there were no other road users to be seen. I wasn’t far from my destination, perhaps 10 or 15km and I was peering expectantly in to the darkness for some sign of habitation, a light in the distance. It seemed to take forever for my wish to come true, the road kept rolling up and down, but eventually there it was, a dim light in the distance. It disappeared as I descended in to another dip, then reappeared again as I crested a hill, then, all of a sudden I came upon a crossroads. I wasn’t expecting a crossroads and I was a bit perplexed for a moment, as I couldn’t see it marked on my Garmin. I pulled out my phone and resorted to Google maps, which fortunately did show the junction and prompted me to continue straight on. It really wasn’t far now, but the track threw me one last curve-ball, as it began to descend and wind between some rocky outcrops. I hadn’t had to walk in a while, but with such a short distance remaining I was again forced to walk through some patches of deep sand. I rounded the final corner and at last saw a tiny cluster of lights in front of me. This was no buzzing metropolis though – we’re talking about a small compound of buildings and a campsite, so it was still difficult to spot.
As I approached the lights, the road veered to the right, then I spotted an entrance with a sign saying “Gobabeb Training and Research Centre”. I rode through the entrance and picked out a sign marked “Reception” in my lights. I followed the track and arrived at a low, unlit building with no signs of life and locked doors. “Great”, I thought, “Now what?” Off to my right I spotted more lights, so I headed off in that direction. About 400 metres later I arrived at a kitchen/dining area, where a couple of people were still working. It was about 8pm now, so I guess I was lucky to find anyone at all. After a bit of toing and froing the right person was contacted and I was advised that I’d be met at reception where somebody would give me the key to my cabin. We walked the 400 metres back to the reception, me pushing my loaded bike with me (I don’t know why I didn’t leave it down there!), where I was greeted by a lady who presented me with my key. While I was also at the reception I took advantage of the Wi-Fi (there was no Wi-Fi in the cabins) to send a message to Jill, “I arrived”. Short and to the point. We then walked the 400 metres back down to the kitchen to see if there was any chance of getting something to eat, which fortunately there was. I had only eaten a couple of sandwiches and am Energy Ba! all day and was starving! I sat in a large classroom while my dinner was prepared and read some of the posters describing the research of the centre. I didn’t particularly like the look of the “Psyttala horrida”, more commonly called the horrid king assassin bug or giant spiny assassin bug. Or the Assassin fly… Dinner arrived before I could scare myself further, so I left the killer-insects of the Namib desert and busied myself eating the delicious meal I’d been prepared. Once I had eaten, I was guided to my cabin, where I could finally relax, have a shower and hit the sack!
Day 3
Breakfast at Gobabeb wasn’t available until 8am, but after waking pretty early, I busied myself preparing as much as possible to I could make a quick getaway as soon as I’d eaten. I walked up to the reception again so I could connect to the Wi-Fi and perhaps send some messages, or post on social media. I managed to connect to the Wi-Fi, but my phone still said “no Internet”. Ho-hum. I walked down to the classroom, where a large coffee urn was bubbling away, so I availed myself of some coffee and continued research in to assassin bugs, etc.
I was joined by another man, who I determined was working for the nearby mining company. He sat at a table and tapped away at a laptop and I mentioned my Wi-Fi woes to him. “The Internet doesn’t wake up until about 8am”, he said! We then discussed my plans for the day, riding to Walvis bay, and which was the best road to take. He was of the firm opinion that the road that followed the Kuiseb was too slow, with too many curves. He recommended the new mining road that headed north towards the C14. “I can get on that road and drive at 120km/h all the way”, he said. I didn’t say anything, but I secretly thought “that’s probably exactly the kind of road I don’t want to cycle on…” After a few moments in thought, he said “If you don’t mind waiting, a couple of us are going to Swakop in the bakkie” (pickup truck in South-African parlance), “we can put your bike in the back and give you a lift”. “That’s very kind”, I replied, “but I think I’ll cycle”.
