Snapshot in the Flow of Time

A magical moment on the gravel road north of Uis (through a region with desert elephants), just before sunset. That strange light… somehow lifeless. A tipping point. We drove endlessly straight. Out of nowhere, a gigantic truck appeared—like a horror-movie machine, full of acoustic and visual effects. A traveling carnival with a massive dust trail. Sardonically, Samuel grinned:

“Ghost train, Namibia edition.”

You were in your own film. For the first time since our first meeting, there was an outside force capable of breaking the invisible bond that had connected us until then. We touched each other tenderly and trusted one another so completely that in silence we understood each other better than with any language. Allowing each other so much space was a new experience—for both of us.

The closer we came to the Brandberg Massif, the more everything else disappeared. The monolith was a gigantic experience. Grooves ran across the rock like veins. In some depressions, red sand had accumulated—a result, I thought in an animistic way, of a ritual decay. But it wasn’t decay. Erosion is transformation. A shaping force in harmony with the elements.

What we saw was the work of millions of years, but not a final state. Only a snapshot in the flow of time.

Samuel cut the engine, and we listened to the crackle of cooling metal, gazing up at the rust-red glowing rocks. I saw waves of stone and frozen flames. A panorama like a hallucination.

A “yarn” in Australian slang is a half-true story, often from the Outback. A “bush yarn” is therefore an “Outback tale.” Samuel, too, entertained us with bush stories. As virtuoso as he was subversive, he played on the keyboard of European expectations (and prejudices).

The bodywork of his Land Rover was battered, the engine often wheezing, the radio silent, the seats worn through. But there was a satellite phone in the console.

With Samuel, everything was a matter of trust. We were usually far too travel-frenzied to be openly erotic, but occasionally you touched my bare thighs, and a spark hung in the air. Exploring my desire, your fingers glided over my skin. The dust-laden wind mingled with our breath. Your touches grew bolder; the unspoken whisper of desire grew louder.

Samuel was our grill master. In Namibia (especially among Afrikaans speakers), just as in South Africa, one says “’n lekker braai” to mean a cozy barbecue. “Braai” is the standard word for grilling, and “lekker” means tasty.

“Kom ons maak ’n lekker braai vanaand,” he said.

Samuel mixed German, English, and Afrikaans freely. He loved to spin desert yarns, delighting in our skeptical questions. He relished misleading us, and you offered no objection. Your aloof side remained invisible to him.

We explored the Brandberg Massif. Heat shimmered over the sparse landscape, yet in rocky depressions the air was often cool and moist. Shadows fell like monumental cloisters across the terrain. In cracks and hollows, we discovered endemic plants that barely survived elsewhere—ferns, succulent euphorbias, shrubs clinging to granite fissures.

I sensed time differently in this space. Every moisture-holding hollow seemed like a hidden reservoir of life. Tiny Gardens of Eden hid from the general hostility. Fragile wetlands in this hostile environment were miracles of nature. Wind, rain, and temperature fluctuations had carved the canyons into the massif. Natural shading slowed evaporation compared to the open plain. The higher humidity created a microclimate that favored the growth of living fossils. Thus, prehistoric impressions emerged.

“Here grows desert cabbage,” Samuel said. “It has survived in a world that has long been drying out.”

Using my field guide, I distinguished Welwitschia mirabilis from Aloe asperifolia and Arthraerua leubnitzia, the pencil plant, whose leafless green stems reflected the sun. It was as if time itself held its breath. I interpreted every sprouting leaf as a divine sign.

The ascent was steep, but not challenging for me—I’d climbed in the Himalayas. You barely kept up; veiled, Samuel and I took care not to disrupt you. I didn’t want to throw you off balance.

The first climb stole your breath, almost your footing. Not just the height made you uneasy. We paused at a spot that looked as if titans had hurled a settlement into stone. Below us lay a prehistoric refuge—a small paradise framed by overwhelming drought.