Nesquicksand
Nesquicksand
The Namib Sand Sea feels like Mars. The oldest desert in the world, tucked right along the Atlantic, the Sand Sea is famous for its towering red sand dunes—some of which top out at 980 feet. Most visitors navigate them by Jeep, but I’d signed up for a true African adventure. Our guides would be driving us, whipping us up and over the sandy mountains as if we were on some adults-only roller coaster, but we would also be pioneering a new mode of exploration: cross-country ski.
The likelihood of spotting another human being over the course of the week was as high as finding cell phone reception or a working toilet. We were completely off the grid, surrounded by endless, wind-rippled stretches of sand and the occasional scorpion or Jurassic beetle. Our leaders were three Viking-size men of Dutch descent. The head honcho, Harry, had a nicotine-stained smile, a devious twinkle in his eye, and a belly like a woman pregnant with triplets. His two comrades, OJ and Cannabis, rivaled Harry in size but spoke little. Collectively, they called themselves “the Big Three.”
We were a group of 12 from around the world—India, Alaska, Portugal, Korea—and over this week we’d sleep under the stars, ski down sand dunes toward the seal-dotted sea, and get schooled in what the Big Three called bushman living. Being alone in the wild stirs a person’s primal instincts, and years of escaping to the bush had definitely left a wild streak in Harry and his boys. They maneuvered the steep dunes holding open cans of Windhoek beer. For entertainment, the men played a game called bazooka; they’d scoop up handfuls of pellet-sized animal dung, pop it in their mouths, and see who could spit the pellets farthest. Campfire meals were bushman fondue—chopped raw meat and a pot of boiling oil. If it weren’t for a certain Portuguese prude, I’m certain Harry, OJ, and Cannabis would have been running around in nothing more than their “tongas,” as Harry called his thong-like underwear.
For the first few days, our reactions veered between amusement, awe, and outright fear. Then, on the third night, when the sun had gone down and there was little left to do but gather around the campfire and drink, I watched in slight horror as Harry took a two-gallon plastic bucket that looked like it hadn’t been washed in years and started to fill it with bottle after bottle of Harrier whiskey, milk, ice from our cooler, water, and… Nesquick. He stirred the concoction with a large wooden spoon and then poured us each a large glass.
“La Bomba, drink of bushmen,” he cheersed our hesitant group. “One sip and your clothes fall off…or you go blind.” The drink tasted godawful. Everyone winced at first sip, but no one went blind. Slowly glasses were emptied and then refilled. Self-consciousness fell away, as did the Big Three’s shirts. A game of Never Have I Ever ensued. The fireside jokes and storytelling soon quieted as we all became aware of the bright night sky, the vastness above magnified by the far-reaching desert. Juno, a photographer from Korea, led us away from the glow of the fire, up a dune, and started pointing out constellations. Lying in the sand, looking into the sky, I was reminded how far away I was from my own reality—and how very close I was to this one, made of sand and strangers, bound by La Bomba.
The Drink: LaBomba: one bottle Harrier whiskey; 1liter milk 1liter water 1.5liter ice and 750ml Nesquik chocolate powder