How, at 38, with my Royal Enfield Himalayan and a lot of courage, I turned back on the first day of my trip out of sheer respect for the gravel roads.
A THOUSAND TEARS RIGHT AT THE START
Two weeks after my divorce, I found myself standing in a hostel in Windhoek, Namibia. Knowing the emotional storm I was facing, I had wisely booked a private room.
My motorcycle was stuck in customs for 10 days, leaving me in limbo. From 100 to 0—and with it, all the emotions I had been pushing aside suddenly overwhelmed me. Armed with a jumbo pack of tissues, I lay in that hard hostel bed, freshly divorced at 38, with my father’s funeral just a month behind me, crying my eyes out. I only got up to go to the bathroom or kitchen, mostly because my hips couldn’t take the hard mattress anymore.
IT LOOKED EASIER ON YOUTUBE
My nerves were shot.
What had I been thinking, embarking on this trip? Alone, as a woman, riding through Africa on a motorcycle—and I’d only had my license for three years! Other than a short ride in India, I’d only ever ridden on Germany’s paved roads.
On YouTube, those other solo female travelers made it look so easy.
Months of meticulous planning, countless YouTube videos, deep research, but nothing had prepared me for the moment when I turned that throttle for the first time.
After getting through the worst of my tears, I finally ventured out of my room. Two kind male hostel guests comforted me with a beer, reassuring me that the pain of divorce would eventually fade. It helped. A little.
MY BIKE IS READY FOR PICKUP
After 10 long days full of emotions, it was time. I nervously took a taxi to an industrial area in Windhoek to collect my bike. It had spent 30 days at sea, shipped all the way from Hamburg to Namibia.
Everything looked fine—it was still fully packed, with saddlebags and all. But would it start? Was the battery still good? The warehouse workers unveiled my Royal Enfield. I pulled the key out of my pocket, inserted it into the ignition, and turned it. Boom! It roared to life! I was beyond excited.
THE JOURNEY BEGINS AND ENDS ON THE SAME DAY
Fully packed and over-prepared for every scenario, I set off from the hostel, waving goodbye to my newfound comforters. The vast roads of Namibia lay ahead. My first destination: the dunes and desert of Sossusvlei. I had at least 200 km of gravel road ahead of me—was that really a smart way to start?
After 20 km, Google Maps kindly informed me that I still had at least six hours to go until the camp. I had doubts, but kept going. My luggage started to wobble, so I stopped to tighten the straps. Then I got back on the bike and continued.
Wobble, wobble—again. I stopped to check the straps once more, and that’s when it happened. My metal beast tipped over, luggage and all. I couldn’t lift over 200 kg on my own. There I stood, on a gravel road, listening: nothing. Absolutely nothing, except for the sound of crickets. A slight panic set in: this isn’t happening today.
After 10 minutes, a pickup truck passed by. I waved it down and, luckily, the drivers stopped to help.
SUCH HOSPITALITY AND KINDNESS
The drivers helped me lift my motorcycle and, even more kindly, gathered up my gear and escorted me back to the hostel in Windhoek. I felt awful. What had I been thinking? I would never make it. Damn those negative thoughts—“Would men think like this too?” I wondered. Everything in me screamed, “I want to go home.” But I fought it. Giving up now would be a disaster. I had to stick it out.
I rang the hostel doorbell. “Surprise, I’m back! Do you have another room for tonight?” How embarrassing. The same two guys were still there and offered me another beer. I needed it.
SLOWING DOWN
First step: cut down on the luggage. I had packed way too much, with typical German thoroughness for every possible situation—from spare parts to tools, food, and camping gear. If I could do it again, I’d pack differently.
Three days later, after giving myself time to think, recover, and make peace with taking it slower, I set out again. This time, I decided to ride the paved road to Swakopmund first. Baby steps.
CRACKED LIPS AND MORE KINDNESS
Namibia’s climate is so dry that my lips cracked open. I tried drinking five liters of water a day, but even that didn’t help. After enjoying an ice cream at the beach in Swakopmund, a kind woman approached me and suggested a place I should visit. The next day, I ended up in a moonscape—a hilly desert landscape that looked like craters on the moon. My lips still hurt.
