Trains, Buses, and Kombis: 5 countries, 3 weeks (Or, an epic trek in which I defied popular expectations and opinions by evading death)

Our route (A rough and poorly rendered approximation)

The moon was high over the hills of Swaziland when we left the house, and the babe (Swazi honorific for an older man - literally 'father.' Pronounced 'bah-bay') driving the taxi seemed as tired as we were. I was worried about how big my backpack was, whether it would fit into the kombi, whether we would be charged extra. Mbabane was sleepy-quiet when we arrived but some drunk teenagers stumbled by, sobriety beginning to arrive with the rising sun and cold morning wind.

By 6am, we had found a kombi to Joburg and had wedged ourselves and our bags into the back. We were joined by bags of flour and bottles of oil, and a good number of tired looking people. However, the kombi didn't actually leave until 10am, because it wasn't full enough. The trip was uneventful - it was faster than our school bus, and the seats weren't uncomfortable. When we got closer to the city, I climbed up to the front to ask the driver some questions.

"Babe, where does the route end?"

"Sit down and be quiet! I'll get to you."

I sat down. He took a phone call. When he hung up I tried again.

"Babe?"

"Shut up!"

It took a while, but eventually I communicated that we were trying to get to Rosebank mall - an affluent, safer area that we could buy groceries in while we waited for our bus to Zimbabwe. He nodded absently and waved at me, and repeated "Rosebank."

Once we got into the city proper, it became clear that we were definitely not going to Rosebank. He stopped at the Joburg taxi rank which is not somewhere you want to be if you're a group of women travelling by yourself. Actually, I don't think anyone especially wants to be there. It's packed with kombis (retrofitted minivans), buses, and taxis, and it's noisy with vendors hawking everything from fake Gucci belts to chilled oranges. We were three girls with massive backpacks - painfully stereotypical backpackers. If I had seen us, I would have wanted to rob us. We looked like such easy targets.

The second we stopped we were surrounded by cab drivers banging on the windows, shouting destinations we may want to go to, and lewd activities we may want to partake in. I hastily scrambled out of the kombi, leaving Julia and Shantzie in the back with our bags, and climbed into the front seat.

"I will take you to the Gautrain - you can get to Rosebank that way."

I like trains a lot, so this suggestion seemed like a good idea. However, none of us had taken the Joburg train before and we weren't sure that it was the best plan. Julia climbed to the front.

"Babe how much is the train? We'll pay you the same amount - Rosebank is so close, it's a good deal for you."

The babe looked sceptical.

"500R," he told us.

For context, we'd each paid 250R for the 5hr kombi ride from one country to another. 500R is about 50CAD, and Rosebank was about 2km away. It was an outrageous price. We told him that. The whole time, he was also conversing with people out the windows, handing rand out and accepting paper envelopes in return.

While we were trying to bargain him down, he started the kombi and pulled out of the taxi rank.

"Rosebank?" I asked hopefully.

"Train station," he told me.

Once we got to the train station, he told me to get out and check the train prices before coming back for the others, so I scurried across the busy road, frustrated with the situation. When I got back, he seemed more amenable to the idea of us paying him the cost of the train to take us to the mall, but then he started cajoling Julia for her number and asking us to sit up front with him so he didn't 'get lonely.' We decided the train was the better option and bailed.

We got the train to Rosebank with no issue, and spent the rest of the day getting groceries and hanging out with the mall WiFi. Our bus was leaving Park Station at 8:30 so we had some time to kill.

We made it onto the bus with no issues, despite our wariness about Park Station - notorious for pickpockets. The station seemed to be hosting someone's birthday party, so as we waited in line for the bus, the compelling rythm of South African house music pounded through the huge building.

Our bus to Bulawayo, Zimbabwe was supposed to take 12 hours, but it ended up being 16. It was ok. We had good views of the surrounds from our seats on the second floor of the bus, and we befriended an older woman from Bulawayo who treated us with motherly affection.

