Namibia - Sweets

“Shit happens, I know that,” I paced behind the truck scowling into Peter’s cell phone. Although cell coverage is available throughout Namibia, it is only found in areas of major population and attraction. Fortunately, Epupa Falls is such an attraction and apparently so was I, as a small crowd of visiting Italians and Epupa natives had gathered to watch and listen in on my phone conversation. I would charge an attraction fee if I could. “If the vehicle needs repair work—like fixing the fuse problem yesterday—fine, I expect that; but what I don’t expect is not being prepared with the right tools to fix a simple thing like a flat tyre. That’s bullshit.”
We were given tools to change a tire, I made sure of that before leaving the car hire, but the jack rod would not connect with the axel and the wheel spanner’s socket was too large for the rim bolts. A rod for our tent sufficed as a replacement to raise the jack; but what good is that if we cannot get the tire off the bearing?
“What if this happened on the Kunene River Road? We’d be screwed with kilometers of nothing but four-wheel drive track in either direction. I’m glad it happened here than out there, but that still doesn’t help us.” Hitting the 96-kilometer, rough-going Kunene River Trail would be impossible this late in the morning and I made this very clear to the rental clerk as the reason I rented a 4x4 truck before searching and finding replacement tools from a local couple.
Nonna and Charles are residents of the Epupa Falls area. Charles, a spitting image of Captain Morgan, is a geologist with mines 400 kilometers south of us in Damaraland around the town of Uls and home to the Damara tribe, and elsewhere in Koakland, a region home to the Herero and the tourist-popular Himba tribes, as well as the Epupa Falls. We would unwittingly pass Charlie’s blue sodomite mine the following day in route to Peter’s home village near Ondangwa, another 400-plus kilometers east along the Angolan border.The couple also shares a special relationship with the Himba people. Only a selected few white people are currently accepted into a Himba tribe. This honor requires years of building trust and can easily be taken away. Such an acceptance offers the opportunity to participate in meetings, weddings and funerals, the latter two are of great significance bringing members from great walking distances for one to two weeks of straight partying. Disappointingly, the Namibian government does not recognize Himba marriage, but that will not stop the matrimony plans of Nonna and Charles.
The Himba are considered one of the last remaining traditional tribes in Africa. Painted in iron oxide from head to toe as a mosquito repellant, their appearances are unique to Africa and are endemic to northwestern Namibia and adjacent Angola. Settlements are first seen northward approaching the town of Opuwo.
I was writing when Peter stepped on the brakes looking through the side-view mirror. “Himba!”
Mistakenly classified as a village, the small arrangement of SUV-sized thatched-roof huts enclosed by a Mopane wood fence is regarded as a house. Beside the gravel road, three Himba women and two children construct apparel in the shade of a Mopane tree dressed sparsely in beaded necklaces, leather belts and a loincloth. Everything is painted rust red—with exception to a couple necklace bone ornaments—to match their skin. The language spoken is very close to Herero, in fact the Himba were once the slaves of the Heroro many years ago. Peter translated for me.
“They said, if you pay them $30 dollars, they will dress themselves up and you can take pictures of them.”
“Dress up?”
“Put on their traditional necklaces, bracelets.”
Although culturally the Himba remain the same with deep traditions, tourism has brought western product and money into their lives, thus changing their behavior to accommodate the wide-eyed interests of tourists. I’m not gonna lie, I too wanted to meet the Himba after viewing pictures online, but quickly became disinterested after feeling like I paid for a side-show act in the passing circus. The Himba are a people grasping to their traditions in the midst of temptation, and find its members untouched by aspects of the real world is difficult. Although, not far west of Epupa and near inaccessible to outsiders are the only Himbas sterile from outsiders. Many have not seen a white person, let alone a car or cell phone, but the genetic pool is running shallow and time is their greatest threat.

Roads in Namibia are labeled according condition maintenance. “C” roads are sub-major gravel highways in good riding condition, and the majority “D” roads equate to some of the best forest service roads in northern Arizona. A small percentage tarred “B” highways connect the few major cities/areas, and intersecting everywhere are two-wheel tracked paths joining villages and homes.
One can imagine a number of hazards facing motorists on these gravel roads. In fact, a week into my stay at Sossusvlei Mountain Lodge, a family rolled their vehicle several times on the adjacent C27 highway; both children walked away, however both parents suffered major injuries. Even with a (gravel) landing strip a mere few kilometers from the acc

ident site, twenty-fours hours would pass before the couple would receive proper medical attention. Needless to say, the best way to survive an injury is to not get hurt in the first place. I’m no stranger to injury, but at the time of writing this, a few mosquito bites are my only harm.
On any given day or night, you will pass more pedestrians walking the highway than vehicles—a tremendous luxury. Even bicycles are few in number, and combined these are an example of the poverty level throughout rural Namibia. Children rush into the path of moving vehicles, sometimes not expectantly. This is a hazard on both the gravel roads, as well as on the tarred highways.
“Give me cap. Give me book,” one boy asked at the window, but for resale and not for himself.
“Sweets?” is commonly begged when turning down a child. Seldom is money asked, but that doesn’t mean you cannot have your windshield washed without notice and haggled for compensation. Negotiation is an art taught a young age through the sale of semi-precious stones to handmade trinkets.
“Do you ever feel bad or these kids?” I asked Christopher, a 12 year-old transplant from Germany as we washed our dishes inside the Omarunga campsite at Epupa Falls.
“No.”
“Even when they ask for things?”“Don’t give them any money,” he sternly stated. “They’re rich. Their family has many goats and cattle.”
“What about pens or sweets?”
“That’s okay.”
Pens can be hot bartering tools if you just don’t hand them away like I did. Although these families may be rich with livestock, school supplies are up to the families to supply their respective learners. Money that is brought in through the sale of items like livestock, donations, or a family member—usually one or both parents—working away from home. Thismoney is in the form of tens of U.S. dollars, not so much hundreds let alone thousands.

Peter and I would camp two nights on the banks of the crocodile infested Kunene River feeding the Epupa waterfalls. During dry seasons, the water is shallow with very few pools to swim, or at the very least dunk your head under. The overflow area is used by the locals to bath and wash laundry, as well as provides drinking water after boiling. The setting is very “African”, especially with 3pm sunlight refracting in the mist of the falls forming a near 180-degree rainbow on its side.

The Kunene River marks the international boundary between Angola and 

Namibia. One gets a great view of the many tertiary falls from the Namibian side, but Angolans got the lion’s share for playing in the showers—a tourist attraction unexploited by the foreigner unfriendly country.
Angola has come along way in the last eight or so years politically. Civil unrest is finished, although many parts of the country are ravaged by war, and land mines remain a problem in certain remote regions. Tourism is slowly making headway in this natural resource rich yet poverty stricken country, where a man can be a financial mogul one day and dirt poor the next.
Namibian nationals are free to cross the border legally, as many families transcend the borders. Even as a foreign national, I can cross into Angola with a purchased visa, but unlike in Namibia where English is the national language (like just recently in the States), Portuguese is native tongue and little effort is made to accommodate outsiders, after all tourism is an unnecessary industry when the land is loaded with diamonds, gold and oil, among other things.