Patio Prattle and Die Vingerklip– Oppi Koppi Rest Camp

An Extract From My Notes  “I’ve positioned myself near the electrical plug and hotspot, hoping a solid Wi-Fi signal will enable me to write. I must catch up with some emails, update Polar Steps and write two blogs. My fingers are poised just above the keys, ready to strike the first letter. My mind goes blank. I must write about Klein Pella. I remind myself only real writers are permitted writer's block.

The bird feeder in the tree swings and catches my eye. Easily distracted, my attention wanders to 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’s” chase all the little LBJs away. Just like that.

Inside the bar, there’s pandemonium as a flurry of staff dashes hither and dither. 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 with welcome drinks (Mimosas) tinkles as the ice in frosted glasses collide. 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 from an overnight long-haul flight and the 550km drive from Windhoek. “You’re welcome!” the response drilled into the staff falls on deaf ears.

Once their whistles are wet, there’s no stopping the excited chatter. It takes at least five minutes for the group to settle at the round tables next to me. Like a deck of cards, they fall into place.

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

At the table, seats are shuffled to make space for two more chairs next to the Dutch tour guide, who is trying desperately to get sheets of paper stacked orderly in front of her. She lifts a teaspoon and taps the edge of her glass for order. She greets Ana and Hans, the latecomers.

Ana glances at her companion, smiling. Her hand repositions the watch on her wrist. The first order of business is getting 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 touches his hand lightly; her fingertips linger, he concedes. The white line on his ring finger will soon turn brown in the sun.

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 huskily asks. 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 guy nearest me demands, grabbing the waitron's wrist, she's got my coffee. His flashy gold signet ring torniqueting 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 a menu. He’s indecisive and grabs the menu to peer shortsightedly at the offerings. He pats his breast pockets but can’t find his reading glasses; the wife has none of it. 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 is poised with her notepad and pen ready to scribble down the orders.

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Getting back to the blog, I’ve got a title, my coffee is next to me, and soon Butch will join me. The conference delegates open the French doors and tumble, stumbling out, ready to stretch their legs while waiting for their sandwiches and tea. Their cell phones 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 enthusiastically posed for a few photographs, I'm sure she was relieved to be out of the boring conference room.

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Ana’s moved closer to Hans, she floats on a cloud of Coco. My scrunched paper napkin topples off the table propelled in the light breeze, I bend down 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 when the ginger-haired guide confirms they’ll be neighbours.

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

Ana excuses herself from the table. Conversations start up again, and Hans was soon chatting amiably with one of the single ladies on 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 Kaminjab took us past Die Vingerklip (The Finger rock). The drive from and to new destinations is very much part of our adventure thus I photograph interesting sights along the way, a reminder of where we've been.

Supposedly it looks like someone’s giant rock finger protruding vertically into the air – this is how the Vingerklip stands, like a monument 70km west of the little town 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 decided to swing by and enjoy a cuppa at the upmarket Vingerklip Lodge, renowned for good service and the grand vistas of the valley, mountains and the Vingerklip.

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“The Vingerklip is Namibia’s only existing rock monument, so it enjoys a large international following. Many tourists visiting the Etosha National Park visit the Vingerklip on a little detour. The Vingerklip is the geological leftover of a Ugab Terrace, and its geological history can be read like an open book when looking at the layers of the conglomerate. The Rock Finger stands on a hilltop at 929m 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.

At the time of 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 invited us to sit and enjoy a bottomeless coffee while we went online. That indeed verifies 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 not quite as impressive as I thought. Once back on the road, we did have an opportunity to see it in all its glory, but we didn’t have time to go right up to the actual location.

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Our destination was Oppi Koppi rest camp and campsite, where we spent three nights. Rumour has it that locals and farmers frequent the Lodge, which has become a trendy watering hole. 

While I “worked” on the veranda, where the best Wi-Fi signal was, I saw many people come and go, and at times snippets of thought-provoking conversations reached my ears. Like the casually elegant elderly South African gentleman trying to persuade a young Namibian to partner with him in 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 was a time to shout “Red Flag”, it was then.

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

I did not see the group of tourists again. Early the following day, their bus departed before we left on our bikes.

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

Off we went 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 and tell  us about their culture while showing us around. That experience demands a separate blog to give the encounter the justice it deserves. To visit the Cultural Village tickets may  be purchased at Oppi Koppi.

Do not hesitate to spend a night or three at Oppi Koppi Rest camp. Our stay was tip-top, very inspirational, 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