After my visa and clutch problems in Congo, the time I had for Namibia had shrunk from two weeks to one week. With a huge country to cover and lots of cool stuff to see, it was time to get a move on.
Like the south of Angola, Namibia is noticeably more developed than almost all of the previous countries and a lot more like Europe. While it made the place seem somehow less exotic, it did mean that I could get a burger and chips. Hurrah. I had been advised not to stop for the first couple of hundred km (apparently there are numerous accounts of tourists being robbed just after the border by opportunistic thieves) so I drove on until I got close to Etosha national park. Camping up in a farm stay, I got chatting to a Hannes, a German guy who was driving a 4wd around Botswana and Namibia and who very kindly offered to take me to the park the next day (motorbikes not being allowed on account of the risk of riders being eaten). We saw lots of zebra, giraffe, kudu, springbok, ostrich (but no predators), and the park itself was spectacular in its scale - the photos don't really do it justice.
Next destination was the Skeleton Coast, so called because that was the fate of sailors who washed up there (due to the lack of water and strong onshore winds that made getting back out to sea impossible). It didn't look too far on the map but the tarmac soon disappeared and I was onto gravel roads and slower progress. Still the gravel was in decent condition, and I was making good time when the rain started. Being British, I just pressed on regardless (if we stopped for rain we'd never get anywhere) but just after the crest of a hill I hit what turned out to be a much softer and deeper mud patch than it looked. As the bike skidded and fishtailed I had just enough time to think "Darn it, not this again" (or something like that) before I hit the deck and slid. The landing was softened by the mud, but still too much for my right pannier which broke open at the bottom and scooped up about a gallon of sloppy mud all over my gear. I poured it out and strapped everything together with rope but I now had to add a new pannier to my shopping list.
After a night in a campsite, washing off the mud as best I could, I pressed on, but my luck was to get no better. This time, it was a patch of sand disguised as road that did for me. Also, as if it couldn't go on without the other one, my left pannier smashed to pieces. With a bit more rope I was able to bodge it, but I was now looking distinctly shabby.
It was still 150km or so to the Skeleton Coast National Park, so I pressed on (a bit more slowly and cautiously). The scenery was spectacular - Namibia is a vast, dry and incredibly empty place. In an area 50% larger than Germany there are just 2.5 million people. I was enjoying the ride when the front tyre started to sound odd and the steering went mushy. After 20,000km of riding, I had my first flat tyre, and it was in the middle of the Namib desert, 200km from the nearest town. Damn it. I grabbed my tools, put the bike up on the centre stand and set to work. The road was not a busy one; in the whole day I had seen maybe 10 cars, and now that it was late in the afternoon there were not likely to be many more. I had just changed the innertube and got the wheel back on when a car appeared and the driver asked if I was ok; I said I had it in hand - all I had to do was pump up the tyre - but thanked them for stopping anyway. Then, as the dust cloud from the car disappeared over one horizon and the sun was dropping down below the other one I connected up my electric compressor and...nothing. The motor spun but there was no air coming out. Not good. I tweaked a couple of things and tried again but to no avail. I grabbed my manual pump but soon realised that that had developed a leak too. Doubly not good. It was now late afternoon with the last rays of the sun rapidly disappearing, I was in the middle of the desert with a flat tyre, and according to the guidebook there were lions in this part of the country. Feverishly improvising, I cut out a section of the hosing on the electric compressor which I thought was the problem, gaffer taped the two ends together and then by holding the two ends tightly together was able to get enough air into the tyre to press on. The car that stopped had told me there was a small campsite just at the gate of the park, 20km or so from where I had stopped, so I crawled along in the dark.
The slow bobbing motion of a lone headlight in the desert had attracted the attention of the one guy that lived at the gate post, and as I rolled in cold and exhausted he was there to welcome me, and made me the nicest, most welcome cup of tea I have ever had in my life. He then told me that where I had broken down was basically between two waterholes, and the waterholes attract springbok and the springbok attract lions. Glad that I found that out afterwards and not before!
