Driving 'The Beast' through Africa
Etosha and Angola
by Isabelle Demaeght, July 29th, 2025
While I am blogging in the Oppi Koppi restaurant, Javier walks in. We met the young Spaniard just before the border crossing between Ivory Coast and Ghana. At the time, he was feeling a bit down, somewhere halfway through his solo trip from Spain to Cape Town in an old Honda. At every turn, he seemed to doubt whether he was still up for it. Adriaan read the error codes and found a solution to the starting problem. But that was three months and a few thousand kilometers ago. Adriaan didn't realize that he had helped Javier out of his slump, and now the latter has reached Namibia. Via the “difficult” countries that we have bypassed.
It's one of the peculiarities of traveling: you always meet up again somewhere, even if it's on a completely different continent or in a different state of mind. After five days of rest (at Oppi Koppi), we decide we've had enough and move on to one of the largest safari parks in Africa. Etosha National Park covers an area of approximately 22,000 square kilometers (the whole of Belgium is ± 30,000 km²). Initially, I don't feel strongly about it — for me, safari parks are usually nothing more than a zoo without bars — but after some persuasion from Javier, it becomes a goal after all.
We opt for the less popular western entrance, so as not to drive in convoy with other tourists. The first part looks as if the park has mainly served as a barbecue area in recent months: blackened trees and vast aridity. But twenty kilometers further on, the first elephants suddenly appear. And giraffes. And zebras. And springboks. And lions. The decision turns out not to be so bad after all...
As usual, we dawdle and hesitate everywhere along the way, so we decide (slightly forced) to spend the night at the first campsite: Olifantsrus. (Afrikaans for 'Elephants Rest'.) The name says it all: a resting place for these large animals. It is still early. As the first guests, we can choose a spot and a little later enjoy hours of watching a small herd of male elephants barely a meter behind glass—and two meters above (without glass). An impressive spectacle. How they come to drink, how they let themselves be watched, and how they then disappear majestically into the vast emptiness of the park. When the campsite fills up in the evening, the spectacle is completely over. Incidentally, we are the ones behind bars. Everyone must be inside a lodge (hotel) or campsite before dark.
On Wednesday, we continue our journey. We take various detours to drive past the different watering holes. There are animals galore. Even in July, the dry winter month, every animal eventually needs to drink, which makes spotting them easier. Adriaan suggests staying in the park for another night. Rightly so, because a safari may always be a bit like an open-air zoo, but here—on this immense plain—it is the real thing: educational, fascinating, beautiful. Animals in their habitat. I am glad we are here—I am enjoying it.
The second fenced campsite is huge and therefore less fun, but the big bonus? The rhino spectacle in the dark: they come to drink after sunset. People sit high behind fences at this spot, while the rhinos come to drink in soft (albeit artificial) light.
Access to Etosha is regulated on a 24-hour basis. We have to leave by 1:00 p.m. on Thursday. Upon leaving, to my surprise, our vacuum-packed frozen meat is confiscated. Why? No idea. These are the park rules that we didn't research very well. Too bad, because we were getting good at using our turbo charcoal BBQ and had bought steaks...
The tourism seems to abruptly stop, one village outside the park. Shopping suddenly becomes a challenge again. We buy only the bare essentials and go (wild) camping. We'll see what tomorrow brings. Then we drive almost 300 kilometers until we stay two nights with Bruno, owner of a gem of a campsite, 25 kilometers from the Angolan border. And so Angola... will have to wait a little longer.
Bruno suggests visiting the Himba. The Himba are a semi-nomadic people who stick to their traditional lifestyle. I agree without thinking twice. Adriaan refuses. The next morning, it feels different. Are we on our way to visit people, or to a living museum? Are we going to observe, like we did when we watched animals in the park? I'm out.
