Namibia: Sossusvlei & Namib Sand Sea

May 17, 2023
Namibia
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🌍 Namibia: Sossusvlei & the Namib Sand Sea

🚗 Leaving Swakopmund — The Long Road to the Desert

It was time to leave Swakopmund behind and point the car towards one of the most extraordinary landscapes on the planet — the Namib Desert. Now, we knew from the outset this was going to be a long day in the car. A very long day. We were heading out on the C14, one of those classic Namibian gravel roads that stretches on for what feels like the rest of your natural life, snaking its way south via the Gaub Pass and the Kuiseb Pass, and then on towards the tiny settlement of Solitaire before eventually dropping down to Sesriem. In total, we were looking at a good few hundred kilometres of bone-rattling corrugated gravel, and the whole route took us slap through the heart of the remote, wild and utterly spectacular Namib-Naukluft National Park — the largest game park in Africa and one of the largest in the world, covering a whopping 49,768 square kilometres of desert terrain that was formally proclaimed a protected area back in 1979. It’s the kind of landscape that makes you feel very small indeed, and rather glad you remembered to fill up on fuel.

After a couple of hours of driving through scenery that alternated between magnificent and monotonous — and sometimes both at the same time — we crested a hill, which was rather exciting in itself given that we hadn’t seen one for quite a while. There was a small car park, and several other vehicles had pulled over. Karen announced she needed a pee, which, given the existence of an actual pit toilet at this very spot, seemed like perfect timing and an excellent excuse to stop. Once that particular mission was accomplished, we clambered out and took in the views, which were genuinely spectacular. The landscape rolled away in every direction, vast and empty and oddly beautiful in that desolate sort of way that the Namib specialises in. But what really caught my eye were some rather peculiar-looking trees near the car park. Tall, pale-barked, and unlike anything I’d seen before, they demanded a closer look.

These turned out to be the quiver tree, known locally as the kokerboom, and carrying the rather magnificent scientific name of Aloidendron dichotomum. Despite the name “tree,” this is in fact not a true tree at all, but a species of giant Aloe — one capable of reaching heights of over nine metres, or roughly thirty feet. The name “quiver tree” comes from the San Bushmen, the indigenous hunter-gatherers of southern Africa, who for thousands of years used the hollow, fibrous branches of the plant to craft their arrow quivers. The bark of these extraordinary plants is coated in a white, chalky, powdery substance — essentially a natural sunscreen — that reflects a significant proportion of the sun’s heat away from the plant’s surface, which is pretty clever when you live in one of the hottest and most arid environments on Earth. What’s even more remarkable, and frankly a little unnerving if you’re a gardener who worries about their houseplants, is that the quiver tree practises something botanists call self-amputation. When a limb becomes diseased or infected, the plant simply drops it — deliberately — to prevent the infection from spreading to the rest of the plant. And during droughts, when water must be conserved at all costs, the plant will shed excess limbs to reduce the water it needs to sustain itself. Brutal, but effective. The quiver tree is classed as a vulnerable species, with climate change placing increasing pressure on its natural range, which extends from southern Namibia into the Northern Cape of South Africa.

🏞️ The Kuiseb Canyon and the Geologists Who Hid in the Desert

About 180 kilometres into our journey we reached the Kuiseb Canyon, which was a far more dramatic affair than the name might suggest to someone back home who’s used to thinking of a “canyon” as something involving the Grand Canyon and a mule. The Kuiseb River, which carves its way through this landscape over millions of years, is what geographers politely call an ephemeral river — meaning it’s bone dry for most of the year, existing as little more than a wide, sandy riverbed that winds its way through the rocky terrain. During the brief Namibian rainy season, which typically runs from January to April, the river can flow for two or three weeks, but it never quite makes it to the sea. It runs out of steam — or rather, soaks into the sand — near the remote research station of Gobabeb, which was established in 1962 and remains one of the world’s foremost desert research centres, studying the unique ecology of the Namib. The canyon itself is a vivid, dramatic slash of ochre and rust-coloured rock cutting through the surrounding plains, and it’s genuinely worth stopping for.

