I finally arrived at the Namibian border at around 4pm and presented my passport to a dilapidated gent in a likewise dilapidated but apparently government-issued trailer. He asked me what business I had in Namibia and I immediately realized that I should have considered the question beforehand. Truly, what was I doing in Namibia? I said something to the effect that I was “killing time” but this fellow didn’t seem to appreciate that answer and he motioned for me to proceed to a drab, stone building resembling a medieval torture chamber a few hundred yards up the road.
There I weathered a lengthy interrogation carried out by a humorless dude wearing a faded Homer Simpson t-shirt and his fully-camouflaged, AK-47 wielding compatriot. My vehicle was searched twice for contraband and I was eventually set free with the understanding that I was not to incite violence within the country nor stay longer than a period of one month.
Free at last but horribly behind schedule, I pushed pedal to the cheap plastic of my Chevy Aveo and hightailed it through the blood-red Namib toward Keetmanshoop.