I checked Google, of course, to see what kind of road led to this “Moon Valley”—gravel. Oh god, not again. I admit, I still couldn’t control my fears. I debated with myself: it’s only 25 km. You can do this. And I did.
I arrived at a lovely camp with a restaurant and treated myself to a Coke. Nothing goes unnoticed, though. The camp owner sat down with me, having seen me on the motorcycle, and curiously asked about my journey. “May I help you?” she asked, handing me a small tin of green lip balm. “You Europeans can’t handle this dry heat. That’s why your lips look like that.” I was taken aback but grateful. The balm worked instantly, and she gave it to me as a gift.
CAMPING WITH A STRANGER
Of course, the camp owner had a son who also rode motorcycles—professionally, no less, for a tour company. Whether I wanted it or not, she connected us, and before I knew it, I had plans for the next few days. Wow, I thought, what luck! Fate was on my side. If my bike hadn’t tipped over and forced me to change my plans, I would never have met these kind people.
Her son immediately agreed to show me Walvis Bay and take me to see the Cape Cross seal colony. So there I was, setting off on a two-day trip, camping with a complete stranger. Crazy? No, not in this case. My gut didn’t warn me otherwise.
HOT AND COLD – LIKE BEING HIT WITH A FRYING PAN
It was early morning in Swakopmund, and I was heading inland, grateful for the experiences so far. Swakopmund is on the coast and can be quite cool, so I layered a fleece under my motorcycle jacket, setting off in 15°C.
As I rode into the desert, it was like being hit by a frying pan. I can’t describe it. In a matter of seconds, like crossing an invisible barrier, the temperature shot from 15°C to 35°C, and a hot wind nearly knocked me off the road. I started sweating and looked for a spot to stop and change, but the wind was so strong I could barely keep my bike upright. I pushed on until I reached my next overnight stop.
LONELINESS IS HARD
Namibia greeted me with endless roads and a silence only broken by the hum of my engine. It was April 2022, and post-COVID, things were still pretty quiet. Sometimes I was the only guest in a camp or guesthouse, sometimes I’d meet couples, but it was hard to make connections. Still nursing heartbreak and loss, reality felt slow, heavy, and at times, intimidating. But I was here, and there was no turning back. Africa’s vastness occasionally amplified my sense of isolation. But that same solitude forced me to reflect, to think, to write things down I hadn’t seen clearly before. I replayed the past three years and wondered how we’d let our relationship unravel. But life goes on, and I had to live!
DON’T DREAM, LIVE!
The idea for this journey came when my life slowly began to change. Frustration with my job and relationship crept in, like a slow, insidious leak, and I just wanted to escape—to feel alive again. I found inspiration in countless YouTube videos, especially from women boldly traveling the world solo. They seemed to embody a strength and freedom that I often felt I lacked. I was caught in the hamster wheel, questioning everything. What am I doing here? I need to do something else, to take a leap!
THE CAGED HUMAN ANIMAL BREAKS FREE
I wanted out! But I’m German, so it had to be careful, well-considered, and thoroughly planned. What could I do? A sabbatical. With the safety net of returning to my job.
I had always dreamed of becoming a diving instructor. That dream had begun in my early 20s. Now, I was 38. It was now or never. If I didn’t do it now, I probably never would. You don’t get younger. But just flying to Mozambique and starting the course? No, that wouldn’t do. I would ride my motorcycle to my goal: Mozambique! From Germany? Too extreme, although I almost let my imagination run wild. I started researching: shipping a motorcycle—that’s it! And so, after 1.5 years of planning, things began to take shape…
ENDLESS HORIZONS, ENDLESS STORIES
My motorcycle journey took me through the Caprivi Strip in northern Namibia, between Angola and Botswana. From Botswana, I continued
into South Africa, where I took a longer break to begin the first part of my diving instructor course. If I was going to learn, I wanted to do it right: cold water, sharks, currents, waves. But that’s a story for another time.
Later, in Mozambique, my soul began to heal, and I wasn’t lonely anymore.
I could keep telling stories, like about the man with the machete, the New Zealander Gregg, Algirdas on his bicycle, the policeman who tried to fine me 100€, or the herders who rode cows. But I’ll save those for another post.
