208 - Into the Void (Hobas to Keetmanshoop, Namibia)
WE LANDED IN THE NORTHERN CAPE VILLAGE OF SPRINGBOK FOR TWO NIGHTS. Our goal was a camping frolic in Ai-Ais/Richtersveld Transfrontier Park, described in the Lonely Planet as “a seemingly barren wilderness of lava rocks and sandy moonscapes studded with semiprecious stones.” Alluring, no? Our Chevy Spark was severely under-muscled, so we looked into a tour agency or renting a 4WD. C’est la vie, it was not to be… poop.
The agency’s driver was out of town, and though the woman behind the desk offered a 4WD rental, she cautioned against it. It was extremely hot for the season, and she suspected the atypical volume of rainfall made the road situation difficult. She suspected right. We called a park office and were told many roads were impassable with any vehicle. Shiddle-shit!
So, we settled for relaxing two nights in a local B&B that checked all the boxes: Commodious. Superb value. Friendly staff. The room was half the price of everything we’d seen to that point and twice as big. We fucking deserved it, y’all.
The border crossing at Noordoewer, Namibia was seamless, and the guards were affable. An awkward moment ensued during a routine bag search when a guard mistook tampons for cigars in Leslie’s backpack. Men aren’t permitted to search women’s belongings. How dare you? Good to know. Next time I want to smuggle drugs and firearms across the South Africa/Namibia border, all I need is a female with a large rucksack. Score.
Upon entering southern Namibia, one thing stands out: nothing. A shitload of nothing. Nothing is everywhere. It surrounds you, envelops you, makes you imagine planetary solitude. Sure, you might pass a car or two, or even see a forlorn road maintenance crew, but this somehow only adds to the vision, as if those you encounter are fellow survivors. You even exchange head nods and hand waves in tacit recognition of each other’s perseverance, a camaraderie borne of desolation and despair.
Fish River Canyon was our first destination and provided a second chance at Richtersveld. The region forms part of the park on the Namibian side (hence the “transfrontier” designation). At one point, I thought I’d driven through shallow puddles of water. That’s what it sounded like. Water? The area was baking in the sun without a trace of moisture in any direction. Dum… dum-dum-dum… duuuuuumb! In reality, I’d been but skimming newly poured road sealant, which coated the Spark’s undercarriage and splattered all over the side. Super. Perfect for a white rental car. The road crew we passed minutes later confirmed the hypothesis. Awesome.
Our first stop was the Ai-Ais campsite at the lower end of Fish River Canyon. The track is sand and gravel, but still 2WD friendly. The site is famous for its hot springs (Ai-Ais means “burning water”), which I’m sure are lovely. They look lovely. Summer is a bit balmy, so a steamy dip is not something we found appealing. We arrived around 1:00 p.m., paid the camp fee, and parked at one of the many open spots. Actually, they were all open—no one else around. Nobody. Why would they be? We sat for a spell, ate lunch, and then wondered why the fuck we were there. Outside of the resort facilities, there wasn’t much to do. Foresight can have its utility. Onward ho!
We departed for the canyon’s northern end, where we should’ve been in the first place. Even though we’d already paid, we could apply the fee to the campsite run by the national park service in Hobas. So, we hopped along, encountering more of that spellbinding nothingness part and parcel of our Namibian experience. In Hobas, we arrived and erected our tent just in time to witness another biblical lightning storm unleash its wrath. The gods were angry that day, my friend. I placed our tent in a bad spot and watched as a lagoon formed in front, giggling at the small stream running beneath it. I emerged from Sparky in underwear and sandals (no need to get my clothes wet) for a spot check, happy to discover the tent was waterproof after all. Yippee.
In the morning, we went for a drive to the canyon’s edge. This nearly ended in catastrophe. Instead of heading to the main viewpoint, we followed a road along the canyon rim that looked tantalizing. We didn’t realize how far the track led. First, we saw a sign reading eight kilometers, followed by another twelve-kilometer sign eight kilometers down the road. Um, right. It’s like we were being lured into disaster.
On the way in, neither of us noticed another sign with the words “4x4-ish” on it. 4x4-ish? The Spark didn’t qualify. I’d describe it as “4x2-ish.” On the way down an incline, I had a sinking feeling (pun intended). The gradient, although moderate at best, combined with an abundance of larger rocks began setting off alarm bells. Danger Bill Robinson!
