Spitzkoppe's campsite no 8 is sheltered from the western wind, so lighting your fire is easy.

Spitzkoppe is the place
Inselberg is the German word for an isolated mountain – like the Spitzkoppe – that rises above an otherwise flat, sparse landscape. Whether you approach them from Usakos, Swakopmund or Henties Bay, you’ll see their unmistakable shapes from far off. It’s as if the whole landscape and everything in it orbits around them, a magical compass needle that doesn’t seem to come any closer as you drive towards it. 

But when you eventually get there, no postcard image would’ve prepared you for their grandeur and scale. Gerrie’s “fantjie” is blowing quite hard when we arrive and we find a sheltered spot for our tent, a massive wall of rock blocking the wind off on one side. The cliffs rise above us, around us, towering natural buildings of immeasurable architectural beauty. 

The following morning we clamber up the steel chain that guides you into Bushman Paradise, a hidden kloof of stone, rock art and silence. The rock art is average, but the silence isn’t. It rubs out your senses like a duvet smothers a moth. As we head back out later, I stop at tracks on the sandy road. Yup, the unmistakable soft roundness of a leopard’s paws.


 

The Brandberg is a hulk of a thing, but don't worry, you don't have to drive over it.

...Except Uis
Today, in Uis, a dusty, warm wind is blowing – straight out of an advertisement for headache tablets. We bed down for the night at the Brandberg Rest Camp. It used to be the mine club, so it has a badminton court and a pool big enough to host a school gala. 
The tin mine closed down in 1990, but the mine dump is still there and as a result Uis still looks like a mining town.
Uis is a great staging post for a foray into the heart of Damaraland though – it has an OK Value Supermarket where you can stock up on just about everything. Up the street is a small tourism office that sells a mean home-made ginger-and-honey muffin, and down the street there are two restaurants. 

Basil Calitz from the Brandberg Rest Camp takes us on short tour of the town. We go see the pretty water-filled quarry at the mine and then drive up the steep side of the mine dump. Tafel Lager in hand, we nudge the sun down just to the left of Brandberg in the distance. 
Uis was a ghost town for seven years, but then someone bought the whole town and sold off property to sun-seeking Europeans. Today it is also a retirement town for people from the area. 
“Yes,” says Basil on cue, “Uis is just an old-age home. All it needs is a roof.” 
From a distance Brandberg looks less impressive than the Spitzkoppe, but it’s deceptive. Brandberg is a colossal knot of rock – it measures 30 km by 23 km. Its highest peak, Königstein, is Namibia’s highest point, at 2573 m. For the moment it waits for us on the horizon, a giant slumbering under a blanket of rock. 

The next morning we head for Brandberg’s premier rock painting, the “White Lady”. Early theories had it that the image was proof of contact with Mediterranean people, but these theories have been debunked. It is now believed to be a male figure, white because he is covered in a mixture of fat and milk (or white clay, or ash) and participating in a ritual. The short walk up the Tsisab River to the painting (30 minutes) is well worth it. The same panel also contains other great paintings, depicting 12 different animals such as zebras, gemsbok and delicate springbok – just a fraction of the estimated 1000 panels and 50000 individual paintings scattered around the entire massif. 

Gothardine IIGaroës (or just Gwen) is our guide. She gives us a demonstration of the four different click-sounds in the Damara language and points out a dassie rat. Dassie rats are the cutest little furry things; you can imagine one dangling from a rear-view mirror bouncing up and down to the beat of Damara punch. Damara punch? Nope, it’s not a fun sort of drink. It’s music. At Spitzkoppe already we started tuning into the local Damara radio station, on which they play a lot of Damara punch. It’s a bit like our kwaito, but sung in Damara and the odd snippet of Afrikaans (“Ag nee, wie’s die baas?”). 