So far, all the women we encountered had been incredibly friendly to us. A few women on the kombi took us under their wings, sheparding us through the border. Mehdia, the woman from Bulawayo on the bus, got her daughter to drive us from the bus station to the train station. Another woman at the Zimbabwe-South African border made sure we had all our documents in order before pointing us the right way through the various counters. I think seeing three young girls travelling by themselves inspires more protective feelings than they might have if we were travelling with men, because so far I've not experienced such kindness from random strangers while travelling.

The bus crossed the Zimbabwe border with little fuss. Julia got into a debate about Brazilian politics with the border guards and we ended up taking a selfie with one. They also accidentally issued me with a double entry visa, despite not being allowed to hold a double entry visa as a Canadian. More on that later.

The scenery through Zimbabwe was surreal. In parts it was so dry, the landscape appeared grey. We passed small collections of rondavels, nothing arround for hundreds of kilometers. From time to time we would pass someone walking slowly along the road. I can't imagine where they were going. When we arrived in Bulawayo, it was about 1pm and we had been travelling since 5:30am the previous day. We got a ride to the train station, and tried to buy train tickets to Victoria Falls.

Precious, the ticket seller, looked sympathetic. "Victoria Falls? We don't have any first or second class tickets ..."

The train has three classes - first and second class are both sleeper cabins. Second class cost about 5USD per person for a spot in a three bed cabin, and the train takes about 14 hours. First class is either a four person, or two person cabin and costs about 7USD. We heard rumours that first class has wood panelling, but we wanted second class because we were only three people. However, economy is a ram-rod upright bench seat that they cram people into, and I think some people end up sleeping on the floor.

We all immediately launched into our sob story - "we've been travelling since yesterday," Julia told her. "We didn't sleep last night," Shantzie offered.
"Is there anything you can do?" I asked.

Precious looked sympathetic. "Look," she said. "I'll talk to the station manager - I'll try to work something out. Just take a seat and I'll see what I can do."

We sat on the benches. Finally, Precious called us up.

"I think he's on lunch break or something. I have to close up but come back at 4 and I'll talk to you again."

We wandered around Bulawayo with our backpacks, tired and frustrated and in need of a shower. It was Saturday, and quiet. Bulawayo is a dusty colonial town with wide streets and greyish trees. I felt sad looking at the cars coated with dust, the nearly empty bars that a few men sat in, sipping beers. It was not awful but it had a sense of meloncholy that seemed to have settled into the cracks in the sidewalk like the dust.

We managed to source some dubious meat pies from a place with an unsettling amount of flies, but it was cheap. Lunch for the three of us plus drinks cost about 6USD.

When we got back to the train station, Precious greeted us with smiles. "I got you a cabin!" she told us. We collapsed with gratitude, thanking her and telling her she lived up to her name.

It was another three hours till the train left so we camped out in the second class lounge - dimly lit by vintage chandeliers. It had old fashioned high backed Chesterfields, and the walls were panelled in dark wood. We had it to ourselves since we were the only ones who arrived three hours before their train was due to leave, so we were able to have wet-wipe showers, brush our teeth, and change clothes.

When the train was getting ready to leave, it was dark. We also couldn't find our carriage. Eventually, a man told us our carriage had been removed, so we were now in a different one. We went into the different one, but someone was in our compartment. So, being the brilliant problem solvers we are, we shoved our bags into the empty compartment next door and locked the door. No one came to check the cabin or say anything, so we figured we were fine.

The train was built in the 50s, and the years show. The compartment was panelled in era typical pale pink and green, and there was dirt crusted in the corners and over the surfaces. There was a sink in the corner - a clever bowl that pulls out of the wall and you tip back into a receptacle. It's bring your own water. There's a couch and a tall bunkbed that we were sort of parkouring into due to the height. Eventually we worked out that the back of the couch folds up into another bed, making a triple bunkbed with about 50cm of space between.

Somewhat delirious with exhaustion and a bit of anxiety, we crashed on the couch with a bottle of cheap sparkling wine and toasted the trip so far.

