What lies behind the beauty in desolation, in forbidding landscapes back-dropped by moods of unforgiving peril? I ponder this at one of the best named pieces of real estate in the world, the Skeleton Coast. Odds are thin for travel to Mars. A suitable substitute is this otherworldly historic terror for sailors, many of whom mingled their bones among whale ribs and shipwrecks.

There was no margin for error after rounding the horn of Africa and heading up the rough seas along this vast expanse, which borders more vast expanses, among them the world's oldest desert, the Namib. Before the despair of their plight soaked in, did whalers and other hapless sailors, making it ashore triumphantly after cuisinart reefs munched their ships in frigid waters, find a moment to appreciate landscapes that would have challenged the surreal temperament of Dali?

Gemsbok browse a wash.

Since our sunrise departure from camp, absorbing the cold ocean air in anticipation of noon-day sun, balanced on old airplane chairs strapped on the roof of a well-beaten Land Rover, I feel I'm on an exploratory mechanical bug from NASA. Along the coastline are immense flat plains, broken in places by lines of small cones of abandoned diamond digs of decades past that have yet to blow away in this harsh yet fragile land.

The plains yield to giant, orange-yellow, free-standing dunes. The wind etches geometric patterns on the long curves and slopes that are stunning sculptures as they interplay with shifting shadows and blue sky. Walking across the flat plain from our vehicle my companions step in the footprints in front of them to minimize impact on the flat land's tiny blades of vegetation that suck moisture from the ocean fog which blinded marine navigators.

After hiking up a dune's long backside, we slide down its steep interior slope. Suddenly, from all directions, the wind is overtaken by the eerie monotone crescendo of a giant bass fiddle. There are no fiddlers in sight. The musicians playing process music are us, disturbing uniquely shaped sand grains that emit a deep roar as air escapes their grinding. Delighted, some of us make long leaps down the slope, adding staccato notes.

Struggling back up the huge half bowl slope, the solitude of the coast, even within this two-million-hectare national park, again hits home. Despite a huge concession set aside for safari, the Skeleton Coast Camp, www.skeleton-coast.com is limited to 12 visitors, with access only by air.

Glorious light on the dunes.

I keep imagining the challenge of survival if I'd been a sailor in past centuries, wondering if I would have had the courage to flee the coast or at least start a long march up it, giving my skeleton a run for its money.

Fishing gear, a gun for seven-foot Cape Fur seals, a desert survival manual, a map leading to dry riverbeds one could excavate for water left from flash floods, an awareness that the most forbidding plants in the riverbeds are the ones to draw moisture from, as the friendly looking ones are lethal - all that would have been handy. And all that was non-existent for those dragging themselves ashore, paralyzed by their lack of options, hopeful for sea rescues that were impossible. Years ago, a dozen skeletons were found in a hole dug in the beach. They were in a circle, with their arms around each other, heads missing. The skulls, which help preserve the brains, were likely taken by hyenas who thought them box lunches.

And yet, there are survivors. The wildlife is minimalist, but fascinating in its adaptations. Up on a ridge facing the ocean breeze are several gemsbok, or oryx, nearly 500 pounds each. A type of antelope, they hyperventilate the ocean air to cool their body temperature to keep the blood in their heads from boiling. Their horns are like scimitars. And lions - there are desert-adapted lions that relish the seals - think twice. Fresh lion tracks in a river bed make me think thrice when, separated from the only other vehicle, I rapidly collect flat rocks to jam under tires bogged down in dry sand. No guns are allowed in the park.

Sparse plantlife paints a picture.

Even the bugs amaze. I saw a beetle irrigated by grooves in its back that build up a drop of water from condensed fog. Another fog connoisseur is a plant, welwitschia mirabilis. Two leather-like, porous leaves turn into a tangled mass, two meters across. Some plants are 2,000 years old. A bit inland, amid canyons and valleys that resemble hard scrabble parts of the U.S. west, are ostrich, jackals, mountain zebra, baboon, and foxes.

Desert elephants have been seen venturing to the coast to surf the dunes and create their own symphony. We track elephants on foot - they're always around the bend, judging by fresh elephant doody - a term of art - until the sun reflecting in a canyon of clay "castles" beats us back. Our vehicles later turn back as well, as an unexplored river bed that might leave a vehicle stuck amid lion tracks becomes too forbidding near sunset. No tow trucks here.

But the greatest survivors are humans from the Himba tribe, some of whom reside just outside the park. Scattered across northern Namibia, they comprise less than 1% of the population. They haven't changed their nomadic lifestyle in centuries, raising cattle, living in huts of dung and sand with goat innards drying on the roof for some delicacy I manage to miss.

Dune-sliding on the Skeleton Coast.

The women are particularly impressive, wearing only goatskin aprons and jewelry, glowing red from a mixture of ochre, an iron ore, mixed with rancid butter, rubbed daily over every square inch, their braided hair coated with mud and hardened like a helmet. These women work hard while the men count their cattle. Their beauty is not one of desolation, but of robust physical strength and a meticulously tended traditional appearance that, say anthropologists, maintains the manner in which they are valued, as well as a hedge of continuity against the vagaries of less-than-stellar modern life.

It's hard to know what to wish for the Himba. Their refined beauty is well-framed by the harsher beauty behind them. The world is spinning fast but they have gotten off. No debates over broadband here. But horrors such as the diamond wars farther north in Angola, the heartbreak of AIDS orphans, tribal conflicts, and deprivation magnified by an envy of wealth have missed the Himba in this neck of Namibia. The elements of their neighborhood are so tough no one hungers for their land - safety in lack of numbers.

A drought - the term is relative here - killed enough cattle a couple decades ago to drive some Himba into the towns. They didn't fare well; alcoholism and prostitution were often the byproducts of culture shock. Much farther east, a proposed dam threatens the Himba way of life. But at the Skeleton Coast the bet is that if you drop by in 50 years, or 100, the headman's progeny will still be tending the holy fire, a smoldering log that helps enlist departed paternal ancestors to intercede with their creator. Spartan though the Himba camp is, don't walk on the large, bare expanse between that holy fire at the headman's hut and the corral. You'll disturb a sacred force.

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 20 km 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, not fortunate to find Himba guides to the dry inland river beds camouflaging submerged currents of water through sand.

At night I stand 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 seen; shooting stars abound. None of the constellations are familiar. 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.

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