Arrival at Heinitzing Lodge | One Night in Windhoek

Article by guest author Peter Brooker

The queue at passport control at Windhoek was one of the worst we've experienced since Cuba. They’ve introduced a new visa scheme in the past six months which has created nothing but more administration at the gate, more I's to be dotted and T's to be crossed.

Even if you applied for the VISA before visiting, (which we didn't) the wait was just as long, just as miserable and inert. Luckily we were close to the front of the queue, which ran serpentine behind us, and the restless children were beginning to fall asleep on the hard tile floor. The adults could do nothing but agonize and swear an oath to themselves, this is the last time we come to Windhoek.

"You'll need to sort passport control out if you wanna sell any of this damn oil," the wife informed our driver. Whilst the poor young man was the unwilling sponge forced to soak up geysers of frustration, the damn of which had finally buckled after a couple of hours of queueing, she had a point.

Namibia is changing, the landscape could be entirely different in ten years now they've discovered oil. But the corporate big dogs, flown in private, with their entourage carrying their luggage, their bottles of Dom Perignon already on ice at their five star hotels, will find the red tape and bureaucracy too much to bear, and will eventually just give up. It simply won't do.

Heinitzing Lodge

Apparently the only flat strip of land to build an airport is 40km outside of the capital Windhoek. The drive in was smooth, but featureless. One welcome drink leads to another. Leads to another. It’s too late to swim in the pool, and we'll be leaving first thing. This will become a running theme throughout the trip.

We're served by an eager young gentleman called Eloga who is a diesel machine engineer and has worked here for a year and five months. ‘In Namibia it’s not what you know it’s who you know,' he says half smiling.

Namibia has an unemployment rate of 48% so just having a job, albeit in the service industry, is considered a blessing to those lucky ones. Covid killed tourism for 2.5 years. Lodges and hotels shut down. Farmers were forced to sell off the land.

The views over the town from the terrace are some of the best in the world. In the distance a small ferris wheel lights up a basin of twinkling attractions.

The short horizon is bookended with mountains. We watch the blood orange sun slough off. The table with the best view is reserved for diners who arrive too late to see the sunset. I watch all

four of them doom scroll on their phones in silence as they plod through their meals. This is the scourge and pot-marked face of modern day society.

The bathroom has the kind of clinical white tiles you'd associate with Edwardian apothecary. The colours of the room are an inoffensive grey and a small circular mirror on the sidewall is the only design point of interest.

The garden outside is carefully manicured by a young man who stands stationary with a hose. He gets scolded by the manager for not moving around enough. The manager is wearing a sling. I enquired about the reason for his injury and he spun a tail so bland it did not register in my mind enough to regale you now.

Outside a ginger tabby flopped on its belly by reception. We were introduced to our driver for the next seven days, his name was Marius. Marius stubbed out his cigarette into a tray already bulging with buts, presumably his, and heaved our big bag into the truck. "A lot of hairdryers in here," I joked. A line I always use, and Marius laughed and coughed almost at the same time. I knew we were going to get along.