Boldly Bowled Over By Boulders - Spitzkoppe

We had to turn at Spitzkoppe, he repeated, scanning the map spread across the dining room table, his forefinger tracing the route. From Swakopmund, he assured us we could do it in half a day.



We always welcome reliable suggestions and recommendations, so Spitzkoppe made the bucket list.

On many previous trips, we’d passed near Spitzkoppe and seen the mountains, but never ventured closer. Their blip on our radar faded as we sped past.

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We returned to the desert road and kept the needle pointing northeast. When the Garmin guy (yes, we’ve given up on women on the GPS; they’re so unreliable) told us to turn left, I jumped out and opened the farm gate. We approached the mountains along a seldom-used two-track farm road. Weird but exciting.











A few shrubs and wizened trees punctuated the barren landscape for miles until we finally spotted a tiny settlement. We stopped to say hello. The friendly group assured us we were on the right track and that we just had to keep going. Relieved, we pressed on.











The skyline, with tiny bumps, soon rose into hills, and we could clearly see the Spitzkoppe on the horizon. Even from a distance, they were impressive. We stopped at the knoll's crest to admire our first proper view of the russet koppies and mountains.

















No matter where you are in the world, there will always be people. Here, in this unrelenting, harsh desert, locals—herders, farmers, and informal traders—lead simple, quiet, and meaningful lives, surrounded by family and friends, sheep, the odd ostrich, and goats. Homesteads are built of corrugated iron and stone, with mortar in the gaps. With hardly any rain expected, they must keep the heat at bay.











Along the road, ramshackle tarpaulin-covered structures protect rickety tables from the glaring sun. Interesting keepsakes and collectables are on display. For a few Namibian dollars, one can buy handmade crafts, stones, and uncut semi-precious stones. Children line the way, waving excitedly, and I suspect they are waiting for the handouts they’ve become accustomed to. (something I do not condone.)













Once again, the gate staff were the friendliest and most helpful. To pass the time, the two besties take turns styling hair while they wait for clients to arrive!



With a map and a few recommendations, we booked a three-night stay. We could choose our campsite to suit our needs. Photographers favoured spots for the perfect light, romantics for sundowners on the perfect boulder, and adventurers who never miss a chance to explore. And then there was me, who required it all.

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The campsite we chose offered an unsurpassed view: vast golden plains and veld on one side, towering mountains to the east, and the Honey Badger nestled in a womb of plump boulders. At sunset, we scampered up one of the boulders encircling us. 





















After setting up our campsite, lighting the fire, making a salad, and wrapping our Butternut in tin foil, ready for the coals, we poured drinks. We grabbed a snack to munch on as we watched a spectacular sunset and the changing colours of the Spitzkoppe, the golden grasslands, and the African sky.









 

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Emotions flooded me. When we’re stripped of all our indulgences and sit barefoot on a rock, with only the cries of a lone jackal, the mournful bleating of a lost goat, and a chorus of barking geckos for company, one’s soul sings. Seeing the sun dip flame-red beyond the horizon and set the sky alight shifted my shortsighted perspective, and I saw (once again) how insignificant we are. The sun will set again, as it did that day, as it does in a gazillion years' time, reminding me of a truth I carry.

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The story/fable I've adapted goes as follows:

One day, a lifetime ago, the Universe asked my spirit if it would like to go to a little blue ball tucked away in a remote part of the solar system, just for a short while; it stressed that it would be a nanosecond in real time, I was assured. There, I was warned, I’d experience many kinds of emotion, and my ever-inquisitive soul said yes.

The seed was planted, and here I am, flesh and blood. As predicted, I have experienced many emotions. Most have been good, some less remarkable, and one or two miserable. I celebrate and relish the good, analyse the bad, and mournfully try to work through the ugly.

The promise that it’s all temporary comforts me. Fortunately, as a Cancerian, I’ve crabbed along life's beach, and the overwhelming emotion I’ve experienced is joy. Still, when things overwhelm me, I remind myself it’s only temporary.







Here we were surrounded by the magnificent Spitzkoppe. The desolation, the desert, and nature worked in brilliant unison, stirring emotions that burned in my chest. I was elated and thankful to be there, and I couldn’t stop the happy tears oozing from my eyes.

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We were to see the sunrise at dawn, casting the mountain in golden light. As the sun moved, the light on the mountains shifted, casting shadows and lighting up crags, fissures, and gorges that had been in darkness a few minutes before, and vice versa. A continuous display of colour as the sun rose, reached its zenith, dipped, and set.





On our bikes, we explored winding routes that spread like veins through the rock formations. On foot, we clambered over huge boulders to take in the views. We found them easy to navigate, scamper over, and even venture up to higher reaches.























After following two couples ahead of us, we reached the well-known “window”. I did the last stretch solo so Butch could film it! There, we saw how huge fallen boulders had rolled, or how erosion had weathered them away, and now they balance precariously on a sliver, or, it seems, are held in place by smaller rocks, stones, or pebbles. Their sheer weight keeps them firmly anchored. I did give one big one a little shove, but it didn't budge. Thank goodness. An avalanche could've been our undoing.

