Namibia - Kavango Night Life

There are no streetlights on the one lane B8 highway leaving Rundu towards the Caprivi Strip. Donkeys and goats cross with alarming regularity, as do the hundreds of people walking the shoulder. An inversion layer of smoke front-lit by the truck’s high beams restricted my visibility to a hundred meters ahead on our path, and I slowed the vehicle accordingly.
“What are these people doing? Where are they going?” Peter and I asked ourselves for the umpteenth time. A week earlier on our approach to Ondangwa, I counted 88 pedestrians and seven vehicles over a ten-kilometer stretch ofvirtually nowhere. That ratio would be far greater here if I counted—granted the Rundu area is the second most populated region of Namibia with over 40,000 residents by the most recent census.
After several attempts to phone the n’Kwazi Lodge for directions with no connection, I pulled to the side, rolled down the window and waited for Peter to add more minutes onto his cell service. All was not quiet.
“There’s singing,” I exclaimed before grabbing the camera and exiting.Instead of expected footsteps and distant chatter, I eavesdropped into women singing over a slow drumbeat from a house deep in the bush across the road.
Song did not radiate from just one direction though. It came from everywhere. Different voices, different rhythms; we were surrounded by music. Surreal. Unfortunately, no broadcast camera can record the subtle light given only by stars, and although the video is dark, the audio paints a vivid landscape of Kavango region. Peter and I listened in darkness, but one song stood out and progressively grew louder and louder.
Twenty-some children and adults walked the highway spreading and contracting to the whim of light motor traffic. After finishing one song, the group would immediately start the next. We followed them another kilometer before converging at a roadside mission.
“Our village is ten kilometers from here. We are attending a conference,” the group’s leader explained upon our asking.
These conferences are frequently attended by many tens of church congregations across the area to share songs and ideas over a long weekend of sermon and celebration. Christian—and its various sects—is the primary denomination for Namibian nationals regardless of geographic location.
A Dutch-reform church I wearily attended on my last full day stay at n’Kwanzi is a humble painted brick structure cracking at the seams over a weathered concrete floor. Elder parishioners sit on wooden chairs leaving children to sit on the floor or if available, cement bricks. The attire worn by everyone young or old puts meaning behind one’s Sunday best with respect to the lifestyle. Women wear long colorful dresses, and the men wear suit trousers and a long-sleeve button-down shirt, some with ties and jackets.

Song dominated the service with three choir groups: youth, women’s and men’s. Each choir appeared to compete against the other trying to out-do the former with passion and energy. Regardless of friendly animosity, opposing members would occasional join in another group’s praise.
Concluding the feature length service, parishioners are required to donate $1 Namibian. The use of that money is discussed for hours afterward in a town hall-like meeting. I did not stay long, but not before presenting myself to the congregation.

Theresa, a German schoolteacher on sabbatical, and I pushed our way through a mob of music fans pushing the gate into the Rundu Open Market. We had alre

ady purchased admission and fought to have the faint stamp on our arms seen by police guarding the entrance. At 2:30am, all of us were tired and fed up with waiting for Stanley, a Damara R&B/hip-hop artist to perform after dozens of opening acts.
I spotted the concert poster at a supermarket—surprisingly well stocked and varied—that evening. I had come to appreciate many of the local pop-culture artists loaded onto my iPod before leaving SML, and couldn’t pass on an opportunity to experience a concert in Namibia, especially for Peter’s favorite performer. However, if I knew we wouldn’t see the featured guest on stage until early morning, we all would have opted for a nap and skip many of the weak acts preceding the performance.
“Are we having a good time?” the female MC asked lankily swaying across the scaffold stage to the antsy crowd.
“Peter. Have you seen the movie, ‘Full Metal Jacket’?” I asked. “No.”
“You should rent it. There’s a sleazy hooker that reminds me of this girl on stage.” Short skirt, high heels matching a high-pitched broken word voice with complimenting demeanor, I just waited for her to say, “Five dollar,” and seal the comparison.
“Who are you waiting for? Who do you want to see?” She teased in fashionable “five dollar” stride.
“Stanley!” The crowd answered.
“Okay. We’re going to give you want you want. Here he is … [someone other than Stanley]!”
Oh my two goats.
The Rundu Open Market is the local’s daily fair for food and homemade merchandise. Tonight the small booths were put aside clearing a large space for shockingly couple hundred participants. Surprising in my opinion, but given the number of people hugging the fence I’m guessing unable to afford the $40 Namibian admission charge (~$6 USD), perhaps the crowd is proportionate to the population.
Stanley would disappointingly perform all of maybe six songs to a recorded underscore. We left immediately at his conclusion.

I dropped Peter and Mathieu off at the lodge, a cluster of 12 quaint villas with an open dinning, bar and lounge area designed with 

rustic class, and Theresa a short couple kilometer two-track sand road to the old Mayana Lodge. No longer a lodge, it is owned by n’Kwazi and in the process of being remodeled for community projects.
Many of these two-track paths weave in and out of each other leading to homes, the two soccer fields, n’Kwazi and I do not 

know where else. “Straight” is a relative term when giving directions on these roads. Many V, and either left or right could be taken as “straight”. I had driven this passage through the sandy bush along the Kavango River a few times now, but that morning “straight” meant left and not right.
Driving some distance before realizing this was not the right course I turned around and followed another road. Not the right one either, I turned around again. Changing direction meant jumping off the tire tracks and into sandy grass fields. Just before completing the maneuver, the driver’s side-rear tire spun and dug itself into the soft soil.
3:30 in the morning and I’m buried in the sand. Happy day. Where am I anyway?
Angola loomed over the river. Sounds quiet. I thought about the Malaria infested mosquitoes piercing my skin—I think I took my vaccination pills yesterday—the Spitting Cobra, Black Mamba and a bad-tempered Puff Adder lurking in the bush—No anti-venom here. Shit. At least there’s a Mopane tree, and I do need to take a piss.
A cow “mooed” past me.
I laughed. We would make light of such exaggerated notions later that day. In fact, everything was plausible, but so is stepping on a Rattlesnake or getting stung by a scorpion back at home.
The waning gibbous moon provided enough light to see most of what I was doing, like shoveling sand and clearing a departure path. I secured the forward hubs, engaged four-low and the rear differential lock; all should be good now. Oh yeah, I need to get out of first gear.
Moving into first gear was not a problem until we received the replacement truck from the car hire several days back. This one, a Toyota, was more sensitive and both Peter and I (moreso me) would stall a number of times.
Repeated attempts and shoveling found the vehicle’s bumper flush with the ground. I was digging myself deeper and deeper into the trap.
“Peter. You enjoying your sleeping safari?” I asked after a kilometer-long bush walk guided by my GPS. Fortunately for me, I plotted the location of the lodge earlier the previous day.
Peter grunted.
“Would you like to hear some exciting news? … I got stuck in the sand.”
“How bad?” Peter was more awake.
I reluctantly admitted, “Bad enough I hiked here to get help.”
Excavating a path was no longer an option. The vehicle needed to be brought back to level. Peter jacked the vehicle; I replaced the sand under and around the tire. This required more than a couple resets until a wood plank could be squeezed beneath the tire as a solid launch platform. By the time we returned to n’Kwanzi, the sun had breached the horizon and a church commitment I made was less than two hours minus departure.