We have a very talented writer in our midst on the forum he calls himself Slowcoach his real name is Alex and he is from the UK. Here are all the bits he shared with us on this forum. See his own web site at http://www.slowcoach.org/index.html
Making the grade
It has been a good day sightseeing around Brandburg but the sun has moved on and it is time to head back to civilization or more accurately to Uis.
We are coming to the end of our stay around Brandberg and will soon be heading North. During our stay we have criss-crossed the desert sometimes by old mining tracks and sometimes on the main gravel. At this time, the main gravel between the Uis-Henties road and Brandburg West is being regraded and everyday at a different place we have waved to the grader man and he has waved back as we have made our different journeys.
Tonight, for it is getting dark, we are heading back from the junction near Brandberg West and come across the sight of the big grader lying silent in the road with no sign of its master road maker. We travel on for a few kilometres before we spy a figure walking down the road, the man that has been one of the few souls that has been sharing the desert with us during the last few days. A man we feel we know but have never really met.
He waves but makes no effort to wave us down, it is almost as though he has accepted his long and lonely walk as inevitable. We stop.
His English, is not good but meets our needs, his great leviathon is out of diesel and he is walking back to his peripatetic home and shelter. We offer a lift but contrary to his preference, we make room for him in the cab; I am sure he would have prefered to ride in the back. There is no such thing as a free ride and we wish his company in return for the lift. His name is Lucas, he is Namibian and black and he is the man who his grading our road.
I am not sure what he made of us, we are white but not white Namibian, we are tourists but not Afrikaaner or German, we speak English but not in a way that he is familiar with.
After a few brief pleasantaries it becoems evident the his big yellow grader is out of diesel and many miles form his supplies. So he walks.
We arrive back at his home. His assistant has the fire going and supper in the form of half a dozen or so small cakes are on the griddle. Lucas thanks us for the lift only to be met with this question. "What are you going to do now?"
"I must fill containers and return to the grader".
He fetches two five litre plastic bottles and fills them with diesel from the big green BP drum in the trailer. We stand our ground and wait just a little before offering, perhaps telling him, that he has a lift back to the grader. I do not fancy having the oil in the cab so this time it is going to be a ride in the back. I open the back and finally his eyes light up and he really does want to talk to us!
"Diesel", he points to our Jerries; "Yes, diesel" I say. He carefully explains that the ten litres that he has is nothing like enough to get the mighty and thirsty grader back to home for the night. If we will lend him twenty litres more he will get back in one go and not have to repeat the excercise twice more this evening or more likely throughout half the night.
I was a little hesitant but I reckoned that diesel was diesel and I say yes. I take Lucas back to his colleague and ask him to explain that we would be back and expected our can would be refilled.
The light was almost gone by the time we reunited Lucas with his grader. He put the thirty litres into his cavernous tank. I ask if he has the tools and knows how to bleed the system, he says yes in way that tells me this is not a rare occurrence. We bid each other farewell and good luck.
As we travelled back we talked about his resignation to his predicament and how different it was to the likely ravings and demanding urgency of a tourist caught in the same difficulties.
When we stopped at the trailer the light had failed and only the fire offered a dim glow in this cold dark world. The diesel was repaid and the story was over, well almost.
Remember those supper cakes? They were long long gone.
That's it.
It is a funny old world.
I have just been musing on what is and what is not a blot on the desert.
Some of the noted attractions in Namibia are; how can I say this; well junk.
It just goes to show the some things can traverse the divide from discarded debris to national heritage.
Of course I mean, shipwrecks, plane wrecks, ghost towns and old mining equipment, etc.
I think that clearing up the debris of the Dunedin Star fiasco would be unthinkable, it is legendary.
We know that an unnecessary track in the desert is an eyesore that may last an hundred years or longer; but an ox-track that has lasted an hundred year is as much heritage as the tracks of a lonely dinosaur many millions of years before and both should remain.
Even a wrecked 4x4 can tell a tale and become an accepted part of folklore provided it is the curious and cautionary tale of the time that an unwary traveller set fire to the grassveld of the Marienfluss.
Even Oil Drums have their place provided they are touched my that air of mythology surrounding a place called Rooidrum.
All things must pass but some do it with a grace and significance that is noble and worthy. Some just disappear without trace.
