From Keetmanshoop

I cross into Namibia at Vioolsdrift on Saturday after a quick ride from Springbok. I make the 120 km in 5 hours, barely noticing the sun. The breeze created by the bicycle, moving smoothly across the flat tar, keeps me cool. The view from the road changes gradually as I ride north towards the border: the pale scrub bushes thin, the deep red crusts of dried earth, that have flanked the road since the Cederberg, lighten and the grains of caked dust begin to loosen into sand. With only 10 km to the border the road winds between huge mounds of boulders that rise impossibly out of the dust. Just off the road a dead donkey lies on its side.

At Vioolsdrift I bump into three South African guys on bicycles, who are heading up to Windhoek. They ask if I wish to camp with them at Noordoewer. I am glad to have the company and Dewald, Ludi, Stefan and I head across the border to a camp on the banks of the Orange River. We stop at a roadside stall and pick up two quarts of cold beer each, which we strap to the bikes. The camp is set back 100 m from the river and as the sun drops Dewald and I take some fishing rods down to the bank and cast a line. The river is running fast and neither of us has much luck, but it is a good feeling to stand beside the river in the shade with the sun dipping behind the trees downstream. As we walk back empty handed, a kingfisher hovers and darts sharply to the surface, plucking a small fish from the water.

After a gentle rest day at Noordoewer, we set off at 5 am on the road to Ai Ais, a camp at the southern tip of the Fish River Canyon. It is still dark and I spend the first hour staring at the sky. As dawn approaches the sky blanches and then turns pale pink, faintly illuminating the rows of pylons that line the road. At the turn off to the dirt road to Ai Ais we stop for a smoke. Ahead I see two dusty white guys pedal quietly over the brow of the hill in front. They are wearing old jeans and no shirts and have ridden all the way from Kampala. It is surreal coming across others on bicycles emerging from the desert.

The dirt road is brutal on our bodies and the bikes. The bumps are relentless and every few metres the sand is deep and I must slow to keep from falling. The air is very dry and sand billows across the track from the rough. After 3 hours of riding we have only covered 25 km and the headwind seems to blow stronger and stronger. There is no shade for miles, and and we huddle behind a thorn bush, eating dry bread and a tin of tuna. We ride for another 6 hours under the same sun and into the same wind, growing more and more anxious. Only one car has passed on this track and our water is running low. At dusk we arrive at Ai Ais, having ridden for 14 hours.

We are all too tired to prepare for the following days ride so we take another rest day at Ai Ais. In the morning we walk for an hour up the Fish River Canyon. On both sides the rock rises steeply from the foot of the gorge. The river is low and it seems unthinkable that that it has carved out the Canyon. While we walk Dewald points out the tracks of mountain zebra, oryx and otter. He tells me the names of all the trees and even the stories behind the names: this is the Fever Tree - you can tell by the smooth bark... When early explorers came here they often got sick. They thought it was the trees that caused the sickness... In fact it was because the tree grows near water and drinking the water made them ill... This is why they named it the Fever Tree...

On Wednesday we set off early along the dirt roads to Hobas, a camp at the main mouth of the Canyon. The dusty track winds its way through high mounds of shear granite. Cycling in the pale dawn light through the red dust and dim shadows cast by the rocks, it feels as if I were pedalling across the surface of another planet. After a steady climb the road plateaus and runs parallel to the gorge for 60 km. At 2 we stop and pitch our tents behind a motel. After another days riding the dirt roads we have not passed a shop for 3 days and our supplies are very low. We stop in the middle of tha day at a hotel at Seehiem, a grand old building that sits at the intersection of two gravel roads. A group of fat South African men, downing rum and cokes in the midday heat, give us the leftovers of their barbecue. As we wolf down the plate of sausages they mock me for being English. I don't look up, simply happy to have eaten. That evening we wild camp on some farm land set back from the road. I fall asleep looking at the sky and awake much later to the sound of jackals howling close by. I drift off thinking about the tar road which we will rejoin in the morning and the prospect of a supermarket and internet at Keetmanshoop.