We do the last shopping on our list as if we fear there will be no food left in Angola. The very small border crossing goes surprisingly smoothly. No hassle, no checks, just a stamp and we're through. But it turns out we've used the wrong crossing. We're in a remote corner of Angola and to really enter the country, the GPS suggests we go back to Namibia. We decide not to do that: we end up on a challenging track heading north, but still in Angola. Our first night is spent by a river, between four mighty baobab trees. And coincidentally, on the territory of the Himba, who use this place to water their cattle, wash themselves, and maintain social contacts.
Language does not help us here. Hands, faces, and gestures do. In the evening, the girls appear, in the morning, the boys. All equally shy, all equally curious. They accept a cookie or a piece of bread with Nutella as if it were a precious gift. Their gazes are shy, their smiles cautious.
It is a beautiful first day in Angola. We notice little of the change in language (we do not speak Himba) or driving direction (that does not matter on a 4WD track). Portuguese and driving on the right again are still a long way off: the road through the forest and on to the first town is rough, bumpy, and slow. We barely manage 20 kilometers per hour. We are back in Africa. Small settlements line the road. Life here is simply humble. Here and there, there is pure poverty.
In Xangongo, we do some shopping and buy a SIM card. While we are looking for a place to spend the night outside the city, children approach us. The girls are so thin that we decide without hesitation to share our pasta with them. The girls take the plate of pasta Bolognese and place it on the ground between them. Adriaan gives them spoons and forks (but they make quite a mess). They eat in silence, occasionally glancing furtively at the two of us sitting at a table eating.
For the first time on this trip, I feel uncomfortable. Ashamed to arrive in our shiny car, to unfold our sleek table. Our cameras remain in their cases. Once ready, the ladies leave again. At a safe distance, one of them starts skipping. When they reach their abandoned belongings, one of them rubs her belly. They are cheerful and happy. Adriaan watches, moved.
Via a stopover in Lubango, we spend the night at the spectacular Serra da Leba pass. The next morning, we descend 1,800 meters towards the Atlantic Ocean. Serra da Leba is famous for its dizzying hairpin bends and breathtaking views — and we enjoy that beauty intensely. It is a paradise for mountaineers. We meet two well-equipped Poles who are descending (and then climbing) the vertical rocks.
When we arrive at the sea, I choose a restaurant. A group of impressively equipped South Africans has settled on the terrace there. Adriaan strikes up a conversation with them, curious about their route. George—their guide, tour operator, and leader all rolled into one—knows this route well and enthusiastically explains it to us. They are traveling with nine shiny 4x4s, some with matching 4x4 trailers. A few even cast a somewhat pitying glance at our ‘little’ Beast. Coincidentally, they have the same park on their itinerary as we do, but while they drive in convoy, the two of us continue on our way in peace and quiet.
Our first campsite on the way to the park is called Collinas do Curoca. It is a magical valley of red eroded ‘sand’ with yellow sand at the bottom. And completely deserted. From there, we begin our six-hour drive south on endless corrugated roads. We sleep just outside the park, which we explore the next day. Explore is indeed the right word, because we are not optimally prepared. We do not have enough fuel to venture to the Atlantic Ocean, which was my plan. In Angola, diesel costs barely €0.40 per liter (gasoline €0.30), but you have to have it with you. Our heavy 180-liter extra tank is in Belgium and we don't have any jerry cans (yet). The park is rugged and barren, with few animals. The rangers are friendly, but offer little explanation.
We therefore return to the red valley, where we meet Dutch travelers Robert and Lobke in their rental car. Everything falls into place. We share a meal and a warm evening. Traveling is also about chance encounters that turn into fond memories.
We continue north and spend two nights by the sea, in a place that looks like something out of a postcard. Since arriving in Angola, we haven't seen a single commercial campsite or hotel. Wild camping is no problem here; no one will disturb you.
After seven days of wandering through the desert and along the coast, we finally reach Benguela, a medium-sized city with the weathered charm of its Portuguese colonial past. We find a ‘new’ hotel with all amenities, opposite a colossal stadium built in 2010 for the Africa Cup (soccer). The stadium towers like a behemoth a few kilometers outside the city. Never before have we seen a country where poverty was so palpable. The contrast with this giant of concrete and steel is painful.