The Kuiseb Canyon holds a particular place in Namibian literary and historical folklore, thanks to a rather extraordinary true story that unfolded here during the Second World War. Two German geologists working in Namibia — which was then administered as South West Africa by South Africa under a League of Nations mandate — found themselves in a very awkward position when war broke out in 1939. Henno Martin and Hermann Korn, both German nationals, knew that they would be interned if they remained in the towns. So, with magnificent sang-froid, they simply decided to disappear into the desert. They spent two and a half years living wild in the Kuiseb Canyon, surviving on game, water from the riverbed, and their considerable geological knowledge of the terrain. Henno Martin later wrote about the experience in a book published in 1957, originally in German as Wenn es Krieg gibt, gehen wir in die Wüste — which translates rather brilliantly as The Sheltering Desert in the English edition. It became something of a classic of desert literature, and the canyon has never quite shaken off the romantic associations of those two resourceful geologists who chose the Namib over a prisoner-of-war camp. Can’t say I blame them, frankly. After the canyon, the road carried us through mile after mile of rolling hills before the landscape gave way to a series of rocky outcrops that jutted up from the plains like broken teeth.

♑ The Tropic of Capricorn — and Someone’s Stickers

A little further along the road, a sign announced we were crossing the Tropic of Capricorn — the line of latitude at 23.5 degrees south that marks the southernmost point at which the sun can appear directly overhead, which it does at the December solstice. Now, this is Karen’s birth sign, so naturally we had to stop. It would have been rude not to. The Tropic of Capricorn runs through sixteen countries across South America, Africa, and Australia, and this particular marker in Namibia sits on a wild stretch of gravel road in the middle of absolute nowhere, which gives the stop a pleasingly dramatic quality. We clambered out, took our photos, felt suitably pleased with ourselves, and then noticed the state of the signage. Rather than leave with nothing but memories and photographs — which is, as the Countryside Code rather sensibly suggests, the correct approach — a significant number of previous visitors had taken it upon themselves to decorate every available surface with stickers. Stickers! On a Tropic of Capricorn marker in the middle of Namibia. How utterly annoying. Some people really are a mystery.

🍎 Solitaire — The Bakery at the End of the World

Our next stop was the small settlement of Solitaire, and “small” is doing a bit of heavy lifting there. Solitaire barely constitutes a dot on the map, consisting of not much more than a petrol station, a few basic facilities, and a bakery. But what a bakery. Located around 350 kilometres from Windhoek and roughly 70 kilometres north of Sesriem, Solitaire occupies a position of genuine strategic importance in this part of Namibia — it is, for many travellers on the road to Sossusvlei, the last chance to refuel both the car and the human beings inside it before reaching the desert. The settlement’s name, incidentally, is thought to derive from the Afrikaans, reflecting its isolated position in the landscape. There’s no town around it. There’s not much of anything around it, which is rather the point.

The undisputed star of Solitaire — and really the reason most people stop here at all — is McGregor’s Bakery, which has become something of a legend in these parts. More than twenty years ago, a larger-than-life Scottish adventurer by the name of Percy Cross “Moose” McGregor pitched up in this improbable spot and opened a bakery. Moose — and this was clearly a man who merited a nickname — was by all accounts a wonderful baker and a genuinely memorable character, the sort of bloke who seems to have been put on earth specifically to add colour to remote desert settlements. He started selling a range of baked goods, but his signature item was a German apple pie — an Apfelstrudel, in fact — made from an old family recipe that he’d brought with him. How a Scottish adventurer came to be in possession of a German apple strudel recipe is one of those splendid mysteries that it’s probably better not to examine too closely. Sadly, Moose died in 2012, but the bakery has carried on in his name, and the apple pie — dense, fragrant, and rather magnificent — remains the headline act. How could we possibly drive past a baked product oasis in the middle of the Namibian desert without stopping? We couldn’t. We didn’t.

At the entrance to the car park, several ancient, rusted American trucks sat in various states of picturesque decomposition. They had the air of vehicles that had simply driven here many decades ago, run out of steam, and decided to stay. As American as apple pie, someone might say — which, given the context, was rather apt. Absolutely irresistible from a photographic point of view.

The bakery itself has expanded considerably over the years and now functions as a well-oiled tourist operation — a proper little pit stop with seating in a courtyard, staff who’ve clearly dealt with coachloads of weary travellers, and a menu that extends beyond strudel. We ordered the apple pie, obviously, plus coffee, and found a table outside in the courtyard to wait. Our refreshments arrived in due course, accompanied by a small delegation of birds who had clearly identified us as soft touches. They were wrong. We were not sharing the apple pie with anyone. Not even for a photograph.

