Fresh Coffee on the Moon

On the map, it looked a good distance.  On the road, it wasn't.

Terrace Bay is one of those places that's out there.  The signpost  north leaving Swakopmund (a jolly seaside resort, Brighton or Worthing depending on the weather) read "Terrace Bay - 366km."   Converting it into miles in our heads made the figure more comforting.  There would be a nice spot for lunch, watching the seals, about a third of the way up.  The road was still tarmac, and we had a full tank of fuel.

The road then turned to gravel.  Other vehicles started to vanish.  The sand dunes loomed larger, the rocks a little darker, a lunar landscape.  We drove and drove and drove and drove, and whenever we saw a road turning off to the right (always the right, as the Atlantic was always crashing against the shore immediately on our left) we felt like stopping to dance a little jig, such was our excitement at something new to observe.  We then drove and drove and drove a bit more, before driving further still, towards the Angolan border.

Dinner that night in our Namibian destination lodge (no camping allowed) was four course: butternut soup, smoked salmon, oryx steak with gem squash and glazed beetroot, a cream tart.  Breakfast: cereals, fruit, the best eggs I have had this year, bacon, sausage, toast and hot, fresh, strong coffee.  For company, the jolliest group of German tourists I have ever overheard, one of whom merrily chatted to me about the gang's fishing expedition the day before.  We asked the manager how they kept all this up, when the nearest shop was five hours' drive away.  The gist of his answer, with a smile: "we get our act together".  Something for me to think about next time I potter back from the Co-Op having forgotten the pint of milk I went out to buy.

Note to slightly anxious relatives: we had full mobile signal all the way, contact with guide, and the Namibian Tourist Authority are so organised that they count every group in and count every group out of this remote, remarkable park.  


John