The next morning, we watched out the window as the train passed people standing by the tracks and the dust rose around us. The scenery was stark and harsh and gorgeous - baobabs reaching weirdly to the sky, and pale yellow hills rising and falling. We pulled into Vic Falls at about 10am with a sense of triumph. It was green and lush. The Victoria Falls Hotel was the first thing we saw - a luxurious looking white colonial building. A steady stream of determinedly khaki-ed tourists came in and out, tan bucket hats set at a jaunty angle.

We confidently walked into the hotel, set our backpacks down, claimed we were waiting for our parents, and availed ourselves of their sparkling clean bathroom facilities. We quickly left once a bellman tried to take our bags to their luggage holding room, and grabbed a cab to our backpackers lodge. The driver gave us an informal tour as he drove - pointing out restaurants, craft markets, and grocery shops. Victoria Falls was green and after the dryness of the scenery we'd passed through and the dryness of Swaziland, I felt relieved and refreshed by just looking at the trees.

It's a sweet town. It is relentlessly touristy with near identical craft markets and boutique restaurants where most meals sell for 20USD, and always, always, the khaki covered tourist ready for their safari come hell or high water. But sweet and safe feeling, which was nice to have after Joburg.

We were camping at the backpackers - 10USD a night plus 3USD for internet, so we pitched my tent and tried to take a shower. I'm not sure if it was due to Zimbabwe's 8am-8pm power outages, but the showers did not have water. We made due with using plastic bags and soap dishes to pour water over ourselves, using the sink taps. It was chilly but refreshing, and after roughly 50 hours of travel, it was just what I needed.

We spent about an hour at the backpackers, using the WiFi to let our families know we'd arrived, before we called a cab to take us to the Falls. It seems that cabs anywhere in Vic Falls costs a flat rate of 5USD so we paid up, figuring we could walk back. The entry rate to the park is also pricy, at 30USD.

The falls were incredible. We walked along them from viewpoint to viewpoint. The park housed so many tiny microclimates depending on how close to the falls you were. You start in rainforest and 20m later you're in dusty scrubland before climbing up sheer rocky bluffs. One 100m stretch wound along the top of the gorge. There were no railings or things to keep you back from the drop. You could walk right to the edge of a sheer 150m plunge down to the cloudy green river below.

The mist from the falls soaked us and we were delighted. I don't remember the last time it rained in Swaziland, and the damp, green smell reminded me of home, and of my childhood hiking through the Marquesan jungles. Rainbows spanned the canyon and the white mist obscured sections of river. I couldn't stop smiling and I felt so awake, despite the little sleep I'd gotten.

We stayed at the falls for about 2 hours - wandering, taking photos, and sometimes standing still under the trees, tipping our faces up to catch the water.

Then we started to walk back into town. We visited the River Brewing Company to have a refreshing craft beer, before finding a cheap chain pizza place and walking about 30 minutes back to our campsite.

The next morning, we packed up and left for the Zambian border at 9am. We walked from the Zimbabwean side across the river - the bridge spanning the 120m drop. People were bungee jumping off of it while we walked, and we stopped for a while to watch the white water kayakers spin and plunge through the rapids, disappearing amongst the foam before popping up, waving a paddle at the sky. We crossed the Zambian border without trouble, and got the free shuttle to our next backpackers. We watched through the windows as large baboons galloped through traffic, stealing fruit.   One security guard took aim with a slingshot.

The Zambian backpackers had real beds and real showers and a pool and we stayed for three nights. We ended up getting a three bed room so we had privacy and security. It was very nice - the first night, we spent about five hours talking until late with two Brazilian guys, and two German and New Zealand guys who were travelling together. Julia and Shantzie switched between Portuguese and English, and we all shared stories from our trips and laughed when the power went out for about 3 hours, leaving us in pitch darkness. Most people were a bit older than us, but very friendly and curious about how three girls from three different countries ended up backpacking through Southern Africa together.

We also checked out a local craft market - it was a collection of stalls that were all selling variations on the same thing. It felt a little sad that they all had to attract the few tourists by competing over whether one bracelet was slightly better than another bracelet. I ended up getting a pair of loose pants that reminded me of ones I got when I was visiting Indonesia.

