Namibia - Missionaries, Bribery and a Party Truck

I purposely kept awake the night before leaving for Namibia, hoping 24 hours of sleeplessness would make for an easier purported 29-hour transit to the southern Africa country. An uncooperative suitcase, flat tire on the 202 freeway, and a snail’s paced line through security brought me to the gate minutes before boarding closed.
For two-thirds of my stay, I will be the resident (amateur) astronomer at the Sossusvlei Mountain Lodge (SML) before trekking solo for two weeks through northern Namibia. Loneliness is a definite consideration, especially traveling through a foreign—African—country, and for sure I would enjoy the company of another, but since leaving Phoenix early Monday morning, I have been anything but alone. I shouldn’t be surprised, as almost every unaccompanied outing has introduced new friends. This transit was no different, and a little adversity helped.
The Delta itinerary to Windhoek, Namibia includes a plane transfer in Atlanta, Georgia, a re-fueling stop at Dakar, Senegal, and another transfer onto South African Airlines in Johannesburg, South Africa. I would manage some sleep, on the 19-hour flight to Johannesburg.
Seated beside me was Natalie, a cute university sophomore with her southern accent, tiny glasses, soft white skin and strawberry-blonde hair. Throughout the flight she would participate in song and banter with her fellow church-mates. Everyone I met was either a South African national or on a humanitarian mission of sorts. No vacationers, including myself I suppose.
Natalie and her twenty-plus member Botswana-bound group will provide aide to one of the many local AIDS orphanages. AIDS is of pandemic proportions throughout Africa and unfortunately, children are an unpremeditated victim of the disease most having been born with HIV. Many are orphaned early in their lives after family members pass or abandonment. Many organizations exist to support these children over the short course of their lives, providing food and care, but mostly hope.
I don’t quite understand the word “hope” in the circumstance of dealing with AIDS, but I do understand the necessity for love. Missionaries contribute everything from finances, manual labor, nursing and compassion. They originate from churches, charitable organizations or are simply righteous individuals. These people are a child’s only hope for survival, as local and national governments have decidedly chosen to ignore the problem due to economic or social woes—another rampant illness throughout the majority of African countries. Namibia is politically stable at this time, but like elsewhere on the continent much of the population is impoverished.
An hour’s cumulative delay in Atlanta and Dakar left three others and myself no time to meet our connecting flight to Windhoek (pronounced Vin-took) and were rebooked on a flight late morning the following day. This would mean missing my charter flight to the Sossusvlei Mountain Lodge and a night’s stay in Johannesburg. First things first, though; what about the checked baggage?
“There are a lot of bags. It would take a lot of time to locate and retag them,” the South African Airlines attendant informed the four of us—an older inter-racial couple from Colorado and Jeremy McLaughlin, a 23-year old wrestler from Oregon State University.
“How will they make our flight tomorrow morning if they are not retagged?” I asked.
“I will look and see what I can do,” she kindly offered, left her desk and returned an hour later empty handed. “I’m sorry, I did not find your bags.”
“What do you mean you did not find our bags? Did they arrive from Atlanta? Can you please look again?”
“There are so many bags. It’s a lot of work.”
No shit, really? I thought. What are you doing now aside for sitting at your desk and bitching to your associate about wanting to date a white boy? (Later in subsequent conversation I was asked, “Do you like chocolate?”)
“I know it’s a lot of work,” I acknowledged, “but would you please keep looking? Can I buy you a drink?”
A spark.
“Oh yes! A drink would be very nice. Yes, buy me a drink.”
After four cans of Coca-Cola (one to the girl and her cheeky male associate, and three to the X-ray security staff for tolerating my several passes through the checkpoint), she found one of each of our two checked bags. I would buy the attendant another Coke to find the rest of our luggage—each can costing $2 USD.
Finding a Delta agent for hotel and transportation would be another ordeal. Jeremy took charge on this, and after three hours—conveniently and coincidentally at the same time our bags were found—enter Colin, a young British airport liaison for the airlines specializing in handling passenger relations. Since arriving, he was aware of our situation and had already mobilized an effort to take care of our needs, a pleasant change in service, and an intriguing conversationalist on the current social state of South Africa.
Fifteen years ago marked the prison release of Nelson Mandela and a conclusion to apartheid, a political system in South Africa from 1948 to the early 1990s that separated the different peoples living there and gave particular privileges to those of European origin. Since then, a state of affirmative action is in place granting employment opportunities to those of race over skill or education. Colin, university educated in computer programming, explains he is where he is now due to the over-supply of computer programmers by unqualified technicians.
Delta would cover a night’s stay at a rather nice hotel, plus unlimited food expense and services—not that we had much time to take advantage of those accommodations. Jeremy and I would share a room, spending a great deal of time drawing comparisons to past travel experiences and future aspirations.
Involved in the church, Jeremy has traveled quite extensively since late in his teens, from two home-building projects in tsunami ravaged areas of Thailand to three months in Namibia working at an AIDS orphanage. Unlike past undertakings, he is traveling alone for a month to develop a wrestling program in north-central Namibia. (Kind of like me bringing ice hockey to a country with no ice, but I think he’ll have a better chance of success.)
Jeremy is quite different from other missionaries I’ve met. He is a self-driven leader with an intense worth ethic, uncanny flexibility and a fearless, savvy attitude. He has experienced cultures and places in this world few have explored or paid great money to witness. His only expense: good will and hard work. I question whether I could do the things he has accomplished; nevertheless he’s an inspiration for a higher standard of self.

