Brangelina: Namibia's Biggest Game

Again, no signs of Brangelina, though I'm getting closer. Nearby is the town of Langstrand, home to the Burning Shore beach lodge, where the couple has put down roots -- at least temporarily. The next day I pull into the cloistered community, which is just past a roadside ensemble of painted white tires that spell out the word "JESUS." Within the celebrity hamlet -- perched just out of reach of the Atlantic and surrounded by the red-tinged sand dunes of the Namib Desert -- construction workers are erecting home after home. The material of choice appears to be concrete.

These Namibian McMansions seem to be stacked one on top of the other as if oblivious to the endless miles of shore and desert at their disposal. This isn't chic, this isn't Hollywood glitz. This is desert sprawl.

* * *

Engrossed in a fog of my own aesthetic revulsion, I inadvertently come to a beachfront dead end and, without warning, I'm parked in front of the Burning Shore lodge.

My first thought is that I have to get out of here. Despite dozens of hours on the road, I have no game plan. A security guard comes to intercept me. "Can I help you?" booms an Afrikaans-flecked voice, who doesn't seem too concerned with customer service.

Striking up a conversation with the beefy enforcer, who introduces himself as Johan, I wonder out loud where all of the paparazzi are. The blocked-off entrance to the hotel seems suspiciously quiet.

"They're everywhere," he says with obvious disgust, "but we'll get them." I'd expected armed guards to be perched on rooftops, but all Johan is carrying is a walkie-talkie. He manages to give the device the aura of a weapon that he would not hesitate to bludgeon me with.

"Do you have a card?" Johan asks, as if he's given me a once-over and deemed me harmless, if not a bit pathetic. A card? A business card! I'm in. Well, at least, I'm not out.

After mentally groping through my backpack for a shred of paper that might have my name on it, I'm unable to produce any form of documentation. Johan and I shake hands, call it a thankfully bloodless draw and part ways.

I hop back in the rental, resolving to leave the celebrity-watching to the professionals, and head off to the mountainous sand dunes at Sossusvlei, about five hours and a lifetime away from Burning Shore. At the dunes, which have accumulated over millions of years in the heart of the Namib Desert, I hop in the back of a four-wheel-drive shuttle that churns and slides through the loose sand.

The copper-colored dunes -- the largest in the world, with crests over 1,000 feet -- undulate until they meet the horizon, making me feel as small as the grains of sand I'm trudging through. As I hike up the slippery sand ridge, I stop frequently to clear the stinging windblown sand from my mouth and eyes.

From the top of the dune, the rippled expanse of sand looks like the ocean floor without its saltwater blanket. Parched and panting after only 20 minutes, I feel fragile. While mountains are imposing, they begin and end right at your feet, and somehow feel destined to be conquered. The desert, however, is unconquerable.

I return to Windhoek in time for a final midday stroll through town. The pace is unhurried but not aimless, as men in dark suits pass traditionally clad Herero women with full shopping bags while the line at the KFC begins to lengthen. In the glow of a warm afternoon, the isolated city feels like a potential boomtown, patiently preparing and waiting for its big break.

The parting words of Benjamin Batista, my guide, flood back. "The future will be nicer than now," he had told me. "We'll find it somehow, some way." As I head for home, I find myself believing this is true. With or without Brad and Angelina.

Elliot Hannon is a freelance writer and graduate student living in Cape Town.