There’s More to Namibia than Angelina Jolie

Surreal days and starry nights in southwest Africa.

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THE BEACHES OF NAMIBIA are long, pristine and empty. The Atlantic is too rough and cold for swimming. “There are no records of shark attacks,” a native tells me, “but that is because no one goes in the water.”

With its savage history as a maritime graveyard, the northern seaboard is called the Skeleton Coast. Two hundred miles of southern shore——from the South African border to the harbor at Luderitz——are owned and operated by the powerful diamond trade, the number-one force in Namibia’s economy. Well-policed, they are strictly off limits to outsiders.

“Stealing diamonds here is worse than murder,” says a bartender whose wife works for DeBeers. “There is parole for murder.”

The German heritage of Swakopmund glimmers in street names like Bismarck and Ludwig Koch Strasse. Century-old houses mimic Bavarian architecture—— with swamp coolers. The Brauhaus res - tau rant is a favorite hangout, serving bratwurst, sauerkraut and lentil stew. A sign in a dune-buggy rental shop says: “Secretary wanted. Must be bilingual in Afrikaans and German.”

Our heart-of-town lodging, the cool and gracious Swakopmund Hotel, was built around the 1900 railroad station. CNN booms out from the rooms, and an English-language newspaper arrives most Fridays. A block away, in the dark refuge of the Kristall Galerie, I admire chunks of Namibian topaz, tourmaline, aquamarine and the bold, multicolored Pietersite, discovered here 46 years ago.

Despite harsh desert on three sides, the town is remarkably temperate. Cold ocean currents send fog rolling inland as far as 80 miles, giving life to camouflaged insects, hairy rodents and bi zarre plants like Welwitschia Mirabilis, known as “twoleaf can’t die,” which sprawls in trampled heaps, as if an aging octopus has shed its skin.

One morning, we head east toward Spitz koppe, a jagged outcropping billed as the Matterhorn of Namibia. After miles of doubt and gravel, an eerie shadow forms on the horizon, a peak jutting 2,300 feet above the plateau. This is Da - ma ra land, where generations of tribesmen have held the secrets of how to identify which rocks hold gems in the rough. At a roadside stall, an imperious woman shows me a lavender amethyst with a water bubble trapped in it. She holds a smoky topaz against my khaki shirt and nods. It must have been the heat; I stare and buy nothing.

Forty-five miles out of Swakopmund, our van edges off the road. The young driv er looks bewildered and then guilty. The gas tank is empty. His first mobile call to the office gets a recording. The air conditioner is fading fast. As a distraction, he gets out and turns over scabby rocks, looking for scorpions. He points to a hazy ridge, where a vast open-pit uranium mine is operated in conjunction with the Russians. Someone suggests hiking over to borrow a liter of gasoline, an idea squelched by tales of puff adders and black mambas. After an hour, a bus approaches, deadheading back to town. We gratefully bundle onboard. “This is Africa,” a woman says with a croaking laugh.

THE MOST MAGICAL INTERLUDE is at Sossusvlei Wilderness Camp on a rocky bluff outside Sesriem, gateway to the red dunes. We arrive at sundown, checking into luxurious huts of rock, timber and thatch. Ceiling fans purr. Private plunge pools beckon. Gathering around a long table of zebrawood, we enjoy a spicy supper of rice, beans, couscous and chicken satay, which the staff describes in English and in Xhosa, the hypnotic clicking tongue of southern Africa.

Awakened in the dark by a knock on the door, we grab coffee before piling into Land Rovers to reach the dunes for sunrise. Stars blaze overhead as our yellow headlights slash across the rubbly plain, picking out a springbok and then an oryx. The road, a dry riverbed, has muddy potholes from yesterday’s cloudburst.

Of all things, it seems cold.

Hulking silhouettes loom as the first rays strike gold. Mightiest of all is Big Daddy, a swirl of velvety sand rising more than 1,000 feet. A few climbers are already inching up the knife-edged ridge, like ants following sugar. We move on to the somewhat gentler folds of Big Mama. Although strenuous, dune-walking is not a high-wire act; you don’t fall off, you sink in.

On the last day, we drive a zigzag course to Windhoek, the mile-high, palm-lined capital, arriving an hour and a half early for Sunday brunch at the palatial Windhoek Country Club Resort.

Our guide, James, suggests we doze or mill. “Sorry, but we have to allow time for flat tires and breakdowns, and it’s no one’s fault when it doesn’t happen.”

This, indeed, is Africa.

If You Go

Most travelers do not visit just one country in southern Africa. I chose a 19-day itinerary organized by Odys - seys Unlimited (odysseys-unlimited. com), which combines overland travel in the bordering lands of Namibia, Botswana (with the elephant-rich Chobe National Park), Zambia (Vic - toria Falls) and South Africa. South African Airways flies from JFK to Johannesburg, in 15-plus hours. Delta is scheduled to launch direct flights in June from New York and Wash ington, D.C., to Cape Town.

  

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