The old sign that marked the start of Hartmann's Valley is much missed by me. It had a bearing on the subject of trail etiquette. Its single A4 page once was a list of do's and mostly don'ts for behaviour on the trail. It was still there but so sun faded to be almost unreadable in 1999; this year it was gone and its words of wisdom with it. I have no idea who had transported that sign so far or how long it stood. Perhaps it was the Schumanns, the Gruttenmeyers or some long forgotten pioneer, but it was someone who cared.
Wherever we go we have an impact. We can only hope that our mistakes will not come back to haunt us.
For those who have been, the falls at Epupa and the shady makalani palms are a treasure; but for one not so happy camper whose misfortune caused the fire that ravaged the palms, it must be a haunting memory. Many of the palms were irrevocably damaged. Every year a handfull come down, the fibre of the trunks was so badly burnt that they are still dying years later and probably will for years to come.
In comparison the ravages of war right there on a frontline with its landmines and munitions are a problem that can be fixed so much more easily and quickly.
In much of the above the divide between garbage and heritage is the tale that they tell and the lesson that can be learned. This is particular true of the abandonned farms of Damaraland. I do not know the tales of hope and struggle that marked the daily life of those not so old farms but their remains stand as some sort of testament to those who tried to scratch a living and brave the desert; and the politics of a now defunct power that partitioned the land and its peoples.
All in all, Namibia is a wonderful country, it has its blots but nothing too terrible yet. Even Rossing gets its odd tourist visit and the view of the gasses and vapours of the old Tsumeb smelter works by moonlight was in its way a sight to behold. There are however somethings that will not do, in my mind their is no excuse for scaring the coastal dunes with wheel tracks destroying their fine patina of stones and lichen or for the human crap and toilet paper that lurks beneath the bridge in the Kuiseb Canyon.
Just a few thoughts from a foriegner.
All going to look for Namibia
This is the story of a road, not a very special road, but definitely a road of two halves. One could also say that it separates tourists into two groups and perhaps most importantly it crosses a great divide in Namibia itself.
For us it has provided both an informative experience and a gateway to a world perhaps we were not meant to see. It is certainly the place were we found the Namibia that has kept us returning ever since.
It was on another day, on another trip, on a pleasant evening on the banks of the Kunene that a man asked us what had brought us back to Namibia. I told him this story and he understood.
This is our story of the D2743. Before you rush for the map I can tell you that it is a well used road on the standard tour connecting, as it does, Farm Bertram and the new Vingerklip to the rest of the world. A world of stylist 4x4s, international tourists and money.
This was our first trip to Namibia, a standard high speed international tourist dash around the sights. Twelve nights, a lot to see and almost no expense spared. Twelve nights to see a canyon, some dunes, a big mountain, some fossil wood, some rock art, some animals, a quick glance at Victoria Falls and of course a rock finger.
It was an afternoon in early July 1998, that we turned onto the tar east of Khorixas and followed the instructions to drive for about 50km and turn right onto the D2743. It was the final leg of a long drive up from Swakopmund and I was tired and wanted a beer. The tar road was not holding my interest but it was fast and that was good. We turned off at a little brown tourist sign and drove the D2743 to the lodge. It was a nicely graded gravel road like many others, down each side was the obligatory farm fence guarding the road from the thick bush, baboons and termite mounds that are so often farmed in Namibia. We stopped at the rock and snapped it in the gentle evening light before checking in at the lodge and heading for the bar.
The lodge is nice in that thatched roof and dark wooden beams sort of way that is so typical of that African style that has no roots in any particular culture. It is, I am told what we tourists want and expect. A little bit of creature comfort in a strange land. An oasis of good food for the serious moneyed, tailored to our needs and decorated with mysterious wooden carvings. Just like so many others that are imported from Zimbabwe, priced by the kilo. It was however a welcome break in what had been a hard day on the road.
I was up and about early next morning and took a short walk up the hill towards the cliff and my first encounter with an angry baboon. How was I meant to know it was his cliff? Fortunately, he did no more than scream at me and retreat to higher ground. Breakfast followed and our tightly packed day of tourist delights beckoned. This had all the makings for turning into nothing more than the standard fare but for a simple rule that we had decided upon.
"Never drive the same route in the same direction more than once if an alternative can be found".
