Wildlife Beyond the Lens

The Cape Cormorants, Poncho Dog, and a Polo Vivo That Deserved Better

Yesterday started like every morning in my life—5am, no alarm, because holidays are for people who haven’t yet learned the beauty of existential dread. I woke up, grabbed my coffee, and mentally prepared myself for a day of what was supposed to be relaxation. Spoiler alert: It didn’t go as planned.

After I did my usual routine (which involves way too much coffee and thinking about existential dread), I caught a lift into town around 7am to go to Avis and perform what I like to call “mobility expropriation”—aka stealing back the car Steve Hofmeyr had robbed me of. A few pleasantries later, and I was off. Now, this is where the plan takes a sharp left turn. Normally, by this time in the morning, I’d already have birds ticked off and game sightings logged. But nope, today was for sightseeing. Because, apparently, that’s what holidays are supposed to be for.

Now, in my normal life, I’d be getting up to some birding or game viewing by this hour. But instead, I rented a car and thought, “Hey, let’s go play tourist. Who needs wildlife when you’ve got… shops?”

The plan was simple: drive to Swakopmund, then Henties Bay, stop at every single town, shop, and village along the way, because nothing says ‘holiday’ like spending money on absolutely pointless souvenirs, right?

So I left Langstrand, pointed the Polo Vivo in the general direction of Swakopmund, and drove along the coast. And, as anyone with a minimal sense of geography might expect, it was a barren wasteland of sand, dust, and wind. Nothing. For miles. And, yet, it was breathtaking. So breathtaking, in fact, that it made me feel like I was on the edge of the world, looking out at the nothingness that somehow still felt more meaningful than anything in my life. Deep, right?

Anyway, after 15km, I arrived in Swakopmund. I found myself in a boutique store that was clearly designed to take advantage of the fact that most tourists have an innate need to buy crap they’ll never use. I went in, pretended to look interested in overpriced wooden spoons and bizarre “local” art, and got bored within 10 minutes. But hey, who needs nature when there are things to look at?

Now, the holiday plan was still in full effect, so I ignored the sparrows, the shifting winds, and the fact that the sun had moved a few metres overhead. Instead, I headed down to the beach bar at the mouth of the Swakop River, because why wouldn’t I? I mean, who doesn’t want to sip on a virgin cocktail on a Tuesday morning like an absolute legend? And that, of course, is when the illusion of a peaceful, relaxing holiday was smashed.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted them: wild camels, wandering near the river mouth. And just like that, I was no longer a man on vacation. I was a wildlife photographer with a camera in hand, looking like I hadn’t seen anything worth photographing in years. I ran to my car, grabbed my gear, and started snapping away like a maniac. Forget the virgin cocktail. I needed photos. The holiday was officially over.

With the briefest of detours into insanity, I got back on the road to Henties Bay. I’d now forgotten all about sightseeing. I was birding like I was on a mission, scanning the desert landscape like a deranged safari guide in the middle of nowhere. Then, I saw it. Woltzkasbaken. A place that, from what I could remember from some random guidebook I glanced at earlier, was described as “rocky” and “quirky.” And if there’s one thing I love, it’s “quirky.”

So, I turned off the highway and into this bizarre little town. Picture this: houses painted in every colour under the sun, designed by someone who definitely spent too much time at Burning Man, and all of it set against a rocky desert backdrop. But the real kicker? It was mostly German. Like, proper German. As in, “I’m going to use words like ‘achtung’ and ‘überhaupt’ without any irony” kind of German. Fortunately, I speak just enough German to gauge whether I’m being welcomed or about to be shouted at. Very important, especially when you’re trespassing in a foreign country.

Naturally, I had to pull over, because I saw a bird in the desert. And if there’s one thing I do, it’s abandon my car in the middle of a public road to take a photo of a bird that’s probably seen tourists like me before and just doesn’t care anymore. And, of course, this caught the attention of a concerned local resident who was more interested in my car than my existence. When I returned, he gave me the most stern German warning I’ve ever received. But when I explained myself in the most horrific broken German you could imagine, he seemed to ease up. He even invited me for coffee, which I politely declined because, at that point, I was practically buzzing with adrenaline and more interested in the next absurdity waiting for me.

Back on the road to Henties Bay, I was blessed with an incredible sight. I spotted, out of nowhere, what looked like a blackening horizon towards the ocean. And when I focused on it, it turned out to be the grand migration of Cape Cormorants. I wasn’t about to miss this, so I leapt into action like a man who’d been waiting his whole life for this moment. Grabbed my camera, dashed for the beach, and clicked away like I was the first person to ever see birds migrating in a straight line. Honestly, I was lucky to catch it, but it was an absolute game-changer for my entire day.

Henties Bay came and went in a blur, and frankly, I couldn’t have cared less. Birds were all I cared about now, and some ridiculous dog wearing a poncho was clearly there to distract me. This dog knew it was a tourist trap, and it was fully leaning into the stereotype of a ‘cool, quirky beach dog’. It might have even been sent by the tourism board as part of some weird marketing campaign.

I then did what any reasonable person would do: stopped at a shopping centre for Wi-Fi. Because, you know, nothing says “outback adventure” like browsing Google Maps for a road that may or may not exist. And it was there, when Google assured me that there was a road along the beach to the riverbed, that I made my next major decision.

Now, the road? It wasn’t “along” the beach. It was on the beach. But did that stop me? No. I walked the route like a man who had already committed to the disaster, checked that it was “driveable” in the most generous sense of the word, and off I went. The Polo Vivo and I? We were going places no Polo Vivo had ever gone before.

I made it to the riverbed, where I spotted my first bird of prey of the trip. A Rock Kestrel. A lifer. This was the moment I needed, a tiny victory in the middle of my chaotic, beach-driving, bird-chasing madness. And as I stood there, admiring my Rock Kestrel, I had one of those “wow, I’m an idiot” moments. I had taken a rental car that was never meant to go off-road, and yet, it had survived the desert, the beach, and everything in between. Honestly, I get why these Polo Vivos get stolen in South Africa. Because they’ll go anywhere. Not as good as a Land Cruiser, sure, but better than any Land Rover could ever dream of.

And now, here I am, sitting in a Mug & Bean, drinking my umpteenth cup of coffee, writing this, and waiting for my family to arrive in Walvis Bay. Finally, things are starting to come together.

Namibia, you’ve been absolutely mental so far. And honestly, no matter what happens next, those Cape Cormorants have already made this entire trip worthwhile.

Tonight, it’s steak, wine, and some actual human interaction. A proper holiday, for once.

Stay tuned for Chapter 3, where I head toward the Skeleton Coast after some family bonding in Langstrand. Let’s see how much more weirdness Namibia can throw at me.