Articles by mgedwards

Windhoek, Namibia

We arrived in Namibia on an evening flight from Johannesburg, South Africa in April 2011, and drove to Windhoek, the capital and largest city, in the middle of a torrential rain typical at the end of an African rainy season but somewhat unusual for a dry country like Namibia. The rains wreaked havoc on the relatively smooth tarred highway, leaving behind gaping potholes that tested the suspension of our sub-sub-compact Nissan car rental not much bigger than a Mini. For a reason I can only chalk up to terrain or available land, Hosea Katuko International Airport sits far out of town in the middle of nowhere. Heavy rain and darkness obstructed my view as we drove on in a car that offered the challenge of driving for the first time in manual left-hand drive vehicle in an unknown location.

We arrived in Windhoek, a city of about 500,000 residents, late at night and dead tired after a long afternoon of commuting from our home in Zambia. The complimentary maps of Namibia and Windhoek given to us by the car rental company helped us locate the general vicinity of our hotel, the Protea Thuringerhof, on the city’s main thoroughfare, Independence Avenue. Contrary to the stereotype that men don’t stop to ask for directions, I stopped and asked where we were at a downtown petrol station. We were off by a couple of blocks. GPS with African coverage would have been helpful, but alas we did not have one at our disposal. Because the hotel is in the center of the city, we were concerned for our safety in a nearly deserted part of town. Fortunately, we weren’t in any imminent danger. Windhoek has a reputation for being a relatively safe African city far different from its neighbor, South Africa, where violent crime and carjackings are far too common.

Protea Hotels is a mid-scale (3-4 star) South African chain virtually omnipresent in cities throughout southern Africa. The quality varies by property, as we soon found out. The Thuringerhof where we stayed is centrally located and was cheaper but decidedly no frills and lacking in ambience; its sister property, Furstenhof, is more expensive but may be a better option for those looking for comfort. The Thuringerhof was obviously an aging hotel that Protea had purchased and remodeled. We received a discount during our stay because the hotel was painting the hallway and room on our floor and had covered the hallway with tarp plastic. The elevator was also broken. Porters carried our luggage up and down several flights of stairs from the postage-stamp sized fenced parking lot adjacent to the basement. We can’t really complain because the price was right in a country where lodging can cost $400-$500 per night, and the hotel was merely a base from which to explore the city. The complimentary breakfast each morning let us pore over our maps and plan our sightseeing strategy for the day. If you visit Windhoek on vacation, consider staying at the Thuringerhof if you place a premium on affordable lodging in a good location and can dispense with any other amenities.

Roadmap for future travels

I never seem to be able to keep up with our travels and happenings on this blog.  Here we are heading to Namibia for the first time tomorrow, which of course I’ll have to blog about, and yet I still haven’t finished narrating  the Kilimanjaro climb I did in January!  Life always seems to outpace technology, doesn’t it?  Our brains (still) process faster than a keyboard so that our fingers miss out on some of our thought waves.  Blogging can never keep up with real life, particularly when it goes by so fast.  Too fast lately, it seems.

Over the next couple weeks I plan to write a short series on our Namibia trip — assuming that there are some adventures to be told as we zigzag from Windhoek to Swakopmund and Walvis Bay to the Namib Desert and back on rough roads with a sardine can-sized car rental.  I have a couple more installments of the Kilimanjaro series to post, and then I’ll be done.  I hope to have the Namibia series written over the next month or so but will no doubt be interrupted by future trips to Lubumbashi, DR Congo, one final trip to Livingstone, and a visit to South Luangwa National Park in eastern Zambia, the last trip we’ll take in southern Africa before heading to our next destination in Asia via North America.  In the next six months my family and I will visit three continents and multiple countries en route to our next home in Bangkok, Thailand, which is a great jump-off point for regional travel in southeast Asia. 

While all this travel may sound “cool,” “awesome” or “exciting,” it’s going to be a grind.  Imagine packing up your entire life — including all that stuff you’ve forgotten in your garage or attic — and moving it cross-country every 2-3 years; then, imagine yourself moving half way around the world and getting everything you own — and yourselves — there intact.  When we finally land in Bangkok after having been back to the United States for a short trip to visit family, we’ll be more than ready to take a break from traveling.  For a few months at least until we head to Shanghai, China next February for Chinese New Year.  During all this travel I will do my best to document it with of course more random posts about issues of personal interest to mix things up.

So sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.

Kilimanjaro, Day Seven (continued)

Evening, January 1, 2011

Our leader August woke me up from a deep sleep in my tent at Kibo Hut.  It was late afternoon.  Nary three hours’ rest and we were on the move again!  My body begged for relief, but August insisted that we make it to Horombo Huts before nightfall.  I struggled to stretch my joints that seemed to be frozen in place despite the warm temperature.  My hands forced my aching feet into a pair of tennis shoes.  After over 15 hours in heavy weight hiking boots, they needed to wear something more comfortable, rough terrain be damned.  The cook asked voicelessly whether I wanted something to eat, but I waved him off.  Who needs food when you’re sleep deprived?