Feeling considerably cheered by pie and strong coffee, we returned to the car — whereupon disaster struck. A flat tyre. There it was, flat as a pancake, looking thoroughly sorry for itself in the Namibian sun. Now, we scrambled to remember what we’d been told about changing the tyre when we picked up the vehicle. First things first: find the spare tyre and the jack. We managed that bit — check, done. Then came the question of where exactly one places the jack under this particular vehicle. It turned out that the brief lesson we’d received at the rental desk had been, shall we say, cursory, and neither of us had the faintest idea where the jack point was. So I did what any self-respecting man does in this situation: I guessed, and started jacking. Things began to go wrong fairly quickly. Bits of the vehicle that probably shouldn’t flex started to flex. The jack went well beyond what looked like its sensible working height, and yet the car stubbornly remained too low to get the flat tyre off, let alone get the new one on. We were stuck.

At this point, our bacon was comprehensively saved by a kind South African family who had spotted that we were struggling and came over to help. With minimal fuss and the easy competence of people who’ve changed many tyres in many remote places, they repositioned our ailing jack properly under the axle — the weirdest spot, halfway under the car, but entirely correct — and in short order the new tyre was on and we were ready to go. We were enormously grateful to these good Samaritans. The Namibian road had almost beaten us, and we’d barely started.

Shortly after Solitaire, we left the C14 and turned south onto the C19, a route that skirted the rugged and dramatic Naukluft Mountains — a range of limestone and dolomite peaks that rise to around 1,976 metres and form the eastern boundary of the Namib-Naukluft Park. The Naukluft range receives rather more rainfall than the surrounding desert, which means it supports a surprising variety of wildlife including mountain zebra, kudu, klipspringer and leopard, as well as the remarkable rare Hartmann’s mountain zebra, a subspecies found only in this corner of Africa and listed as vulnerable by the IUCN.

🏕️ Sesriem and the Desert Camp — Spartan But Cheerful

After 80 kilometres on the C19 we turned towards the settlement of Sesriem, and to our complete surprise we found ourselves suddenly on a perfect, smooth, beautifully maintained tarred road. After hours of gravel, this felt mildly miraculous. The name Sesriem, incidentally, means “six thongs” in Afrikaans — a reference to the six leather straps that early settlers had to tie together to make a rope long enough to lower buckets into the narrow Sesriem Canyon nearby, which cuts to a depth of about thirty metres through the surrounding plateau and is itself well worth a visit if you’re in the area and still have any energy left. Five kilometres along the tarred road, we turned off to the Desert Camp, where we’d be spending two nights.

Our accommodation was a small, concrete self-catering cabin — spartan but comfortable, which is exactly the right register for the desert. The views across the surrounding mountains were genuinely lovely, and the cabin came with a neat little outdoor kitchen, which is really all you need when the temperature drops and the stars come out. Desert Camp is located just five kilometres from the main entrance gate to Sossusvlei, which makes it a very sensible base, and its 28 self-catering units are tucked under the shade of ancient camel thorn trees — the same magnificent Vachellia erioloba that you see bleached and skeletal in Deadvlei, though here they’re very much alive and providing welcome shade. The facilities at Desert Camp were fairly limited — a well-stocked bar, a swimming pool, and a couple of communal bomas for cooking — but since we were booked in on half-board, our main meals were taken a few kilometres away at the considerably posher Sossusvlei Lodge. The bar was fine. The pool was excellent. The bar was also fine.

On the way to the lodge for dinner that first evening, we swung into the service station for what we had identified as the two most important resources of desert life: petrol and beer. Both were secured without incident. Sossusvlei Lodge was a clear step up in quality and price from our little cabin — a proper, well-appointed lodge with a buffet dinner that offered enough variety to keep us both happy. The seating area was outside, beautifully lit in the soft glow of the early evening, with the sun going down behind the sand dunes in the most theatrical fashion imaginable. It was lovely and romantic, and a very satisfying end to what had been, by any measure, a long and occasionally stressful day.

🌫️ The Namib Sand Sea — The World’s Oldest Desert

We woke the following morning to a grey and thoroughly ominous-looking sky. Rain was absolutely in the air. It did not, on the face of it, look like ideal conditions for exploring one of the world’s great natural wonders. We headed over to Sossusvlei Lodge for breakfast and a council of war. By the time we’d finished eating, the weather had, if anything, got worse. So we retreated to our chalet at Desert Camp and waited it out.

