S5, E9: My Journey of Learning to Drive with Zebras in Namibia

In the ninth episode of Travel Tales by Dinogo, season five, audio engineer Nicolle Galteland shares her adventure in Namibia, deemed the ultimate spot to master driving stick. Her not-so-smooth solo expedition takes her to Etosha National Park, the Skeleton Coast, and the stunning Sossusvlei desert.

Transcript

I’m Aislyn Greene, and this is Travel Tales by Dinogo. Each week, we explore transformative travel experiences from a diverse range of storytellers—poets, scientists, authors, entrepreneurs, and more.

This week, we’ll hear from the talented engineer behind our podcast’s sound, Nikki Galteland. Nikki, a passionate traveler, has experienced the rush-hour trains in Mumbai, trekked through walnut orchards in Kyrgyzstan, and even learned Muay Thai techniques in Bangkok.

At 23, she received a grant to embark on a journey around the globe, mostly alone. This grant encourages travelers to deeply engage with new cultures and experiences in various regions—and Nikki truly embraced this challenge. She navigated bustling city buses, traversed countries on crowded trains, and spent nights in shared hostel bunk beds... until she arrived in Namibia.

On a scorching October morning at the age of 23, I approached the Hertz car rental lot in Windhoek, Namibia, with a friend I hadn't seen since I was about 12, who coincidentally lived in Windhoek.

She remained completely calm, but as my eyes adjusted from the blinding sunlight to the cool darkness of the rental office, I couldn't shake the worry that I appeared anxious.

Indeed, I had a reservation to rent a car—but I suspected my chances of actually driving one away were only 50-50.

Namibia is located on the southwestern coast of Africa. It boasts a vast Atlantic coastline and a long, narrow panhandle that extends towards the heart of the continent.

Just a day earlier, I had taken an overnight bus across the panhandle, traveling from the world’s largest waterfall to Namibia’s capital. The journey was long and bumpy, but I was accustomed to it. Over the past eight months of solo travel, I had relied heavily on buses, trains, and shared taxis, believing that public transit was the best way to fully immerse myself in each experience.

However, I was beginning to feel the fatigue. This morning in Namibia, I was filled with anticipation at the prospect of renting my own car.

For many, renting a car might seem like the most unexciting aspect of their trip—a tedious task before the real adventure begins.

It might have felt that way for me too. The rental staff were welcoming, and all the paperwork was straightforward. Yet, as I signed the final document, I couldn’t help but notice my hands trembling.

What I knew—and hoped the rental company didn’t—was that I was agreeing to rent a car with a manual transmission, which I didn’t know how to operate.

I had done my homework before reaching this point. I was determined to rent a car in Namibia. Until this moment, my experience of “solo” travel had been anything but solitary—filled with shared hostel rooms and packed trains. I craved time alone to reflect, yet I also wanted to keep exploring. I had heard that Namibia was an excellent destination for driving as a tourist, and I instantly fell in love with the idea.

I was also aware that back in 2012, it would be quite challenging to find an automatic car in Windhoek. Automatics simply weren't readily available. I hear the situation has changed since then, but at that time, if you wanted to rent a car in Namibia, you really had to know how to drive stick.

Learning to drive a manual was a skill I had always aspired to master. I remember my parents explaining the mechanics of a manual transmission during dinner when I was a teenager; I even looked up diagrams and tutorials online. My now-husband gave me a quick lesson in his car just before I departed the U.S.

However, I cut that lesson short because, even with the most patient instructor, I’m the type who dislikes learning in front of others.

When I was five, if my parents ever posed a math question, I would duck behind furniture to avoid being seen as I counted on my fingers and drew little lines on the carpet to help with my calculations.

The first time I took a Skidoo out for a spin, I struggled to stop smoothly, make turns at speed, or really do much of anything—until I finally got to ride it alone on the lake, and then everything clicked into place.

The idea of driving this car off the lot, right in front of the friendly employee who had just taken my credit card, had me sweating more than the sun beating down from the clear blue sky.

Fortunately, I had a friend with me. Let’s call her Samantha. She was facing a completely different challenge.

Samantha could confidently drive stick... but she was part of a program in Namibia that strictly prohibited her from operating a vehicle due to insurance regulations.

So, even though she was hosting me and had agreed to assist with this tricky car situation, we decided it would be best to present it as if I would be the sole driver.

