Patio Prattle and Die Vingerklip– Oppi Koppi Rest Camp

An Extract From My Notes: “I’ve positioned myself near the electrical socket and hotspot, hoping a solid Wi-Fi signal will enable me to write. I must catch up on some emails, update Polar Steps and write two blogs. My fingers hover over the keys, ready to strike the first letter. My mind goes blank. I must write about Klein Pella. I remind myself that only actual writers are permitted to experience writer’s block.”

The bird feeder in the tree swings, catching my eye. Easily distracted, I watch a bevy of seed-eaters descend. The cacophony of chirrups is deafening and amusing until all hell breaks loose. Five Monteiro’s Hornbills land; their croaking “tooaak tooaak” chases the little LBJs away, just like that.

Inside the bar, pandemonium reigns as a flurry of staff dash hither and thither. The manager, I see, is in a state. Ah, it must be the tourist bus the bartender was discussing when I arrived earlier. Last-minute shuffles are done, and the tray of welcome drinks (Mimosas) tinkles as ice in frosted glasses clinks. Here they come.

A gaggle of tourists, some still in long sleeves, greedily grab drinks and ignore the friendly “welcome and halloes.” They’re parched, hot and exhausted after an overnight long-haul flight and a 550 km drive from Windhoek. “You’re welcome!” The staff’s response falls on deaf ears.

Once their whistles are wet, the excited chatter won’t stop. It takes at least five minutes for the group to settle at the round tables next to me. They fall into place like a deck of cards.

The composed, glamorous couple hesitates in the doorway, accustomed to making an entrance. They’re so cool, so chic. She slides her Dior sunglasses onto her head and glides onto the patio. He rests his hand on her elbow, guiding her possessively.

At the table, they shuffle seats to make room for two more chairs beside the Dutch tour guide, who desperately tries to stack sheets of paper neatly in front of her. She lifts a teaspoon and taps the edge of her glass to keep order. She greets Ana and Hans, the latecomers.

Ana glances at her companion and smiles. She readjusts the watch on her wrist. First order of business: get the accommodation sorted. Ana faces the guide and stresses that their chalets be adjoining, saying, “Please understand. We’re together, but not. Can you make sure we’re adjacent - près de.” She catches his eye. He shrugs nonchalantly. He tries to intervene, but she lightly touches his hand; her fingertips linger; he concedes. The white line on his ring finger will soon turn brown in the sun.

The guide will do her best, but schedules can’t be changed. She’s adamant, too. Ana will have what she demands, I think. She doesn’t take no for an answer, is my bet. I can’t help staring. The other question niggling at the back of my mind is, “Why the separate rooms? For Pete’s sake, she’s French?”

The birds are back at the feeder, and the Hornbills have moved to perch in the African Flame tree. Peace reigns once more, but the seeds need replenishing.

A chorus of twittering starts up again, with requests flooding in. Single travellers choose partners who don’t snore or smoke. No one snores, but they’re European; they all smoke! One couple would like to be near the guide, another farther away. Who will share the ablutions? No one. That’s impossible. The guide needs to breathe. “Will there be a wake-up call in the morning?” a woman asks in a husky voice. She moves off to join the smokers at the pool. “Set the alarm on your phone” is sound advice from someone expelling a massive plume of smoke.

“When will the bar open?” The dishevelled older man nearest me demands, grabbing the waiter's wrist; she's got my coffee. His flashy gold signet ring tarnishes his puffy fingers, engulfing the family crest. He needs a shower; the African heat is getting to him. He mops his florid face with a large, grubby linen handkerchief. The beer he orders must be a large draft.

Another couple studies the menu. He’s indecisive and grabs it, peering shortsightedly at the offerings. He pats his breast pockets but can’t find his reading glasses; his wife has none. Frustrated (and jet-lagged), she orders on his behalf and slams the menu onto the table, pushing it as far out of his reach as possible. He slumps back into his chair and starts fiddling with his Nikon's dials. The server stands ready with her notepad and pen, poised to scribble down the orders.

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Back to the blog, I’ve got a title, my coffee, and soon Butch will join me. The conference delegates open the French doors and tumble out, ready to stretch their legs while they wait for their sandwiches and tea. Their mobiles start pinging as messages flood in. A few join the smokers at the already overflowing ashtray. A Herero lady, dressed in a bright yellow traditional Ohorokova dress, sashays past me, her Victorian skirts sweeping the floor. I admire her headpiece. She acknowledges me with a slight nod. Later, in the bar, she poses enthusiastically for a few photographs; I'm sure she was relieved to be out of the boring conference room.

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Ana moves closer to Hans; she floats on a cloud of Coco. My crumpled paper napkin topples off the table, carried away by the light breeze. I bend to pick it up and notice their shoes touching. Intimately. Her canvas espadrilles are lovely. He whispers. She flushes and smiles coquettishly, and her eyes light up as the ginger-haired guide confirms they’ll be neighbours.