I liked Zambia. It's quiet and the people are friendly and the streets are dusty but clean. We wandered through a local market selling plush blankets and tiny dried fish and spices and shopping bags and I was reminded of the markets of my childhood - holding my mother's hand and bargaining over a bag of tomatoes. Zambia felt more familiar than other places have to me so far. It was also cheaper - a nice chicken kebab cost 17 kwacha, or about 1.70CAD.

The days we spent in Zambia were calm and relaxing - we slept late, lazed around by the pool, and spent a few evenings playing cards with the guys we  met on the first night. We bought fresh fish from the Zambezi River to cook for dinner. We left after three days and headed back to Zimbabwe.

That border gave us a bit of trouble. As I mentioned above, the first Zimbabwean border between Zim and SA issued me with a double entry visa - meaning I could re-enter Zim without having to pay. So, I assumed it was fine. Because I held the double entry visa, I didn't bother buying the tourist Unicasa visa that would allow me to travel between Zimbabwe and Zambia at a cheaper price. When we got back to the border between Zimbabwe and Zambia, they told me I would have to pay another 75USD for another single entry Zimbabwe visa. If I'd bought the Unicasa, I would have only had to pay about 25USD so the mistake cost 50USD. Although it was frustrating and it cut into my budget more than anticipated, the Zimbabwean border guards were apologetic and friendly, and did their best to make it an easy process.

After crossing back into Zimbabwe, we wandered around through craft markets and fairs while Julia and I waited for our train. Due to Guatemalan visa restrictions, Shantzie would be flying direct from Victoria Falls to Windhoek. Julia and I would take the train back to Bulawayo, then a train to Francistown, Botswana, another train to Gabarone, before taking a shuttle to Windhoek to meet Shantzie and catching a bus the same night to Swopkotmund.

For the train to Bulawayo, Julia and I managed to snag a two person, first class cabin for 6USD each. The ticket seller tried to sell us tickets for 20USD each. He said the 6$ rate was a "locals' rate." We were unconvinced. I think it was just the fact that the novelty had worn off, but the cabin seemed worse than the first. We made the mistake of trying to clean the mattresses a bit with wetwipes, but quickly realised we would never get all the dirt off and gave up, resigned to the mud that was sunken deep into the cracks of the faux-leather mattress. I sound bitter at this point, but I'm writing this after walking around all day with my massive backpack, crossing the border on foot and walking to the train station, I'm hot and sweaty and covered in mosquito bites, and I believe our cabin is located uncomfortably close to the train toilets. Julia and I have opted to forgo liquids, rather than brave the bathroom. The train was supposed to take 10 hrs but ended up being over 16.

Bulawayo was busier this time. The whole time we were in line to buy tickets, people came up to us, asking if they could 'swipe' for us. There's a serious lack of hard currency in Zimbabwe, so the idea is that they pay with their cards and we pay them in cash. I don't know if it's a sign that the economic situation had worsened in the few days we'd been gone, but it definitely made me more aware feeling.

It took two trains to get to Gaborone, Botswana. Both were infinitely cleaner, and considerably more punctual than the Zimbabwean trains. We also met a lovely Botswanan man who knew about Waterford and asked us about our journey. He was very helpful with the border, and it was really nice to talk to him about his travels around Southern Africa. As the train carried us towards Francistown, the rich blue sky bled into the tangerine coloured horizon, the silhouettes of the bare trees standing out harshly and starkly.

We arrived in Gaborone at about 6am, and crashed in an empty mall until about 10. We then braved the kombi rank to try to find information about the shuttle that would take us to Windhoek, Namibia the next morning. It was bright and loud - the women; dressed gorgeously in full-skirted dresses and delicate high heels, the men; yelling at us from across the road, asking where we were going, asking where we were from. It had a different atmosphere from the Joburg kombi rank. I still didn't feel entirely comfortable, but there wasn't an active sense of danger the way I felt in Joburg. We asked around and had no luck, so we decided to go to the guesthouse where we'd be staying for the night to try to call the company.