It wasn’t possible to reverse course halfway, but once we reached the bottom, I turned around posthaste. The incline was exponentially more intimidating than the decline—uneven and strewn with rocks. I could sense the Spark trembling with fear. (Or was that me?) I made repeated attempts to climb but was repelled by small boulders and a lack of momentum. Too slow and we began spinning in the rocks. Too fast and I risked bottoming out. I’m pretty sure vital shit was attached underneath, so prudence was paramount.
I dismounted for reconnaissance. I evaluated. I processed. I tried not to lose my shit. We were far from the main route and no telling how long it would take for someone to come along. We had plenty of food and water, so I wasn’t concerned about perishing in the canyon, but getting the Spark out in the event of its neutralization would’ve been a formidable task indeed.
I remounted my steed, crossed my fingers, toes, and testicles, and gave it the ole college try… with great success! Phew. After unclenching our asscheeks and inspecting the Spark, we headed back from whence we came. Back at the main viewpoint, we had lunch while absorbing a spectacular canyon vista. I befriended a pale-winged starling who kindly posed for a couple of shots. After my blood pressure shot up to two million over five thousand, it was nice to just sit and take in the scene.
Courtesy of Seagram Pearce
Courtesy of Drone My Life Production
That was the morning trauma. Afternoon trauma awaited. We had designs on traveling to the seaside town of Luderitz, but this was a tad aggressive. Of course, we went directly into a storm and were forced, yet again, to test Sparky’s upper limits. This was trial by water. We had the pleasure of holding our breath while blazing through oversized mud puddles. I suppose we could’ve turned around, but once we’d crossed a few minor oceans (in Spark terms), we were past the point of no return.
At a particularly large “puddle,” we paused to consider our point of entry. While doing so, a man and his son in a 4WD came from the opposite direction. As he pulled up, the look on his face said it all. He eyed the Spark with suspicion while I punctuated the absurdity with a dopey smile and a “Yeah, I’m an idiot.” We asked him about the road ahead, to which he replied, “It’s too late to go back now.” Stupendous. Onward ho!
He was kind enough to back through the pond and highlight an avenue of approach. I punched the fucking Spark and precariously glided/hydroplaned my way through. Spark: 2, Namibia: 0. Fuck, yeah! Farther ahead, the road was closed, so we detoured over a dam (Naute Dam), believing we couldn’t possibly be going the right way. I guess torrential rains and gravel roads don’t mix. Huh. There was something otherworldly about driving over that dam in the rain. Hard to describe. It felt like we were humanity’s last hope, which, if true, would spell doom for us all. The experience was exhilarating, but in the back of my mind, I couldn’t dismiss the consequences of breakdown. Fun.
Luderitz was out of the question, so we opted for the nearby town of Keetmanshoop, where we found suitable lodging and reflected upon the day. We concluded we should stop pretending the Spark had magical 4WD powers and accept it for what it is. There is nothing wrong with 2WD. Know your limitations, right? Ehhhh… As it turns out, we weren’t quite finished testing Sparky’s mettle. Giddy up.
“Let’s talk Namibia. I didn’t know what to expect when we said goodbye to South Africa and crossed into Namibia. I had seen lovely pictures of the desert landscape, read the many praises in our guidebook, and recalled it was a favorite vacationing spot for ‘Brangelina’. Still, Namibia remained a mystery – one that I wanted to solve.
South Africa has border patrol down to a science. It’s quick, easy, and doesn’t cost a thing. We were in and out within a matter of minutes. We did manage to cause a little confusion when customs searched my bag and mistook tampons for cigars – oops. An awkward exchange, a few laughs, and we were sent packing.
Once on the other side, we found ourselves drowning in a vast sea of nothingness. Wide open space stretched out before us, as far as the eye can see. For the first time, in a long time, I felt very much alone. It was just me, Rich, and our little Chevy Spark, drifting north; our sights set on Fish River Canyon.
After a long day of driving and minimal signs of life, we arrived at Ai-Ais Hot Springs, where we intended to setup camp. It was hot. Too hot. So hot, that we were the only ones there. Go figure. We paid the fee, looked around, and weighed our options over lunch. With the sun soaring and little to do besides a boiling bath, we transferred campgrounds and drove another 50km to be closer to Fish River Canyon.