August accompanied me on this leg of the journey.  Kay and Tom, who were more rested than I, had gone on ahead earlier with their guides.  Horombo Huts on the Marangu (Coca-Cola) Route was at least three hours more down the trail, and at this late hour I was concerned whether we would make it to camp before dark.  I was relieved that the trail ahead was more gradual than what we had faced on Kibo Peak and would be easier to hike – or so I thought.  It stretched for miles past snow-capped Mount Mawenzi, a sight that left me both comforted and dismayed.  It gave me a renewed sense of purpose, yet it looked like a very long way to hike.  Horombo Huts was about nine kilometers down trail somewhere behind the mountain.  Great, I thought, still long way to go.

I left behind all my belongings save some light outdoor clothing and backpack.  I refused August’s offer to carry it.  We set off together, leaving behind the porters to tear down camp and follow us.  As I left Kibo Hut, I looked up at Mount Mawenzi and noticed the outline of what appeared to be two Buddhas on the mountain face sitting cross-legged with the palms of their hands pressed together prayerfully.  What an amazing view, I thought.  I wondered whether anyone else had seen these Buddhas or if I was merely delirious with altitude sickness.

At first walking was torturous as we picked our way down a rocky trail that looked as if it had been made by hikers too lazy to follow the Marangu Route.  I had better motor control in my tennis shoes and was able to keep my balance and avoid sliding, although I still used hiking poles as a precaution.  We joined the Marangu trail and headed southwest toward the park entrance 30 kilometers downhill.  August had insisted that we press on in order to shorten our hike on the last day.

As we hiked on the flattest terrain I’d seen the entire trip, August and I discussed the climb at length, going over what went right and what could have gone better.  He seemed genuinely interested in my suggestions for improvement.  I complimented him for his perseverance and thanked him profusely for helping me scale Gilman’s Point.  I gave him a plethora of helpful tips ranging from revising the route to eliminate the acclimatization hike to School Hut and differentiating his customers depending on age and physique.  I suggested other services he could add to his repertoire, including a massage service one of my companions had proffered a few days earlier.  I told him that although I personally appreciated his assistance, other members of our group have told me that they could have had a better experience and pointed out that even though he went beyond the call of duty to guide Betty, the route he chose may have been her undoing.

We walked and hiked for a couple of hours, eventually lapsing into silence as we ran out of things to say.  Along the way I took a few photos and marveled at Kilimanjaro rising up behind us like a lepress, the elegant beauty of Mawenzi, and the desolation of the mountain plateau.  I studied the landscape and noticed that the volcanic rocks littering the ground were twisted into odd shapes.  Some looked like distorted likenesses of distraught climbers whose faces were tortured by the horror of failing to make it to the summit.  Plant and animal life was sparse on the plain, yet I passed piles of dull-colored elephant dung along the way.  Curious, I asked August about it, and he responded that elephants once roamed the plain until a few years ago when the Tanzanian authorities fenced in the park to keep them out.  While I was disappointed the pachyderms had been deprived of their natural habitat, I couldn’t imagine running into one after coming off the mountain!

At dusk we entered a hilly area with more vegetarian and an uneven trail.  The sun had begun to set, casting shadows over the land.  I asked August how far we had to go and each time was met by a simple response of “not far.”  At first I was satisfied with his answer, but as soon as the sun dipped low on the horizon and the light faded I began to worry.  How far did we have to go?  Would we need to hike in the dark?  It dawned on me that I had made a mistake wearing my tennis shoes because the trail was now rocky, uneven and heading downhill at a disconcertingly steep angle.  August turned on his flashlight, but the beam wasn’t strong enough to offset the encroaching darkness.  I began stumbling over rocks and twisting my ankle, sending waves of pain up my feet to my knees.  Although I knew that our slow pace was on account of my weak condition, I scolded August for letting us to hike so late in the day.  The darkness and uneven path were a treacherous combination, and several times I almost tripped and fell.  August took pity on me and propped me up arm in arm.  It wasn’t enough.  As we tumbled down the dark path I did my best to follow along and let August catch me whenever I wobbled.  A guide met us on the trial three hours into our journey and half an hour after nightfall and grabbed my other arm.  The guide radioed ahead, and Minja met us minutes later.  I eventually abandoned trying to follow and let them push, pull, and haul me to camp.  The pain of being dragged over the rocks with my legs flopping around was excruciating.

We arrived at camp at 8:30 p.m.  It took three guides almost an hour to drag my exhausted shell of a body to Horombo Huts!  My 18-hour hiking ordeal had finally come to an end — but not without consequence.  For the first time I worried that I had injured my knees or legs.  I used my arms to pull myself into my tent; my legs were worthless.  Kay, who had been waiting for me at the camp for quite some time, gave me a hug and congratulated me for making it down in the dark.  I answered her with a faint smile and a sigh.  As an award she gave me a can of beer aptly named “Kilomanjaro,” but I couldn’t drink or eat a thing.  Once again I passed up dinner.  Instead, I simply crashed and drifted off to sleep.