Unfortunately, we found out our bus had been cancelled and there would not be another one till Friday. Obviously we had to get to Shantzie, in Windhoek, and when we crossed into Botswana we only asked for four days on our passport stamps. We panicked, a little bit. We also hadn't slept since Thursday night and it was now Sunday afternoon, and we'd been on three back-to-back trains. It had been a lot. After showering at the guesthouse, we packed back up and took a cab back to the kombi rank. Our driver was incredibly helpful. He sheparded us around from random travel office to bus stop to kombi driver. At this point, we wanted to take a kombi to Pretoria that night, arriving late that night, sleeping somewhere in the city, and taking a 5am bus the next day to Windhoek. It would've taken a lot of time out of our plan and we might not have been able to meet in Windhoek in time to take our train to Swakopmund. After spending a good 45 minutes wandering around and asking different drivers, we also pieced together another route - taking a local overnight bus to a town near the border, taking a taxi to the border, and getting a kombi for the 300km to Windhoek. We weren't sure if the plan would work - we didn't have schedules, and both of us were stressed and worried. We retreated to the nearby mall to look for more options and talk to our parents. At this point, it was starting to get a bit dark and we needed to make a decision.

Our parents urged us to fly. It felt like a cop-out - like we weren't truly embracing the do-it-alone, try-everything backpacker lifestyle. I'm lucky and privileged enough to have parents that are able to help when I mess up and get into a tricky situation.

To be honest, the long haul from Zambia to Gaborone had started to detract from the holiday vibe.The buses and trains were starting to make my neck and back act up - I was in a car crash two summers ago and still experience pain from that, so looking at our long options made me want to cry a little bit. If we'd taken the bus-taxi-kombi option, we would've had to leave that evening, with no sleep, arrive in Windhoek and immediately take another train. It would have been a 7 leg journey with no stops.

So, we decided to fly direct from Gaborone to Windhoek. When we got the airport - after having recieved a crash course in Botswanan democratic systems from our cabbie - our flight had been shifted to the 9th of September. We begged the very nice people at the Air Namibia office to use their phone to call our third party booking website and after a very stressful 20 minutes where various people came and loomed at me and muttered about the cost of international calls, we canceled our flight. It was back to plan b (or as my mother called it, 'Plan What The Fuck') - bus-kombi-kombi. We would take the bus to a town in the middle of the Kalahari desert called Ghanzi and sort out the rest when we got there.

The bus left at 9pm from the bus rank, which is not the most friendly place. It's dark and people shout and follow you and ask for your number, and when you ask the bus driver where they're going, they mutter something and then look off into the distance. Julia and I managed to get aboard the bus, and sat there for about an hour before it left. During that time, an uncomfortably friendly salesman came aboard and wouldn't leave Julia alone, and two guys started fighting in the aisle next to us. Despite that, the rest of the trip was uneventful and I got some sleep! We arrived at Ghanzi in the dark, at an empty bus rank. The taxi wanted 1500P to take us to the border - about $160 for a 230km stretch, so we opted to wait till sunup and reassess our options then. I was very worried. We were in the middle of nowhere, with dwindling funds, no sim card, and I doubted we would find Wifi anywhere. Our options were extremely limited and I was exhausted.

At about 8am, we walked to the nearest petrol station and inquired about more bus options. The general consensus seemed to be that no buses would go straight to Mamuno border crossing - rather, we could take a bus to Chelsea (something I was puzzled by, as it didn't show up on any maps) and 'hike' to the border. We worried that Chelsea might be even farther away and we could be left stranded. At this point, Julia had also picked up a nasty bug and was having difficulty breathing and was experiencing a lot of pain. We were both worried and stressed as we watched the sun rise over Ghanzi. Despite the worries, I couldn't help a bit of excitement as I watched the sand move under my boots. We had made it to the Kalahari.

