Solitaire

I'm getting a bit of p1ss-taking today, as I'm sitting with the mountains in the background, a beer by my feet, typing on my makes-me-feel-like-a-giant laptop. I keep pointing out that others have journals they're writing, and that's all I'm doing. It's a pretty surreal scene, though.

So it was another cold one last night, and I woke at around 3am to the sound of jackals wandering around between the tents. Bjorn had warned us to keep everything inside our tents, since a Jackal will have it away on its toes with a flip-flop as soon as look at it. I heard an unearthly yowling. I badly needed the bathroom, but the temperature (and a nerve or two) kept me inside my sleeping bag. As luck would have it, I only had an hour to go until we got up.

We simply grabbed a quick hot drink, then jumped into the truck and headed for Dune 45 (which I keep thinking is a date every time I hear it). It is, apparently, forty-five kilometers from Windhoek, and forty-fifth dune from a dry lake called 'Sossusvlai'. The campsite gates only opened at 5:30, so it was a mad drive over rough terrain to reach the dune before sunrise. From the bottom, it didn't look too bad, and I and Xavier (the older Canadian kid, in case I hadn't mentioned that) set off at a run, racing to the top.

Dune 45

It's, um, much bigger than it looks. After twenty metres, we'd slowed to a trudge, my legs were pumped and my lungs were on fire. We walked the rest of the way. The sand was the finest, softest I've ever stood on. We were bare-foot, and it was so cold that, within minutes, I couldn't feel my feet at all. Once we reached the top ridge, we spread along and sat, getting our breath back and taking not a couple of photos, as the sun rose. It's difficult to do the scene justice, but the dawn light threw long shadows, and the iron in the sand glowed red. We stayed about twenty minutes, lungs still burning, then took a leisurely stroll back down. Three quarters of the way down the spine, I walked down the face and got the kids from the Quebec-Family-Robidoux to run down the slope at me. It made for some great photos. They're a little insular as a family, but I'm gradually getting to know them. I've also managed to take a number of 'Mackins'** I've always felt a little self-conscious when asking for a Mackin, but I'm getting the hang of it, due mostly to the fact that I need some proof I've actually been to Africa.

So, after breakfast at the foot of the dune, we headed to Sossusvlai, where we transferred to a 4x4 driven by an ebullient, small Japanese woman. She visited as a tourist ten years ago, and decided to stay. She now runs walking tours. She drove us out to the dry lake, looking like cattle in the back of an open truck. Sossusvlai becomes a lake about twice a decade, and we drove down the dry, cracked-limestone river bed. We walked into the dunes with her to 'Dead vlai', a spectacular dried lake covered in petrified trees. I'm sure someone came here to shoot an album cover once – Muse, perhaps... It's been making me chuckle how safety-conscious Bjorn seems to be, although I suppose he has to. So, we all went out with close-toed shoes, two litres of water, hats, support jeeps, gps, helicopter... It was fascinating stuff, although I shall break the habit of a lifetime, and refrain from boring you about it here. I took a few photo, though – if anyone's wondering just how many photos you can take of dead trees, I can tell you: It's eighteen. Drinks and slideshow at my place when I'm back?

So, back to the camp to break down the tents. Everyone is really getting to know each other, and the tour is developing a rhythm, a cadence. My German tentmate and I can now put up and take down a tent with startling efficiency, but when we're done, we go and help the various women and teenagers. The first couple of days, we didn't do this, since I didn't know if they'd want help. (Could you imagine if someone offered me help? 'Back off! What are you saying? Are you saying I can't do it on my own?') A short drive to another canyon, then on to Solitaire camp (which is actually the smallest town in Namibia, since it fulfills the criteria (Petrol pump, place to sleep, shop, post office). I just strolled out to the edge of the camp where an Oryx was grazing, peacefully.

So, nearly time for dinner. And so another day passes.

** Mackin – noun: A form of photographic self-portrait in which the artist asks a third party to take a photograph of the artist with the artist's camera. Typically, the artist will stand in front of a well known landscape or other feature, grinning maniacally, before complaining loudly that the photographer has chopped his legs and/or feet out of the picture.