I was saved from any diplomatic faux pas by the cook, who wanted to know what I’d like for breakfast. He offered some bacon and eggs and again there was a small buffet available. I politely asked if there would be any chance of some sandwiches for a packed lunch and he was only too pleased to oblige! I ate my breakfast as quickly as I could, as time was marching on and although I hoped that today would be easier than yesterday, I still had over 120 km to ride. I walked back to my cabin, grabbed my bike and walked up to reception to hand in my key. Finally, at ten minutes to nine, I headed out.
I eschewed the mining road to the north, the D2186 and turned left on to the road that followed the Kuiseb river downstream. While the Kuiseb river bed was dry and parched, it’s course was marked by a line of trees that were sustained by it’s life-giving water. On the far side of the river the sand dunes of the Namib desert rose almost immediately from the riverbank, towering up to 400 metres high. What surprised me was that almost immediately upon leaving Gobabeb there were signs of civilisation. Quite how people managed to eke a living out of the parched environment I have no idea, but quite obviously they managed. Most settlements weren’t even large enough to have names, they were often just one or two shacks, often surrounded by fences, to keep livestock in, and wildlife out. I hadn’t gone more than a few kilometres before I rode past one such settlement and as I rode slowly along the road I heard the ominous sound of barking dogs. I turned to see a couple of mongrels heading my way at top speed. Because of the state of the road and the slightly uphill gradient, there was no way I was going to be able to outrun them, so I employed dog avoidance technique #2, I stopped, dismounted and kept the bike between me and them. As soon as I had stopped, the pair pretty much lost interest in me. I walked a little while, then, when I was a safe distance away, I cycled off.
Whenever the road came closer to the river, I might see a settlement, but whenever it veered away, I was back in to the desolate landscape. The first couple of hours was dominated by a vast sandy tract with the occasional low outcrop of rock peeping through the surface. Although it was almost imperceptible, the road was occasionally crossed by what were obvious dry, or ephemeral river beds, caused by historic flooding. In English we’d probably know these more commonly as “Wadi”, but that’s an Arabic word. In the local Nama, or Khoekhoegowab language, they would be called !āb. That’s not a spelling mistake, Nama is one of the few languages in the world that incorporate clicks in to the alphabet, Zulu, being one of the others. From my point, every time the road crossed a !āb, the surface became much more sandy, often forcing me to walk for a few metres before I could ride again.
After 20km or so, the road changed from sandy, to a grey, rocky, lunar landscape. This was the Swartberg mountain range, although calling them “mountains” is a bit of a stretch of the imagination really, when the highest peak is only 464m (1,522 feet) high. For reference, the highest point on the Malvern Hills is 425m (1,394 feet) and Brown Clee, the highest hill in Shropshire is 540m (1,722 feet). Still, there was a bit of an uphill drag as the road wound it’s way through the “mountains”. The road wasn’t too bad though, and I was rewarded by a reasonably long descent afterwards. This was followed by another trek across a long, sandy plain, where the road undulated up and down. Every time I achieved the summit of one hill, there was a slight depression, followed by another. I wasn’t the only person that had cycled along here either. Every now and then I spied the tracks of another cyclist in the sand, although I had no idea how old the tracks were. They could have been hours, days or even weeks old, with nothing here to destroy them, they could last an indeterminate amount of time.
I was definitely having more fun today than on the previous days, the cycling was definitely easier and the end goal was in sight now. When the going was good I even resorted to a little singing, as I am wont to do. When cycling across Germany I had been singing a bit of Rammstein and I liked to keep my songs topical. I don’t know many African songs, apart from some by the Bhundu Boys, but they were from Zimbabwe, so I plumped for a bit of “Africa”, by Toto. Sadly, I don’t know many of the lyrics, so it went a bit like:
Na na na na na na na naa
I bless the rains down in Africa
Na na na na na na na naa
Every time I ran in to a patch of sand the singing abruptly stopped as I fought to stay upright and resumed again when the surface improved.
