Sossusvlei

Crimson sand dunes dominate the horizon in all directions as a slight breeze swirls a trail of wispy haze from the blurry peaks. Like enormous serpents, the spine of each towering dune is perfectly pronounced as it divides the light from the dark, the sun from the shade, the searing heat from the relieving cool. Hidden within the dunes, an oasis gone wrong awaits, with waters turned to dry, white pans, and lush forests turned to frozen skeletons of trees long passed. There is no life, save two souls lost in the desert.

Making our way inland from the Skeleton Coast, yellow sands turned to red as we arrived into the Sossusvlei region of southern Namibia. If you’ve heard or seen anything about Namibia, it’s most probably Sossusvlei, and even if you haven’t, the odds are that your Windows screensaver has, on some occasion, displayed the mesmerizing red dunes to distract you from your work. Arriving in the late afternoon, we decided to journey into the park while most others were doing their best to stay out of the sweltering desert heat. After days of dirt roads, the paved road of the park had us feeling like we were floating on air, making the speed limit impossible to keep. Driving deeper into the park, the dunes began to engulf more and more. Upon reaching the end of the pavement, a quick 4WD jaunt through the sand left us at the base of a dune, walking along a hard, white pan, flat as a…cake. While the surrounds were beautiful, it felt as though we were missing something, that what we were searching for was hidden away behind another dune.

Backtracking a bit, we parked our car and looked for some signage pointing us toward our prize. Nothing. The one other couple we saw with us seemed to give up, as they drove off into the distance, leaving us alone in the desert, surrounded by imposing sand seemingly sculpted to look as ominous as possible. So, we chose a direction and started walking. With each small dune cresting, we hoped to find relief below, but were denied over and over. We stumbled upon some signage 95% buried in sand, which we couldn’t decide whether that was a good thing or bad, but we carried on. At long last, as we were dwarfed by the biggest dune in sight (“Big Daddy Dune” if you were wondering its name), we crested once more, revealing Deadvlei, an altogether alien universe.

Walking, alone, onto the vast, gleaming white pan at the foot of a 1,000ft, deep orange dune, under a blindingly blue sky, had me wondering when the dream would end, or whether it was actually a nightmare in which I wouldn’t be able to escape. The empty plain is interrupted only by a few dozen seemingly petrified trees, standing tall and preserved, leafless and colorless, as though they were turned to stone during their attempts to reach their limbs into the heavens. If Gokyo Lake in Nepal was Heaven, and Mt. Nyiragongo in the Congo was Hell, there is no more apt comparison for Deadvlei than Purgatory. A hauntingly beautiful place where life ceases to exist, where the heat makes you sweat out any toxins, and where you cannot help but stand in absolute awe of what lies in front of you. I found myself wondering how something so devoid of life could be so beautiful at the same time.

After our moment of dumbfoundedness, the urge to explore returned, as we made our way across the vlei and began the climb up Big Daddy. Conveniently, I forgot the extra water in the car, leaving us in rationing mode as we climbed the scorching sands in two-steps-up, one-slide-down fashion. The view from the top, again all to ourselves, was nothing short of spectacular, dunes as far as the eye could see, the frozen trees in the distance below, the giant, white lake of yester-millenia at our feet. After rationing out a few sips of water, we glided and tumbled down the searing sands of the dune, free as free can be, the afternoon sun no match for our elation. Deadvlei soon became our own private dancefloor, with the disco-ball sun casting the shadows of our frozen-in-time dance partner trees across our rhythmless figures. My lens may have snapped a thousand times, but the mental pictures pushed the limits of my brain’s storage capacity. Leaving the planet behind, I looked back at least a dozen times, wondering if it would all still be there, if I’d really experienced what my mind was recalling. As Deadvlei disappeared behind the last dune, I was resigned to a memory in limbo, which seems about right for the purgatory paradise.

We continued pushing through Namibia’s frontiers, our last excursion taking us around Fish River Canyon, which would have been nothing less than spectacular had we not just spent two weeks in the outdoor wonderland of Namibia and the year prior at the Grand Canyon.

I think they call that the (Travel) Theory of Relativity…

Ghost Towns & Skeleton Coasts

As if the gravel roads of Namibia weren’t adventurous enough, there’s a nice, endearing name for the long strip of land that runs into the Atlantic Ocean along Namibia’s western shores: The Skeleton Coast.