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Here, one needs to engage all one’s senses to get the most out of it. Our eyes feasted on the views; the summer rains hadn’t started yet, and the air smelt of dry, ripe grass. Keeping one’s ears to the ground let us hear small critters running or scratching in the grass and scrub, or on the rocks, as the Dassies ran for cover as we approached. Seeing a gecko was a bonus; they're so fast and perfectly camouflaged.











With their smooth or cracked bark, the stunted trees invited you to touch, smell, and feel their years of growth.













You can't keep your hands to yourself while you sit in the shade of a huge rock or boulder; to see it, you have to feel its smooth or gravelly surface. I picked up sticks and stones, filling my pockets with perfect little discs for ducks and drakes. I had to return them to the Spitzkoppe; they belonged there.

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Our simple meals and drinks tasted better in the cool shade of our protective rock circle. Smoke from our acacia hardwood braai seasoned our chops and chicken. Tendrils of smoke from other campers’ evening fires drifted in the warm air, reminding us we weren’t alone.



Except for the occasional puffy ball of red dust rolling across the veld as vehicles approached, we didn't realise other visitors were coming. Being isolated and alone in this place made the experience even more special. How often do we have the chance to explore vast areas undisturbed? As we sat quietly by the fire, we could hear the occasional word or laugh in the evening. I found it comforting, a reminder of a happy childhood when grown-ups chatted late into the night.

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On one of our rides, we met a group of guides who lead guests on a guided walk to see well-preserved Khoisan paintings etched on a large rock beneath a protective overhang.

As we contemplated the situation, a large, bearded man approached us and urged us to join him on an excursion to see, learn, and support the guide. With his blue eyes and winning smile, I agreed to join Georg (he was German), George, our guide, and Butch, also George (William George), to see a panel of rock art.



George, a proud member of the Khoisan tribe, explained how the depictions were interpreted, how old they were based on carbon dating, why they were necessary, and who they were important to.



The San were nomadic hunter-gatherers who followed a specific migratory route, much like the antelope, in search of food and water. The paintings served as a means of communicating with other groups following in their footsteps. The red, grey and black ochres were made from finely ground stone and charcoal, mixed with animal fat. They also used blood, quills and feathers to apply the paints.



I found the height of the paintings particularly interesting; they are inscribed low on the rock face. After some thought, it made perfect sense. The San people were slight, lean, and well-toned. True athletes and sharpshooters, they stalked their prey and shot it with a bow and a poison arrow. They had to be light-footed and fast.

George told us about the poisons used and the types of wood used to make the bows. They cured sinews and gut for the strings. He said hunters still use the same methods today. Never change a good recipe!



I spent a delightful hour with the three Georges before we all went our separate ways. Georg was off to Johannesburg to visit friends before returning to Munich, and my George had to saddle up to peddle on. Number One George joined his colleagues as they waited for tourists to arrive. It was a typical day, he said, grinning.

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Although we had three nights in this magical place, I felt it was too short. I could’ve done a lot more exploring or simply sat in contemplation. I loved the simplicity of the large campsites. The long-drop toilet was clean and comfortable. We enjoyed our outdoor shower under the stars, with the moon lighting the way.

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To get some connectivity, we tried the neighbouring lodge, but the cost was ridiculous. We didn’t fall for it and returned to the park’s restaurant for a toasted sandwich and coffee. Unfortunately, their modem was out of order that day. In retrospect, it didn’t really matter; we survived without it.

Here, your soul can rest in the simple magnificence all around you. I believe ancient civilisations such as the Khoisan experienced the Universe's power and magnitude far more keenly than we do. Our pleasures and displeasures are often superficial, rooted in our current affairs, peer pressure, unmet, unrealistic expectations, and the disappointments that follow. I think E.T. might've looked up and said: "E.T. wants to go home!"



There were times when we were bent, poring over a platoon of ants marching, carrying their loads; we'd zoom in closer and closer to see the paths they'd made, moving gravel to smooth the way. To them, the gravel and rocks were huge obstacles, and the seeds they carried were heavy, yet they forged ahead. At night, the stars knocked the breath from us; in the clear air, they multiplied into millions. Imagine, for a moment, trying to survive as a tree. On the ground, an ant's lifespan is a few days; ours is a few years; and above us, billions of light-years and more.

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On reflection, I think Billy lost his heart here and found a lightness within himself. Who could resist the magic of this extraordinary place? Thank you, Billy, for pointing us in the right direction. Your recommendation was spot on. 

























































P.S. Remember, trees sometimes hibernate in summer when it's very dry, allowing their roots to collect moisture and survive.

Here are some late arrivals to the gallery; they were on another camera. I know, another overload, but I thought they made the cut because of the spectacular sunsets from our campsite.