The morning came in cold, the way August mornings do here, with a sharpness that bites through a jacket if you're not careful. I left my guesthouse before seven, when the light was still low and the streets were mostly empty except for a few early joggers and the first taxis making their rounds. There's something about this hour that suits Windhoek, I think, the way the city feels like it's still deciding what it wants to be, the dust not yet stirred up by the day's traffic. I walked down Independence Avenue, past the shuttered shops and the silent parliament gardens, the Christuskirche rising pale and patient at the end of the street, its sandstone catching the first hint of sun. I wasn't going anywhere in particular, just walking to feel the city wake up, the way you do when you're new somewhere and you want to learn its rhythms from the ground up.
I stopped for coffee at a small place off the main avenue. A cup there costs about thirty-eight namibian dollars, which is maybe two and a half US, and it came with a view of the street that was just beginning to fill with people. The barista, a young woman with a warm smile, asked me how long I was staying, and I told her I was here for two years, probably more, and she laughed and said that makes you one of us now. It felt like a small grace, that little moment of welcome. I sat by the window for a while, watching a man set up his fruit stall across the road, the oranges and bananas glowing in the cool light, and I thought about how much of this city is about finding your place in it, not just geographically but in the daily patterns, the morning coffee, the familiar faces.
By nine I was at the estate agent's office in Klein Windhoek, a leafy suburb of embassies and guesthouses, with narrow streets that feel almost village-like. We had a meeting about the flat in Khomasdal, the one I'd viewed a few days ago, and I'd brought the documents they'd asked for, my permit, my proof of address, the reference from my bank. It's a modest place, a one-bedroom for about five and a half thousand namibian dollars a month, which is around three hundred US, and it's not flashy, but it has a balcony that faces the Auas Mountains, and there's a small garden below with a lemon tree. The agent, a patient man named Mr. Nangolo, walked me through the lease agreement, pointing out the clauses about water and electricity, which are metered separately, and the note about the security deposit, which is one month's rent. He told me the landlord was keen to have someone long-term, and I signed, and just like that, I have a home here.
Afterwards, I drove out to the flat itself, a place that will be mine in a week. The building is on the edge of Khomasdal, a suburb that feels both formal and deeply lived-in, with small shops and barbershops and shebeens tucked between the houses, and it's a part of the city I think I'll come to know well. I stood in the empty living room, the afternoon sun pouring through the windows, and I imagined the furniture I'll bring, the books I'll stack on the shelves, the mat I'll buy from the craft centre. It's a strange thing, to plant yourself in a place you didn't grow up in, to build a life from scratch in a city that has its own memories and histories, its own layers of joy and pain. But standing there, the dust motes swirling in the light, I felt a quiet sense of beginning, the same feeling I get when I look at a map and see all the roads leading out from this point, north to Etosha, west to the coast.
I drove back into the centre and parked near the showgrounds, which are still hosting the mining expo for a couple more days. The area is busy, as I've mentioned before, with exhibitors and delegates milling around, and I could see the tents and banners from the street. I didn't go in, but I stood for a moment watching the crowd, thinking about how this city, which once was a garrison town and then a colonial administrative centre, is now a place where people from all over the world come to talk about minerals and energy, about what lies under this vast, dry land. It's a reminder that Namibia is not just a landscape of dunes and wildlife, but a working country, with industries and ambitions, with a government that's just sworn in its first female president, a fact that still feels new and significant. I walked back towards the centre, past the old brewery building that now houses the Namibia Craft Centre, and I thought about the layers of history in this town, the German colonial architecture, the statues and museums, the street names that have been changed, the ones that haven't.
For lunch, I went to the Oshetu market in Katutura, the same place I've been coming to for the past few days, and this time I joined the queue at one of the busiest kapana stands, where the grill smoke rises in blue wisps against the pale sky. I ordered the beef strips with salsa and a piece of vetkoek, which cost me fifty-three namibian dollars, about three US, and I ate standing at a high table, the way the regulars do, with the sun on my back and the sound of sizzling meat and laughter all around. There's a rhythm to this place that I'm starting to understand, a kind of communal dance between the vendors and the customers, the call-and-response of orders, the shared jokes, the way a stranger can be pulled into the flow of the day. I've been told that the MTC Kasi Vibe Festival drew huge crowds here last weekend, just down the road, but even today, midweek, the market is alive.
In the afternoon, I had a meeting at a local travel agency to start mapping out my road trips, the two big ones I've been planning since I landed. The woman I spoke to, Rosa, spread a map of the country across the desk, and we traced the routes with her finger. West, first, through the Khomas Hochland and down to the coast, then north through Damaraland, with its ancient rock art and desert-adapted elephants, and then further north to Etosha, where the wildlife viewing is at its peak this time of year because the animals concentrate around the shrinking waterholes. We talked about the distances, the driving times, the condition of the roads, and I wrote notes in my phone: fill up whenever you pass a petrol station, carry water and snacks, check the gate times at the parks. Rosa said the roads are generally good, but that I should be careful at dusk, when the animals start moving, and that I should give myself more time than the GPS says, because you'll always stop to watch something.
I told her about my plan to take my time, to spend a week or more in each region, and she nodded and said that's the way to see this country, not the way most tourists do it, rushing from one highlight to the next. She said she's been living here for fifteen years and still hasn't seen everything, still finds places that take her breath away, and I appreciated that he honesty, because it matches how I feel about this project, this two-year journey I'm on. We looked at the map a while longer, and I asked her about the west coast, the Skeleton Coast, the way the fog rolls in and the shipwrecks lie half-buried in the sand, and she told me it's a place you have to approach with respect, because it's beautiful and harsh at the same time. I left the agency with a handful of brochures and a sense that the country is opening up for me, one road at a time.
Back in the city, I had an early dinner at a restaurant in Klein Windhoek, a place called Joe's Beerhouse, which I'd been told is an institution, and it is, from the moment you walk in there's this atmosphere of old Namibia, the safari memorabilia on the walls, the long tables, the sound of glasses clinking. I ordered a windhoek lager, which costs about forty-five namibian dollars, and a game steak, and I sat at the counter, watching the room fill up with a mix of locals and visitors, the talk of mining and safaris and politics buzzing around me. I thought about how this city has so many different faces, the quiet administrative hub, the bustling market, the trendy restaurants, the gated suburbs, and how all of them are part of the same whole. I paid my bill, around two hundred and eighty namibian dollars in total, and stepped out into the dark, the air cold again, the streetlights illuminating the empty streets.
I walked back to my guesthouse, the Hilton looming over the corner, the streets quieter now, and I thought about the day behind me, a day of small tasks and big plans. The flat is almost mine, the road trips are taking shape, and I'm beginning to feel the city settling into my bones. I stopped at the gate of the guesthouse and looked up at the sky, which is so clear here at this altitude, the stars bright and close, and I thought about how far I am from the life I left, and how much this place feels like it could become a home. It's been five days, and I've already learned to listen for the morning birds, to expect the cold nights, to look for the mountains on the horizon. There's a long way to go, and I have so much to see, but I'm here, and that's a good place to be. So I'll sleep, and in the morning, I'll start again.
Tomorrow I'll go to the bank to set up a standing order for the rent, and I'll call the landlord, and start the slow work of making a life. The day after that, maybe I'll drive out to Avis Dam, just to sit by the water and feel the city from a different angle. But for now, I'm content with this, this quiet moment, the sound of the wind, the empty streets, the knowledge that I'm on my way. Moro, Windhoek. I'll see you in the morning.