A word about where we actually were, because it rather sets the scene. The Namib Sand Sea — inscribed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2013 — is the only coastal desert in the world that includes extensive dune fields primarily shaped and sustained by coastal fog rather than rainfall. Covering an area of over three million hectares, with a buffer zone of a further 899,500 hectares, it is a landscape of genuinely staggering scale. The Namib itself is widely regarded as the oldest desert on Earth, with estimates suggesting it has been arid for somewhere between 55 and 80 million years — which puts it in an entirely different category from, say, the Sahara, which is a relative youngster at around 7 million years old. The dune systems here are composed of two distinct layers: an ancient, semi-consolidated system that dates back millions of years, overlain by a younger, more active dune system that is being shaped and reshaped by the winds right now, today, as you look at it. The sand itself, that extraordinary terracotta-red colour that makes every photograph look as though it’s been filtered, gets its colour from iron oxide — essentially rust — that coats each individual sand grain. The older the sand, and the more it’s been oxidised, the richer and deeper the red. The sand in Sossusvlei is old. Very old.

The dunes were formed through an extraordinary geographical conveyor belt. Sand eroded from the interior of southern Africa was carried westward by the Orange River — one of South Africa’s major river systems, rising in the Drakensberg Mountains some 2,300 kilometres to the east — and deposited into the Atlantic Ocean. From there, the cold Benguela Current, which flows northward along the Namibian coast from Antarctica, carried the sand northward along the coast. The persistent south-westerly winds then drove it inland, piling it up over millions of years into the dune systems we see today. The Benguela Current is also responsible for the famous coastal fog — cold sea air meeting the warm desert air — that rolls inland and provides the primary source of moisture for the desert’s extraordinary ecosystem. The fog supports an astonishing range of endemic life: fog-basking beetles that have evolved to collect water on their backs, sidewinder snakes that leave distinctive tracks across the sand, and a range of reptiles and mammals that have adapted over millennia to survive in one of the most extreme environments on the planet.

By early afternoon we’d been sitting in the chalet long enough. We decided to go for it and see what the elements would throw at us. We paid our entrance fees at the Sesriem gate — the park charges a daily conservation fee per person and per vehicle — and set off along the magnificent tarred road that cuts through the park towards Sossusvlei. The road passes through a wide, flat valley flanked on both sides by the famous red dunes, which rose on either side of us like walls of rust-coloured sand. These dunes are enormous, but at this point they were still so far away that it was genuinely difficult to get a proper sense of their scale. We were entering the Namib-Naukluft National Park, which at 49,768 square kilometres incorporates not just the Namib Desert and the Naukluft Mountains, but also the Sandwich Harbour lagoon on the coast — one of Africa’s most important wetland habitats for migratory birds, supporting up to 150,000 waders and flamingos at certain times of year.

We were headed for the area known as Sossusvlei itself — a salt and clay pan that forms the focal point of the park. The name “Sossusvlei” is a splendidly hybrid affair: vlei is the Afrikaans word for “marsh” or “lake,” while sossus comes from the Nama language — one of the ancient Khoisan languages of southern Africa with their distinctive click consonants — and means “no return” or “dead end.” So Sossusvlei means, more or less, “dead-end marsh,” which is either deeply poetic or magnificently depressing depending on your mood. In practice, the name Sossusvlei has been extended to cover the entire surrounding area, including neighbouring pans such as Deadvlei and the various spectacular high dunes that draw visitors from all over the world.

🌳 Deadvlei — The Haunted Pan

The weather had been improving as we drove deeper into the park, and by the time we reached the end of the tarred road, the sun had actually made an appearance. From the end of the tarmac, the only way forward was over sand, so we engaged the 4×4 drive on the Fortuner and headed out across the pan towards Deadvlei. The Fortuner, for those interested in such things, handled it all without complaint. From where we parked, reaching Deadvlei required a one-kilometre walk across loose sand, including a climb over a sizeable dune. It was, frankly, hard work — the kind of exertion that makes you very glad you brought plenty of water even for what sounds on paper like a short walk. The soft sand sucks at your feet with every step, and the dune at the end is considerably more demanding than it looks from a distance.

Deadvlei — the name means “dead marsh” in Afrikaans — is a white clay pan, formed when the Tsauchab River flooded in a period of significantly wetter climate, somewhere around 900 years ago. The sudden abundance of water allowed camel thorn trees (Vachellia erioloba) to establish themselves in the pan, and for a while, presumably, it was rather lush by Namibian standards. But then the climate dried again, and the sand dunes — driven by the relentless south-westerly winds — migrated across the landscape and blocked the river from reaching the pan. Cut off from water, the trees died. And then, because the climate in this part of the world is so extraordinarily dry, they simply didn’t rot. The dead camel thorn trees of Deadvlei are estimated to be approximately 900 years old, and they stand in the bleached white clay pan in exactly the positions they occupied when they died — pitch-black, twisted, skeletal silhouettes against the brilliant white of the pan floor and the deep blue of the Namibian sky. The contrast — black trees, white pan, red dunes, blue sky — is so stark and so perfectly composed that it looks almost artificial. It is quite possibly the most photographed spot in all of Africa, and it absolutely deserves to be.