The day passed much as it must thousands of times for thousands of tourists. Done it, seen it, took the picture. Nothing wrong in that and we were enjoying seeing the sights and touring around. Our mission finally accomplished, we regained the tar and then headed for the D2743 and the lodge. A quick look at the map will confirm that this road runs in a loop and the instruction to drive for 50km and enter from the far end and drive back is a bit of a round about route. This in itself was intriguing. Not wishing to drive the tar again and grateful for the opportunity, I invoked the rule and after just a few km of tar we turned right and onto that other D2743.
Shorter does not always mean quicker, this D2743 was soon to become a detour into a different world. In this world the track was no longer well graded, it passed through farm fences not between them. The track meandered in and out of rocky riverbeds and occasionally along them. It was slow and not much loved by the outside world. Before long we were passing through gates and surrounded by chickens, goats, barking dogs, sleepy children and the light and smoke of open cooking fires in the dusty yards of ramshackle farmsteads. The daylight was all but gone, we had drifted slowly into the evening. We had also drifted from our tourist route and entered the twilight of another world. We ambled on into the growing gloom with growing uncertainty as to when and where we would be reunited with our world, with its bathroom, beer and bed.
It would be fully dark before we passed the final gate and grid and could head towards the lights of the lodge. Before we could regain that more familiar ground our track must once again take us to the edge of this world and across the great divide. But it was late and we were caught in that trap of not wishing to drive too fast but worried that we were still miles from our destination.
We greeted our first half decent piece of track for many a mile with a move up through the box and relief that we were making better progress. A progress that was to be pulled up short when our lights picked out a sign for a cattle grid. It seemed strangely misplaced in the circumstances, a little bit of that more ordered Namibia stranded here on the wrong side. It seemed ominous, and it was. I slowed to a crawl as we looked in vain for the narrow grid in the gloom but none was found. There was no grid. The misplaced sign that stood beside the track and between us and oblivion was the work of some thoughtful road engineer. Perhaps he had decided that any sign was better than none when it comes to marking the edge of the Ugab Terrace.
It was a moonless night and from the top our headlights did nothing to illuminate the road ahead or indicate the level of caution required. Engaging 4wd and low ratios we slipped down the divide.
We had spent a small fortune and come thousands of miles accompanied by hundreds of others just like us.
We were all going to look for Namibia.
First & Last Sand
Our first sight of Africa was from the window of an Air Namibia flight from London via Frankfurt in June 1998. That overnight flight should have arrived around dawn but was heavily delayed at Frankfurt due to a problem with one of the emergency shutes so dawn broke a little further north and gave us a view of the mountains of Angola.
We had spent a lot of time planning the trip and knew where we were as soon as the mountains passed behind us and Etosha Pan loomed into view. The plane descended towards Windhoek and we got our first view of those distinctive pop up mountains that scatter the plateau.
We were collected at the airport and taken to meet our transport for the next two weeks. A shiny Mazda Drifter single cab 4x4.
I have driven many different types of vehicle from a ten ton truck down to a small formula racing car but never a 4x4. There really is no call for them here in the UK.
Armed with a quick demonstration into how to operate the box and the hubs we set off to see Namibia from the Canyon to Etosha.
Hazel and I had agreed to share the driving on a strict turn and turn about basis swapping over every time we stopped. This was a journey which would not see us travel off road except at Sossus Vlei and it was my turn to drive starting at Sesriem. At the 2wd parking lot we stopped and parked up.
Ahead of us was a stretch of sand more; than that we did not know.
By stopping it had become Hazel's turn to drive. We locked the hubs and she engaged 4x4 lo and we set off, very slowly. Before long she had changed up through the box and we were moving a bit quicker. I told her everything I new about driving in sand and above all to keep the vehicle moving and to keep her thumbs out of the steering wheel spokes.
As it turned out, with the exception of it being a nasty rutted mess of tracks, there was nothing she could not cope with and she drove us to the vlei to the accompaniment of my running commentary.
I was truely delighted and praised her efforts and she thanked me for the advice and encouragement. At this point I had an interesting decision to make and, being me, I did the decent thing and confessed that I thought it all the more remarkable as I had never done anything like it myself!
She was a little bemused and wanted to know why I had not told her and why it had become her turn to drive.
