Our time at Onduli Ridge has come to a close. We move on from this unusual place to Little Ongava, near Etosha National Park.

The Lodge

If you told me a Bond villain lived here, I would not be surprised. The lodge was built around the large boulders which dominate this area.

It’s an odd thing seeing rocks carved smooth by water in the middle of a desert. Here, there is more vegetation than Sossusvlei, and water is closer to the surface. Only rarely does it flow above ground though.

I cannot imagine the expense and time it took to not only haul the construction materials out here, but then also build everything custom to conform to the existing landscape. Only a few rocks had to be moved, probably in the driveway.

Star Sleeping

Every night the staff offered to put the bed outside. Not all the guests partook, but we slept outdoors all three nights. It was unusual. The moon was obnoxiously bright and took getting used to. The desert was suspiciously quiet. The loudest thing we heard was the soft hum of the fridge behind us. All around us, geckos ate bugs all night. It was cool and dry, overall very comfortable sleeping weather. I found it strange at first. I like sleeping in an enclosed space, like a den. I felt very exposed on the deck out in the open. However, I got used to it. The morning sky was something to wake up to. There are no predators or monkeys here, which would prevent this type of setup.

An E-Bike Morning

If you stay in two places in Namibia, make sure to stop by Onduli Ridge.

More Guest Follies

The Underdressed Americans

Lest you think I only comment on other people, let me tell you about us: We are terrible dressers. Sharing the lodges with people from Asia and Europe, I’ve noticed how we, specifically, and Americans, generally, dress. The other guests will come from a drive or activity and retreat to their rooms to “freshen up.” The men wear nice shirts, slacks, and nicer shoes while the women wear gowns, jewelry, and wedges. RBD and I can’t be bothered. I haven’t shaved in days. I rarely bathe. I never do my hair, and I currently look like a balding crazy person from Mad Max. At breakfast an Austrian couple looked us over, head to toe, and shook their heads, their mouth slightly agape. I couldn’t blame them. They are a very nice older couple, and were, of course, dressed beautifully. As the ancient saying goes, “Wherever you go, there you are.” The people from Florida wore flip-flops, which is the State Shoe, and sandals.

The Influencer is Coming

I have come down with a cold, so I stayed behind yesterday and slept while RBD went rhino “hunting.” I hung out with the staff for a bit. It was announced an influencer is coming to stay at the lodge. Subtly, everyone rolled their eyes and sighed. Well, except me, because I think I said, “Oh man those people suck.”

The lodges are in a hard place. Influencers are difficult to deal with from the staff’s point of view, but the marketers and administrators like the (essentially) free PR. Peer-to-peer marketing is worth its weight in gold, the age-old personal referral. Influencer culture takes that and supposedly turbocharges it.

Personally, I doubt it. I can buy thousands of followers with a credit card. I can even buy activity, so it looks like thousands more are commenting and liking my posts. It’s all bots or mechanical turks in India pushing the electrons around. The business model can’t be self sustaining, insofar as you need actual money to do this stuff. Likes and Subscribes don’t buy plane tickets.

I think boss types find Influencers useful idiots, comping them this or that so they run and brag to their “friends” their perceived status, which satisfies some need in all of us … a need to be recognized or have status. As a Delta Platinum member, I don’t understand these forces obviously. If one stranger is “influenced” enough to visit for a few nights, it’s a win for the lodge and cheaper than traditional marketing. Still, it sucks out your soul to be around them and front-line workers have it the worst. Giving self important twats free anything just kills us on the inside. One guide told a story of taking 7,000 pictures of one such “VIP client.” He spoke about guiding them how a solder might recall war, his eyes defocused, a look of ghostly horror across his face, speaking in hushed tones, as he remembered the ordeal.

I wanted to pour out some whiskey for the staff who didn’t survive, now working desk jobs, having guided their last useful idiot.

Please Don’t Touch That

Wilderness Air has been flying us from camp to camp. They use a Cessna Caravan, which was seemingly made for Africa. Helluva plane, basically indestructible, and it can fly and land almost anywhere. There is only one pilot, so people interested in aviation could sit in the right seat. Except, now, the pilots have to get permission. Apparently some shithead didn’t think the plane was going to make it off the runway and unilaterally killed the thrust, causing the plane to not take-off and also overrun the runway. One person ruined it for everyone. Honestly. If I had been the pilot, I’d be in a Namibian prison for aeronautical homicide, having thrown the idiot into the prop.