From Brandberg we aim for Twyfelfontein via Sorris Sorris, a settlement built on hope and the banks of the dry Ugab River. We stop next to a colourful building, barely bigger than a caravan. It’s a kindergarten and it seems to be break time. The kids flock to the fence, and under the guidance of their slightly beleaguered-looking teacher, Petra Garoes, they launch into a song about elephants.
Petra tells us that they sometimes see 30 or more elephants moving up the river. Just to be sure, I ask her whether we are still solidly in Damaraland. “Of course,” she says, and points to her rowdy charges. “They’re all Damara kids; just that one is Herero.”

Some of the panels at Twyfelfontein are so full it looks as if the Bushmen were worried they'd run out of 'paper'

This fountain truly lives
Twyfelfontein is a holy place. As South Africans we are pretty used to rock art, but this truly is the Louvre of rock art sites in Africa. Instead of Mona Lisa, expect trippier things, such as the Dancing Kudu, or engravings of penguins and seals. 
The art here mostly consists of engravings chiselled into the sandstone. And there are plenty of them in an area barely bigger than two rugby fields. Different short routes lead you to the highlights – the Lion Man route can easily be explored in 80 minutes and the Dancing Kudu route in about an hour. The visitors’ centre is well laid out, with information boards, curio shop (postcards for those cousins in Perth) and a snack counter (cold drinks mostly, but that’s all you’ll feel like). It is Africa’s busiest rock art destination with 40000 annual visitors.

Twyfelfontein’s original Damara-Nama name is /Ui-//aes, which means “place among packed stones”. And it’s exactly what you see as you walk out of the visitors’ centre. You enter an amphitheatre of jumbled stone, of all textures and shapes, smooth and flat, rough and round, bulky slices of dry chocolate cake. 
You’ll also see the ruin of David Levin’s old farm house. He arrived here in 1948 and tried to make a living farming sheep. But, as the name of the spring indicates (Twyfelfontein translates directly as “doubtful spring”), there were no guarantees of constant water, so he left after 20 tough years. 
As you get closer to the rocks, the engravings begin to jump out at you. Some of the panels are enormous, wider than the widest wide-screen television. They sport the stuff of fantasy: lions with tails reaching for the sky, giant giraffes, that dancing kudu, rhinos with impossibly long horns and even a lion-man holding an antelope in his jaws. 
   
Just past Twyfelfontein on the, D3254 you’ll find the Organ Pipes, an interesting dolerite formation that stands out like organ pipes in a small gully. The D3254 ends (you can continue in a 4x4 in the general direction of the Doros Crater, but do your homework before you go) at a parking lot where the blackened slopes of the Burnt Mountain tell the story of a particularly hot period in this area’s geological timeline. We are camping next to the Aba Huab River and at sunset we are treated to an excellent sighting of the “desert” elephants of the area. They amble right past the campsite, feeding as they’re going, a calf struggling to keep up with its mother, a young bull about to rev a small tourist bus as it crosses the road. We sit back in our grins (and double gins) – this is Damaraland at its best. 

The next night we hit our sleeping bags early. With one foot already firmly planted in the river of sleep, we suddenly wake up. I hear tourists whispering in anxious tones. Then I hear breaking branches. I get into a daring new yoga position inside my kennel-sized tent as I strain to see through the gauze. A massive elephant bull is busy snacking away about 5m from my tent. 
“What’s that?” It’s Sam. She can’t see out of her tent. 
“Elephant. Shhh…” I whisper back urgently. 
“Shall we go sit in the car?” There’s no way we can get to the car; the elephant is closer to the car than we are.
 “No, just keep quiet.” I try to stay calm, but I hold my yoga position until, 15 minutes later (it felt like an hour to Sam), the bull moves away. The next morning its footprints lie around our tents like enormous pizzas for four.

At the Aba Huab campsite the elephants walk right past your front door.