After about 45km I came upon a large building in the middle of the desert, beside the road. I wondered initially if it was some kind of mining structure, but as I pulled alongside it I saw a large sign, “Namwater”. Ah, this must be one of the boreholes that supplies Walvis Bay and Swakopmund, I thought. This would draw water from the Kuiseb aquifer, deep underground. Another couple of kilometres along the road I entered what you might only describe as a “village”, complete with a school, the “J.P. Brand Primary School”, which appeared like a reasonably large establishment, despite there not being a huge number of houses in the vicinity. The school was built in 1979 for the children of the Topnaar, a local Nama tribe, but was eventually nationalised and converted into a boarding school. I didn’t see any children at the school as I rode past, but I had seen some children in the nearby shacks that I had previously passed. It was lunchtime though, so maybe they’d all gone home for lunch.
Yes, lunch… I rode a little further and just as I was starting to think about lunch I passed another string of shacks, with associated children and dogs. I didn’t want to stop here, besides, there was nowhere to sit. Further down the road a large metal pipe appeared alongside the road, I assume this was the Namwater supply pipe. A little further and I exited the Namib Naukluft national park, which game me a convenient spot to lean my bike. Still nowhere to sit, so I ate my sandwiches standing up. After my short break a continued on my way. The road had obviously seem more traffic, but nowhere near that of the C14, which was good. Since leaving Gobabeb I hadn’t seen a single vehicle, but after 5 hours and 50km, a single “bakkie” passed me. Must have been the rush hour.
Halfway between the park and the next establishment, Rooibank, there was another tiny village, again with no name, but home to the “Scheppmannskirche”, the church in the desert. This was founded by a German missionary, Heinrich Scheppmann in 1845 on the original ox trail in to the interior. Rooibank itself could hardly be described as a buzzing metropolis, but curiously there did seem to be some relatively (in comparison to the shacks I’d seen up until now) luxurious-looking properties at the entrance to the village. I didn’t enter Rooibank-proper, as the road came to a T-junction on the outskirts and a quick look at Google maps indicated that I should turn right, to the north, away from the village.
I’d ridden about 60km now, of the 90km towards Walvis Bay. I had hoped that I would have been on a paved road by now. I had convinced myself of that anyway. As it transpired, the paved road didn’t start until about 85km and the best part of the road between Rooibank and Walvis Bay was sand and gravel, with a fair amount of that being uphill. The next hour passed uneventfully, apart from a moment where I had to choose between carrying straight on, or deviating to the left to take the “back road” to Walvis Bay, via a place called “Plum”, home to an aggregate quarry. I chose the former.
Miraculously, after about 80km I finally reached a paved road! Tarmac, at last! Only technically it wasn’t tarmac, it was salt. Tarmac is obviously expensive, so Namibia has found a way to use a resource it has plenty of to make roads instead. Salt. The surface is a mixture of salt water, gypsum, sand and/or gravel that is then baked in the sun. Irrespective of what it was made of, it’s presence was very welcome and my average speed increased dramatically from about 10km/h to 18km/h.
In the last few kilometres between here and the C14 and Walvis Bay, there was an increase in industrial activity. Firstly I came upon the King Charcoal factory, which presented a shocking jolt to the otherwise pristine desert landscape through which I had been cycling. Namibia produces over 200,000 tonnes of charcoal a year, converting invasive acacia and thorn bushes in the north in to charcoal for barbecues. The United Kingdom alone imports a huge amount of charcoal from Namibia. As I cycled along beside the road, the workers toiled in filthy conditions filling and moving skip-bags full of charcoal, with the only sign of PPE being a cheap dust mask, the kind you might buy from B&Q to do a bit of sanding. Surprisingly, many of them still looked across and shouted and waved to me as I passed. Just past the charcoal factory on the other side of the road was a settlement of ramshackle huts, which I can only assume was the accommodation for the workers.
Another few hundred metres along the road was the “BC Stone” factory, which looked an entirely different kind of operation altogether. BC Stone specialises in extracting, processing, and exporting a wide array of premium marble and granite, mostly to the United States and China. Most of the premises was hidden behind a wall of massive blocks of marble, stacked two high. That’s some kind of security fence! Notably, on the other side of the road there was a settlement, presumably for the workers, which consisted of modern buildings. It would appear that the marble industry is doing better than the charcoal industry.
