Maggie Young

Sometimes, adventures begin in the most unlikely of ways. Being abroad has given me the mindset of “this can only happen once,” which may or may not be correct; but in this case, the phrase most certainly rings true.

About two weeks ago I was asked by a friend of mine to accompany her and one of our South African friends to Namibia.

Namibia is a solid seven hours from Stellenbosch and the drive is a whole lot of nothing. The whole trip she had planned would consist of forty hours of driving over a four-day period and, since she cannot drive, she needed another person to split the load with our friend, Duncan.

“Sure, no problem,” I thought to myself, enthusiastically. I may have to skip a bit of class but I’ll get to see another country and enjoy the company of two of the best friends I’ve made since I’ve been here.

Of course, nothing is ever as flawless as it first seems.

I’ve never driven a manual car before. In my previous article I wrote about a road trip across southern South Africa. Well, this would be a whole different story.

We would be taking Duncan’s car, as it would be senseless to rent one but, naturally, it is a stick shift. With just a few days before departure Duncan gave me three frenetic but thorough lessons in the art of well, not stalling in the middle of the road.

The day of departure came and with the car loaded down with a variety of snacks (what is it with Americans and road trip munchies?) we began heading north.

Only a few minutes into the trip and the small car seemed to be getting smaller and smaller. Snacks were broken into and our conversation dragged as we all pictured reaching the border—an unremarkable goal a mere 600+ kilometers away.

The first stretch of road was scenic and I was able to practice a bit of my Afrikaans by reading road signs and farm names.

South Africans are actually quite creative in naming. There were farms with names such as “Die Kraai” (The Crow), “Die Brug” (The Bridge), and “Die Hoek” (The Hook).

The farther we drove, however, the less appealing the landscape became.

When I tell you South Africa is huge, I mean, South Africa is practically never-ending. As we drove along increasingly flat, straight roads, I was certain that we would never actually reach the border.

The towns became exponentially more dull, almost hilariously so, with one town’s main monument being a large pile of rocks (Springbok is not exactly a theme park, in case you were thinking of popping in for a visit).

We finally reached the border with about a tablespoon of gas left in the car and, with the comfort of a petrol station just three kilometers inside the border, we crept into Namibia.

A major difference I noted about Namibian border security and American border security is the amount of trust (or is it indifference?) and nonchalance (laziness?).

American border security: Unpacks luggage, rummages through personal belongings, sends you through metal detector, checks passport, discriminates based on appearance.

Namibian border security: quick check of the trunk and a good look at the passengers and we were on our way.

We filled our gas tank and decided to engage in our first Namibian feast: a smorgasbord of Wimpy’s fast food (a southern African chain). Feeling particularly greasy, bloated and disconcertingly satisfied, we decided to actually find out where we would stay the night.

After quite a bit of negotiation with the Wimpy’s staff, several women told us we could follow them into town where they would show us to an accommodation.

Perfect! It was now past 9 p.m. and with absolutely no streetlights in the miniscule town of Keetmanshoop, it was an absolute blessing to be following someone who knew where to go.

As we drove through the scant, run-down, bankrupt-looking town, we abruptly came to a stop. Down the street all we can see are abandoned buildings and wild dogs picking in overturned garbage cans. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a tumbleweed blow by.

I looked out my window and there it was: “Rachel’s Accommodation.”

Now, I’m not sure who this “Rachel” is, but she must truly have a disdain for the common traveller because the state in which her “accommodation” exists is something of shame.

At the end of the day, however, we had a room to ourselves, complete with pillows made of cotton balls and tissue paper and the showers had hot water. So really, what more could we ask for?

The hostel even had its own mascot—a large hairy cockroach I affectionately nicknamed “the kraken.”

The following day consisted of an even flatter and straighter road bound for the mid-eastern city of Windhoek.

The drive was a ghastly seven more hours surrounded by the dusty, brown, desolate wasteland that is Eastern Namibia.

Go ahead and do a Google image search of Namibia. You’ll probably find vibrant orange desert with a starkly contrasted sapphire sky and beautiful mountains galore.

This is not the Namibia we drove through.

In fact, there probably aren’t any Google images of “our” section of Namibia because no one ever thinks to take pictures of it—it’s just that hideous and repetitious.

Windhoek was a surprising breath of fresh air with actual shopping centers, street lamps and *gasp* cross walks.

That night we stayed in a hostel called “Garden Paradise” run by the most lovely, older Russian woman I’ve ever met.

For hours the three of us sat on the front porch drinking cocktails and asking all manner of invasive questions in an effort to know and understand one another; just one of the many perks of meeting people abroad is they rarely hold things back.

By the following morning we were all feeling what the South Africans call “babelaas” or, “hangover.”

This was no matter, however, we had another seven-hour journey back to an accommodation near the Namibian border, so we shoved on.

Upon arrival to our last accommodation we pulled up outside of what looked like a hotel.

I will, hands down, give the prize of best accommodation to Duncan as he truly landed a winner. If you ever find yourself near the Namibian border and need a wonderful and fair-priced place to sleep: Orange River Lodge.

Fresh sheets, two fluffy pillows each, a mini fridge (I nearly forgot what it was like to drink a cool beverage) and a giant shower head.

Breakfast was even included in the booking, which, as any student will understand, we took well advantage of (I may have thrown some items into a napkin for the road).

After three tumultuous nights and four sweltering days, Stellenbosch never looked so lush and shady. The crap beer we’re used to even tasted like sweet, NC craft compared to the soap-water that is Namibian lager.

Over those four days I solidified friendships that I will undoubtedly last for the rest of my life and I was able to experience something that truly was “once-in-a-lifetime.”

It may not have been the most comfortable I’ve ever been, then again adventure isn’t about comfort.

I will also say that I have never been more grateful for roads with curves.