The sun was already high and we were still at the foot of Brandberg, the ‘Fire Mountain’. Behind us was the desert of Damaraland; ahead, the harsh profile of that mass of rock; all around, silence. Angula Shipahu, his son Thomas and I had just finished dividing the food and equipment between our backpacks. Basil's jeep was just a white dot in the distance, vanishing in the waves of heat. We would see him again in a fortnight, on the other side of the Brandberg, where he would come to pick us up.

We set off, marching in single file. I was excited about returning to this magic mountain, even if it was austere, shielded by its aridity. Conversation soon lagged. Everyone concentrated on walking. After just a few hours, the climb became difficult – harder than I expected. I was out of shape, my head was spinning. In the ruthless sun, the skeletal shade of a few acacias brought no coolness. My hands began to burn as the trek became a true climb: here we had to scramble over a rock, there straddle a burnt tree trunk or cross a ravine, backs to the wall, groping for a hold. The silence became a sparkling din, the sun a molten cymbal that spun before my eyes and, clearly, the oryx steak I had eaten the previous evening – which had been suspiciously overcooked – was not going down well. Every time we reached a crest I hoped to glimpse the shelter where we would spend the night. But there was just another steep climb behind it, another slope down which alarming cascades of red rock seemed ready to fall. Thirst began to torment me. I was out of breath. It was impossible to turn back, even if the idea had occurred to me. Down below, a vast stretch of sand ran towards the Atlantic in a hazy blaze. Higher up was water – but would it be there, as Angula claimed? My thirst no longer bothered to disguise itself.

Because I was so slow, night was already approaching as we reached the shelter, and suddenly night was there, abruptly dropping like a curtain.