Less than a kilometre later I was reunited with my nemesis, the C14, but I only had a few kilometres to ride on it before I reached the outskirts of Walvis Bay. This was fortunate, as that section of the road is having a major upgrade and I would have to deal with temporary traffic controls and contra-flow traffic, as well as a large volume of heavy traffic, including lorries heading to the deep water port at Walvis Bay. The port is the principal maritime gateway of Namibia, with an annual volume of approximately 5,000,000 tonnes of goods, mostly uranium, ores and concentrates (nickel, base metals), fish and seafood, salt, marble, and granite. It also act as a critical hub connecting landlocked Southern African countries to the global economy. As I approached the first temporary traffic control the lady manning it spun the sign from “Go” to “Stop” before I could reach her. Traffic began flowing towards me, so I slowed down and stopped beside her. Henceforth started a short conversation along the lines of “where have you come from, where are you going”, etc. I told her that my first port of call was going to be Hungry Lion and she laughed and replied “You will have to bring me some back!” The traffic stopped flowing and she spun the sign back to “Go” and I rode off as quickly as I could, so I could make some progress through the roadworks before the lorries caught me up. It wasn’t long before I heard the sound of a heavy diesel engine behind me and discretion being the better part of valour I hopped off of the tarmac on to the sandy verge to let the trucks past. After they had gone, I hopped back on the road again, riding as fast as I could to get to the other end of the roadworks before the lady at the other end spun her sign around. I had a few minutes grace as the traffic traversed the roadworks in the opposite direction, before once again I had to make a dive for the verge.
Eventually I arrived at the roundabout that marked the entrance to the “Dunes Mall” and could take refuge. I rode across the sizeable car park, pulled up outside the Hungry Lion, locked my bike to a railing and went inside. After perusing the menu for a short while I ordered a “Big Boss meal” with a large drink. “Have you got Wi-Fi?”, I asked the lady behind the counter. “Yes, but only for staff”, she said. I must have looked disappointed, because she said “Don’t worry, I’ll connect you to the staff network…”, after which she took my phone and did just that. I took my “Big Boss meal” and went outside to sit, so I could keep an eye on my bicycle, after all, it had all my bags on it still. I don’t think I needed to worry, as there was a mall security guy and a policeman nearby. I had been looking forward to this meal for quite a while and after several hours cycling through the desert it definitely hit the spot. I also took the chance to upload some photos to Facebook and message Jill to say I was OK.
Once I’d eaten my “late lunch”, I set off back across the car park to ride the final stage back to my guest-house in Swakopmund. I figured it was about 30km, and on the better road I thought it might take about an hour-and-a-half to get there. It was around 4.30pm, so I’d be back before it got dark. I left the mall and rejoined the main road for the short trajectory to the massive roundabout at the entrance to the town. This section of the road was the last part of the C14 before the cargo traffic headed straight on to the docks and where I had to turn right to take the coast road to Swakopmund. Given the incredibly heavy traffic, I thought it was prudent to cycle along the verge, rather than attempt to mix it with the lorries. Just as I reached the roundabout there was a lull in the traffic, so I sprinted across the road to the roundabout and rode around it as quickly as I could. As I exited the roundabout I noted there was a weight restriction of 5 tonnes on the coast road, which pleased me somewhat, at least I wouldn’t be flattened by an articulated lorry. There was even a shoulder for me to ride on, perhaps this wouldn’t be too bad after all? Just after I exited the roundabout I was passed by a huge articulated tipper truck, then after about a kilometre the hard shoulder vanished, replaced with a sandy verge.
Luckily the articulated lorry turned out to be an isolated incident, but nevertheless the traffic was very heavy, only to be expected for the rush-hour on a Friday, I suppose. Soon, I had passed the Walvis Bay city limits and was riding along with the Atlantic ocean to my left and sand dunes to my right. Had it not been for the traffic it would have been very pleasant. I was wearing a day-glo yellow top and had a flashing rear light on in an attempt to ensure that vehicles saw me and to an extent that was working. When there was nothing coming in the opposite direction, drivers gave me a wide berth. When there was something coming in the opposite direction they weren’t quite so generous. The road undulated up and down, so at times I could reach a reasonable speed, but when I was climbing uphill I wasn’t quite so fast. I resorted to keeping a sharp eye for the oncoming traffic and a sharp ear for the traffic approaching from behind. Oncoming traffic didn’t think twice about overtaking. If there was a gap, they would go for it, leaving me diving for the verge. When I heard traffic approaching from behind and there was oncoming traffic in the opposite lane I found it prudent to leave the road and ride on the verge, returning to the tarmac when possible. With this technique, I made reasonable progress.
