Our friend and mentor Gordon was worried. How were these two American yanks (read Ben and Sam McNeil, brothers from Seattle) going to survive their cross-southern Africa odyssey?

So he was to test us by fire. The plan was to leave the coastal comforts of Knysna, with its luxurious lagoon and our bamboo bungalow, for the desolation of the north. There, relentlessly baking under the sun lies the oldest desert in the world, the land’s moisture sucked dry by the insatiable Benguela Current from Antarctica.

We packed his Land Rover with scant clothes, sleeping bags and a well-stocked cooler. Inviting a friend from Egypt and Holland named Mustapha, we left Knysna Wednesday morning. Our vehicle rode west towards the Atlantic coast north of Cape Town and then turned due north towards the desert nation of Namibia.

Driving quickly through the cities of George and Mossel Bay, we passed healthy, verdant agricultural fields and mountains. We crossed Groot River to the N2 highway through Heidelberg, Swellendam, Robertson, and Worcester. Hungry and slightly off course, we stopped in Tulbagh: the literal end of the road. The single-lane highway is the only road in and out of the town where we ate chicken burgers and Ginger Roberts, the drummer from Eric Clapton’s Cream with the red afro, settled. Wiping our chins and hitting the gas, we cut northwest up the R44 through the Oiekenierskloof Pass to Redelinghuys and then Eland’s Bay.

Known for a wicked left-break in the surfing community, the town lies dead and empty. Indeed, this was omen; a sign of things to come. The sole gas station boasted no prices or structures, just two dispensers in the parking lot outside a dilapidated, formerly majestic hotel. The owner wore no shoes and in the golden light of late afternoon in his grand, lifeless lobby, he told us to go to another town. We purchased passage on a private road and cut north along the rail line to Lambert’s Bay.

“The longest train in the world” chugged south as followed the rail line north. Lambert’s Bay was a relative pinnacle of civilization: our hosts offered us a drink. Sipping schnapps and liqueur on our hotel’s porch with the Afrikaans owner, we were startled by his pink-robed wife. She called Gordon’s cell from the living room, ten feet away, to explain her pricing procedures. We pay 200 rand or $30 for separate rooms. Leaving, we catch the sunset on the Atlantic.

On the waterfront we pull into a place reminiscent of Bow and Edison, Washington, and we eat large portions of fish, mussels, pizza and crayfish. Gravel floors, tarps, wood, plastic chairs, great, heavy food and cheap alcohol fill the shop. After a cheap bill, we attend a small bar full of strange people: a crying, fishnet-wrapped woman on the lap of a moustachioed golfer talking to a lady wearing a sleeveless flannel shirt and a short, grey pompadour. The big-boned barmaids fill our mugs and laugh heavily, our little posse unable to grasp our part in this odd movie.

Early we rose, driving to Vredendal on the banks of the converging Olifants and Sout River. Heading north over gravel, we drive through Bitterfontein and stop in Springbok to buy a gigantic, five-foot long, red and grey steel car jack. Gordon recommends Ben and I get one for our trip. After attaching it with zip-ties, we wheel past the border town of Vioolsdrif. Saying goodbye to South Africa, we enter Namibia.

Settled by the Germans instead of the Dutch, Namibia is defined by the Namib desert. Unlike the Sahara, it supports small amounts of brush and heavily adapted animals. The quiver tree is an icon of this precarious ecosystem; it’s tubular, water-conserving branches were used by indigenous peoples to hold arrows. The common languages in Namibia are Afrikaans and German, with native tongues used varyingly by region. Namibia is a land of thirst, and it is fortuitous they still follow the great German tradition of slaking this want. Breweries built during colonialism have been maintained and expanded. The capital of Namibia is Windhoek (pronounced vind-hook, or the windy place), famous throughout southern Africa for its lager. Hansa is another exported Germanic beer, brewed west of Windhoek on the Atlantic coast in Namibia’s “adventure capital,” Swakopmund.

The border posts on the South African and Namibia borders are incredibly relaxed. The experience was nothing like Ben and my impasse with Algerian customs. On the Namibian side, a guard tells us the weather is good, just a lowly 35 degrees Celsius, 95 degrees Fahrenheit. Chuckling at our wide eyes of wonder, he goes on to tell us temperatures can reach 45’C or 110’F during the summer. Ben and I look at each other, and silently decide to leave later in the year to avoid this seasonal furnace.

Once we were on the road in Namibia, there was nothing we could do. Nothing chilled. Open windows let in gusts of hot air like the breath of an oven. The air condition was broken. Ben and I sat in the back, sweat trickling down everything, as Gordon and Mustafa searched in the oppression for Felix Unite and the Orange River.

Unite started as a river guide. The first of along the Orange River, he found success on the banks of the pale green water. Today, his name sits on a gate in the barren lands of southern Namibia, opening onto one of his multi-million dollar developments. The camp was empty when we arrived, the pool drained and construction equipment scattered around. We rented two thatched-roofed, equipped huts on a hill overlooking the only green in this barren place.

