Stranded in the Desert, But At Least There’s Birding
Namibia’s been… something. The kind of “something” that makes you question whether the universe is conspiring against you or just giving you a cosmic nudge with the subtlety of a hippo in heat.
I was supposed to arrive on the 23rd. That was the plan—a neat, structured, grown-up plan that involved car rentals, accommodation, and a slow glide into the working holiday that lay ahead. Naturally, life took one sniff of that plan and decided to set it on fire. In an uncharacteristic burst of rebellion (and possibly sleep deprivation), I shifted my flight to the 19th. Woke a very sleepy Alexa from her slumber (saint that she is) to dump me at the airport, and through some miracle, divine intervention, or clerical error, I made it onto the plane.
Plans? What plans. Everything—rental, accommodation, functioning social structure—was meant to start after the 23rd.
So there I land in Walvis Bay, at what might generously be called an “airport.” In reality, it’s a glorified shoebox plonked in what appears to be the outer rim of the Sahara. Tiny. Absolutely tiny. For context, Eastgate near Kruger—which most of my guests describe as “adorably small”—suddenly feels like JFK International. But against all logic and reason, I fell for it instantly. This place doesn’t flirt; it walks up to you, slaps you across the soul, and says, “You’re mine now.”
Then came the practical bit. I needed a car. Easy, right? Except it was Easter weekend, and I kid you not—Steve bloody Hofmeyr had taken the last available vehicle at Avis. Yes, that Steve Hofmeyr. The man whose voice has launched a thousand braais and more than a few constitutional crises. And here he was, robbing me of mobility in the middle of the desert. The irony of being left stranded in Namibia by a man who sings about freedom is, frankly, biblical.
With no wheels and a solid thirty-odd kilometres between me and the coast, I activated bush mode. Years of being semi-feral in the wilds came in handy. I hitched a ride from the airport to Langstrand, where I was promptly dumped at a petrol station a few kilometres short of my actual destination. No signal. No Uber. Just vague directions from my very kind hosts—directions which, crucially, assumed I was starting from the airport, and not… well, wherever the hell I was.
Luckily, I’ve done my trails guide course and spent enough time navigating by elephant dung and divine guesswork to know that finding south doesn’t require a satellite. A rough estimate, a quick glance at the sun, and a stubborn refusal to admit I was mildly lost got me to the front door in under twenty minutes.
I arrived. I unpacked. Physically, emotionally, maybe even spiritually. And for the first time in what felt like months, I felt calm. Walvis Bay has this uncanny ability to smother your thoughts in salt spray and make you forget why you were stressed in the first place. I got lost in it, and truthfully, I’m still there somewhere—mentally lounging on a rock, watching the flamingos argue.
This morning, in a stunning display of poor judgment and worse respiratory instincts, I decided to go birding. As a hypochondriac, I probably shouldn’t have willingly breathed in air thick enough to pickle fish. Nor should I have exposed my camera to the kind of sea spray that can strip paint off a bakkie. But damn, was it worth it. Four lifers in twenty minutes. A personal record, and possibly a cardiovascular event waiting to happen.
Still vehicle-less and with nothing but my two feet and a worrying sense of direction, I’ve been walking. Everywhere. Birding. Café-hopping. Watching the tide roll in and wondering if salt exposure counts as exfoliation. It’s given me a kind of clarity I didn’t know I needed—like a reset button wrapped in sand and existential monologues.
Romantic, in a poetic, windswept sort of way. But let’s not kid ourselves—there’s only so long the solo wanderer aesthetic holds up before it starts to smell like sweat and bad decisions. Thankfully, the rest of the crew and my family arrive on the 23rd. I love solitude, but I also love not dragging my camera bag five kilometres just to find a cappuccino.
Anyway—here are a photo from this morning’s birding bonanza. Salt-soaked, slightly feral, and infused with just enough foolishness to make it magic.
Stay tuned for Chapter Two: probably something involving a bloated whale, a bit of broken German, and me trying to figure out why I thought walking 15 km for lunch was a good idea.
Wildlife Beyond the Lens 