I started to pace. Windhoek airport reminded me of Scottsdale airport, but with commercial jets. Jeremy had accumulated all three of his checked bags, and I with only one of my two. The same luggage on the stile had cycled through with no additions and our commuting plane was being be taxied to the runway with a new batch of passengers. I always hear of missing luggage stories, and never think it’ll happen to me. Well, why not this time? And why not happen in a foreign country? Fortunately, I had nothing of real value in the case, only all of my clothes, astronomy and camping gear, and my digital still camera (I carried-on the HD camera).
Jeremy left baggage claim to find his ride and notify the CC Africa driver of my present situation. Meanwhile, I met with Tuyiimo, a pleasant lady with little good news.
“There has to be a reason why your suitcase did not make this flight, but your other checked bag did,” Tuyiimo deduced. “What? You had a camera inside? That is why you did not get your bag. Jo-burg is very bad about taking possessions. You will get your luggage, but will be very lucky if nothing was taken.”
Great. Later that day, and as if I needed more good news, I would open my one received checked bag to find a shattered leg joint to my HD camera’s tripod. Fortunately, the hockey stick I stuffed with it survived. Whew.
“How are you doing?” the CC Africa driver asked after I bid farewell to Jeremy.
I laughed, “Just waiting for what’s next.”

CC Africa (Conservation Corporation Africa) is continent-wide company with many lodges throughout southern and eastern Africa. Namibia has three lodges, including the one at Sossusvlei—the only lodge with a visiting resident astronomer program. I was taken to the regional headquarters just outside Windhoek proper and greeted by organization administrator, Hazel, and associate, Corrina.
Namibia is everything the movies and wildlife documentaries have portrayed Africa to appear. Architecturally, African-modeled establishments are simple in floor plan with open spaces and many cylindrical walls. By contrast, the European influenced structures consist of long narrow hallways and square rooms. I equate the African design to a panoramic photograph, whereas the western-influenced model is as bland as 4:3 standard definition television. Light and dark browns accompanied by deep reds and olive greens accent sandy tans to mimic the desert’s color scheme. Of course, there’s also African-European hospitality: cordial, proper and prioritized. Service overall is very respectful, and although Africans do a great job separating business from personal among each other, they maintain professional distinction with foreigners and their European nationality managers, unless given an opportunity. Apparently, Namibia is a different story socially than South Africa, but there is still a lot to see and learn.
Windhoek, on the contrary, is like any other small city with its malls and supermarkets, offices and bars. Many people walk the streets named after prominent individuals like Nelson Mandela or Fidel Castro. There are also several small farmers’ markets along crowded areas where one can buy fresh produce or chew on freshly cooked Springbok (a mild tasting venison).
Since I missed the morning charter flight, the new plan was to truck me to Sossusvlei, a five-plus hour drive, over half of which is grated dirt road. The trip would in fact take almost eight hours with stops at the pharmacy, supermarket, KFC, gas station and roadside bushes. What McDonalds is to the US—sadly—KFC is to south African countries. When asked if they liked McDonalds, the answer was, “They have good chips.” (Fries.)
I rode with the SML staff. Nine employees spanning rangers and chefs to butlers and housekeeping, six of which sat with me in the belly of the box truck and the other two to the left of driver all aged somewhere between mid-twenties to early thirties and good friends. Conversation was guided by put-down after put-down, but no “mama” jokes. Ambrosh, a hefty kitchen worker, took the blunt of many jabs. He could of beat all of them down to a pulp, but instead rolled with the punches.
The talk constantly changed from English to Afrikaans, and perhaps some other tribal tongue, which there are many. Note: Swahili is not the only language utilizing clicking noises.
A single loud speaker blasted African folk music including, every now and then, a song from home—rock, like Phil Collins. Rural Africans in general take a lot of pride in their music and would appear to be a bonding element in a community, be it family, school or a live-together staff.
The arrival at Sossusvlei Mountain Lodge would conclude almost 58 hours of passage. I was escorted to my villa by the night butler, a short walk along a flagstone path illuminated by red lights (to preserve eyesight dark adaptation) to the end of the lodge’s guest section. As if the southern night sky weren’t enough to excite me, the place where I would be sleeping for most of the next five weeks left me saying, “Wow.”