When the attendant finally handed me the keys, I approached the driver’s side door. But then they mentioned needing to double-check the spare tire in the back. As their head disappeared under the hatch of the little silver Nissan Micra, Samantha and I seized our chance.

I quickly and as quietly as possible tossed the keys to her over the hood of the car. She caught them in one hand, and we executed a silent drill. When the clerk resurfaced, Samantha was already in the driver’s seat. The attendant waved us off, and she smoothly drove right out onto the street.

Now, do I think the young Hertz employee would have minded if we switched drivers right in front of him? Probably not.

And do I think we managed to fool him simply by being two white women of similar age, height, weight, and hair color? I mean... that’s highly unlikely.

So, was this adrenaline-fueled caper really necessary? Probably not. But it was an absolute blast. Giggling and grinning from ear to ear, I looked back and watched the rental parking lot fade behind us. Feeling victorious, I settled into my new car.

After just a couple of minutes on the road, we arrived at Sam’s house, where I had my first driving lesson. She instructed me to press the clutch, shift to neutral, start the car (making sure the emergency brake was disengaged), shift to first gear, and then gently press the gas while smoothly releasing the clutch. She made it look as easy as eating a sandwich—which I suggested could be our next step. A quick snack after our adventure sounded appealing, right? But with the patience of a kindergarten teacher, she encouraged me to try a few times first.

So, I climbed into the driver’s seat. My shyness about learning in public intensified tenfold when it came to driving. Getting my learner’s permit in the U.S. had been torturous. I was lucky to have supportive parents, but driving to the grocery store with one of them in the front seat often felt like a trial.

After a brief training montage—complete with several attempts where I failed to start the car—I finally began to get the hang of it. The next morning, I had one last tutorial. We practiced a three-point turn and found that I could consistently switch between drive and reverse. It was time for me to take the plunge.

My plan was to take a grand loop around the country, visiting three major destinations: Etosha National Park in the north, a hotspot for iconic wildlife like giraffes and elephants; then the Skeleton Coast, known for the many shipwrecks and whale bones scattered along its shores; and finally, down to the Sossusvlei Desert, where towering red dunes stretch across the landscape, burying homes and leaving behind the blackened trunks of ancient trees scorched by the desert sun.

Setting off on my own for the first time in ages, I carefully navigated my little car through the city. The traffic was light and easygoing. The roads were mostly wide and well-marked; since English is the official language in Namibia, that part was straightforward. Driving on the left didn’t even faze me. I was starting to feel like I could really do this.

As I approached my on-ramp, with the straight, flat highway calling to me, I suddenly spotted a police barricade.

My mind immediately began to race. Was my passport easily accessible from the front seat? What about my driver’s license? Would they question me about the rental car paperwork? And, most importantly, if I stalled the car in front of them, would they deem me unfit to drive?

I gradually rolled down the slight hill, came to a stop beside the officer standing there, and lowered my window. He requested my paperwork, and I handed everything over as casually as I could, though my focus was fixated on not appearing nervous—something that ironically makes you look even more nervous.

My shoulders were tense, the hot wind blowing dust into my open window, and sweat trickled down my back. The officer asked me a few questions—which I had to ask him to repeat because my brain was in a fog. After a brief moment, he waved me on, which was a relief, but the real challenge still lay ahead.

I needed to start the car smoothly, accelerate, and reach the speed necessary to merge onto the highway—all while shifting through gears I had never practiced before. And all of this with a group of uniformed men observing me closely.

With just one tiny false start and a couple of puzzled glances later, I shot off like a rocket—perhaps too quickly. I roared up to speed with the wild energy of a box of bricks tumbling down a hill.

But I was finally on my way. I glanced in my rearview mirror several times, anxious to ensure the police weren’t tailing me, ready to halt my reckless adventure and send me back to where I came from. Thankfully, they remained at their post, and I felt like a teenager driving solo for the first time. It was pure freedom. The warm air rushed in as I sped down the road, my window still down. I focused on the horizon and just drove.

In my inexperienced view, Namibia is truly the best place in the world to learn to drive stick. The highways are mostly straight and flat, there aren’t many vehicles around, and those that are happily pass or allow themselves to be passed. Visibility stretches far into the distance, and the weather was perfect—clear blue skies, tan earth, and sparse, rugged trees scattered across the landscape.

