Swakopmund and north

Les and I, having experienced the dunes had decided that it was time to head north to Windhoek to meet Gavin and Tess, but some other travellers convinced us that the capital was not worth visiting. We decided that, instead, we would head to either Swakopmund, a German tourist town or nearby Walvis bay, which with a population of 50,000 somehow claims the title of “second most populated city in Namibia”! Sesriem, although a tourist hotspot, was somehow without internet so we hoped that our next destination would be different. We would email Gavin and Tess once we arrived and arrange a meeting place.

So we walked out to the road and almost immediately caught a ride to Solitaire, a truck stop and petrol station famous only for its apple pie about 100km along the road. It’s so far from everything that basically all vehicles passing through need to stop and fill up. This, we thought, would be a fantastic recipe for our first serious African hitchhike. We would have time to assess each vehicle that passed through (for roominess, comfort and the trustworthiness of its owners) and approach with a smile. But they all seemed to be heading the way we had come: to Sesriem and the dunes. And I could hardly blame them. So, to escape the constant disappointment and to catch any vehicles that might not stop for fuel, Les and I reluctantly left the apple pie behind and lugged our bags out to the road. We found a shady spot and waited at the side of the dusty trail, thumbs at the ready. But our opposables went wanting: there was no traffic. We waited for a full half hour before the first motorist whizzed by, signalling that he was turning off. The road was relatively busy for a dirt track, but not in the direction we wanted to go. Only 11 cars going our way passed us by in the following four hours, and ALL of them either signalled that they were not going far, or went to the effort of stopping to ask where we were going before informing us that they were not going far. Not one car in four hours was going to the end of the road: a road that, according to the map, is the main connection between the dunes (a huge tourist destination) and Swakopmund (another huge tourist destination). The only other way to get from one to the other is to go back to the main artery road and around through the capital, adding another 400km to the trip. But, as crazy as it sounds, it must have been the route that people were taking because we, like the nearby aptly-named petrol station, were alone.

As sunlight faded, so did our confidence. Our first real hitchhike in Africa had been a failure, and we would have to start again in the morning. Les and I had been reading a book aloud to each other for the last few hours and decided that once I had finished the current chapter we would call it a day and stay at the service station hotel. But I was a mere two pages from the end when our 12^th potential ride approached. We jumped up, and Les announced with confidence: “this is it. I can feel it”. So we stowed our thumbs, and instead chose to jump, wave all available limbs, and plead with our hands in prayer position. The car whizzed by and I felt a wave of recently familiar disappointment. I knew that it was our last car of the day, and our final prospect of a ride. But 20m down the road, the car slammed its breaks on and skidded to a halt. Les and I ran with renewed energy at full pelt through the dust cloud and towards the driver’s window, grinning hopefully. We asked where he was going and waited for his response with baited breath. When the word “Swakopmund” came from his mouth, I couldn’t help but cry out with joy. We couldn’t believe it! He was heading our way! I could have kissed him right on the lips!

Three hours later and well after dark we arrived in Swakopmund and booked into a room. The next day we checked our email and found out that Gavin and Tess had discovered for themselves that the capital was not worth staying in and were already in town and mere hour later we were reunited!

Our time in Swakopmund was a lazy one. We used internet like crazy, ate like crazy (there is an amazing burger joint in Swakopmund), and drank like crazy. Like Queenstown, NZ but without the snow, Swakopmund is an extreme sports town. I had considered forking out the US$60 to go dune boarding, but when Gavin spotted some boards for sale in the supermarket for only US$3, there was no alternative. We bought two and walked for an hour to the nearest dunes but soon discovered that there was more to dune boarding than just a dune and a board. The tour groups must wax the boards or do something special, because while they promise 80kph, we couldn’t break about 8kph. We tried many different methods, but no matter our style we unable to go fast enough to even feel the wind in our hair. And it was a gusty day! But as I’m sure many a rehab counsellor has preached before me, you don’t need Speed to have fun. Leslie was the only one who could get any kind of pace, so she kept using them, but Gav and I ditched the boards, instead opting to just throw ourselves down the slope headfirst. We returned to Swakopmund with sand in every available orifice.

