Wind, water
and a broken rib in Windhoek

On our way to the Spitskoppen-mountains we finally have our first encounter with a real desert chameleon. It crosses the road in a very slow waggling pace and gives us the opportunity to look at it from close by. The quality of the road is not good climbs and descends a lot. After eighty kilometres we take a right turn, onto the D3716 and hobble against the wind to the Great and Small Spitskoppen. We get water at the school of the only village in the vicinity and pitch our tent on a remote hill, with a great view over the mountains that glow red in the soft evening light. It was a nice day again. A pity that I produce some watery shit every two hours.

The next morning we cycle in a soup of cold, fatty mist on the D1918 tot the tar road. The wind, my intestines, and dozens of stalls with gems and other beautiful stones reduce our average speed. As indifferent as possible we stroll along the stones, determined not to buy anything. Half an hour later and with the extra weight of eight gemstones (tourmaline, smoky quarts, smithsonite, prehnite and amethyst) in our bags we cycle further, from now on smooth black tar.

After Karibib, where we stay for a day to give my intestines some rest, we’re on our way again to Windhoek. An ice-cold wind picks up speed from the east and we have to fight hard for every kilometre. After fifty kilometres of ascending gradually and a stormy headwind we have had it: there is not a lot to see and it is impossible to enjoy the things we do see because of the circumstances. The village of Wilhelmstal, from the map we expect it to be a welcome stop-over on the long, dull stretch to Okahandja, turns out to be no more than a small tuck shop with a bare campsite and an old farm. The black worker tries to keep a straight face when he tells us the price of pitching our tent on the unattractive piece of land, right next to the road, fenced like an ugly prison camp: one hundred rand. That’s thirteen euro, a ridiculous price for a prison cell without hot water. We negotiate the price to forty, actually still too much for what you get.
Shaking from the cold, we leave the shower to warm ourselves in the sun.

The temperature is freezing when we step on our bikes early the next day. It takes us four hours to cover the last 75 kilometres to Okahandja; the wind is a bit more merciful than yesterday. We go to Andre van Dijk to say hello from his old buddy Basil from Uis. Andre and his wife immediately invite us for lunch, a meal that’s actually a dinner for us. The two of them and their children all work in their lodge and in their company that makes thatched roofs. It’s fascinating that for one moment we are cycling into a new, strange town, and the other moment we sit having supper with people who don’t know us, but who voluntarily and spontaneously share a part of their lives.
In the afternoon we go looking for Okahandja’s most famous shop: Piet’s Biltong. A half-year ago in Lesotho, about three thousand kilometres to the south-east from here, we met some South-Africans who advised us strongly to go to Piet’s Biltong whenever we’d be in the vicinity of Okahandja. Another couple from the West-Cape also told us about this tasteful little shop, where it’s said they make the best dry sausages and biltong in the world. Proudly the owner listens to our story and how the mouth-to-mouth advertisement for his biltong goes around the world. Ninety rand lighter but with a kilo of oryx-sausages and biltong, we leave the shop a little while later. That night, on the beautiful designed and quiet Ombonde-campsite of the Okahandja-lodge, we indulge ourselves in the best gastronomic advice we ever received.

The next day we cycle between warthogs, oryx, and ostriches over dozens of dry rivers to Windhoek. Finally the wind is from the back and at one o’clock in the afternoon we arrive in the cosy city centre, with a mere eighty kilometres behind us. The leaflet of the tourist information leads us to the Cardboard Box, a backpacker’s place close to the centre where we can pitch the tent.
The Box, like how everyone calls it, is a relaxed backpacker’s where most travellers have difficulties leaving. We have some lovely encounters; there are a lot of Dutch people that stay there for a short or longer time.
The crazy Ronald Moes from Rotterdam has shipped his old Landrover and is now on his way from Capetown to the Netherlands. The breakdown of his car keeps him in Windhoek longer than he wishes: in the north of Namibia brakes and gearbox got damaged on the bad, rocky terrain. Ex girlfriend Arjanneke will accompany him to Nairobi, but first the car needs repair and Ronald has some busy days. Pauline Luijben is doing her practice as a nurse in the state hospital of Windhoek-Katatura; Judith Pijning travels for ten months on her own through the southern parts of Africa. Ed Boekee, a piano player from Amsterdam, has a great holiday, just like Andre and Ingrid from the vicinity of Rotterdam. After a couple of days two cyclists arrive: Mark and Hannah cycle for seven weeks through Namibia, Botswana and Zambia. They are the first cyclists from the Netherlands that we meet in a long time!

On my birthday, it’s cloudy and a drop of rain falls now and then, we eat a lot of cake. What else! Ronald, Arjanne, Pauline and Judith help us to get rid of the pieces of sugar and fat. In the afternoons and evenings we sit at a table of the bar or are lazily lying at the swimming pool: playing dice and talking about Namibia, travelling and life in the Netherlands are the best activities when you got nothing to do.
With an ice-cold Windhoek Lager in your hand, of course.

Judith has broken a bone in her knee whilst playfighting with Ronald and needs an operation one of these days. I lost a part of my tooth with filling, after having bitten twice on a little stone in the Namibian bread. The dentist in Windhoek thinks I actually need a crown, but for the moment a new filling will fortunately do. That saves a couple of thousands of Namibian dollars.

In winter, the differences in temperature in Windhoek are enormous: one day there is a scorching hot wind, the next day it’s freezing cold, especially in the evening. Sometimes the fabric windows of the bar are being closed and the heater is put on.
On a warm and sunny afternoon, everyone is lazy of doing nothing, Pauline and Peter are playfighting at the rim of the swimming pool. They threaten to throw each other in the water, with their clothes on. Ronald sneaks behind them and at the moment they stand close to the ice-cold water he gives a hard push in Peter’s back. A loud splash follows; this is the starting point for a wild chase. Both Pauline and Peter, cold and soaked, want revenge. Running around the bar and pool Ronald throws his wallet on a safe place and takes the easy way: he dives into the water and then comes out screaming and shivering from cold. Now Peter finds that it’s Pauline’s turn again and he grabs her around the waist and lifts her to the water. She starts struggling to get free and Peter fights to drag her to the pool. His last real effort gets them to the waterside and slowly they fall, half in the water, half on the rim of the swimming pool. There’s a numb feeling of pain in Peter’s chest and elbow when he hits the cold water. Also Pauline is being damaged: quickly after the fall there’s a beautiful blue bruise on her hip.

In the following weeks Peter has to suffer for his behaviour: breathing, turning around at night, coughing and sneezing have become very painful activities. A lump grows on one of his ribs and he knows it’s broken.

Dangerous thing, playfighting.