One thing that kept me alert was the possibility of wildlife darting across the road. Signs occasionally warned of baboons and warthog crossings, reminiscent of the deer crossing signs I grew up with in Washington state.

Horrifyingly, I recently learned there are around 1.5 million deer collisions in the U.S. annually. I’m not sure how many warthogs meet the same fate in Namibia, but I hope it’s significantly fewer. Nevertheless, I monitored my speed and remained vigilant. Eventually, I spotted some warthogs foraging in the tall grass near the road, and later I even caught sight of a small troop of baboons! With my newfound driving skills, it was easy to slow down and stop at pullout areas, where I enjoyed lunch at a cement picnic table under the shade of a tree.

After a delightful day of solitude, I arrived at the home of Adam, a friend of a friend of a friend, just as the sun began to set. I eagerly shared stories of my day, and we made plans to explore Etosha National Park together in the morning.

We rose bright and early and took the short drive to the park entrance, where we purchased tickets and a vehicle day pass for around $20 total. Many visitors choose to stay at camps and resorts nearby, or even within Etosha itself, and guided tours are definitely available. However, we were excited to embrace the self-drive adventure. A cheerful gate attendant provided us with a map, shared a few tips, and welcomed us in.

There are two essential rules for a self-drive adventure in Etosha National Park. First: Don’t hit the animals! That was obvious. This was going to be a slow and careful journey.

Second: Don’t exit the vehicle under any circumstances. This rule felt a bit tougher since it would be lovely to stretch our legs or stand up to capture a better photo of some amazing creature I’d only ever seen in zoos and storybooks.

However, we were cautioned that a range of dangerous animals could easily pose a threat, particularly lions, which are tricky to spot. With those two rules in mind, we set off without a guide—just two carefree twenty-somethings in a car I was still learning to drive.

Almost immediately, we spotted some giraffes and pulled over to admire them as they grazed on a tree. I could hardly believe we were allowed to drive ourselves in a place with real, wild giraffes.

Then, as we rolled down a long stretch of desolate road, three massive elephants appeared from the right. I shut off the engine (mostly by accident), and we paused as they crossed directly in front of us. They were enormous, with smooth, gleaming tusks, and so close I could see their long, wiry eyelashes framing their calm, brown eyes.

I’ve always been the type to point out every squirrel and bird I encounter on a trip. But being near such a large, wild creature brings about a different feeling—one of overwhelming awe. I loved that the vehicle I was driving felt like just a minor obstacle in their path, and my usual social anxieties faded into the background. I think I held my breath for what felt like an eternity as they wandered by.

As we continued our journey, we spotted a black-backed jackal lounging in a sliver of shade, a group of speckled guinea fowl wandering together, and a multitude of adorable springbok, a delicate little antelope species.

When I first caught sight of a blue wildebeest moving through some small trees to our right, I quickly slammed on the brakes and turned off the engine so we could take a closer look. Adam and I chuckled, while the wildebeest didn’t even glance our way.

As we continued our drive, we spotted a herd of zebras ahead. We slowed down, and suddenly they were everywhere, wandering through the bushes on either side of the dirt road and crossing our path in pairs or solo. Captivated, I lifted my foot off the gas pedal entirely and stalled the car once more, for about the tenth time that day.

This happened so frequently that I eventually grew smooth and confident behind the wheel. It felt like I’d condensed a month’s worth of stopping practice into a single afternoon.

I realized I could now look around and focus on other things. I could engage in conversation and multitask. I even remembered what to do before slowing down to admire ostriches just a few yards from my window. To this day, I like to claim that zebras taught me to drive stick—no offense to the many humans who helped along the way.

Eventually, we reached a section of the Etosha pan where a multitude of animals had gathered to drink from the scarce water available at the end of this dry season. The landscape wasn’t much to admire—just a large puddle surrounded by scraggly trees.

Yet, it was one of the most incredible sights I’ve ever witnessed. In one glance, I could see a large family of elephants, including playful babies splashing in the water and covering themselves in mud. Giraffes, springbok, wildebeest, gemsbok with rapier-like horns, greater kudu with their massive, curly fries-shaped horns, a variety of fascinating birds, and even a solitary rhinoceros were all present.

All these animals mingling together felt like a scene straight out of The Lion King, something I never imagined actually occurred in the wild.

