We’re in the middle of nowhere. No one would be crazy enough to build a hotel here. The book says 25 kilometers. We’ve gone 23. “We’re in the middle of a freaking pan, it’s dead straight in all directions and I don’t see anything that even closely resembles a life form, let alone some desert oasis,” my companion says. “I think we should turn around. You know what the book says about pans.” The book in question is a Lonely Planet guide, which we are following in an attempt to find a backpacker-style hotel in the middle of nowhere. It said we’d be following a rough cattle track, but this feels more like four-wheeling across the moon.
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