Well the truth was that I wanted her to do it and, as I was the more experienced driver, I knew that if I had gone first and got into trouble or if I had let her know that my knowledge was purely theoretical she would have never have given it a go. She could se the sense in this and we laughed.
It was an experience that stood us in good stead, after that trip she has driven around Opuwo, Epupa, Red Drum, the Marienfluss and Hartmann's Valley.
Sadly, neither of us is getting any younger and the ravages of time in general and arthritis in particular take their toll and she can no longer share the driving.
Sand driving is a physical affair and at 150 cm she is not a big women. Her final piste was on a dune in the far north. She could no longer cling on to the wheel with one hand and change gear with the other so her career as a sand driver came to an end, in sight of those same Angolan mountains that were our first view of Africa. That final piste was returning from the Kunene River across the big dunes that block the end of Hartmann's Valley.
To her credit, there were not many, or perhaps any foreign tourists, who had previously attempted that difficult return route. Nor do I think there are are many men who have done better.
It was not until February this year that I tried the same drive again and I buried the vehicle upto its axels not far from the same spot so I do know what she was attempting.
Kamdescha
November 2000.
I can not be the only person to look at the Shell map of Kaokoland and fancy a one-way drive through the Khowarib Schlucht. The question is whether it is a real route or a cartographic fiction.
We departed Khorixas Restcamp for Sesfontein and turned towards Khorixas and then north to Franzfontein. For such a significant dot on the map, poor old Franzfontein is a bit of a curiosity. It has that vage air of a place in descent from former glory; a fate that perhaps Khorixas might like to contemplate.
We pass through the village and the gap in the mountains that it guards and head up to the main road and on to Kamanjab and the Ruacana road.
The first thing to do is to find the Kamdescha turn off. Well we failed at the first attempt. Turning around and heading back we crawled down the highway looking for anything that might be a track. Not so much a turn off as a turn in; the P3223 is no more than a farm track. when we see it, there is a young man and a couple of small children standing by the gate. We pull in and ask; "Kamdescha"?. "Yes", the gate is opened and I give him a coin for services rendered and for luck.
I do not have a great deal of faith in the Shell Map and I would not be here if I did not have the Franzfontein Topo sheet. As we disappear into ever deeper bush it becomes obvious that this is a good investment. We found and explored the odd alternative route before regaining the proper track. at one point we pass a small zebra carcass, still mostly intact and rotting, we wonder why their are no scavengers.
By the time we reach Kamdescha, we have in a sense burnt our boats. If we turn around now, it is a very long drive to reach Sesfontein via Palmwag. We stop at the control point, it is all locked up so we wait. Before long the guard a nice man aged about thirty arrives along with about half the village. We go through the formalities. As I sign the book, I notice that we are the first through that day and only the third through in the last week. I get back on board and the guard brings me an A4 photocopy of the topo sheet that has been marked up. He points to it and says, "Dust Holes"; I read the annotations and agree "Yes, Dust Holes". I have no idea what this means but smile confidently. The gate is unlocked and we pass through.
Once out of sight of the gate I stop and look at the sheet. Dust Holes; it must be important or they would not be giving me, free of charge, this piece of paper.
Hazel and I, talk this over; it would not be the first time that Namibia had bitten us in the bum. We drive on.
We are, I believe, those tourists refered to as independent travellers. A type afflicted by a strange mix of ignorance, foolhardiness, caution and intrepidness. We are also travelling alone. We are well prepared; at least we think we are. At present it is not a problem but what in hell's name are "Dust Holes"?
We do not have to wait too long to enter the plain and find out.
Ahead of of is the tree line that marks a significant river. Before that the track is a mess of ruts. I stop, I get out, I walk to the ruts, I disappear in a cloud of fine white dust and sink in nearly as far as my knees. "Yes, Dust Holes" I remember saying. Well this has got to be it. Suddenly the vehicle, a diesel Mazda Drifter looks rather heavy to float over this sea of talcum powder. I decide to see if I can find a better route.
After much head scatching and beard rubbing I figure out an alternative but somewhat hair-raising route to the river bed. We trun right around a tree through a gulley around another tree and diagonally down the bank into the gravel riverbed. We follow the tracks along the bed only to find the other side is just as bad. We pick the best route around the worst of the dust and climb out onto solid ground. I look at the map, one down and about four to go.