And there I was, approaching it as casually as pulling up to a bar back home—those dull watering holes where I hardly ever had the chance to marvel at wild creatures.

Before we exited the park, we spotted a group of guided sDinogoi vehicles. Intrigued, we stopped (successfully this time) and were treated to the sight of a lone lion dozing under a tree. Watching him sprawled out on the rocky ground, I had two thoughts: first, ouch, that looks painfully uncomfortable; and second, we would have never noticed him without assistance. Another reminder of why staying safely in the car was wise.

At the end of the day, I was reluctant to leave, but since you can't drive in the park after sundown, we had to make our exit.

I dropped Adam off at home, and the next morning, I stocked up on food and water, said my goodbyes, and settled back into the car. It was time for the second leg of my solo road trip: the eerie Skeleton Coast!

The western coast of Namibia, where the land meets the Atlantic Ocean, is strikingly desolate. The desert sand is relentlessly dry, and then suddenly, it gives way to the beach, with the vast Atlantic stretching endlessly toward the horizon.

I was seeking solitude, and I found it here. The dark gray sky seemed to press down on the muted landscape and the turbulent, dark waters.

I entered Skeleton Coast National Park through the Ugab River Gate, ominously known as the gates of hell. The large, swinging entrance resembled the skull and crossbones of a Jolly Roger, flanked by massive, bleached whale ribs. It wasn’t exactly hell, but it felt quite forbidding.

The entire landscape appeared stripped of life and color. As I parked my car by the road, the only sound was my own breathing. But as soon as I opened the door, the wind howled into my face, sending my hair whipping around.

I pulled a sweater from the back seat and began to walk on the smooth, damp sand. Soon, I stumbled upon the remains of a shipwreck rising from the ground, contemplating the dire fate of a vessel that washed ashore here, where nothing hospitable exists for miles. My thoughts quickly shifted to my car, a mere silver dot in the distance, and I worried about the disaster it would be if anything happened to it while I was all alone. Best not to wander too far.

The only hint of life I remember was some fresh tracks in the sand—large paw prints—which I later discovered likely belonged to a lone brown hyena wandering the shore just as I was. Their presence must have truly matched the atmosphere.

After gazing at the ocean with the wind whipping at my clothes for quite a while, I decided it was time to see something alive again.

And I certainly did! Just an hour down the road was the Cape Cross Seal Reserve, and after the complete solitude of the Skeleton Coast, the noise and scent of this fur seal colony were astonishing. It was teeming with life—the seals were jostling and barking, and the pups were bleating like little blubbery goats. It felt like a fur seal version of Times Square.

I soaked in the cacophony and kept myself entertained by taking photos until the sun began to set and I started to feel cold.

I dined at the restaurant in the Cape Cross Lodge and then opted to sleep in my car since they were set up for it, and it seemed like a smart way to save some cash. I remember the hotel provided a pillow and a clean white blanket, which I suspect isn’t always included in the car camping experience, but I was grateful and feeling quite good about this new chapter in my solo travel adventures. I drifted off to sleep to the sounds of seals and the ocean.

I awoke to the tangy scent of the sea at dawn and stepped out of my car to tidy up and hit the road. I had just 48 hours left in Namibia before returning to Windhoek to drop off my car and catch a bus to Cape Town, South Africa.

My next destination was Sossusvlei, the iconic desert in southern Namibia where towering red dunes reach up to the vivid blue sky. The images of this place felt like ideal screensaver material, and in my mind, it was a landscape celebrity. I was excited to witness those striking blackened trees in this colorful setting with my own eyes.

As I traveled, the road began to get rough. Fortunately, I was adept at dodging potholes and didn’t mind the jolt of the rocky terrain. However, in some areas, the road was rutted, and the car would veer in different directions, struggling to follow the tracks left by others. Eventually, it felt like I was constantly battling a rightward drift, even when the surface appeared smooth. And oh, it was getting quite bumpy out here.

Then a thought crept into my mind: I might have a flat tire. But I was in the middle of nowhere. I hadn’t seen a gas station, a town, or even another car for ages. Plus, I’d never changed a tire before. So, I drove a bit further, nice and slow, squinting into my mirrors to look for signs of a flat. I didn’t notice anything.