With gravel roads and a fierce wind blowing in from the ocean, the drive the next day down the Skeleton Coast was slow, but the scenery was spectacular - bleached white dunes, crashing ocean and an atmospheric haze of dust and sea mist. As well as the conditions, progress was hindered by my own worries - in addition to being paranoid about falling off (after two crashes the in as many days and still carrying a busted ankle), I was also concerned about the state of my bike. The sprockets were worn, the chain was knackered and I suspected that the reason I got a flat was because the rubber on the front tyre had worn too thin.
After 140km or so, the road changed from gravel to compacted salt. This is actually a great surface for riding - smooth as tarmac and a lot easier on the bike. With only 110km or so to the next town I started to relax; I was going to make it. As if. I heard a crunching sound and then the engine howled, and as I pulled over I saw that my chain had snapped and flown out of the back and onto the road. Come on! The bike went back up on the centre stand and I got my spare chain out. I had tried to change it a couple of days earlier but had given up when I realised that I had the wrong master link; now stuck out in the desert for the second time I would try a bit harder. With a pair of pliers I managed to force the link to fit, but I had lost another hour and it was getting dark again. The map said there was a campsite next to a hotel 30km away, so I headed for that, and throwing fiscal caution to the wind treated myself to a slap up dinner of steak and chips. And it was delicious.
I popped in to see the seal colony next to the hotel in the morning (there were 100,000 of them, and they smelt as bad as you might imagine a colony of fat, flatulent creatures that eat only fish would), and then drove down to the next town. No luck with motorbike spares there so I pressed on to Swakopmund. A distinctly German town (with steeply roofed houses, beerhalls and signs in gothic script), I had no luck there either as everything was shut for Easter. I did however find a Nandos that was open, so every cloud and that...
With two busted panniers, a worn out front tyre, a chain that had the wrong master link, worn out sprockets and head bearings so knackered that I actually couldn't steer the bike properly, I felt that continuing my route down gravel roads would be pushing my luck just a little too much, so I reluctantly decided to skip two of the touristic jewels - Sossusvlei and Fish River canyon - and stick to the tarmac. With a stop in Windhoek for a game kebab at legendary tourist restaurant Joe's (Kudu, Springbok, Oryx and Crocodile - the Zebra was off) I pressed on southwards, and on good roads it was only one overnight stop before I reached South Africa.
Like the south of Angola, Namibia is noticeably more developed than almost all of the previous countries and a lot more like Europe. While it made the place seem somehow less exotic, it did mean that I could get a burger and chips. Hurrah. I had been advised not to stop for the first couple of hundred km (apparently there are numerous accounts of tourists being robbed just after the border by opportunistic thieves) so I drove on until I got close to Etosha national park. Camping up in a farm stay, I got chatting to a Hannes, a German guy who was driving a 4wd around Botswana and Namibia and who very kindly offered to take me to the park the next day (motorbikes not being allowed on account of the risk of riders being eaten). We saw lots of zebra, giraffe, kudu, springbok, ostrich (but no predators), and the park itself was spectacular in its scale - the photos don't really do it justice.
Next destination was the Skeleton Coast, so called because that was the fate of sailors who washed up there (due to the lack of water and strong onshore winds that made getting back out to sea impossible). It didn't look too far on the map but the tarmac soon disappeared and I was onto gravel roads and slower progress. Still the gravel was in decent condition, and I was making good time when the rain started. Being British, I just pressed on regardless (if we stopped for rain we'd never get anywhere) but just after the crest of a hill I hit what turned out to be a much softer and deeper mud patch than it looked. As the bike skidded and fishtailed I had just enough time to think "Darn it, not this again" (or something like that) before I hit the deck and slid. The landing was softened by the mud, but still too much for my right pannier which broke open at the bottom and scooped up about a gallon of sloppy mud all over my gear. I poured it out and strapped everything together with rope but I now had to add a new pannier to my shopping list.
After a night in a campsite, washing off the mud as best I could, I pressed on, but my luck was to get no better. This time, it was a patch of sand disguised as road that did for me. Also, as if it couldn't go on without the other one, my left pannier smashed to pieces. With a bit more rope I was able to bodge it, but I was now looking distinctly shabby.