We’d arrived late in the afternoon, which turned out to be a stroke of luck. The light at that hour — golden and warm, raking across the dunes and casting long shadows across the pan — was extraordinary. And there was, almost miraculously, no one else in the pan. Just us, the ancient dead trees, and a silence so complete it was almost tangible. We stood there for a while and took it all in. Some places need to be experienced in silence, and Deadvlei is very much one of them.

🏔️ Dune 45 and the Big Daddy — Where the Sand Meets the Sky

Back at the car, with the sun still out and the afternoon light looking genuinely spectacular, we decided to make the most of it and pressed on to see the famous dunes. The biggest of them all — and this is a dune that makes no attempt to be modest — is called Big Daddy. Situated between Sossusvlei and Deadvlei, Big Daddy stands approximately 325 metres tall from base to crest, making it one of the highest sand dunes in the world. To give you a sense of scale, that’s roughly the same height as the Eiffel Tower from its base to the tip of its aerial. Climbing to the top is a popular activity and, by all accounts, absolutely exhausting — a round trip of around five kilometres through deep, loose sand, usually done at dawn to catch the light and avoid the worst of the heat. We had, with the wisdom that comes from recognising our limitations, set our sights somewhat lower.

Dune 45 is the star attraction for most visitors — a classic star dune that sits at the 45th kilometre of the road between the Sesriem gate and Sossusvlei, hence the somewhat unromantic but entirely practical name. Standing at over 170 metres tall, Dune 45 is composed of sand that is approximately five million years old — detritus that was accumulated by the Orange River from the ancient Kalahari Desert and then transported to its current position by ocean currents and wind over an almost unimaginable span of time. Star dunes, as opposed to crescent or linear dunes, form where winds blow from multiple directions, which creates the characteristic radiating arms or ridges that give them their name and make them appear rather different from the typical side-on dune silhouette that most people picture.

The late afternoon was, as it turned out, a perfect time to be there. The western face of the dune was illuminated in warm, golden light, while the eastern face lay in deep shadow, with a razor-sharp ridge line dividing the two at the crest. The visual effect was quite something. We started to climb. It was very hard work. The wind had picked up considerably, blowing sand off the top of the dune in golden curtains, and we were battling both the physical exertion of climbing through deep sand and a face full of desert in every gust. We made it about a third of the way up before a collective and entirely sensible decision was made to turn around. Descending, as it turned out, was considerably more difficult than going up — the loose sand provides no grip whatsoever, and I spent the majority of the return journey falling rather than walking. I’m not going to say how many times. Let’s move on.

A further seven kilometres down the road brought us to Dune 38, another magnificent example of the sand sea’s sculptural variety. This time we had the wisdom not to attempt the climb, and instead spent a very pleasant half hour taking photographs in the evening light, which was — and I use this word advisedly — rather special.

🦌 Oryx, Storms, and a Blustery Dinner

It was now time to make our way back to Sesriem before the park gate closed for the evening — the gates at Sossusvlei operate on strict schedules, and missing the closing time is not a situation you want to find yourself in. We still had time to pull over and take more photographs of the dunes in the fading light, and were treated to the sight of several oryx — the Oryx gazella, Namibia’s national animal — crossing the plains in the distance. The gemsbok, as they’re also known, are extraordinary creatures, supremely adapted to desert life. They can survive without drinking water for extended periods, producing highly concentrated urine to conserve moisture, and their specialised circulatory system allows them to let their body temperature rise significantly during the heat of the day to avoid losing water through panting or sweating. Their long, straight horns — up to 85 centimetres in some individuals — are thought to be the origin of the unicorn myth, seen in profile they can appear as a single horn. We watched them cross the plains until they disappeared into the gathering dusk.

Back at Desert Camp for a quick shower, and then off to Sossusvlei Lodge for dinner, where the weather had other ideas. A proper storm had rolled in during the early evening — winds picking up, rain actually falling (in the Namib Desert! In October!), and a general atmosphere of meteorological chaos. Most guests had sensibly headed inside, which meant the indoor dining area was absolutely rammed and there was nowhere to sit. So we did what any self-respecting British couple does in the face of inclement weather: we went outside, found a relatively sheltered corner, and got on with it. We were joined by another British couple who had apparently made exactly the same decision, which suggested we were either kindred spirits or equally daft. It was a fun, if decidedly blustery, evening — the sort of meal that you end up remembering more fondly than a perfectly calm one, because things happened.

