DUNE AWAKENING

Few landscapes inspire contemplation quite like those of Namibia On an epic adventure to some of the country's finest lodges, Aatish Taseer reflects on what it means to make a life in the desert.

- Aatish Taseer

IT rained on my first evening in Namibia, well before I was in a position to appreciate the auspicious beauty of such an event.

My husband, Ryan, and I were with the photographer Michael Turek at Zannier Omaanda, a lodge outside the capital of Windhoek. We were at the beginning of a three-part journey through a country that is larger than Texas but has a population smaller than that of Connecticut—some 3 million. The three of us were to fly north by Cessna to the Hoanib Valley, then farther north to the Kunene River, on the Angolan border, before flying back south to the Namib Desert, one of the oldest in the world.

Omaanda, which is set on 35 square miles of savanna, was meant to be a rest stop before the odyssey ahead. It was the second day of the new year, and I was exhilarated by the wildlife we saw on a safari that afternoon: Luna the lioness, yawning languidly; a pair of tuskers bumping their foreheads in play; three armor-plated white rhinos; and countless types of antelope, from impalas to tiny steenbok. But Turek, now on his third visit to the country, was clear. "Namibia is not about animals," he said. "It's about the landscapes."

We got out of the jeep to stretch. Suddenly, thunder rumbled. Above the great arid expanse, a column of rain appeared. An African sky of many moods came into sharp relief, here lit volcanic red by the setting sun, there as clear and cloudless as a ceiling fresco in an Italian church. Then it all came together. The lava broke its bounds and engulfed the sky. The pillar of rain turned an ashen orange. I was enthralled by the drama and looked to Turek, now frantically taking photos, for confirmation.