The city is quieter today. Sunday afternoon the streets around the Show Grounds were still thick with people, the tail end of the Inotila reggae fest and the Kasi Vibe crowds spilling out, but this morning it feels like the capital has drawn a deep breath. The air is that crisp mid-winter quality again, eleven degrees when I woke, climbing to maybe twenty-four by midday, and the light has that sharp, dust-free clarity that makes the hills around the city look close enough to touch.
I started the day with the last of my orientation paperwork, the kind of task that defines a move rather than a visit. I needed to sort out a tax number with NamRA, which sounds official and complicated, but it turned out to be a matter of forms, a passport, and a patient queue. It is a reminder that this is a country of process, of counters and ink stamps, and the pace asks you to slow down. I took a taxi back towards the centre, one of the shared combis, and paid about fifteen Namibian dollars for the ride, a small price for the lesson in how the city actually moves.
With the bank card now active, I treated myself to a proper coffee at Shema Coffee, a small place near the heart of things, and sat watching the street wake up. A flat white there set me back around forty Namibian dollars, which is maybe two and a bit US, a small luxury that felt significant after a week of instant sachets. The city is a study in layers from that vantage point. You see the old German colonial architecture, the sandstone of the Christuskirche a few blocks away, the Tintenpalast with its manicured gardens, and then the modern glass of the bank headquarters, and beyond it all, the dusty slopes of the Auas Mountains framing the horizon.
I walked up to the Independence Memorial Museum in the late morning. It is a striking building, and I am told it was constructed by a North Korean firm, which gives it a particular monumental aesthetic, all sharp angles and bronze. The entrance is free, which is generous, and the rooftop restaurant offers a panorama that makes the city's layout finally make sense. You can see how Windhoek sits in a valley, a green and leafy grid surrounded by rocky hills, a small city of around three hundred and eighty thousand people that functions as the administrative and commercial heart of a country the size of France and Germany combined.
This is what settles in on day two. The scale of Namibia begins to press on you. From this rooftop, the distances are not visible, but you feel them in the conversations you have. Every local I speak to asks about my plans, and when I mention Sossusvlei and Etosha, there is a knowing nod. Etosha is about a five-hour drive north of here, I am told, and Sossusvlei a similar stretch west, with the road to the dunes sometimes taking longer depending on the gravel. It is not a country of day trips. It is a country of committed journeys.
The afternoon was given to the practicalities of that future travel. I drove my rental car out to the Eros domestic airport, which is on the eastern side of the city. It is a small, efficient place, and I wanted to check the charter options for getting to the Skeleton Coast or deep into Damaraland, as I have heard the flying can save days of driving. I also confirmed my long-term housing plan. I had been looking at a modest one-bedroom flat in Khomasdal, a suburb I find genuinely friendly and layered, and the rent was quoted at about five thousand five hundred Namibian dollars a month, which is roughly three hundred US. It is hard to compare with home, but here that is a fair price for a working person's place, and the market is tight, with rents climbing fast, so I put down a deposit to hold it for when I return from the road.
By late afternoon I found myself in Klein Windhoek, in the leafy streets near the embassies, and I stopped for a late lunch at The Stellenbosch Wine Bar and Bistro. It felt appropriate for a Monday, a civilised spot with a wine list that leans heavily on South African estates. I had a plate of grilled game meat, which was rich and lean, and a glass of red, and the bill came to about two hundred and eighty Namibian dollars, maybe fifteen US. It is not what I will eat every day, but it was a marker of a certain kind of life in this city, the expat and diplomatic life that exists in parallel to the markets of Katutura.
That parallel was stark again on the drive back towards my guesthouse. I passed through the centre, with its busy Independence Avenue, and then the road curved towards the northern suburbs. I am staying at the Tenbergen Pension, a reliable and comfortable spot, and from its terrace I could see the lights of the city begin to flicker on as the sun dropped. The temperature falls fast at this altitude and this season, so I pulled on a jumper and made a plan for the evening.
I drove out to the Oshetu market again, to the Single Quarters in Katutura, but this time for supper. It is a different place in the evening, less touristy than the weekend afternoon, more functional. I queued at a kapana stall, one of the open-air grills where the meat is chopped and spiced and served in paper. A generous portion, with a piece of vetkoek and some fiery salsa, cost me about fifty-three Namibian dollars, under three US dollars. It is honest food, the taste of the city, and I stood there with the smoke in my face and the cool night air on my neck, and it felt right.
There is a particular sound to that market at night. The sizzle of meat on the grill, the low murmur of conversation, the occasional car horn from the street. It is a world away from the quiet wine bar in Klein Windhoek, but both are Namibian. This is the lesson of the capital, I think. It holds these contradictions without apology, a city founded as a German garrison in 1890, shaped by the forced removals of the 1960s, and now governed by a woman president, the first in the country's history. The history is not hidden; it is written into the streets.
I drove back through the darkened streets, the city quiet now, and parked outside the guesthouse. The sky was brilliant with stars, the air clear and cold. I sat in the car for a moment, thinking about the map I am building. In two days I will head west, towards the Namib and the dunes of Sossusvlei, and then turn north through Damaraland towards the Skeleton Coast, and finally east to Etosha for the game viewing. The plan is ambitious but the distances are real, and I am learning to respect them.
The day cost me more in patience than in money, but the numbers are there for those who need them. A coffee for forty, a taxi for fifteen, a market meal for fifty-three, a restaurant supper for two-eighty. It adds up to something manageable, but the rent is the big one, and the fuel for the car, and the permits. I have a clearer head now, a bank account, a tax number, and a map of the country in my mind that is starting to have actual places on it, not just names.
Moro, as they say here, is more than a greeting. It is a way of acknowledging the other person's presence. I heard it a dozen times today, from the bank teller to the taxi driver to the woman at the market. It is a small word, but it opens doors. Tomorrow I will do the final checks on the car, buy some supplies, and let the first real journey begin. Windhoek has been a good place to land, a place to gather yourself, but the road is calling, and moro to this city for now. The dust of the capital will be on my boots, but the gravel of the west is waiting.
The plans are set. The road to Sossusvlei is roughly five to six hours, and I have heard the entrance fee for the park is about two hundred and fifty Namibian dollars for a day. The road to Etosha is similar in time. The distances are not a deterrent; they are the point. This is a country to be crossed, not hopped between. I will report back from the dunes, and from the edge of the great white pan. Until then, from a quiet guesthouse in Windhoek, under a cold and brilliant sky, this is Helena, signing off for now.