Ghanzi is a small town of 12,000, so it was easy enough to find the road out of town and the sign pointing to Mamuno - 230km away. We stuck out our thumbs. I don't think two minutes had passed before a man in a truck stopped. He wasn't going to Mamuno, he explained, but he could take us to the turnoff 60km away where there might be more traffic and the possibility of a bus. He was incredibly kind - pointing out points of interest as we raced through the scrubland, describing the geological history of the part of Botswana we were in. It was still chilly and the sun was casting shallow orange light across the flat dry land. The trees and shrubs - low and scraggly - were hundreds of different shades. Lime green and ashy yellow and pale orange and rich brown. I was still worried, but we were moving closer to Windhoek. In a stroke of luck, he dropped us at the turnoff just as a kombi arrived that was going straight to Windhoek. The guy we hitchhiked with hopped out to chat to the drivers and ensure we got a good price. When he saw us hesitate over the quoted funds for a minute, he looked worried.

"Do you have enough money? Do you need more?"

We never exchanged names. I know that he was driving to the Eastern Cape and was planning on eating avacado for lunch (I saw the Tupperware) and owned a Patagonia backpack. I know he was willing to stop for two random girls and ensure that they were as safe as he could. We reassured him we were fine and hopped in the kombi.

(That being said, please do not hitchhike, and especially not in Southern Africa if you're two women by yourselves. It's dangerous and stupid and the only reason we did it was because that was the option we had. Do not go out of your way to do it - exhaust all other options before taking that one. That being said - if you end up doing it, ask where the person is going, don't tell them where you're going. Less risky.)

It was a long day. The minibus was filled with guys from all over - Mozambique and Angola and Namibia and Botswana and more. Julia spoke in Portuguese with some of them. The driver immediately became protective of us, referring to us as 'his babies' and telling off the other men if he thought they were bothering us. We chatted with them a bit and made it to Windhoek by about 2pm.

Along the way, the bushlands rolled out. Ostriches stood by the side of the road, looking like they were waiting for someone. The sun was hot. The land was flat. The sky was huge and I felt like I was in the perfect hemisphere of a snowglobe.

We met back up with Shantzie in Windhoek at the kombi rank and immediately climbed aboard one that was leaving 'now-now' for Swakopmund. We waited for about two and a half hours, during which we caught each other up on our adventures. Then we started to get frustrated so I went to talk to one of the kombi guys.

"Soon" he promised.

It was not soon.

By the time I talked to him for the third time, I had lost what little patience I possessed and went on a slight rant. He directed me to the driver, who was playing dominoes and I repeated my speech, doing my best to look important and haughty despite having been awake for over 24 hours. He was distinctly unimpressed looking, but by that point other passengers got out to complain too. It took a while longer, but we eventually got on the road. The driver's music choice yo-yoed wildly between twangy country music and waily and strangely upbeat hymns that the woman behind me sang along loudly to. She had not been blessed with an especially tuneful voice.

I had never been in this part of Namibia before. Although dramatically different from the rolling sand dunes you find around Luderitz, the low red hills and bush were blisteringly lovely. I've always had mixed feelings about deserts. I love the fact that they are teeming with life and diversity, that the flora and fauna is tough and hardy, that the sky is huge and the sunsets feel monumental, and that you feel removed from anything but the road in front of you. I hate the dryness that seems to reach my bones, the flatness and feeling of entrapment, the fact that wherever you're going, it won't happen quickly.

I was able to concentrate on the love I have for deserts for this drive. As the sun sank, the bush left Matisse cut-outs against the blue-orange-pink gradient of the sky - the scraggly, stunted shapes seeming unrealistic and strange.

We arrived in Swakopmund at night, but I knew we were near the ocean. The humidity seemed like a hug, and I felt like I could take deeper breaths. We fell asleep, and I thought I could hear the waves.

The next morning we explored the town. Our backpackers was maybe 80 metres from the beach - as we walked down the wide, empty road to the sand, I kept smiling. During my time sailing around the world, I became, (according to my parents, a 'beach snob'.) I rarely ventured forth to spend much time on a beach that didn't meet my elevated standards. Three years ago, this beach might not have. It plunged sharply. The water was green grey and the sand was a yellowish ashy black. It was overcast. I could see rocks under the surface of the swells. I couldn't take my eyes off the water.

