THE Sandwich Harbor tour

They all said that the Sandwich Harbor tour would be among the greatest Namibian must-do experiences. They all said the view of the endless sand dunes plunging into the Atlantic Ocean would be unforgettable and breathtaking. They also said we'd be blinded by the flamingos with their flashes of pink permanently seared into our retinas, and the jackals, seals, and kestrels would only add to the scenery.

I would say they were all right. For the most part. 

On a recent gonzo trip around Namibia with my best friend, her parents, and the kids, I included an excursion to Sandwich Harbor, a World Heritage Site located about 80 km south of Walvis Bay. It is indeed a menagerie of all the items mentioned. 

However.

We met with our tour guides whose names I have since forgotten. One announced that he hated children. The other saw my passport and immediately started demanding for a visa, complaining about the horrid, limitations Namibia had on offer. I had been in the car for less than five minutes. Onward he drove, skirting the town, into the marshy salt flats, and through reeds taller than the car. Onward, he complained and I continued to ignore, hoping to bore him into silence. Eventually we stopped to view several hundred, electric pink lesser flamingos hanging around a pond that was seasoned with springbok and jackals. We enjoyed the view and pretended these beautiful creatures didn't stink to high heaven.

Into the dunes, the ride became wild and stomach dropping as the guides gunned the engines to climb and curve around the huge piles of sand like a slingshot. I swallowed my barf more than once while the children screamed for more. Our guide stopped at a dune mid-saddle to allow our party to reunite and climb up for the grand finale view, where dunes meet ocean. Everyone made it to the top winded but unscathed, and we enjoyed an unobstructed view for about two minutes. Then the tour competitors arrived like moths to a flame, and out of 20 trucks spilled about 50 people about to do the same thing we were.

Our guides were incensed by everyone's arrival and wasted no time making their anger known to everyone who drove the dunes wrong, or ruined views of pristine sand with "ignorant" sand boarders and sledders. They shouted and cursed in Afrikaans and gestured like New Yorkers. Admittedly, it was disappointing to see so many tours swarm over the land, but when tourism is considered big business, and that the government had recently allowed more permits onto the land, it should have been of little surprise that everyone and their mother would take advantage to make a few bucks.

For the next few moments though, we would be at peace. The guides chose a secluded patch of sand to set up lunch featuring world famous Namibian oysters and champagne. I opted for water and crackers, but hey- I'm glad it was there. The guides ran off to commiserate leaving me to my friends and family. I filmed my best friend's first experience eating oysters and we laughed until we cried. 

I guess someone's Casio watch beeped, and time was up. We piled back into the trucks and returned north, driving at a moderate clip along the flat sand banks, dodging sick and dying seals, and past malnourished jackals who were waiting for their chance to eat. Perhaps he was feeling funny, or perhaps he was just a steaming spread of diarrhea, but my guide blurted out, "Normally I drive over the dying seals. Oh, would you mind if I drove over that one just now?"

I suppose there are things you do when it's just "you." I could see his perspective: in his mind, he would be putting the animal out of its misery. But, really man? You want to drive over a breathing speed bump while on a tour with kids in the truck? Turns out he was really and truly asking. I replied, "Sweet gravy man! Could you not? No thanks." 

We finally pulled into the sandy parking lot under the gray dreary sky that frequently drapes over the Namibian coast. He helped us out of the car, and asked to exchange emails should the miraculous day come that he could move his family to America. I shook my head and walked away, unable to say anything at all. Unforgettable, indeed.

Lesser flamingos.

Paired for life.

Also paired for life.

Sand duning.

THE Sandwich Harbor.
At least part of it...

Pink Lakes of Walvis Bay

After indulging on a desert tour, swimming in the ocean, visiting the aquarium, eating at massive amounts of fatty, fine food, and going to bed in an exhausted stupor for two days, it was my turn to choose. While I was researching things to do while in Swakopmund, I found a few blogs and travel sites that preached the glory of pink salt lakes located south of Walvis Bay. 

I decided I needed to see these for myself because the photos on the blogs looked ultra filtered and super fake. We drove toward Salt Works, also known as Walvis Bay Salt Holdings. It is Africa's largest salt manufacturer, putting out 700,000 tons of salt every year. 

Fun fact: evaporated seawater, once fully processed makes up a content of 99.4% sodium chloride. Water is pumped from the Walvis Bay Lagoon and dumped on what they call pre-evaporation ponds and concentration ponds. Wind and sun essentially brine the contents of the water to the point where layers crystallization can occur. The layers of crystals get scraped off and transported to a washing plant where calcium sulfate and magnesium are removed before undergoing further washing and drying. Bulk salt then gets shipped locally and worldwide from the Walvis Bay port. 

The southbound D1986 road leads you to the entrance of Salt Works, so if you veer right into the seemingly nothingness of the salt flats, eventually you will drive past the pink salt reserves on the left. 

And, yes. They are as pink as they look on the internet. The large plots of pink, salty, water are sectioned off by grey-brown dirt moats. The water's edges are coated with what looks like sludgy sea foam, but up close are actually salt crystals. I admit, there are one or two signs along the road that say "stay on the road" but I had to get a picture or two, so we stopped just long enough that I could jump out and get some. 

Beyond the salt flats, the road eventually peters out to a beach where people can stand in the wind and watch the ocean. Or maybe they could kayak. Other than that, there is little else out there. Except for birds. Walvis Bay is stuffed with pelicans, cranes, and flamingos, and makes the whole experience twice as pink. And about fifteen times more stinky. Wildlife. What can you do? 

At Pelican Point