Namibia's Skeleton Coast: Dem Bones, Dem Bones, Gonna Walk Around...

The Himba are so practical it hurts. Last summer, the safari camp invited nearby Himba in for a feast, then ferried them by Land Rover 12 miles to the coast. They didn't live all that much farther from the ocean, but the younger generation had never seen it because the elders had described it as pretty, but you can't drink it, so what good is it? The Himba were impressed, but they never went back. What good is it? Too many sailors probably concluded as much, though not fortunate enough to find Himba guides to the dry inland river beds camouflaging submerged currents of water through sand.

At night I stand for a long time watching the sky, stealing glances at the silhouette of a jackal slipping around my fancy dance tent, which the Himba would view as the Taj. Before the morning fog, the night is moonless but bright. The stars are the largest and most numerous I've ever seen; shooting stars abound. No constellation overhead is familiar; all are strangers. It's an alien world to this traveler from another hemisphere, beautiful as long as I know a prop-driven spacecraft will eventually alight on our desert runway with ample provisions, so I don't have to knock on a Himba hut for dried goat leftovers.