by Joanne Glynn
It’s time to hit the road and we drive northward on one of only two roads which traverse the land up here. After a couple of hours we start to see Himba by the roadside and in villages, but by the time we get to the small town of Opuwo, the last main centre of the north-west before the Angolan border, we’re still not prepared for the sight of them walking down the main street. They’re people from a different time, confident, proud, at ease with themselves and their place in the order of things. And what style! Hair, skin and clothing totally covered in a mixture of ochre and butterfat, elaborate headdresses and weighty jewellery. Red-skinned and barely dressed, the women and girls swing their hips so that their hide skirts sway to and fro, while the doe-eyed men rest on one thin long leg and a walking stick, their skirts worn with the pleats at the front. There are also Herero ladies in their head-to-toe yardage, younger men dressed in varying degrees of modernity, and a smattering of tourists trying to look as though they’ve seen it all before. The street is dusty and full of bars and barbers and, because it’s Sunday, both are doing a roaring trade. A Wild West town.
We overnight on the outskirts of Opuwo at the first true hotel we’ve stayed in. It’s surrounded by an electric fence but is still a nice surprise after the rough and tumble of the town. The hotel is new and the décor city-modern, but the food is terrible. Maybe it’s the bad dinner or perhaps it’s my tender stomach making itself felt, but when we return to our room I’m in a dark mood. I moan that we should have changed rooms to one in the block further away; it’s noisy here and the bed is facing in the wrong direction. Neil points out that it’s late, there’s probably no one at reception, and anyway, we took the last room so there’s none left to move to. I’m not that easily placated and continue to pick until Neil has had enough. He’s heard it all before he says, there’s always a room with a better view or one with a bigger deck. I usually don’t even unpack but prowl around a room, opening drawers, flipping on lights, feeling the pillows and counting the number of mini soaps in the bathroom. Then I insist that he phones reception and requests a re-allocation or a second robe. Well he’s putting his foot down. With a continent full of new beds in front of us he can see his life as one long line of pandering to my obsessions.
He has a point; I love staying in new places and as a result I sometimes get carried away with it all. But hasn’t Neil noticed that so far on this trip I’ve been so wrapped up in what we are doing and where we are staying that the last thing on my mind has been to make changes? I haven’t wanted to change anything. Well, apart from the occasional campsite. To prove a point I declare that this room is growing on me, in fact it’s perfect, and we go to bed with African disco music throbbing from the noisy shebeen in the valley below us.
We’re continuing north, heading for Epupa Falls on the Angolan border. The standard of the road slides as the isolation increases and I can believe what I’ve read: this is one of the country’s last remaining wilderness areas. And that’s saying something. All the villages we pass now are Himba, with domed huts made from mud, cow dung and palm leaves. Some look deserted, though all are swept and tidy. Just waiting for the owners to return I suppose. We pick up a half-gentrified Himba, so puffed after running to catch a lift in the only vehicle to pass for hours that he can’t talk. It wouldn’t matter anyway because we don’t understand each other, but I can see that he’s embarrassed that he’s sweating all over the Troopy’s backseat. I give him the only thing I can find to mop his brow, a refresher towel, and when we drop him off he hands it back with two hands, head bowed, the little towel folded into a neat damp square.
How many times since arriving here have we commented that Namibia is all that everyone says it is? It must be at least once a day. It was always hard to believe that a sparsely populated country, with no water and few trees, just grass, desert and mountains, could match the hyperbole it so often attracts. But, quite simply, it takes our breath away. I reckon that one could wake up anywhere here, look around and be struck speechless by the beauty. Yes, it’s vast and empty, and just sometimes the ordered straightness of its roads, mountain ranges and dunes become monotonous, but I’ve never seen colours change like they do here, or valleys stretch so far, or stillness feel so right. Namibia is at once monumental and embracing and there’s a sense of place, of belonging, which seems to envelop everyone who breathes her air.
iNTO THE WiLD BLUE YONDER
Epupa Falls is on the Kunene River, which forms the border with Angola in these parts. The sight of the waterfalls as we come over a crest is magical: they’re at the centre of a true oasis in the middle of empty, dry desert. There are makalani palms, big old white baobabs, the blue lagoons of the Kunene and water falling over falls everywhere across an area 20 hectares or more. There’s Angola on the other side, looking peaceful and unaffected by tourism and over-grazing, and dust and piles of beer bottles all about on our side. We’re told that the Himba are a contented bunch who don’t steal or take anything that isn’t given to them, so there’s no need to lock the car or our tents. But who knows what they might get up to after emptying all those bottles so we lock the Troopy nevertheless.
