Arriving at Elegant Desert Lodge was literally like arriving at a desert oasis. We were brought in out of the cold and filled with warm drinks and good food. Our first day at the lodge, we decided to go quad biking through the desert. Neither of us had ever ridden a quad bike, and when we were told by our guide that they had gears we both panicked (Charlie being an auto only driver. And Naomi being a can’t drive anything driver). We were quickly shown the ropes, our helmets fastened and off we went, just the three of us into the desert.
The start of the route was a dry river bed covered in rocks of all sizes. Football sized ones to dodge and giant boulders to bounce over. It took some time for Naomi to get to grips with the workings of the quad bike, and some of the trickier ascents proved too challenging. Much to the amusement of the guide who couldn’t understand how the bike had gotten stuck halfway up an almost vertical slope. After that brief embarrassment, things really kicked off and confidence was high as we zoomed onto the open plains of the desert. The only way to describe it is like what I’d imagine roving around on Mars would feel like. Red earth, huge mountains, craters and boulders. And nothing else but the sun beating down and no clouds in the sky. We kicked up some real dirt as we whizzed down a particularly speedy straight before traversing some more hilly terrain. It was the most fun. And after hating the jostling about and exhausting effort on the bumpy roads for the last few days, whizzing over similar ground on a padded seat and a motor doing the work was an extra pleasure! The same rocky spots that caused issue on the way out were bounced along with ease on the speedy return to camp.
The following morning we were up at the crack of dawn to head to Sossusvlei, the site of the oldest and largest sand dunes in the world. This was something we were both incredibly excited about, and the sole reason for turning off the delightful tarmac to spend days on bone rattling gravel. We set off to get to the gate for sunrise with the same guide that had laughed at Naomi’s quad biking skills. The road through the park cuts straight down the middle, where the river used to run, with the dunes rising on each side. The dunes grow and grow in size as you pass through, each bigger than the last. The first famous sandy mountain we came to is Dune 45 which is situated right next to the road and gets its name by virtue of being exactly 45km into the park and the 45th dune from the gates. A lot of people choose to climb this dune, but we were headed for the giant of the pack: the aptly named Big Daddy.
The tarmac falls away to sandy paths round 5-10km from Sossusvlei (meaning water pan in Afrikaans because there used to be a lake there - side note: Namibia is like a poster child for climate change. Sossusvlei was a desert oasis until 11 years ago when the water dried up and never returned. We’ve seen and heard of many river beds with exactly the same issue). This meant only 4x4 cars and only serious dune climbers... As Big Daddy loomed in front of us, our guide parked the car and bid us farewell claiming he couldn’t be shown up on the climb by facing two fit cyclists. I don’t think he grasped the concept that scrambling on sand and peddling are very different things. So we set off, not from the second start (that’d be cheating) but from the very start of the 314m high dune. Our trainers didn’t last long and we decided to tackle the sand barefoot. Climbing a sand mountain is exactly as difficult as it sounds: tough to get a grip, sliding at times, challenging to pull your foot out only to lose it again on be next step. And add to that whipping winds. We may have taken a wrong turn at the point the first leg meets the second start for the climb. Or maybe we just were not able to coped with a very windy steep part. But to onlookers we were making as much fuss as people caught drowning in a puddle - crawling up on all fours, blinded and spluttering from he sandy storm and unable to carry on. I’m sure I spotted people taking photos of our unusual route and or climbing tactics. All said and done, we made it to the lofty heights of the top. And what a view we were treated to - miles of sandy mountains and dry crackling expanses. Like nothing we’ve ever seen.
Then for the downhill. Straight down the near vertical slope from the top, none of this re-trace your slow incline, long climb steps. It felt like the moment you tip back when you abseil, a little bit butterfly in the stomach like. But once we started it was the most fun. Soft sand catching your falls and big leaps feeling even bigger as the gradient and gravity carry you down. Up in an hour and a half, down in 10. Straight into Deadvlei - a pan sprouting with ancient dead trees.