The next river crossing has no alternative route, it is a steep run down through the dust and a similar exit. Without further ado, down we go, hopefully with enough speed to ride over the powder and up the other side.
The modern motor vehicle comes with many extras. Depending on where you are, some of them do not get much use. In the Nederlands, it is the handbrake, in Namibia the windscreen wipers. We had not gone far before the screen was covered in dust. I heroically tried to clear this, by switching on the headlights, the indicators and the horn before finally the wipers and washers came into play. Before long and almost unseen by me we were back up in the opposite bank.
I have lost count of how many more crossings there were but it was enough. Suddenly they were behind us and we were heading across what seemed like a large flood plain. In the distance were dusty clouds and a vague outline of mountains.
We passed though the village at the head of the Schlucht without stopping to exchange pleasantaries. Once in the gorge the dust cleared and the mountains closed in. The schlucht is very beautiful our passge through was uneventful. We pushed on to Sesfontein with a mixture of relief and acheivement. It may not have been anything that many have not done before but, it was something that we had not expected or ever have intended to do and it was something that had been accomplished and was a small personal triumph in world where such things are hard to come by.
A day in the Damaraland Wilderness
February 2002 at Palmwag; a trip into the concession.
I like deserts; not just the big sandy ones, also the rough rocky ones. We thought we would enjoy a day bumbling around in the bush just to breath the air and see the wildlife.
I expect that you all know that the concession is big, very big. All the way from the Red Line to the Hoanib and across from the Sesfontein road to the Skeleton Coast Park. I can not remember the exact size but I think it is about 8,000 sq km (8,000,000 hectares) and not a living soul except on the margins.
We have a Hi-Lux twin cab (CRX?) into which we load the camera gear and other essentials including Martin, a local guide. We have taken a guide because we are not going to drive around the normal loop but head down southwest into the Uniab/Achab river systems.
We first met Martin when he was a tracker for Save the Rhino and he knows the area well and is a good guide for flora as well as fauna. We like taking guides as it is, in our opinion, both safer and more informative. We are also going to do some walking about looking for plants, lizards and stuff and an extra pair of eyes, particularly ones that are atuned to the desert is a welcome addition. Last time we went that way there were seven lions hiding a river bed and they really are a bit of a problem if you do not see them first.
We buy a permit at Palmwag and enter the concession a few kilometres further north. The driving is slow but pleasant with no need for 4wd or any special measures.
The wild game of the Kaokoveld is spectacular and at this moment there is a lot of it. We see the usual springbok and giraffe. The animals are in wonderful condition, fat and pest free. So much nicer to see than insect bitten, scarred and mangy looking animals. I expect it is a benefit of living in low densities and in such harsh surroundings.
The driving is mostly uneventful. I get stuck briefly in the fine grey sand of a riverbed and finally decide to lock the hubs and treat the terrain a little more seriously.
The mission for the day is to take a look at the local Welwitschia population.
I am aware that this is a minority interest particularly when there are no big ones about. Well, we are interested in the small plants and have spent many hours looking for really small ones and hope one day to find a seedling which, I am told, is rarer than finding a diamond.
Lunch passes as does the heat of the afternoon and it is time to wander back. It has been another fine day in the desert and we are happy enough when
a rhino and her calf browsing on the bush line that marks a riverbed. We stop, they are about 200 metres away and we sit calmly and watch. Martin tells us the mother is called Desire and she is pregnant and the calf will soon have to make its own way in the desert without her.
We are downwind and they are not paying us any attention.
There is some cover between us and them and after about ten minutes we leave the vehicle and approach as far as the cover and watch until they disappear into the riverbed.
We return to the vehicle. The track ahead will bring the vehicle a lot closer to the rhino so we will have to be careful. Martin says that they will smell us when we cross the river about 50-100 metres to the left of them.
We drive slowly along the track and stop when they sense us. Again we watch. The mother leads the calf up the other bank to a vantage point and stops and watches us. We drive on.
They are still standing there when we loose sight of them. They have not run so it can be put down as a sensitive encounter.
It is getting late by the time we return to Palmwag. It has been a good day. There is something very special about these rhinos. The southwestern black is still endangered yet here they are wandering about without the protection of a National Park. We have just one more duty to perform and in the morning I report the sighting to SRT at there base camp next to the lodge.