Skull and Crossbones mark the entry and exit gates of the Skeleton Coast National Park, a wasteland of shipwrecks, whale bones, and mountainous sand dunes. A kaleidoscope of colors intermixes with the all-encompassing yellow sands. Blacks turn to reds turn to whites turn to goldens turn to pinks. Minerals brought up with the currents deposited themselves along the coast over the millions of years to form the eerie spectacle racing past our windows as we drove across the hardened salt roads. Stopping for panoramas, abandoned oil rigs, shipwrecks, and an enormous (and smelly) seal colony, the harsh winds from off shore had us running back into the car for shelter.

While the national park is technically only a couple-hundred kilometer stretch in the north, nearly the entirety of Namibia’s coastline can be considered to be a Skeleton Coast of sorts, as the dunes and shipwrecks continue for miles and miles past the park gates. The most spectacular coastline centers around Sandwich Harbor, where giant dunes drop straight off into the ocean below. Though we did have our own vehicle, we opted for a 4WD tour of Sandwich Harbor, from the nearby town (city by Namibian standards) of Swakopmund, a German-influenced town with cafes, eateries, beaches, and adventure activities galore. While paragliding, sand-boarding, and ATVing were on the menu, getting to Sandwich Harbor was plenty of adventure, even from the comforts of a land cruiser. The tides allow for short windows of passable sand crossing to make your way into and out of the harbor, where giant dunes sloping straight in the ocean await. We made our way along the bottom, to the top, and all around the massive sand mountains, completely engulfed by dunes in every direction, save for the summit views of blinding sand and crashing waves along the shoreline below. Like an hours-long roller coaster, we slowly climbed up, just to crest and drop, what seemed like vertically, down. Breaking for a dune-top lunch with a view and some foot-races down the ever-changing mountains, we couldn’t have asked for a better day. Being Africa, we also got the added bonus of spotting some wildlife in the sand, including springbok and a clear-skinned gecko of some sort.

Back on the road, we continued south through more of the world’s oldest desert, more wildlife, more dunes, and more odd crystal stalls. Namibia has this sort of aura of endearing desolation. Many small villages seem to be completely abandoned, until you see one person walking alone a couple kilometers away, and you wonder how the heck he got there. No vehicle, no town for miles, just one person walking towards a seemingly abandoned town in the searing heat. At “highway” intersections, we often times saw groups of people waiting to hitch a ride to wherever they were going, but the traffic patterns of those remote gravel roads makes me think they had quite some time to wait.

While some small towns only looked abandoned, some have truly been left to be engulfed by the surrounding desert.

Kolmanskop was an old diamond mining town that was left for dead when shinier pastures were discovered. Once a boomtown for the Germans, the processing facilities, railway, schoolhouses, and homes were all abandoned more or less as-is sometime in the 1950s. What nature has done with the place is rather impressive. Sand from the surrounding dunes has made a home in every nook and cranny, breaking windows, knocking down doors, and burying entire homes. Sand piles up in a variety of patterns down hallways, leaving some doors impassable and others just big enough to crawl through. Miniature dunes have built up in room corners, while staircases have turned two-tone: half sand, half wood. Every structure has its own unique formation of sand residing within, with elegant wallpapers now coated in shimmering layers of grains waiting to reflect the sun through the drafty windows. I was elated to capture photos of the place, wondering what my lens would find in each new room, racing from door to door like a child playing hide and seek. The contrast of hot sand glowing in the sun and cold, shadowed rooms gave each structure its own unique look and feel, my most preferred being the upstairs bathtub now used for sunbathing instead of washing.

Quirky, deserted, and beautiful. Kolmanskop fits right in…

A Namibian Road Trip

For months, I longed to explore Africa by my own accord. A failed attempt at securing a vehicle in Tanzania, along with some chiding from siblings on the idiocy of driving in the region, in addition to tight timelines for getting to the gorillas, all combined to prevent us from getting behind the wheel of our own vehicle to do some exploring.