And fun in Khorixas
We are now on the C39 gravel road heading for Khorixas. 
After our good experience with guides at Twyfelfontein, we draw the shortest straw at the Petrified Forest. How does wood become stone? I ask a logical question. The guide looks at the petrified log
as if it’s about to speak on behalf of every petrified chip of wood in the entire region. No, she’s not so sure how that happens exactly, but check the lekker year-rings on this one… 
A bit further along the C39 we are waved down by occupants of a stranded bakkie. It’s Norman Jager and friends. They’re out of petrol and would like to siphon some out of our tank. The second problem is a bit more complicated. They stay on the farm Bankfontein just over there and some skelm slaughtered a “pregnant ewe-cow” and they know who did it and they need to get to Khorixas as soon as possible to notify the police before that man wakes up because he is drunk and they found the hide of the ewe-cow and everything. Can we help? 
Of course we can. We have no luck siphoning fuel out of the X-Trail, something’s blocking the pipe, so Norman gets in with us and we continue along the gentle swells of the road. 
In Khorixas we drop Norman at the fuel station and buy him R30 of petrol. It’s Saturday and town is busy, but it doesn’t offer much for the casual tourist. 
But Sam and I refuse to give up. We want to have a good time in Khorixas. And no, we don’t want to take a picture of the Himba family positioned strategically next to the entrance of the hotel either. 
It’s Sam’s birthday and we hit the “China shop”, where she buys herself a tiara to feel special. I browse the blazers, but they’re all made for people who don’t eat a lot of red meat. 
 A man and woman enter the shop and laugh at us. They can’t believe we’re being tourists in Khorixas. “Nice T-shirt,” I tell the man, Rala Gowaseb. Moses Garoëb, ex-labour minister for Namibia, beams from his chest. “Nice shirt,” he quips back at mine sporting leaders of the Botswana Democratic Party. We decide to swap and do it right there and then. 
His friend, Brunnety Willemse, thinks it’s hilarious. I write down her name. “Send me a message on Facebook,” she says as they leave.
Facebook. Not a word I expected to hear in Khorixas. 
After a quick drive-by to the Laerskool Versteende Woud (and no, their motto is not “Slowly Does It” but “Vertrou op God”) I pop in at the local Swapo office for a haircut; Son’s & Cleo Barber Shop
rent a room from them. Angus Tjinyama sets upon my dusty scrubsies with a No 2 clipper blade.
In a CD shop we buy some Damara punch – Phura being one of the top artists. 
Now we’re having a good time in Khorixas!

The Vingerklip lodge is just south of the Vingerklip itself and really does offer good value for money.

And ancient chicken spoor
We hook a right off the C39, heading south towards the Vingerklip. After the more impressive Finger of God (between Mariental and Keetmanshoop) collapsed in 1988, the Vingerklip took over the baton to become Namibia’s most prominent stone statue. 
The Vingerklip Lodge is just south of the Vingerklip itself and really does offer good value for money. Its new restaurant, The Eagle’s Nest, is built on the cliff – part of the massive Ugab terrace – that towers above the lodge. There is no lift; you have to climb up 184 steps to reach the top. 
Huffing and puffing when we reach the top, all fatigue disappears – the sun is setting and we have a 360-degree view of the valley in all its majestic glory. We dine on braaivleis, salads and pap, then we brave the staircase back down to our beds. 
We’re up before the sun and Sam gets into position for photographs at Vingerklip. I climb up to the thin stem of the rock. Swallows, which nest in the pillar, flit about with soft tweets and down below in the thorny veld, kudu cows graze without alarm. 

