Forbidden Land of Namibia

I’m standing on a dusty road, in a windswept desert, and it feels like the edge of the earth. I’m about to cross the invisible border into the Sperrgebiet – or forbidden zone – an act which, for the last hundred years, would have got me arrested, beaten or shot.

A lanner falcon wheels above me in the silence of the African wilderness. Nothing else happens, so I carry on walking.

The Sperrgebiet, a 20,000-square-kilometre region of southwest Namibia, has been closed to visitors since 1908 to protect the region’s vital and lucrative diamond industry from smugglers. As of this month, however, the area has become the world’s newest and possibly most amazing national park.

The opening of the Sperrgebiet has been a long time coming. Owned jointly by diamond companies and the Namibian government, much of the zone has already been mined out but an element of paranoia – and bureaucratic lethargy – has nonetheless prevented tourists exploring this region, until now.

Why is the Sperrgebiet so tempting for adventurous travellers? There are many reasons: its ecology, history, culture and its extraordinary landscapes – as well as some truly exquisite seafood. Thanks to its forbidden status, the Sperrgebiet is one of the most unspoilt tracts of land on the wildest continent on earth. Even if it were just meadow, it would be a curiosity but this isn’t just your average park.

The Sperrgebeit is a very unusual environment. Much of it is a desert where the unique flora is watered by fog which rolls in from the Atlantic Ocean, caused by the icy Benguela current flowing from the Antarctic. I can feel a fierce wind even now, as I stand on glittering Diaz Point, 20km south of Lüderitz.

Lüderitz is where most people will begin their Sperrgebiet adventures. This former German colonial town has its own odd and desolate airport (occasionally overwhelmed by sand dunes) which you can fly to from Windhoek, the Namibian capital. I drove north from Cape Town: it took two days, through some of the starkest scenery on God’s earth, but the journey was well worth it.

Diaz Point is spectacularly austere. The promontory is named after the 15th-century Portuguese explorer, Bartholomew Diaz, who landed here on his famous journey south, when he became the first European to voyage around the Cape of Good Hope and into the Indian Ocean. When he first stepped ashore in 1487 he must have thought he had landed in a waterless, windswept, cruelly beautiful corner of hell.

But that unhappy wind, apparently so hostile and bitter, actually carries some noises more encouraging to man: I can also hear barks and calls of life. The islands offshore are home to pungent cities of jackass penguins; the beaches are draped with thousands of fur seals, which in turn support a bloodthirsty predator, the strandwolf – a ruffian local version of the brown hyena - that devours vulnerable seal pups whenever it gets the chance.

There are plenty of other faunal and floral oddities in the Forbidden Zone. Right in front of me, the beach is littered with the corpses of gelatinous scarlet aliens – or rather, that’s what they resemble. In fact, they are huge Namibian sea-nettles, one of the world’s biggest jellyfish. Similarly unique insects, plants and reptiles all thrive in this But that unhappy wind, apparently so hostile and bitter, actually carries some noises more encouraging to man: I can also hear barks and calls of life. The islands offshore are home to pungent cities of jackass penguins; the beaches are draped with thousands of fur seals, which in turn support a bloodthirsty predator, the strandwolf – a ruffian local version of the brown hyena - that devours vulnerable seal pups whenever it gets the chance.

There are plenty of other faunal and floral oddities in the Forbidden Zone. Right in front of me, the beach is littered with the corpses of gelatinous scarlet aliens – or rather, that’s what they resemble. In fact, they are huge Namibian sea-nettles, one of the world’s biggest jellyfish. Similarly unique insects, plants and reptiles all thrive in this harsh environment: misshapen cacti that feed off the sea-mist; trees so poisonous the smoke from the burning wood can kill you; beetles that stand on their legs to suck the lifegiving moisture from the air.

Then there are the real stars: the famous wild horses of the Namib – remarkable animals that wander between the shifting Barchan sand dunes, the peculiar quiver trees and the looming violet inselbergs, the ethereal and dreamy mountains that rise with eerie abruptness from the Sperrgebiet’s yellow dust.

As I travel inland, towards Aus, I spot my first horse, wild and lonesome and loping across the dirt road. Then I see more – dozens, then entire herds. Kicking and rolling in the sandy heat-haze, they look like the ghosts of ordinary horses, roaming free in the afterlife. It’s a strangely haunting sight.

No one is sure how these horses arrived here. Some think they were released by an eccentric German, Captain von Wolf back in 1907, from the thoroughbred stables that he kept at Duwisib, a castle built at enormous expense in the nearby Naukluft desert. Another suggestion is that they originally escaped from British Army vessels shipwrecked off the Skeleton Coast: the boats foundered, but the hardiest horses swam ashore.

The most likely idea is that they are the last remnants of the Schutztruppe – the German colonial army, that once ruled supreme over SudWest Afrika - until it was defeated by the South African forces of the British Empire in 1915. Whatever the horses’ provenance, they are slowly evolving, and adapting to the dry conditions.
Reluctantly, I turn away from the mesmerising sight of these wild animals and head south. Several hours of bumpy driving along dirt roads – many of them deliberately unmarked on maps, some of them almost lost to the drifting sands (you will need a vehicle with good ground clearance if not a 4x4) takes me into one of the world’s greatest wildernesses. This is Fish River Canyon, now a national park – as well as an impressive geological phenomenon – that is linked to the Richtersveld Park across the border in South Africa.

