Sunrise in Namibia

Sunrise. Alone. Blissfully and utterly alone.

I’m in one of the most famous landmarks in Namibia: Spitkoppe

In the Christmas holidays.

The woman who checked us says that they’re busy in the campsite.

And we saw a few people last night after we’d arrived - scrabbling to get a good spot for sunset and then tripping off swiftly as soon as it was done.

And then I got up for sunrise - and I am alone.

Blissfully, peacefully, beautifully alone.

The smell of woodsmoke from the nearest village drifts across to me in the silence of the morning - recalling fond memories of the enjoying same smell when hiking in Nepal.

A cockerel’s call floats my way - it’s not a wild animal sound but it unmistakably belongs to the dawn.

My skin enjoys being exposed to the cool air in the freshness (which is a rarity I can’t usually enjoy, always remaining fully covered in the heat of the day).

And in between that - there is nothing.

No sound.

No people.

No movement.

The sky gently shifts and moves as the tones begin to change, pinkish light catching the edge of a few clouds before the fresh golden glow begins to peep above the horizon.

I watch the colours change on the Spitkoppe and Pontok mountains - taking them from an insipid pale grey-ish ochre to a flaming orange - and, quite literally, breathe it all in.

I’m incredulous that more people aren’t up. It’s not even that early for a sunrise - 6:20am.

But then, they rarely are up.

And every time I ask which people prefer, the vote is overwhelmingly for sunset.

Gradually more sounds begin to emerge, starting with small birds gently twittering.

And still, I am alone.

And it is nothing short of glorious.

I hear the first car some way in the distance and see the dust rising as it drives along the gravel track, the gentle glow of the sun begins to gain heat and to cast a harsher, less golden light on the mountains, and I know my precious time is over, for now.

Until tomorrow.