We push on towards the dinosaur tracks beyond Kalkfeld. Just as we drive through the pretty Ugab riverbed (and with it comes the morning’s first tour bus), we see a Damara hornbill – it’s similar to the red-billed one, but this variation is only found here in Damaraland. 
For the first time in a week, the road gets quite boring, with only the odd cattle grid flipping the monotonous road from one paragraph to the next. Just as I tell Sam that it’s amazing that we haven’t had a flat tyre yet, I feel the Nissan limp under my foot. No ways! A flat tyre! 
I change it quickly and we’re off again. Every now and then a bakkie comes past, but it’s mostly donkey carts. We stop at all the donkey carts, because Sam has a soft spot for them. I swear we’ve photographed every single roadworthy donkey cart in the entire Damaraland. While Sam shoots away, I ask the names of the donkeys. Sersant, Merrie, Hans, Duiwel, Valie, Ou Blou, Vulletjie,  Diekies, Ribbok, Bacardi, Clutch, Gearbox, Jakob, Swartland and Die Dop are some of the names we encounter. 
Finally we reach the farm Otjihaenamaparero (sounds like a name you should pronounce with a mouthful of hot porridge) where the dinosaurs left their mark 219 million years ago. We park at the farm house and stroll through the dry spruit to the exposed rock bed – now as hot as a stove plate – on the other side.
The one set of tracks is big, it almost looks like an athletic hippo, though it was in reality made by a dinosaur that walked on its hind legs. What makes it impressive is the number of imprints – not just one or two – you can follow the tracks for about 30 metres. 
The other set is smaller and looks like it belonged to a cross between a bantam and a water leguan. 

The Happy Disharmonists in concert in Omaruru...Rhythmic clapping only seconds away,

Relaxing with the Germans
To enter Omaruru after a week in Damaraland is a pleasure: neat streets, lots of big trees next to the Omaruru River, the best Spar ever (it’s so cool in there it feels like a pool), coffee shops, restaurants, a great butcher, art gallery and antique shop. 
We set up camp in the municipal caravan park and the next morning we hobble down the main road to the Kaffeestube for breakfast. It’s in the back of the Wronsky House, or the White House as everyone calls it (even though it’s not painted white any more). 
All the other diners are speaking German. Wilhelm Wronsky arrived here in 1894, the first German in Omaruru. The beautiful building was completed in 1907. Today it’s Gudrun Murray’s place – apparently she was once the badminton champion of Namibia. 
I ask her if she ever played in Uis. “At the mine club?” she asks, “But of course.”
A man in a full blue overall walks gingerly up the steps and rubs his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the stoep. He looks at us as if we’re sitting at his favourite table, then strolls over anyway. 
“You won’t mind?” Of course not, we say. The waitress arrives and he orders, with very specific instructions. “Soft eggs and a warm plate.” He looks her in the eye. “A warm plate, please.” 
His name is John Bester and at 78 he knows this part of the world like the back of his hand. He’s a broker in Otjiwarongo, but also has a small farm on the banks of the Omaruru River (where we later visit his wife, Betty, to buy some succulents). His Skyline has done the trip between Omaruru and Otjiwarongo about 1200 times, he says. 
We have a long chat to John, even after his plate has cooled down. He asks if we’ve met Doc Craven yet, otherwise he can go and introduce us. Yes, Doctor Dan Craven lives in Omaruru! Well, not the rugby legend we know, but his son, a GP, who has lived in Namibia for most of his life. 
We meet Ender Frings, who drives a bakkie with kudu horns strapped to the grille. He invites us to a performance by a German a capella group. 
 At sunset in the back garden of a B&B, the Happy Disharmonists perform their versions of “Bonnie Brae”, “Something Stupid” and some German folk songs of which I don’t understand a hell of a lot. They go down a treat, loud applause ringing out from the rows of garden chairs. Afterwards we head, like many other attendees, to the Central Hotel for dinner.We eat schnitzel and waft at mozzies while a border collie comes to lie at our feet.
Besides Omaruru Souvenirs (in the Wronsky House) and the fantastic Bliss gallery and antique shop another must is Tikoloshe, situated just south of the town. The carvers here use tree roots to create highly unusual animal carvings.

Die Dop and Swartland wait patiently for their owner, Esegiel Kharuchab, to stop talking so they can push on to the Erongo Mountains in the distance.