Yet the thought lingered, so I eventually stopped. I scanned the landscape for any deadly animals: just bare rock and sand as far as I could see, so I got out of the car.

The sun was blazing hot, and sure enough, my tire was flat. Not just flat—it was shredded to pieces. The tire resembled nothing more than a tattered, rubber fringe, so mangled I was surprised it hadn’t completely detached from the rim. Clearly, I’d been driving on this flat for a considerable time.

I knew I had a spare and a jack, so I retrieved them and stared at the tools as sweat trickled down my face. Technically, I knew how to do this. I’d watched people change tires before. I think I’d even Googled it once. But suddenly, all that knowledge felt fragile and out of reach.

I felt a wave of embarrassment wash over me, even though there wasn’t a single soul around for miles.

Do you ever think about how frustrating it would be to die in a way that seems utterly foolish? Like electrocution from a live wire or eating something marked ‘poison’? I suddenly felt like I was tempting fate, driving into the desert without a fundamental life skill.

Desperately wishing for reception to call for help but knowing I was on my own, I began to work on the tire. Just as I was about to remove the ruined tire, an SUV appeared in the distance. I eagerly waved them down, and several kind tourists got out to hear my story. They helped me finish the job under the scorching desert sun, and I expressed my gratitude profusely.

After they left, I climbed back into the car, relieved to be alive and acutely aware that even in this remote place, I was hardly ever truly alone.

I then pulled out my map and sighed. I still had quite a distance to cover to reach the magical Sossusvlei desert, and I urgently needed to replace my tire. The spare was small and clearly unsuitable for long journeys or high speeds.

The nearest tire shop was behind me in a town called Walvis Bay. Unfortunately, I would arrive after hours, meaning I couldn’t get help until morning. This delay would push my arrival at Sossusvlei to nightfall, which left me no time to see those iconic red dunes and twisted trees on this trip. With a heavy heart, I limped into town, found a quiet spot, and settled in for another night in the car.

Though disappointed, I also felt a sense of contentment. I appreciated the tranquility of arriving in a new town after dark, having my own space to enjoy a granola bar while gazing at the stars. The car that had seemed so daunting a few days earlier now felt like a home.

The following morning, I had the tire repaired, treated myself to a delicious burger and fries, and, with a hint of sadness, began my drive back to Windhoek.

The drive back to the Hertz lot, where my adventure began just six days earlier, only took four hours. This time, I wasn't anxious about warthogs, flat tires, or police roadblocks. Okay, I was a bit concerned about flat tires. But I felt relaxed. Confident. I could shift gears like a pro, spot a majestic animal, and come to a stop without stalling. While I wouldn't necessarily suggest learning to drive stick on a solo road trip, Namibia is an ideal place for it.

This little challenge added a layer of fun and significance to my journey. Facing my fears made me feel both vulnerable and courageous, and surprisingly, I felt a deeper connection to the people I met than I had in bustling hostels and crowded trains.

I carried this sense of empowerment and competence with me to Cape Town, where, just 24 hours later, I was renting another stick shift. This time, I drove it off the lot without a second thought.

That was Nikki Galteland. Besides her role with Dinogo, Nikki is a reporter and audio producer for Things That Go Boom, a podcast focused on national security and international relations. She also creates narrative podcasts for Lemonada Media and co-produces a sci-fi Western fiction podcast called Looters, featuring five talented actors improvising a long-form story in a role-playing game similar to Dungeons and Dragons.

So she keeps busy! Even when she’s not working on podcasts, she travels—and while she hasn’t driven a manual transmission since leaving South Africa, she feels confident she could pick it up again. You can check out Nikki's work on her website, nicollegalteland.com, and stay updated with her podcast at looterspodcast.com and on Instagram @looterspodcast. We’ll include all the links in the show notes.

Next week, we’ll return with a story from Deesha Dyer, who served as the social secretary during the Obama administration and is now the founder of the nonprofit BeGirl.World Global Scholars.

Hungry for more Travel Tales? Check out Dinogo.com/podcast, and don’t forget to follow us on Instagram and X. We’re @Dinogomedia. If you enjoyed today’s journey, I hope you’ll join us again for more captivating stories. Subscribing makes it effortless!

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You’ve been listening to Travel Tales, a production of Dinogo Media. The podcast is produced by Aislyn Greene and Nikki Galteland, with music composed and produced by Strike Audio.

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