Epupa Camp has an activities manager, Neels, a very affable young South African who takes to calling my Neil, Neily. They get on like a house on fire and are trading practical jokes before the first day’s end. Neels takes us for sundowners to view the beautiful falls, and the next day we go white-water rafting, where Neels suddenly becomes very professional and we trust him totally. Although the rapids would be quite minor to the die-hards, they are enough to give us a thrill. Following Neels’ directions we all paddle across and disembark on the far bank, Angola, where he proceeds to tell us of the last time he brought his charges here. At just about this spot, armed military (or was it bandits, he couldn’t tell) came bursting from the undergrowth, gesticulating wildly and waving AK-47s about. The leader screamed for Neels and his little landing squad to put their hands up, leave their canoes and to walk slowly up the beach. Instead they fled as one, scrambling back into their canoes and paddling away like there was no tomorrow. Neels remembers looking back to see guns trained on them, but he’s pretty sure no shots were fired. By the end of this story some of our current team are looking warily into the bushes while edging back down to the water’s edge. Neels suddenly shouts and claps his hands, we all jump and make a run for the rafts and are halfway back to Namibia before we’ve had time to see the big grin on his face.
Every evening Neels takes Neily and me to a different spot by the river for sundowners. On the third night, our last here, the subject turns to children, and Neels asks us what our children are doing. When we reply that there are no children, our choice, he asks if we’d mind telling him what was behind our decision. In the past weeks we’ve been asked many times about children by both blacks and whites — it’s a polite ice-breaker — but the reaction to our answer is markedly different from the two groups. Whites look expectant, waiting for further explanation, and after we say our choice they smile knowingly and say smart move and everyone chuckles. Blacks, on the other hand, become embarrassed and apologetic that they have asked the question. To them, the only reason for not having children is because you can’t, and they ah-ah-ah, touch my hand and click their tongues. To spare them angst, Neil and I have recently decided that in these instances it’s better to say that we do have children and we’ve borrowed the intellectual rights to children of good friends and rattle off their academic achievements and marital status. So whether it’s the gin and tonics or the fact that Neels seems to have a motive for asking, Neily and I decide to explain our decision.
It was right at the time — we were in our late twenties in the early years of our marriage, both independent and selfishly maintaining the lifestyle we’d enjoyed while single. On the few occasions that we did talk about it, Neil could see the travel constraints a family would bring, while I could see a lifetime as a mother, not the me Neil married. Who I was would be lost in a talcum mist of midnight demands and c
onstant daily needs. While my friends were desperate for children to make their family whole, I didn’t want to share Neil with anyone. It seemed that the maternal instinct had passed me by. But more than this, I understood that this partnership was hard enough as it was and any more than the two of us would topple the balance and make it unworkable.
Neels seems excited by our story then explains that he himself isn’t interested in having a family but has trouble articulating his feelings to friends and family, particularly his girlfriend. We try to back-pedal, to qualify our situation by saying another place another time — something accepted in Australia in the seventies might not translate to present-day South Africa. But Neels is buoyant and intent on presenting his girlfriend with this new ammunition.
We are taken on a visit to a Himba village by a young educated Himba, complete with wrap-around mirrored sunglasses and gold watch. After he asks and is given permission for us to enter the village, we meet the chief’s second wife and her female family. They are very regal and reserved at first, but when I show Mother her photograph on the LCD screen she squeals with delight and shakes her hand saying arh-arh-arh and something else which translates to ‘Oh, I am so beautiful!’ Our guide explains that the women spend many hours on beauty care and when they’re not rubbing their bodies with their ochre moisturiser they’re giving themselves herbal steam baths.
We go to a Himba cemetery on the way back and this is also an experience. Many generations are buried here. Hundreds of years ago they were buried upright and to do this their legs and arms had to be broken (after death, that is). The resulting graves are, of course, very small and marked only with a couple of upright stones. Interestingly, the later graves look more conventional to us, but each is marked with sets of bullock horns, the number and size indicative of the wealth of the interred. We’re told that there’s a big feast of the bullocks’ meat after the funeral, and if it’s an important person and there are many bullocks, there’s meat hanging around for days. Eventually, when it’s pretty ripe, it’s hung out to dry or thrown into a horrible smelly vat to pickle.
We leave Epupa with Neels in tow. He’s quit, and is on his way south to take up a job in South Africa. Even if he gets back-toback lifts it will take him several days to get there. Our destination tonight is a private concession bordering the world-renowned Etosha National Park. We’ve turned off onto their road when Neels and Neily both spot lion tracks in the dust and, whoa, we round a corner and there’s a lioness ambling down the middle. She looks thin and young, and later we’re told that she’s a recent mother who’s left the pride to give birth and has stashed her cubs up in the rocks while she goes out for food.
Neil and I are still experiencing the effects of the poisoned water, and cramps now accompany the diarrhoea. It has occurred to me that the symptoms are very like giardia and this is confirmed when I read through a dog-eared copy of Disease and Home Treatmentleft in the lodge’s bar.
Neels has been able to arrange a lift to the next big town south of here so we have a quick farewell drink with him before he departs, then we settle down to dinner in a courtyard flanked by snakes in tanks. After the meal Neil makes his first Basil Fawlty comment of the trip. A German couple is seated near us, and after we’ve all eaten, the husband pulls out a pipe and lights up in a cloud of smoke. As his wife tries to wave the smoke away from her Neil calls out, ‘You’re in a gas chamber!’
There seem to be no hard feelings because next morning they ask us to join them on a drive looking for the lions that we heard during the night. We come across a pride led by two brothers, and the big black-maned one a cranky thing, mock-charging our vehicle and grumbling and growling at the tyres just by our feet. That afternoon we go out again and find the pride munching on a zebra. The big black boy must be full and content because, although he’s quite close to our vehicle, all he does is sit under a bush and eye us while he licks zebra gore from his whiskers.
