Lunch in a Namibian Desert.

Time for a sand-wich.

Somewhere, Namibia - Pulling off the dusty road, we tuck under an acacia tree dotted by spherical spiral weaver nests. Hills fade off into the distance.

A blanched jawbone rests next to a tic-tac-toe of snake holes. A persistent fly buzzes excitedly at the sudden appearance of life. Thankfully, the wind whips up, providing a natural fan to combat the sun.

Inexplicably, two horses cling to the side of a cliff. In the middle of nowhere, we have found some of Namibia’s wild horses, only 90-150 of which remain.

With improved efficiency, the group hauls tables, food, washing materials and chairs from the truck. The day's work crew prepares materials for a salad and sandwiches. We are quietly becoming accustomed to life as overlanders.

Roadside, somewhere in Namibia, lunch is served.

Amazing.

Can you Canoe?

Surf border-crossing.

Namaqualand, South Africa - The ride down was smoother than the one up.

It was also wetter.

Bouncing between powdery rocks on an ochre-hued mountain exhaling large clouds of dust, we made our way by van to the launch point upstream on the Orange River, which divides South Africa and Namibia. The door holding us in caught a breeze and flew open with a slam.

The glass had apparently previously cracked for a reason.

Dipping the paddles to our two-person inflatable canoe into the cool, brackish water, we casually made our way downstream, popping through small rapids. The sun welcomed us with fierce intensity. 

After more than two hours on the water, we radiated some of it back.

The river is the lone scar on an otherwise completely arid region. Fish somersaulted and egrets fanned their wings as we passed. Atop a lone, skinny tree perched crookedly on one of the many promontories sat a massive fish eagle, seemingly being picky about its next meal.

I cooled off with a quick dip: it's not every day you have the opportunity to swim between countries.

Hydrated.

Springbok, South Africa – Thirty litres of water, 2.25 litres of South African wine, three litres of Stoney ginger beer. And two ice cream bars.

Twenty-six dollars.

While not as cheap as in East Africa, we chuckled after stopping at the Super Spar grocery store in Springbok on our way to camp.

With 15 litres of water per person now on the truck, we should be able to float through the desert we'll be in for the next few days. Hopefully, nobody had to toss their sleeping bag to make room.

Just as importantly, the wine is still more than decent.

Interlude.

the hourglass – overland, south africa/namibia

Red hills roll by
between window frames
like film,
taking me forward
and back in time.

The plot is a slow burn,
but with the hours,
a denouement
where mountain faces
are scrubbed clean.

The sands of time
have emptied here.

2016.9.19


pole pole – overland, south africa/namibia

Dust that predates time,
clapped like chalkboard erasers
choking on the past.

Between rocks and sand,
scrub clings to an existence
at the table of
an unwelcoming host.

Its breaths, slow and dry
like the nature
of the millennias' worn-down rock
it is.

Patient boulders await
their day in the sun.

2016.9.19

On the Town.

Hamming it up for the camera.

Cape Town, SA – As we pulled into the township of Gugulethu, on the outskirts of Cape Town, a young man with a half-finished beer in his hand stumbled, tripped over his feet and fell to the ground.

When he stood, another man slapped him repeatedly on the head. Apparently, he was no longer welcome. He fell again. It was all of 9:30 a.m.

The township is home to 700,000 people living in tight quarters stitched together by scrap plywood, cardboard and sheet metal. Wood smoke from the braii clouds the air, and shreds of garbage bag flap in the breeze like Tibetan prayer flags.

Tellingly, countless crooked abortion posters are pasted to the outside walls, alongside murals advertising Coca-Cola and SIM cards.

While the community's people were lovely to us – and we were investing in their community – the experience felt precariously close to one of 'poverty porn.' It's a moment your privilege leaves you naked.

Even more, given the morning's first encounter, it seemed wrong to be on a tour where we were to learn how traditional beer is made, and then sample it. But we did, engaging in the ritual of doffing our caps, kneeling and tipping the large communal tin can to our lips. The bready mixture will win no awards.

Glassy-eyed men sat in the corner of the cramped black shack, egging us on.

We had made it to 10 a.m.

A Point in Time.

Waddle you do when you get to the bottom?

Cape Point, SA – As we wound down the coast, the hills were painted with colourful houses: watercolours in the mist. It was a nice break from the grey.

Approaching Chapman's Peak, cliffs rolled into the ocean, making me grip the steering wheel a little more tightly. Then, the skies melted, collapsing to the ground.

Despite the weather – and despite driving on the opposite side of both the car and the road from what I'm accustomed to – it was a nice day for a road trip. I barely exhaled as I adjusted to maneuvering a manual transmission with my left hand.

Soon, it should just be the views that left me breathless.

We wove through Simonstown's pretty Dutch architecture before arriving at Boulders Beach, where we were greeted by braying and a salinity that gripped at our nostrils.

Nearby, an unmistakable waddle: African penguins.

Cape Point: just the tip.

By the hundreds.

In fact, the sea and sand were salt and peppered with them. It was also the first time today we had seen the sun.

We proceeded to Cape Point, which is the southernmost point in continental Africa and where some argue the Indian and Atlantic Oceans merge. Again, the rains hurtled toward us. Reaching the top of the hill, and the lighthouse – long-ago rendered useless by the amount of fog that rolls through the area – four humpback whales crested below.

A good road trip, indeed.

Timeless.

Where are the red balloons?

Frankfurt, Germany – For the duration of the 19-minute journey from the airport, the train ran two full minutes behind.

By the time we had arrived in downtown Frankfurt, however, Germany had restored its reputation. Tick. Tock.

With an 11-hour layover, we had few expectations beyond seeing the Rhine and the old town, which amounts to little more than a city block with a beautiful stone plaza, and a large church at its epicentre.

Having been levelled during the Second World War, the Frankfurt we saw today stitched together reconstructions of traditional structures with the ultra-modern. Familiar, gothic restaurants meld with curved bank towers, shimmering in the sun.

Our exhaustion melted with us as we took the time on a hot, sunny day to find some schnitzel, bratwurst and beer.

These remain areas in which past and present are more closely aligned than timelines can possibly hope to dictate.