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The first day driving ended with a sinister, reality check. We set up camp (Sea Gull’s Cry, off the south end of Swakopmund beach), dined on zucchini and chicken in cracked-pepper cheese sauce (a la Giles), and polished off a bottle of red (courtesy of our Dutch lady friend – who accepted our invitation to dinner, but not the offer of sharing a tent with one of us). We then whiled away the evening by the fire, talking to two fellow overlanders – an Aussie photographer, Nick, and an ex-Peace Corps volunteer, Maureen. The cold forced us to retire at 11pm, but just as we were heading to bed, Nick returned, torch in hand and wild-eyed. He’d been robbed. None of us really knew what to do, though were snapped into action when he implored us to join him in his search for the perpetrator: ‘It’s only just happened – they’re still be close!’ And with this, he scurried off into the night.

I followed out of obligation, though the last thing I wanted to do is find the thief and ask for Nick’s stuff back. Nonetheless, I bravely followed – a good few metres behind – ready to turn and run at the first sign of trouble.

Happily, I wasn’t called upon to make a citizen’s arrest – or a cowardly retreat – and returned to our now-heavily secured vehicle, which was under the guard of Davy and Giles – armed to the teeth with ladles, torches and an array of pointy cutlery. An hour or so later, the police (an assortment of tracksuits, military fatigues and AK47s) arrived and sleepily followed Nick into the darkness in search of our nimble-fingered foe.

Nick’s misfortune was an early reminder that vigilance is never amiss, even in seemingly sleepy and safe places.