It was still 150km or so to the Skeleton Coast National Park, so I pressed on (a bit more slowly and cautiously). The scenery was spectacular - Namibia is a vast, dry and incredibly empty place. In an area 50% larger than Germany there are just 2.5 million people. I was enjoying the ride when the front tyre started to sound odd and the steering went mushy. After 20,000km of riding, I had my first flat tyre, and it was in the middle of the Namib desert, 200km from the nearest town. Damn it. I grabbed my tools, put the bike up on the centre stand and set to work. The road was not a busy one; in the whole day I had seen maybe 10 cars, and now that it was late in the afternoon there were not likely to be many more. I had just changed the innertube and got the wheel back on when a car appeared and the driver asked if I was ok; I said I had it in hand - all I had to do was pump up the tyre - but thanked them for stopping anyway. Then, as the dust cloud from the car disappeared over one horizon and the sun was dropping down below the other one I connected up my electric compressor and...nothing. The motor spun but there was no air coming out. Not good. I tweaked a couple of things and tried again but to no avail. I grabbed my manual pump but soon realised that that had developed a leak too. Doubly not good. It was now late afternoon with the last rays of the sun rapidly disappearing, I was in the middle of the desert with a flat tyre, and according to the guidebook there were lions in this part of the country. Feverishly improvising, I cut out a section of the hosing on the electric compressor which I thought was the problem, gaffer taped the two ends together and then by holding the two ends tightly together was able to get enough air into the tyre to press on. The car that stopped had told me there was a small campsite just at the gate of the park, 20km or so from where I had stopped, so I crawled along in the dark.
The slow bobbing motion of a lone headlight in the desert had attracted the attention of the one guy that lived at the gate post, and as I rolled in cold and exhausted he was there to welcome me, and made me the nicest, most welcome cup of tea I have ever had in my life. He then told me that where I had broken down was basically between two waterholes, and the waterholes attract springbok and the springbok attract lions. Glad that I found that out afterwards and not before!
With gravel roads and a fierce wind blowing in from the ocean, the drive the next day down the Skeleton Coast was slow, but the scenery was spectacular - bleached white dunes, crashing ocean and an atmospheric haze of dust and sea mist. As well as the conditions, progress was hindered by my own worries - in addition to being paranoid about falling off (after two crashes the in as many days and still carrying a busted ankle), I was also concerned about the state of my bike. The sprockets were worn, the chain was knackered and I suspected that the reason I got a flat was because the rubber on the front tyre had worn too thin.
After 140km or so, the road changed from gravel to compacted salt. This is actually a great surface for riding - smooth as tarmac and a lot easier on the bike. With only 110km or so to the next town I started to relax; I was going to make it. As if. I heard a crunching sound and then the engine howled, and as I pulled over I saw that my chain had snapped and flown out of the back and onto the road. Come on! The bike went back up on the centre stand and I got my spare chain out. I had tried to change it a couple of days earlier but had given up when I realised that I had the wrong master link; now stuck out in the desert for the second time I would try a bit harder. With a pair of pliers I managed to force the link to fit, but I had lost another hour and it was getting dark again. The map said there was a campsite next to a hotel 30km away, so I headed for that, and throwing fiscal caution to the wind treated myself to a slap up dinner of steak and chips. And it was delicious.
I popped in to see the seal colony next to the hotel in the morning (there were 100,000 of them, and they smelt as bad as you might imagine a colony of fat, flatulent creatures that eat only fish would), and then drove down to the next town. No luck with motorbike spares there so I pressed on to Swakopmund. A distinctly German town (with steeply roofed houses, beerhalls and signs in gothic script), I had no luck there either as everything was shut for Easter. I did however find a Nandos that was open, so every cloud and that...
With two busted panniers, a worn out front tyre, a chain that had the wrong master link, worn out sprockets and head bearings so knackered that I actually couldn't steer the bike properly, I felt that continuing my route down gravel roads would be pushing my luck just a little too much, so I reluctantly decided to skip two of the touristic jewels - Sossusvlei and Fish River canyon - and stick to the tarmac. With a stop in Windhoek for a game kebab at legendary tourist restaurant Joe's (Kudu, Springbok, Oryx and Crocodile - the Zebra was off) I pressed on southwards, and on good roads it was only one overnight stop before I reached South Africa.