Planning Your Visit to Sosussvlei

🚗 By Road

Before you set off, it’s worth noting that Sossusvlei sits approximately 400 kilometres from Namibia’s capital city, Windhoek, which was founded in 1840 and has served as the country’s administrative centre since the German colonial period. The speed limit on Namibia’s gravel roads is 80–100 kilometres per hour, which sounds reasonable until you hit a stretch of corrugated washboard road that shakes the fillings out of your teeth at anything above 60. Allow considerably more time than the distance alone would suggest, and set off early. Road conditions can vary significantly, particularly after rain. Stock up on groceries before leaving Windhoek or any other major town — Solitaire has a basic shop, but the specific thing you need will almost certainly be the one thing they don’t have. Fill up with fuel at every opportunity, and always check whether they take card payments before you commit. Service stations en route: Rehoboth, Solitaire, and at the Sesriem gate.

The standard route from Windhoek follows the B1 south, then picks up signposts towards Solitaire. From Solitaire, turn onto the C19 and follow it for around 70 kilometres before turning onto the D826. After another 15 kilometres you’ll arrive at Sesriem, the gateway to Sossusvlei. Keep to the indicated roads and keep an eye on your map throughout.

✈️ By Air

The fastest, most comfortable and arguably most sensible way to get from Windhoek to Sossusvlei is by air. Several private charter companies operate flights from Windhoek’s Eros Airport, and there are also organised tours that include the flight. An airstrip is located at Solitaire, approximately 70 kilometres from the Sesriem gate, and most lodges in the area will arrange a transfer if you book in advance.

🕕 Gate Times

Sesriem has two gates. The main gate: September to April, 6am–6pm; May to August, 6:45am–6pm. Visitors staying outside the gate require a daily conservation permit (€4/N$80 per person, €0.50/N$10 per vehicle). The inner gate: September to April, 5am–7pm; May to August, 5:45am–7pm.

Best Time to Visit Sossusvlei

Sossusvlei sits in the Namib Desert, where annual rainfall averages somewhere between 15 and 100 millimetres depending on the precise location — which, to put it in context, is roughly what London receives in a single decent week in November. Conditions are generally sunny and warm year-round, but the time of year makes a significant difference to your experience.

November to February brings the Namibian summer, with scorching daytime temperatures in the desert that can exceed 40°C. Nights, thanks to the proximity to the cold Benguela Current off the coast, can actually turn quite cool. If you’re planning anything energetic, you’ll want to be up before dawn and done by mid-morning.

April to August is the prime season. The weather is genuinely excellent for outdoor activities — climbing dunes, hiking, going on a game drive, sitting by a fire in the evening watching a sky full of stars that would make any Londoner weep with envy. Do be aware this is peak season, so expect correspondingly elevated prices and rather more company at Dune 45 than you might ideally like.

Jan	Jan	Feb	Mar	Apr	May	Jun	Jul	Aug	Sep	Oct	Nov	Dec
Min temp.	14°	15°	16°	14°	13°	12°	10°	7°	9°	10°	12°	13°
Max temp.	30°	30°	32°	31°	29°	27°	26°	24°	26°	28°	30°	29°

Where To Stay

Desert Camp

Desert Camp is situated just five kilometres from the entrance gate to Sossusvlei and the Sesriem Canyon in the Namib-Naukluft Park. Nestled beneath centuries-old camel thorn trees, Desert Camp offers excellent views over the desert landscapes and surrounding mountains — a very decent option for the independent traveller who doesn’t need a butler but does need working plumbing. The 28 self-catering units each have an en-suite bathroom, a shaded veranda with a fitted kitchenette, a barbeque, power points, and an adjacent parking area. Each air-conditioned room has twin beds and a fold-out sofa bed to accommodate two small children under 12 free of charge when sharing with two full paying adults. Utility boxes with basic cooking equipment are available from reception, and fresh food can be ordered daily. The main building has a fully stocked bar with a large-screen television, a swimming pool, and two communal bomas with cooking and washing-up facilities. Meals are available at the nearby Sossusvlei Lodge restaurant, and their Adventure Centre runs a range of desert activities. Fuel, a shop, and an internet café are available at the Sossus Oasis Service Station.