Nehaveigur

Off the dirt track crossing a deserted mountain pass in northwestern Namibia, we encountered an ancient Land Rover stuck in the sand. Next to it stood its three passengers, desperate for someone to find and rescue them.

Even before I was born, my father had taken every opportunity to go on international business trips. During the cold war, Austria was neutral and not officially part of either NATO or the Warsaw pact and he was able to do business in places that were off limits to travelers from other Western countries, including communist Romania, the USSR, Iran and Iraq. When he retired, he continued to travel to faraway places. Sometimes, I got to come along.

That’s how in 1998, accompanied him to Namibia. I was 14 and was not aware how unusual it was to spend weeks in one of the most remote places of the planet, driving a four-wheel Isuzu truck through nearly unpassable terrain, sleeping under the southern stars, meeting the Himba people and seeing giraffes, zebras and elephants roam freely. Ever since, I’ve been drawn, by a craving I can hardly articulate or understand, to remote lands and open skies.

The three passengers standing next to the stranded Land Rover were a safari guide and his girlfriend, and a Bavarian adventurer. Daniel, the safari guide, had driven the vehicle into a sand pit at full speed. The impact had dislocated the battery, one pole had touched the car’s body, causing it to discharge completely and making it impossible to start the engine.

When my father and I came along in our Isuzu truck, they flagged us down and laughed with relief to see us. If we hadn’t happened through, it’s doubtful another vehicle would’ve passed anytime soon. The Isuzu had a second battery to power a mini fridge in the back, which we donated to them. After pulling them out of the sand, we continued the trip together.

More than a quarter of a century later, I sometimes think about our companions on our journey along the Hoanib River and through the Skeleton Coast.

Before becoming a safari guide in Namibia, Daniel had served in Germany’s Special Forces. He told me about his military training, which had included abseiling from helicopters and strategies to resist hostile interrogation and torture. For my 14-year old boy’s imagination, the part that involved sending an attractive woman to their holding cell to entice them to reveal classified information was particularly exciting. I haven’t heard from him since returning from Namibia.

Gangerl was a 60-year-old adventurer who inspires me to this day. Many years before we encountered him in Africa, he had built a sailing yacht in the backyard of his Bavarian farm. Once it was complete, he sailed it down the Danube and into the Mediterranean. At the time, he was only a little older than I am now. Ever since, he has been sailing around the world. When we encountered him in the African bush, his boat, the King of Bavaria, was in storage in the port of Nairobi. While he was older than my father, he seemed to have unlimited reserves of energy. He was charming to everyone including the natives, clearly a ladies’ man, never complained when one of our trucks broke down, we ran out of gas, drove through dust clouds for hours, or had our food supply chewed up by hyenas. In the evenings, while we were sitting around the camp fire, he told us stories of his years at sea, being attacked by pirates, braving storms, and visiting places few outsiders had been to before. I recently looked him up and discovered that he’s still sailing the world, even though is well into his 80s. I ordered one of his books and there, on page 137, I found our adventure in the African wilderness as it happened a quarter of a century ago, described from his perspective. It was the first time, and likely will be the last time that I’ve found myself mentioned in a book.