And wow. I’m fortunate enough to have done some remarkable drives in my time: across the deserts of the south-western US, through the jungles of Vietnam, around the rainforests of Madagascar. But none of them – not one – can hold a candle to the drive between Aus and the South African border, along the gorgeous green ribbon nourished by the Fish River. It’s a vivid and winding oasis of life amidst the utter desolation of one of the driest countries south of the equator.

The loneliness is part of the canyon’s hypnotic appeal: at one point I step out of my air-conditioned car, into the 40C heat (wherever you go in Namibia, take a hat, sunblock and many litres of water) and the silence stuns me. I can see African fish eagles soaring in the infinity of blue, desert baboons are squatting under a camel thorn tree just 10m away, but I’m possibly the only human being for 50km in any direction.

It’s slightly scary and rather humbling – and it gets better. The road ducks and twists through gorges, along wooded cliffs and, at one point, nearly tips into the mighty river. Then, suddenly, it climbs out of the canyon and out onto a desolate plateau, dotted with the occasional square of greenery indicating a vineyard (this lost corner of Namibia, it seems, even supports its own vineyards).

Yet if all of this makes the Forbidden Zone sound too daunting for a holiday, don’t worry. There are outposts of luxury – halfway down the Aus road to Richtersveld is the bizarre mining town of Rosh Pinah: I say bizarre because it so opulent in such an unlikely setting. It’s like a well-to-do Arizona resort town dumped in the African desert: the supermarkets are shaded with elegant palms, there are pubs and internet cafes and restaurants serving eland (antelope) steaks in pepper sauce. Even the garages stock bottles of fine South African pinotage.

Where does this prosperity come from? The many forbidding signs denoting the Namdeb Diamond Corporation give the game away. Diamond Zone 1, as Sperrgebiet is also known, may be opening up to tourists but gems are still big business here - two million carats of fine diamonds are mined in the region annually, and Rosh Pinah is one of Namdeb’s more significant towns.

The most important diamond city of all is Oranjemund, on the Atlantic coast, 90km away down a gravel road. But don’t bother taking this road unless you have a very good reason, plus a permit from the police and an invitation from a resident. Oranjemund is one of the most restricted cities in the free world. Only those in the diamond trade are allowed in. Namdeb take their security so seriously that even pigeons aren’t allowed – they are shot out of the sky just in case someone uses them to smuggle gems.

A better bet than being shot is to keep going until you reach the South African frontier, then loop around on the main road back to Aus. This road is tarmacked and the going fast so you can make the journey in a few hours. But do take some time to view the scenery: springbok run wild here, likewise oryx, zebra, ostrich and klipspringers - these cute little antelopes bound across the rocky hillsides with the grace of female Russian gymnasts.

Aus is a good base for travellers because it has one of the most alluring hotels in Namibia, the Klein-Aus Vista. The chalets near the hotel restaurant are clean and comfy, and the food in the restaurant is excellent (game meats like kudu come highly recommended) but what makes Klein aus Vista so amazing are the self-catering lodges high up in the hills, about 10 minutes’ drive from reception.

The Afrikaans owners of Klein-Aus Vista have tried to make these luxury huts as inconspicuous as possible: lodges like the Eagle’s Nest are literally built out of boulders, with rocks emerging in the sitting room. Each comes equipped with a braai area, where you can barbecue your own boerwurst if you don’t fancy the drive down to the restaurant. The kitchens sparkle with equipment, there are fine wines in the cupboard, and the views across the veld and the desert, where the Succulent Karoo meets the dunes of the Namib-Naukluft, are incomparable.

The nights are, if anything, even more magnificent. The total lack of pollution makes these skies some of the clearest on Earth: you can see the stars as my African ancestors saw them. And when the sun eventually wakes over the Karas Mountains, you may spot mongoose or hyrax sipping from the water dishes placed on the terrace of every lodge. I was actually woken by a large desert hare and a bat-eared fox, right outside my window, squabbling over the remains of my al fresco supper.

The last leg of any Sperrgebiet journey will probably take you back to Lüderitz, and to the airport out in the wilderness. But it’s well worth lingering in Lüderitz itself. This seaport, with its lofty Lutheran churches and gingerbread Bavarian houses standing stark against the dust of the encroaching desert, has a surreal charm, surrounded as it is by intriguing ghost towns, slowly drowning under lemon-yellow dunes.

The nightlife here isn’t up to much – though diamond miners do get boisterous in downtown bars such as Rumours or Kapps – so the best thing to do in the evening is to enjoy the fabulous seafood in the town’s finest hotel, the Swiss-run Lüderitz Nest, with its neat little swimming pool sheltered from the winds.

The hake and the kingclip are always good, the rock lobster is excellent but my favourite was oysters. I had a dozen on the half-shell every night, fresh from the cold sea right outside. So accommodating was the Lüderitz Nest after the rigours of travelling around Sperrgebiet that I came for three days and ended up staying for 10.

On the last day, I drove once more across the yellow sands to the dunes where the wild horses roam. I sat there for several hours, staring at these strange feral creatures wandering gaunt and alone through the endless, hazy deserts like shades of a long-lost cavalry. It occurred to me that they were a suitably poetic symbol for one of the world’s strangest and possibly most remarkable of national parks.