The following day we head for Etosha, but with a stop in Otjiwarongo for a return dental appointment. I’ve decided to replace my dicky crown and the dentist says he has the equipment to make and fit one in a couple of hours. This is most successful and I leave the surgery in high spirits, particularly after the dentist falls in love with the Troopy and asks if we’ll give him first option when we come to selling it. Naturally we say yes.
It’s too late to reach Andersson Gate, the nearest entrance to Etosha National Park, before it closes at sunset so we drive on for an hour or so then check into a roadside lodge with relief, both now feeling very fragile from the worst effects of the giardia. We’re unable to keep down dinner and after some hefty doses of medicine, which I muster from our first aid kit, we go straight to bed.
The next morning we wake feeling perky and enter Etosha with that fresh and optimistic feeling you have when you know you’re on the mend. We check into Okaukuejo Rest Camp and set off in the Troopy for a day of game driving, a leisurely safari on wheels through the bush in search of wild animals and good photographs. The evening is spent with new friends. Alisdair, the archetypal Scotsman, thinks he sees a like spirit in Neil and passes on his treasured copy of Grumpy Old Men on Holiday. Germans travelling en masse are his pet hate, followed closely by any number of Italians who might shout to each other across a room or burst into spontaneous laughter at any time.
Sometime during the evening of idle talk and travellers’ tales it occurs to me that the tables have turned, and it is now Neil who is interrupting me when I’m halfway through relating an incident. As we walk back to our room I suggest this, that now it is me who is becoming annoyed by the constant interruptions and pirating of a story, but Neil responds that I exaggerate and embellish too much and turn an anecdote into a life story; he’s bored and so are the listeners, so he has to speed things up. He’s probably right but should have known when he married me that I come from a big family of storytellers who have never let detail beach an amusing tale as it sails towards the finale. Neil and I argue the point about whose stories are (a) more fanciful and (b) more boring until we realise how boring and fanciful we’re sounding, so decide to give it a rest.
We have heard many stories about the great waterhole at Okaukuejo, which at any time can have all manner of animals chasing and catching each other. We visit four times and only see zebra once. The other three times there is absolutely nothing. Not even a pigeon. We start to suspect that everyone else is exaggerating or, worse, making up sightings. After one last unproductive waterhole visit we decide to forget it and go out into the park instead. We’re about to hop into the Troopy when Neil notices a pair of legs sticking out from under it. A face appears shortly afterwards, a hand shoots out and Tim introduces himself. He’s a private guide and was passing through the park with clients when he spotted the Troopy sitting like an apparition in the shadow of a thorny acacia. It’s just what he’s been looking for, so he’s parked his clients in the restaurant and has come back for a closer inspection. He’s very impressed and bombards Neil with technical questions before asking shyly if we might be interested in selling. By this stage Neil knows the drill and not only says yes but rattles off without hesitation, ‘… and we’ll give you first option.’
In the morning we drive out in a luminous smoky light, looking for wildlife. The silhouette of a giraffe materialises on the horizon and lopes towards us through the vivid half night and we wait in the Troopy by the side of the road until he crosses in front of us. He’s covered 1½ to 2 kilometres in 30 minutes without missing a beat in his graceful, hypnotic progress.
Etosha is vast and it’s hard to conceive that it was once four times the current size when it was first gazetted as a national park just over 100 years ago. Then it was the largest game reserve in the world until political pressure in the 1960s reduced it to 22 270 square kilometres. Even so, it’s still bigger than some countries and we often feel that we have the park to ourselves. It could just be this tyranny of size, but there seems to be a lack of other tourists. There’s also a no
ticeable lack of lions and rhino and elephants, all of which everyone else claims to have had to elbow their way through. When we move over to the Namutoni area to the east we fare better and see elephants and, on the last evening, two lions waiting patiently by a waterhole for dark to descend. At the end of the day that eerie morning light is noticeable again. Earlier a ranger had explained that it is caused by smoke from the many fires lit by villagers outside the park in winter. It drifts southward and is held in the air over the great expanse of the Etosha Pan, an arid mineral pan at the heart of the park and covering a quarter of its surface. The explanation made it sound like plain old smog, not the Disneyland of glowing half-light that illuminates the landscape around us.
The last two nights we spend camping at Onguma, a private concession just outside the park’s eastern gate. These perfect grounds give us renewed confidence for future camping. Here there is just a handful of sites, all well spaced with their own bathrooms, and positioned deep in a quiet and secluded forest. We wake in the mornings to the chattering, hoots and coos of hundreds of birds, and are visited shyly by a little Damara dikdik, even smaller than the klipspringers we’d seen down south. By default we’ve discovered what the toggles on the tent pins are for and the tent now stands sturdy and fortress-like, and we’ve perfected a workable camp layout, something that had eluded us in the past. I suggest to Neil that if all campsites were like this we’d be in seventh heaven, but he’s not sold and I fear that for him camping will always be a step short of the Pearly Gates.