Quickly, the car is unpacked, the Windhoek lagers emptied. The river beckoned. Warm to the touch, we waded into the waters, the day’s heat washing away in the flow. Mustapha, Ben, Gordon and I floated in silence, until someone asked about safety. Aren’t there large predatory reptiles in Africa? Gordon shakes his head and explains the Orange River, or this part at least, doesn’t have crocodiles.

“Must’ve shot them out,” Gordon said. He added, unlike the majority of the rivers Ben and I will visit in northern Namibia, Botswana, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Malawi, Tanzania and Mozambique. There we mustn’t swim or even approach the banks for hippopotamuses, snakes and crocodiles.

We all slumber after the river, content in the fading heat of the day. At sunset, Mustafa and I separately photograph the darkening sky. The lodge’s restaurant serves up ice cold Windhoeks and steaks the size of a phonebook. The night sky opened, the Southern Cross visible beneath Orion’s Belt, upside down for us Americans. I ask Mustafa the name of Al Tariq al-Halib, the Milky Way, and he does not remember. The tequila is passed as the moon rises over the other, vacant huts.

Morning caught us back on the river. Us brothers in one kayak, the Egyptian and South African in another, we drifted behind a local guide. The river was calm, mellow and unexciting. Eagles flew above. Along the way, Ben spotted a head above the water. We saw a tail about three feet behind the reptilian crown. Watersnake? we worry as we paddled past it, hoping it’s not vicious. The creature, body hidden underwater, cut across our stern for the other bank’s rushes. Nervously, realizing we’ve outpaced our river companions, we wait for Gordon and Mustapha to catch up.

“It’s a laguna,” guide said, or iguana or water monitor. “We’re the only dangerous thing on the river.”

It took us two hours to paddle down the lazy current back to the thatched huts and our waiting white Land Rover.

Back on the road, Gordon decided on back roads for the return. We cross the Nakop border post and then cut through the desolate towns Lutzputs, Keimoes, Kenhardt, Van Wyksvlei, Carnarvon and Loxton. The sky is magnificently open from horizon to horizon in this flat land. Distant raid clouds resemble purple columns supporting the stratosphere. Connecting all of these towns is a gravel road Ben and I have the unfortunate chance to drive over at 140 kph, nearly 90 mph, sitting on the steel-box seats of Gordon’s Land Rover. Potholes launch us against the low roof. Turns slam us into each other. We are both repeating a new mantra - “chiropractor, chiropractor” - sullenly when we arrive in Beauford West.

Hell-hole. That’s probably an unfair judgement gleaned from less than 18 hours in a town famous for having a current mayor who weathered video evidence of his solicitation of underage male prostitutes. Our hotel was by the highway, cheap and primarily used by immigrants who pack more than ten people into a room for four, according to Gordon.

“I’m not sleeping under the sheets,” Ben said.

Dinner was at The Spur, which is a fascinating example of Americana abroad. Started in Cape Town, The Spur is a franchise restaurant much like Applebee’s or Outback Steakhouse. A lone, Indian warrior is the logo: his feathers and strong face flanked by totem poles and tee pees. Every establishment has its own special name and supposed character like Santa Fe and Cherokee. Plopping in vinyl seats, we ordered juicy, delicious burgers and beer. Is this what people think America is like? The lights were stained-glass fixtures, the decor Tex-Mex and plastic. Written on our placemats read are the epic, foundational Legend of the Spur and the Secret of Good Hospitality. Every other table seemed to be celebrating a birthday, with staff choral show and a cake.

We left in a haze, me disturbed by the continual cycle of cultural misappropriation. Like home, Native Americans (Al Hunood al-Ahmer, or the Reds from India in Arabic) in South Africa are seen solely as a passive repository of soft truisms in the form of peace pipes, big chiefs and animal worship.

We left Beaufort West with quickness the next morning. Heading towards Knysna, we parked in De Rust for a hearty breakfast in what looked like an antique store, before ascending Prince Albert’s Pass. People speak of the mountain road with caution, but that day the danger was hidden. A fog has descended on the slopes, and nothing was visible beyond thirty feet: neither the road nor the drop. It was an eerie drive of a landscape appearing, disappearing and reappearing. Distant peaks’ shadows and silhouettes of trees faded in and out. Baboons bounded across the road in front of us near the top, and quickly vanished in the grey clouds.

Soon, we returned home to Knysna, our first excursion into Namibia successful. Two weeks from now, on February 17th, Ben and I will pack up our Land Cruiser and head farther north. We’re planning a month to roam the barren Skeleton Coast, the lush Etosha National Park, the German breweries, bakeries and castles, and the famous hiking trails and riverbeds. But as we dismounted from our cramped, poorly cushioned seats, stretching our backs and grumbling our chiropractor mantra, the reality of our future, and its harshness, set in.

And we still have not seen the chiropractor.