At first, it seemed like a great idea. The second site, Hobas, offered a little relief with shady trees and a calm breeze. As soon as our tent was erected, Mother Nature stepped in with alternate plans – a regular occurrence, I might add. First came the rain. Lots and lots of rain. Then, a dazzling display of thunder and lightning ensued. I watched from the passenger seat, as Rich went slipping and sliding through mud puddles in his underwear, trying to save the tent while keeping his clothes dry. I found it mildly entertaining. Rich on the other hand… not so much.
All was not lost. Our tent turned out to be durable and waterproof, despite our doubts. The next morning, after lots of cleaning, we packed our belongings and headed for the Canyon. If you haven’t heard of Fish River Canyon, it’s considered the second largest canyon in the world. We had wanted to hike in the area, but unfortunately, that’s not an option during the summertime due to the heat. So, instead of trekking around, we oohed & awed from the viewpoints.
We found ourselves in a sticky situation while attempting to reach one of the viewpoints. We passed a sign that listed the distance and the words ‘4X4-ish’ underneath. Unfortunately, neither of us caught that part as we drove past. I suppose it’s always a good idea to check the fine print before proceeding –‘live and learn’, as some like to say. Although, in our case it seems more like ‘live, live, live a little more, and then learn’. Eh, whatever.
The road seemed to switch from pebbles to boulders in no time. Our previous Polo had a protection barrier on the bottom, but unfortunately, our Spark did not. We crept down a rather challenging hill, cursing like sailors, discussing the very real possibility of getting stuck. With camping gear and an ample supply of food and water, we weren’t too worried about our safety. Worst case scenario, we’d have to hike to the next viewpoint in search of help, but retrieving the Spark would be a logistical nightmare. Yikes.
We turned around, attempting to retreat. Like most things; easier said than done. It went a little something like this: Slip. Watch tires spin. Reverse. Forward. Slip some more. Curse. Move rocks. Go forward. Move rocks again. Curse some more. This process went on for a while, as we descended into a state of panic. We were two very unhappy campers both literally and figuratively. In the end, we made it out, only to discover the ‘4×4-ish’ sign we had passed on our way in. I’m sure you can imagine the look on our faces. Is all I have to say is what the hell classifies as ‘4×4-ish’ and not just ‘4×4’? Something about the ‘ish’ just irks me royally.
The views from the other points were rather impressive, making for a pleasant afternoon once our anxiety levels were in check. Where’s the Xanax when you need it?”
Leslie Peralta, “Into The Great Unknown (Namibia & Fish River Canyon)” Soledad: Notes From My Travels
“Prior to arriving in Namibia, we had read that the road system within the country was phenomenal. Now, having driven from one end to the other, I tend to disagree. That’s not to say the country isn’t well connected, because it most certainly is. If you look at a map, you’ll see an intricate design of squiggly lines– some solid, others spotted, depending on their surface. Most of what we experienced was a mixture of gravel, rock, and sand. The record rain falls caused a handful of road closures and wipe outs, making traveling from A – B, more like A – Z, especially in a 2-wheel drive micro-mini, like ours.
Long days of lonely road and lovely scenery consumed most of our time while traveling throughout the country. I can honestly say that my mind wandered there, more than anywhere, as the world passed by from the passenger side, without a soul in sight. I thought about family, I thought about friends. I went over my life with a magnified glass, leaving no rock unturned. When I wasn’t too busy contemplating my life or the universe, I thought about Avis and the many ways in which they were screwing us. I also thought about getting stuck, as disaster loomed around each and every corner.
Our next stop should have been the seaside town of Luderitz, but some questionable terrain and awful weather caused us to stay in the deserted town of Keetmanshoop. On the way, we encountered a similar vehicle flagging us down. We assumed they were in some kind of trouble, but it turned out they needed a light. I guess when you need a smoke, there’s just no stopping you. Crazy kids. Once there, shops were closed, streets were empty, and an overwhelming eerie feeling permeated the air. Luckily, our stay was short and sweet…”
Leslie Peralta, “Luderitz & Beyond” — Soledad: Notes From My Travels