Walfis Bay

Early morning in Walvis Bay. I meet Alfred, who waits by his 4x4. An energetic and warm man - we set off toward Sandwich Harbour. Fog hangs thick over the salt plains. We push through the sand at just above 100 km/h - nothing ahead but soft outlines and shifting dunes for about an hour.

A lone seal crosses our path. “When they know it’s time,” Alfred says, “they leave the herd and go to the beach to die.” Not scientific - but something observed.

We pass the salt mines, ghostly in the fog. Endless white plains stretch out, cut by straight industrial lines. Massive trucks crawl slowly across the flats, hauling their loads, dwarfed by the sheer scale of the operation. The air smells faintly metallic, the machinery a stark contrast to the silence of the desert.

The famous view of Sandwich Harbour - where the Atlantic crashes into the towering dunes of the Namib - eludes us in the fog.

Back in town, we stop briefly. Two women in official uniforms approach - friends of Alfred. Sergeant L and J. There’s quick banter, shared laughter. The kind that only happens among people who’ve known each other forever.

Later, we head to Dune 7 - the tallest dune in Namibia. Santos joins us - dripped out in Versace, Lacoste and Gucci - he guides us on quads along the ridges, the wind pulling at our backs, Walvis Bay glinting below.

Namibia’s desert is more than 55 million years old - one of the oldest on Earth. The silky smooth surfaces will stay with me for a while.