Sometimes it's windy in Swaziland. Sometimes the wind is even a bit cold. Nothing feels the same as cold wind off the ocean, whipping your hair back and turning it into a mass of salt-filled curls. When I looked out, the ocean didn't stop. There was no interruption, no encroaching buildings. Despite my lack of a boat, I felt like I could go anywhere if I wanted to. I could leave, I could run, I did not have to stay anywhere, if the ocean was at my feet. It took a while before I could look away.

That afternoon we ate perfectly crispy fish and chips from a beach side food truck, and explored. Swakopmund is quiet. The streets are so wide you could put a row of houses in the middle to divide the lanes. It's clean and sandy and the architecture is mainly pastel coloured colonial buildings.

Swakopmund was the longest we spent in one place and I think it was a good decision. Swakopmund is very touristic, and as sad as it is, I felt safer there than I had anywhere else so far. We could walk around without being catcalled and no one hassled us to buy anything. It was nice to feel inconspicuous, to feel secure, to know how to get around. The food was also good - we took advantage of the close proximity to the ocean to eat as much seafood as we could afford. I devoured fresh oysters and Shantzie even gamely gave one a try.

On the weekend, we booked a kayaking tour with seals - along with Vic Falls, this was our big splurge. We drove along the beach in a 4x4, looking at flamingos and desert dogs and huge white pelicans. There's a massive seal colony just outside of Walvis Bay, and because they don't have predators in Namibia, they're very friendly and calm.

We kayaked in the shallow water off the beach with seal pups swimming all around. They swam under the kayaks, scratching their backs on our paddles and occasionally chewing on the end of one. From time to time they would roll over to present their bellies for a pat. The weather in Swakopmund for most of our stay was fairly cloudy and windy, but lucked out with this day. It was perfectly sunny, a cool breeze blowing off the water. It was a lovely day. We spent two hours paddling around with the hundreds of pups, getting splashed and laughing at their antics. At one point, one jumped up and bit the arm of Shantzie's raincoat, trying to pull itself aboard. It gave up and went for me, worrying the arm of my jacket like a dog. We were laughing too hard to worry much about it.

We left Swakopmund on a Tuesday, arriving in Windhoek in the afternoon, before catching a train to Keetmanshoop in the evening. In the ongoing game of 'Rate That Train' that I've been playing since Zimbabwe, I think the Namibian train takes bottom place. It was an overnight train, but they were sold out of sleeper cabins. Economy class seats didn't look drastically different from Business class, and were much cheaper, so we opted for them. While it may have been cleaner than the Zimbabwean trains, it lacked the security of a lockable door. Additionally, it was hellishly hot, even at night. In terms of feeling safe, a group of guys were getting drunk in the seats in front of us, some of them sitting on the floor. This was not a comforting place to be in at nighttime, by ourselves. In comparison, both Botswanan trains had security guards and were sparkling clean and modern.

As the night went on, the man across the aisle from us began to snore. I did not know it was humanly possible to snore that loud. The conductor whipped out his phone to record the occasion. From time to time the guy would wake up, coughing, and giggle to himself. Julia looked murderous, and I felt the same. At some point, one guy pulled a bundle of blankets off the floor and dislodged a child who was fast asleep within them. I think he smuggled his son aboard to avoid the extra ticket price.

When we pulled in, I was exhausted, with a nagging headache. We caught a kombi to Luderitz and arrived at midday. I had been to Luderitz about 4 years before, on my boat while we waited for a weather window to cross the Atlantic. It was odd. I remembered the exact path back to the yacht club where I had spent hours playing pool, and we sat at the waterfront that I remembered. Luderitz had been a sad place for 14 year old me. There had been no one my age around, it had been cold and windy, with little to do. I remember eating oysters in a small cafe, and driving to an abandoned diamond mining town where the houses were half buried in golden red sand. Luderitz now didn't have the same wistful emptiness that I remembered. There were more people in the street, more cars. It was cold and windy but it was different with friends, and felt more like an adventure than the trapped feeling I remembered from before.

