To Otambura, hill of marble and myrhh

So the journey continued, with 2 four-wheel drives, 2 dogs, and 4 unusual and remarkable women whom I greatly value.   It was completely the right combination.  We were a spectrum of ages and backgrounds; and we were collaborative in the easy way that women often are.  Carol assumed the role of chief tea-maker. We had a small teapot which served 3.5 cups, too small for tea for all of us at one sitting, so a compulsive tea-maker like Carol was a requisite for the journey.  I was chief packer, at least for one of the vehicles, which was a good challenge for my rather poor spatial awareness skills, not to mention an ode to my expert-packer parents.

I caught up on sleep and began to wake up early with first light. We saw both sunrise and sunset most days, and we forgot what day of the week it was.  I had neither a watch nor a phone to look at, so I never knew what time it was either. It was a relief to let go of scheduling altogether.

We drove for another day through dusty Sesfontein to the ochre sand plains of Puros, through kilometres of mysterious fairy circles that none of the experts can explain.  In Puros, herds of oryx graze together with cattle, the lifeblood of the Himba people. 

Our camp was frequented by pearl-spotted owls and gurgling crimson-breasted shrikes. The landscape is arid, striking, and older than the human mind can begin to imagine.   The Himba are as exotic as the reputation that precedes them -- and for the most part seemed disinterested in us and the outside world, including the women whose 'traditional homestead' we visited.

From there, on to Orupembe on an unmapped 'back route’, which only allowed a speed of 20-30km/hr, and much of it up a dry river bed.  After about 3 hours of driving, and having not seen any sign of human life for all that time besides one other tourist group and a handful of unused Himba kraals, we came across a lone Himba man standing in the river bed, selling some crafts, probably one of the most remote hawkers in the world.  We had no common language with him, though he spoke a little Afrikaans: apartheid’s legacy found its way here, even to the remote northwest.

Not far from Orupembe was Otambura lodge, our taste of luxury for the week, with its infinity decks and views forever, blending into the dry hills. Groves of commiphora – the myrhh of biblical fame – are the defining characteristic of Otambura. 

They are a litany of curious trees, thriving on a bedrock of none other than marble. Threads of lava and ancient metamorphoses wind this way and that amongst the boulders. The metamorphic rocks of the Kunene date to over 1800 million years old, so perhaps no surprise that these commiphora trees are like a foreign language from a different epoch. Their papery peeling bark rustles, clicks, whispers in the air currents; they sport flowers and pods like I’ve never seen before.  Nowadays, the myrrh is harvested by ochre-clad Himba women and sold to L’Oreal as part of community conservation projects.

Our Otambura guide was a man called Onuva.  Alice and I visited his seasonal homestead on the plain, and met his sisters and wife, who were dressed in the traditional way, as most Himba women seem to be.  They were friendly, relaxed, proffered jewels - to which I succumbed – and a taste of woodsmoked maize porridge from the communal cooking pot.

Beyond the biblical trees, my enduring impression of Otambura is an all-encompassing night-time silence that makes me hunger for more.  One late night, I stepped out under the sky, looked up, even though I hadn’t planned to, and stood paralysed in complete wonder.  It sounds cliched, but I was bowled over by my own insignificance under its vastness.  Not much time for philosophising though....from there, the journey back south began and our final nights were spent in the happy crook of boulders near Sesfontein and Twyvelfontein respectively.