The guide claps her hands to get their attention. “We’ll have lunch here at twelve-thirty. You’re free to settle in, swim and relax. At two, we’ll leave to visit the cultural village.”

Ana excuses herself from the table. Conversations resume, and Hans soon chats amiably with one of the single ladies to his right.

My coffee is ice-cold. Suddenly I wonder what’s happened to my beloved. The last time I saw him, he was cooling down after our ride. It turns out Butch met an amorous male ostrich with designs on him.

From my diary. (Names have been changed to protect the innocent!)

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We’re staying at Oppi Koppi Rest camp in Kamanjab, and that was day one of our three-day visit.

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Our route to Kamanjab took us past Die Vingerklip (The Finger Rock). The drives to and from new destinations are a big part of our adventure, so I photograph interesting sights along the way as reminders of where we’ve been.

It looks like someone’s giant rock finger jutting straight up into the air; that is how the Vingerklip stands, like a monument 70km west of the little town of Outjo. Situated halfway between Outjo and Khorixas, the Vingerklip is one of Namibia’s most famous and remarkable rock formations, attracting many tourists.

It was time for a coffee anyway, so we swung by and enjoyed a cuppa at the upmarket Vingerklip Lodge, renowned for its good service and grand vistas of the valley, mountains, and the Vingerklip.

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“The Vingerklip is Namibia’s only surviving rock monument, so it enjoys a large international following. Many tourists visiting Etosha National Park make a short detour to the Vingerklip. The Vingerklip is a geological remnant of a Ugab Terrace, and its history can be read like an open book in the layers of the conglomerate. The Rock Finger stands on a hilltop at 929 m above sea level, and the rock itself is 35 metres high. Visitors may climb the hill to view the rock formation, but it is prohibited to climb the Vingerklip.” Wiki.

During our visit, we had the Lodge to ourselves. Presumably, guests had already departed on morning excursions and game drives. Only the managers were in attendance, and they invited us to sit and enjoy bottomless coffee while we went online. That indeed confirms the many good reviews.

After our coffees, we walked around the eye-catching Lodge and gardens, enjoying the vistas. In the distance, we could see the Vingerklip, but it wasn't quite as impressive as I'd expected. Once back on the road, we saw it in all its glory, but we didn’t have time to go all the way to the actual location.

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We stayed at Oppi Koppi rest camp and campsite for three nights. Rumour has it that locals and farmers frequent the Lodge, which has become a trendy watering hole. 

Oppi-Koppi Rest Camp is in north-west Namibia, about 70 km before the Galton Gate of Etosha. Oppi-Koppi Rest Camp lies about 300 m from the centre of the small town of Kamanjab and 300 m from the intersection of the C40 and C35.

The meals and light meals we enjoyed were terrific and highly recommended. The only downside was the slow service; one afternoon, we had to ask several times before our lunch arrived, just before the kitchen closed. I thoroughly enjoyed the prawns and the delectable, decadent Chocolate Cake too.

While I “worked” on the veranda, where the Wi-Fi signal was strongest, I watched many people come and go. Snippets of thought-provoking conversations reached my ears, such as the casually elegant elderly South African gentleman trying to persuade a young Namibian to partner with him on a contract bid.

Words like trustworthy, partnership, tenders, older person, got your back, treat you like my son… honesty, anyone will tell you. “Come on, let’s phone so and so; he’ll verify.” Cringe-worthy, I thought as he plied the young man with Johnny Walker Black; they would, I’m sure, clinch the deal with JW Blue. The young lady’s tipple had an excellent sweet sparkle. If ever there were a time to shout “Red Flag”, it was then.

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There were times when we had to get away; now we spend much of our time in isolation, and crowds overwhelm us. That’s when we go for a walk or a ride. The open road is our territory now.

I did not see the group of tourists again. The following morning, their bus left before we set off on our bikes.

Every time Butch walked past the Ostrich enclosure and was recognised, the ostrich would start his courtship/mating dance. He didn’t fancy me and only had eyes for Butch. It was hilarious.

We set off on our bikes and decided that on our return we would stop at the Himba Cultural Village, where a guide would walk us through the encampment, tell us about their culture, and show us around. That experience deserves a separate blog to do it justice. You can buy tickets to visit the Cultural Village at Oppi Koppi.

Don't hesitate to spend a night or two at Oppi Koppi Rest Camp. Our stay was tip-top, inspiring, unique, and most enjoyable. Photographs of all the Overlanders and Big rigs who overnight at Oppi Koppi are filed in albums dating back years. This is the picture taken of us with our Honey Badger. The photographer's picture is for our album. Overlanders DO NOT PAY CAMPING FEES. For us, that's a gift not to be sniffed at.

The aerial photo of the Vingerklip is not mine. License: CC BY-SA 4.0