Two days later, after finally managing to celebrate St Patrick’s Day in the only town in the universe without an Irish pub, we decided to hire a car and get going. But even a reputable company like Avis, when situated in Africa, turned out to be unfathomably difficult to deal with. I had sorted all the details the day before with a woman who really seemed to know her stuff, and had arranged to collect the tiny two-door in the morning. Her colleague had the car ready for us when Les and I arrived to pick it up so we sat down and were presented with the standard forms. As always, and especially because I was in an unknown land, I wanted to ensure I had read all the small print and costs before signing anything. But the man on the other side of the desk didn’t want to wait. With irritating regularity, he interrupted my intense perusal, encouraging me to sign the X-marked boxes before I was finished. I made it clear that I wanted to read what I was agreeing to first, but he continued to tell me to “just sign”, assuring me that “It is ok. No problem.”

I wouldn’t let him push me around though, and indulged my natural instinct to slow my reading just to annoy him. And my attention to detail paid off: the rate was wrong. It was written down as 446 Rand/day instead of 208 as agreed, so I pointed this out. The avis employee looked at me blankly before slowly lowering his gaze to the page where my fingertip was placed, back up at me and then back down to the page a second time. With the same blank look, he tapped the page and instructed me to “sign”. I explained again that the amount was wrong, and he actually seemed to understand this time. After a moment of further blankness he looked at the clearly written 446 on the page, pointed to the first 4 and said “yes - two hundred. So sign.” I explained once more that the number 446 is NOT 200, and that 208 is actually the correct number. I said that I was not going to sign until the correct numbers were written on the paperwork. So he sighed, frustrated at my irritating correctness requirements, and picked up the phone, announcing that he would call his colleague. He bumbled with the numberless keypad at snail’s pace, and eventually, after messing up the number three times, the call connected. He discussed the problem with the knowledgeable woman I had interacted with the day before, and was eventually convinced that the numbers were wrong. We were being charged the unlimited-kilometres price.

He hung up the phone, but still didn’t seem to understand. So after another twenty minutes of struggling with my complicated questions such as “where is the total cost on this form?” and “where is the number showing that we are paying for insurance?” and SEVEN more phone calls to his colleague (on her day off!), I had just about had enough. He would reach for the phone when I was mid-simple-question and say with attitude: “is this the LAST time?” Now, I don’t like to make enemies with anyone (even useless customer service staff) so I continued to be nice as long as I could , but there’s an end to my fuse and he was pretty close to reaching it after about half an hour of this crap. I eventually just wrenched the form from his chubby, telephone-incompetent fingers, wrote the numbers in myself, signed the box and took the keys. Les and I left, got in the car and after a moment of silence burst into laughter. We hooted with mirth, tears running down our faces until we could laugh no more. There are many untrained street kids out there who would have done a better job. As payback, we didn’t treat the car with respect (see the picture below of Gav doing burnouts with it in the salt flats.)

We took the car, returned to the campground where Gavin and Tess were waiting, and crammed all our stuff into every available nook, leaving no room for air. Gavin and Tess squeezed into the back seat with a pile of bags between them, Les and I got in the front, and we were back on the road. Aware of our 200km/day limit, we planned our route to Etosha National Park. We wanted to do a proper safari, and the huge Northern Namibian national park seemed as good a place as any to see the big five. So we drove north along the skeleton coast, past the salt flats (and factories) and the numerous shipwrecks that remain beached* on the shore as warnings to future captains: this coast is not one you want to get too close to, as the name “skeleton coast” implies. We headed inland and further north towards Etosha NP in search of wild beasts!

* I can’t say that word without thinking “aw noo! Ahm beeched es, broo!” anymore. Damn you, youtube! If you don’t know what I’m talking about, look up “beached whale” on youtube.