Bull's Party and biltong salad
Today our trip comes to an end, our circle through Damaraland almost complete. We take the D2315 just outside Omaruru, then the D2316 to the left, aiming for the heart of the Erongo Mountains. The game farms and lodges here all lie within a wilderness area, but it’s a public road. We see gemsbok, springbok, steenbok, kudu, mountain zebra high on a slope, a shifty black-backed jackal and – just after we had casually pulled off the road and picnicked in a dry river bed – black rhino droppings in the road. 
After a while the D2316 reaches a cul-de-sac, so we retrace our steps. Back on the D2315, we run straight into action. A few vehicles are parked in the road and people are running around. By the time we stop there, the action is over. A baby giraffe was stuck in the fence, but it has freed itself and is running off, seemingly unharmed.
We begin to see signs advertising a “San Living Museum”, and take the turn in to a parking area amid attractive rocks, where we are met by Richard Kxao and Lukas G‡hao. They lead us to the shade of a big boulder where eight other San are seated around a fire. Originally all from Tsumkwe (about 600 km north-east of here), they were brought here by the owners of the farm. Previously they were unemployed; now they are a tourist attraction. You can go on walks with them to see rock art and learn about medicinal plants (R110 per person). I buy a wooden statue from them and then we drive on. 
Every now and then the heat waves wobble a donkey cart into view. Then we stop and chat and share our water and some left-over camping food. Thunder clouds have been threatening for the past few days, but we’re just too early for the rains. They refuse to crack open and deliver us from this heat. 
The final attraction on our list is Bull’s Party, situated on Ameib Ranch, a hiking and climbing paradise. Bull’s Party is basically just a cool jumble of rocks – giant rock eggs, half-moons of stone covering a few rugby fields, sheer cliffs–which got the name because it looks like a few bulls pushed around the furniture a bit during a wild party. You can also walk to Phillipp’s Cave, a national monument, which contains some of the Erongo’s finest rock art.
Just as I start fantasising about the gigantic biltong salad at the NamibWüste farm stall (it takes about half an hour of chewing to reach the lettuce), we get another flat tyre. At least this time we’re in the shade of a large tree in the Khan River. Tyre changed, the curious gazes of Damara sheep help us over the last hill into Usakos, where I drop the punctured tyre at the garage. 
It’s about time for Gerrie’s “fantjie” again, but the air is still when we grab a table at the farm stall.
Where shall we sleep tonight? I look at Sam. We know where. At one of the most beautiful places in the world: Spitzkoppe. 
One more time for good luck.

It collapsed on 7 December 1988. Also known as Vingerklip or Mukorob, it used to be a popular tourist attraction. It was near Asab, about halfway between Keetmanshoop and Mariental. Besides the normal erosion of the brittle rock of which it consisted, it is also believed that the powerful Armenian earthquake on 6 December of that year contributed to the fall of Mukorob.

Toast with hairdresser Angus Tjinyama at the Swapo office in Khorixas.

In the parking lot of the Namib Wüste Farm Stall an oldish Mercedes is facing the B2, where the slowest of roadworks are under way. Two women are seated in the front of the Merc. Directly to their left lies Usakos; 145km to their right, Swakopmund.
The sun-doused monotony of the scene is suddenly interrupted when a truck carrying an abnormal load (probably heading for the uranium mines west of Spitzkoppe) comes sirening past, shepherded along by traffic cops. The motorbike almost runs right over the soul in charge of flipping the Stop/Go sign. Then the disturbance is over.
Photographer Sam Reinders and I walk over to the Merc. We suspect Damaraland begins somewhere here, at Usakos.
“Wat maak mevrou-hulle?” I ask the woman in the driver’s seat.
“We are waiting for our ‘fantjie’,” she says, “and it’s late.”
It’s Gerrie Basson and her friend Louise Engelbrecht. Apparently a cooling sea breeze picks up in Usakos at about three in the afternoon, and they’re here waiting for it.
Gerrie tells me she and Louise “grew up and then halfway old” in these parts.
Usakos? “It’s just an old-age home,” she says jokingly. “All it needs is a roof.” It’s the first but not the last time a Damaraland town would be described to us in this way.
“Yes, it starts here,” Gerrie says when I ask where Damaraland is. She gestures to the dry river bed to her left. “When you cross the Khan River, you’re in Damaraland. From here to the north, to Khorixas and Fransfontein. And Omaruru in the east. And back down to here.”