That night we had a drink at the yacht club and ate fresh oysters at the cafe I had gone to years before. On our way back to our backpackers, the wind whipped sand across the streets, against our ankles, into our shoes.

I spent my birthday on the road watching the dunes turn to scrubland and bushes. It took us 11 hours in two kombis to make it back to Windhoek. We'd encountered some issues with our route back to Johannesburg. The plan had been to take a kombi back to Keetmanshoop, then catch a bus to a town in South Africa and immediately catch another bus to Joburg. Unfortunately, the buses overlapped and we couldn't make them. We had a time constraint as well - we had to be in Johannesburg in time to catch the bus back to school.

We ran through a series of options - kombis, trains, different buses. None of them really panned out. We were also slightly concerned about taking a kombi back to South Africa, with the ongoing unrest in Joburg. We were sure it would be fine, but we also wanted to be aware of the situation and be as careful as possible. After spending a good hour brainstorming and panicking a little bit, we contacted our parents and discussed flights. We ended up getting tickets out of Windhoek straight to Johannesburg, so it was easy enough to get back to Windhoek via kombi.

For my birthday, Julia and Shantzie bought a cake that we ate with our hands, sitting on the floor of our backpackers. Birthday messages came in from around the world. I don't especially like my birthday, but this was a good one, even though it was my first birthday away from home.

The next day we made it to the airport - crossing our fingers that the plane wouldn't be delayed, that our check-in would work, that our bags would be ok. It was fine (as it normally is - it's possible Julia and I were mildly traumatized by our experience in Gabarone.) It was a quick flight to Joburg, where we stayed the night with a lovely, hospitable friend, and her wonderful family. Her mother was so maternal I nearly cried - she plied us with scrambled eggs in the morning and packed us a lunch for the school bus, even though her own daughter wasn't going with us.

When we arrived back at OR Tambo to catch the WK bus, our schoolmates expressed varying levels of shock and surprise that we had made it back alive and without suffering grevious bodily harm. The level of surprise seemed to be based on how well they knew us - close friends tended to be more shocked that we were not dead.

The six hour bus ride back to school seemed like a pleasant afternoon drive.

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Over the course of three weeks, we made it to five different countries and travelled many, many kilometers. We were helped by strangers and had once-in-a-lifetime experiences. We ate some really bad food - (pasta sauce and tinned tuna on bread, anyone?) and slept on some truly terrible mattresses. We got on each other's nerves. We watched too much Netflix. We saw the sun set in the middle of the Kalahari desert. We played with seals in the Atlantic ocean. We stood at the edge of Victoria Falls. We sampled a good deal of iconic national beers. I pared my skin-care routine down to two steps (plus sunscreen.)

This is not a trip I want to repeat without having access to a car and more money. I am incredibly happy I did it and I'm proud of both me and my friends for managing it, despite mess-ups and complications and tears. I think it reminded me of a lesson I internalized while sailing around the world - if the boat is not actively sinking, (or if the kombi continues to drive) don't panic.

(A note on photos - I'm very sad that the internet hasn't been cooperating enough to post more photos. I've been trying to upload them over the past few days with no luck, which is disappointing. I did post quite a few on my Instagram!)

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Glossary

Kombi - informal public transit. It's a minibus that runs a route that mostly stays the same, except if it's a Thursday and it happens to be raining, or if your name is Fred, or if you happen to be wearing a blue shirt and whistling at the same time. Passengers pay a flat fee to the town that they're going to.

Taxi/Kombi rank - pick up and drop off places for taxis and kombis in cities. Loud, crowded places. Beware of pickpockets.

Backpackers lodge - Some people didn't know what this was? It's a hostel, basically. Cheap accommodation for backpackers.

(Exchange rates: at the time of travel, it was about 13R to 1USD and 11R to 1USD. The rand stays equal to the Swazi emalangeni and the Namibian dollar. The Zim dollar was at about 10 to 1USD, and the Zambian kwacha was at about 14 to 1USD. The Botswana pula was at about 12 to 1USD.)