“I know history. I watch Vikings!” Thus begins one of Frik’s history lessons to explain why he hates the English and loves the Germans. He is a very patriotic Afrikaner (or Boer, depending on the mood). His stories are full of hurt for real or imagined past transgressions against Afrikaners. He and his sister Linda are Namibian but lived in South Africa for a long time. He now wants to move back there, to Orania – a community that “isn’t racist” but where black people aren’t allowed to stay. Linda is not keen on the idea.
We are sitting around the fire on the banks of the Orange river and mostly listen as Frik tells stories and reprimands us for not being Christian. He then tells us about how he never got married, yet has two kids, opens the next beer and pilfers another cigarette from Linda. Whenever we do speak up, be it on the genocide committed by the Germans against the Nama and Herero or that one shouldn’t take the Bible too literally, we earn an approving nod from Linda. She seems to be the voice of reason in their relationship.
After we head back to our campsite and settle in for an early night we hear their voices rising. Amid angry Afrikaans ranting we hear a lot of “Fuck you!” and are pretty worried that it has been one beer too many. Eventually they quieten down and we all drift off. In the morning we learn the reason for the heated argument: If Adam and Eve only had sons, where did all the women come from to populate the earth? Certainly something to mull over with a beer and a cigarette.
The next day we board our canoe and grip the paddles. Zach and Romanus, our guides for the next three days, jump in their heavily laden boats and we all float swiftly downstream. The heat is bearable thanks to the cold water dripping onto our legs with each paddle stroke. Yet, we don’t paddle much on this first day, generally letting the current do the work for us. Only when we approach the occasional rapid does it get a little dicey. But nothing too difficult and by the end of the first day we’ve almost covered half the distance to our destination.
Emboldened by the easy first day and well fed by Zach’s and Romanus’ cooking we set out again the next morning. We follow close behind Romanus as he tackles another set of rapids. He warns us of the big rocks hidden under the roiling water but we react too slowly. BOOM. SCRAPE. SCREECH… and the canoe spits us out into the river. We scrabble to the reedy shore and start giggling from the adrenaline. We can hardly believe it. We capsized…AGAIN! Ben takes off his camera that got wet…AGAIN!
Zach and Romanus wade out to right the canoe and reassure our bruised egos that this happens all the time. We nod along sulkily. Lina makes Ben swear that he won’t turn on his camera until we are leaving Namibia and we get back in the boat. When we reach the day’s campsite we – this time – go for a voluntary swim. The fish have sensed our weakness of spirit and come to nibble at our legs. At night we gather round the fire and Romanus scatters fluoride rocks into the flames. They emit a beautiful green glow and make us flinch as they crackle and explode from the heat.
We finish the rest of the trip without any major mishaps. Though we go down one of the rapids backwards and generally turn the canoe too much or not in time it doesn’t spit us out again. The river snakes its way through the Richtersveld mountains and everything is red, black and brown rock. Sometimes the strata go crazy and form waves or the face of a gorilla. The only vegetation is right next to the water and feels out of place in an otherwise harsh landscape. Snake birds and herons flutter up indignantly when we get too close.
All in all we’re happy with our little side trip. It felt way more adventurous than expected. We now start the last push to the coast. We’ve heard that the gravel road that will take us most of the way there is “an apologetic hug” that supposedly compensates for all the bad gravel roads we have endured in Namibia. The hug turns out to be more like an overly firm handshake. On the last washboardy and steep ascent back to tarmac Lina is getting quite whiny. She is done with the heat and done with false promises about road conditions.
Enter Freddy and Henry. They nurse our spirits back to health with a nice chat, cold drinks and delicious peaches. Trail magic is a wonderful thing. Whether it’s some biscuits, cold water or just a thumbs up. We never expect it (except when we’re a bit full of ourselves) and are always stutteringly grateful when it does happen. This is where Ben’s English awkwardness shines the brightest. Refreshed in body and soul we cycle on and finally leave the cursed gravel. Tonight we are camping under a bridge and are already thinking of riddles to pose to passersby.
The next morning the trolls (us) scuttle out from under the bridge and heave themselves groaning back into the bikes. The headwind is getting stronger the closer we get to the coast. The road roughly follows the winding river but swoops up and over hills at her leisure. The slate canyon slowly gives way to sand dunes. They start licking at the road and gusts of wind blow sand into our faces. We pass signs on either side of the road saying “Sperrgebiet” (restricted area). We’ve already seen a few diamond mines and they only get more frequent and bigger.
Finally we sense that tangy sea smell. The Atlantic is near and with that our border crossing. Time for one last dance, one last country. South Africa, give it your all!