About half-way between Walvis bay and Swakopmund I took temporary refuge in a service station and bought an ice cream and an energy drink, with the hope that it might turbocharge me the final 15km or so. While I consumed these I was reviewing a noticeboard offering properties for sale in “Long Beach”, the swanky new development nearby. A 3-bed, 2-bath property will cost you somewhere from 1.3 million Namibian dollars (£60,000) and £495,000 would buy you a 4-bed, 4 bath house with sea view and 500 square metres of living area. I wonder if I could live in Namibia? Just as I was postulating early retirement, a Mercedes parked up and a lady exited. She asked where I was going and when she heard that I was heading to Swakopmund she was horrified. “I’ll give you a lift”, she said, “… or at least wait until later when the traffic has died down. They all drive like lunatics”, she continued “and they don’t care”. I assured her I’d be fine and after we’d had a short conversation, I set off again, employing the same technique as before, diving off of the road on to the verge where appropriate.
The final few kilometres to Swakopmund passed reasonably uneventfully, apart from a police car tearing past me with lights flashing and siren blaring. He wasn’t interested in me, a few hundred metres later he’d pulled someone over, presumably for speeding. I rolled over the bridge crossing the (dry) Swakop river, past KFC (not as good as Hungry Lion), turned left on to Woermann Street, left on to Tobias Hainyeko, past Kücki's pub, down the hill and that was it. Job done. Namib desert crossed. Just as I arrived at the guest-house, the gate opened and Inga appeared. “You just caught me”, she said. “How was your ride?” “Tough”, I think I said. She explained that my bags were still in my room and she’d left a note in the door explaining that the “Flying Coffee Pot” transfer had called to say they’d be there to collect me at 8.30 the following morning. “What time do you want your breakfast?”. She went on to suggest 7.30, as there was a large party of “youngsters” there on a yoga retreat. “Better to wait until they’re done”. I was in no mood to argue, so we left it at that and she departed. The ladies that remained looked after me very well indeed. I removed my bags from the bike and they were spirited up to my room along with my bike. They left me and I sat on the sofa and contemplated the trip I’d just undertaken.
Contemplation couldn’t last long though. It was nearly 7pm and I had a lot to do. I had to unpack/re-pack everything, dismantle my bike and prepare it for the flight home and let everyone know I was OK. I messaged Jill to let her know I’d arrived, then jumped in to the shower. I can confidently say that there’s no better feeling than to have a shower after having cycled 12 hours through a desert… Refreshed, I dressed and headed straight up the road to Kücki's pub for dinner. I took a seat, ordered a pint of Hansa and some food. On second thoughts, there might be a better feeling than having a shower after having cycled 12 hours through a desert – having a cold beer after cycling 12 hours through a desert is right up there too. Dinner, and another beer, was consumed and I returned to my room to start dismantling and packing my bike. This continued for an hour or so, until a wave of fatigue passed over me and I headed to bed for a well deserved sleep.
Homeward Bound
I won’t bore you with the extended details of the trip home. Save to say it took something like 35 hours and involved the same three flights as the journey out. Walvis Bay, Johannesburg, Frankfurt, Birmingham. I didn’t sleep terribly well on the Johannesburg to Frankfurt flight, but as a result of that I did see some spectacular lightning over central Africa. I had a long layover in Frankfurt – I’m not sure how I didn’t plan that better, but that at least allowed me to nip in to the centre on the underground to see a few of the sights. It also meant I had to suffer and incredibly long queue in immigration, as a non-EU resident. Meanwhile, EU citizens flew through the new European Entry Exit System with ease. Thanks, Brexit… Jill met me at Birmingham airport, I loaded my bike and luggage in the car and we drove home to a large fluffy dog, who was very happy to see her dad.
If you’ve got this far, I hope you’ve enjoyed the read. If you have, please consider making a donation to my justgiving page, or donating to my favourite charity in another way:
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