At long last, we found the perfect location to finally check off the box of a good, old fashioned, road trip through Africa. Arriving in Namibia, as was the case in Botswana, there was a stark difference in population numbers compared to the other African countries we’ve explored up to this point. Miles and miles filled with nothing. No people, no crops, nothing. Huge countries, seemingly devoid of people. The capital city of Windhoek feels like it belongs in Wyoming or Montana. The few tall buildings of banks and major hotel chains let you know it’s a major city, but it’s mostly all confined to one street.

We picked up our 4-wheel drive, confirmed it had a solid spare tire, and headed north towards Etosha National Park, ready for some more safari adventures, the self-drive version. Expecting to be riding on dirt roads for much of the trip, we were pleasantly surprised with the freshly paved highway leading to the park, only realizing we weren’t driving back in the states as we passed warthog crossing signs and the occasional large baboon sitting on top of roadside fence posts. The pavement gave way to white dirt as we entered into Etosha, a vast plain as far as the eye can see, home to thousands of zebras, springbok, and oryx. The massive herds against the backdrop of endless plains, turned green with the rainy season, was a sight to behold. We explored every offshoot we could, waiting at watering holes for the animals to arrive, paying us no mind. Our camp in the middle of the park contained an amphitheater-like viewing area just above a natural water hole. Following a canned food-filled meal, we made our way to the water hole in the dark, and waited. After an hour or so of nothing, we began to doze off, only to be awoken by whispers from our fellow game-trackers. Turning our heads around, we watched a lone Rhinoceros wander its way towards the water, clumsily stumbling over some rocks in its path. Having never caught a glimpse of a rhino up close, it was a joy to watch its goofy mannerisms and pronounced nose. The rhino hung around for a few minutes, meandering in and out of the bush before getting its fill of refreshment and disappearing back into the night. Minutes later, a hyena emerged, sauntering its way to the shore to loudly slurp up a drink before heading off. We watched and waited for another 30 minutes as hyenas howled and cried what seemed like 10 feet behind us, quite the soundtrack. Satisfied with our encounter, we called it a night…dinner and a movie (and a hyena concert), not a bad date!

Leaving Etosha, we found the adventurous roads Namibia has grown famous for. Fairly well-maintained gravel roads make up most of the road network, winding their way in, around, up, and down the rolling hills and dunes of the country. There is a goldilocks speed required to avoid the washboards that make the ride too bumpy, but also not lose traction going around the corners. Driving for hours on end with the tail of the car being ever so slightly out of control is exhilarating, to say the least. Our excursion took us through Demaraland, which I can best describe as a real-life version of Disney’s Frontierland. Random crystal stands with strange voodoo-like puppets seem to pop up randomly out of the desolation. Villages consisting of just a few houses exist miles from each other, as giant boulders, rock formations, and mountains pop up here, there, and everywhere. Indigenous tribeswomen, bare-breasted and all, sell the most random of stones and souvenirs next to tourist stops that seem to see no more than a couple dozen people a day. We drove for hours seeing only a handful of other vehicles, visible from miles away by the cloud of dust trailing their cars. Our campsites were often built in and around giant boulders, perfect for sunset climbs to take in the scene. Amidst the burnt orange of the desert countryside wander the most unlikely of animals: giraffes, elephants, baboons, horned animals of all shapes and sizes, the list goes on. It’s quite startling to drive through what feels like Arizona and see a giraffe pop up around a corner, right after passing a group of wild ostriches chasing after your car.

The highlight of Demaraland is Spitzkoppe, a Matterhorn-like, boulder mountain surrounded by rock formations, natural pools, and millennia-old rock paintings. The campsite bar is filled with old, popped tires, and all your favorite junkyard car parts, victims of the unforgiving roads. We sat on pallets and enjoyed a drink at the foot of the mountain, just a handful of travelers enjoying the sights with plenty of elbow room. Our Spitzkoppe sundowners were taken in from near a natural rock arch, with just a small amount of risky rock scrambling involved. The sun’s bright reds and oranges only outshined by the golden mountain in front of us, we again found ourselves wondering how we got here.

The longer we travel, it seems as though we keep finding ourselves in the middle of the middle of nowhere, embarking on journeys that only seem to make sense in hindsight, that couldn’t possibly have been drawn up without putting ourselves in the middle of it all. It often times takes a little leap of faith, but those leaps have rewarded us ten-fold what we could have ever wished for, be it with sights, experiences, relationships, or personal growth.

Maybe we should all explore a little more.