Safe to say that Sossusvlei did not disappoint, it lived up to our higher than Big Daddy expectations and made the tools on gravel all worth it.
Leaving the lodge the following morning was nerve wracking business. This wasn’t like the days before where we were leaping into the unknown - this time we knew the slog that lay ahead. And to add insult to injury, the wind would be hammering in our faces the whole time back to tarmac. The first day was only 60km, a distance that we’d call a half day on tarmac (man, we’ve got cocky) but instead a full day stint of 4.5 hours in the saddle and a 6 hour door to door. We’d heard that there was a campsite at our destination of Zaris. We rocked up at the spot and proceeded to engage in the most confusing lost-in-translation conversation with the groundsman. Eventually we discovered that a room out of the nasty nasty wind and with a warm shower would only be £5 more than camping. We were sold. It ended up being the weirdest night we’ve had yet - we effectively air bnb-ed a farmhouse to ourselves for the night. Without electricity, so had to carry candles around. And clearly the owners were hunters as a giant kudu head and pumba face stared down from the walls. Not ones to complain, we cooked up in their kitchen, read their books and slept soundly in their beds whilst Naomi hummed “One More Day” from Les Mis, given the following day was the final trek on gravel.
The wind picked up. As did the hills. The last of the gravel days was pretty torturous. We both had to push our bikes over the first steep mountain pass given the incline and the complete lack of traction because of the gravel terrain. Knackered and cold at the top - the day didn’t get much better. Slow progress as we rumbled along the peddles and the wind whistled in our ears whilst pushing us backwards.
At one point it felt like the road was getting better, and then another fresh level of hell was unveiled. Unseasonal and entirely unusual rains plagued part of the road and turned the gravel and sand into sticky, wheel stopping sludge. And so our speeds withered and fell further. Each time we stopped to drink water (impossible on the move given the uneven ground and Naomi’s propensity for falling off even on the most stable of terrains) and eat sweets, we hoped the distance to go was falling at some pace. But it just wasn’t, we inched kilometre by kilometre until, hurrah! Maltahöhe was in sight. And with it TARMAC! Beautiful smooth and gliding asphalt. There were almost tears of joy as we peddled up to the Maltahöhe Hotel (the oldest country lodge in Namibia) and fell onto the beds saying “We did it!”, with Charlie's weeping saddle sores as evidence of the struggle we had.
Unfortunately, our reunion with paved roads was not to be the delight we were hoping. It was a windy, snail paced day. Gale force headwinds spent the day pushing us backwards and it was another late finish by the time we hit Mariental, (after a brief run in with the barbed wire of thorn bushes chewing up Charlie’s back tire).
Thankfully, the joys of cycling returned the following day. We were due to do 100km to a little town called Asab but were told there would be nothing until Keetmanshoop (2 days away). We were aware that the further south we travelled in Namibia, the more remote the places and the fewer the people. And this stretch showed us that. Asab was little more than an informal settlement, so we decided to press on and potentially brave our first ever wild camp. Our pressing on took us another 50km to Tses where we stumbled upon a brand new community campsite. The woman running the place successfully upsold us (for £3) and we were the first guests in their safari tent. Everything felt like a win at first - a kettle for tea, successful dinner cook up and beds with brand new duvets and pillows. Everything kind of fell apart after the lights went off, clearly the new tent was the host to all the local bugs, moths and insects. Charlie was attacked by a stick insect, Naomi almost accidentally ate a moth and both of us were bitten to pieces all night by pesky mosquitoes. We were happy to be on the road the next morning for what should have been an easy 80km. Famous last words. The first 50km were all uphill and our legs werestill hungover from the tough gravel, wind and big km days that came before. So it wasn’t as speedy as we’d have liked, until the dreamy 30km descent to Keetmanshoop. Free wheeling into the city we found a lovely little self catering spot where we could cook up dinner, and where we are currently tucked up watching the France v Belgium semi-final after Charlie got himself a fresh new lid.
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