Namibia - Epilogue

Six weeks prior and one week after arriving at Sossusvlei Mountain Lodge, I joined a Dutch couple on their visit to Sossusvlei proper. The mountainous iron oxide tinted dunes are a striking contrast of form and color in the early morning sunlight. Not a far hike from a 4WD track into the dunes, are dozens of dead camel-thorn trees, some over 500 years in age in a desolate clay pan. A location for many commercial and feature film productions, the dead valley and surrounding red dunes are a photographer’s paradise. Camera aside though, the landscape is surreal, alien and unique, a sensation only hinted by some of the best photography. I found myself walking the mud-cracked turf alone; the Dutch couple had snapped a picture from the valley shore and return hiked to the game truck.
How do you travel thousands of miles from home, hike a fair distance then turn around and leave? I thought. The couple had in fact traveled tens of thousands of miles across the globe, visiting locations I personally dream about experiencing, for what? And there lies a difference: visit or experience.
Experiencing another country, culture, landscape, activity is not always easy. On the surface, we paint for ourselves an idea about the world seen, but often without context. Revealing that context takes flexibility. A flexibility in time, tolerance, adaptability and open-mindedness. The rewards are not always tangible, but it’s the intangible where ideas begin. What those ideas are and where those ideas take me, I do not know. I guess I could say, “My experience is not over yet.” Writing this blog has helped explore that experience from breaking preconceptions to shedding new insight on not only another part of the world, but our part as well.

This video was edited at the conclusion of my stay at Sossusvlei Mountain Lodge for demonstration purposes only, and revised shortly after returning home to include a select few settings during those two weeks in northern Namibia. Structurally, the footage follows my travels in rough chronological order.  This is just a tease of the 21+ hours of HD footage captured and soon to be logged and edited into proposal demos and short docs.

Namibia - Sundowner

The score was tied nothing each at halftime. I looked at the sun: a brilliant maroon and gold disc now less than an hour from setting. Peter and Theresa sat beside the truck on collapsible camping chairs at the sideline, waiting. We would need to leave now to catch sunset in Rundu, twenty K from the field.
Although tomorrow would be my last full day in Namibia, over half that day will be spent driving to Windhoek. Today, I considered, would conclude my seven-week journey.
I did not like to think about it. Two months is a lot of time. A lot of time to explore, experience, and build relationships. Relationships that I know will and already have impacted my life. The feeling is nostalgic—to the letter of its definition.
I jogged from mid-field to the sideline, joining the team in huddle.
“It’s time for me to go. Thank you for letting me play and all the best this season.”
Leaving at halftime was never my intention. We arrived just past three to an empty field and yet another example of  “Namibian Time”. This punctual flakiness was more frustrating to Theresa than myself, and she would have to deal with it for the next nine months. We talked about watching the sun set overlooking the Kavango River and surrounding flood plains the last two days, but changing plans and a never-on-time/laid-back approach left this evening as our only chance.
The game would not start until a quarter to five; almost two hours after the team was scheduled to arrive.
“Let’s all be here on time at three o’clock tomorrow. And let’s make sure we get here before Mr. Frank and show him we’re ready to play,” Andrew the team’s trainer mandated the day before at practice.
“Andrew. If the team wins their first game, I will pay for the season,” I offered to
the team’s excitement.
The players are a mix of ages from maybe eight to twenty-something. They have no jerseys, and one soccer ball for practice. Each player is expected to cough up a dollar to cover the $30 Namibian league fee. Doesn’t sound like much, but even a dollar carries a lot of value and makes winning that more important. The sum gathered from all teams is awarded to the season champions a couple weeks later.
The players have talent, perhaps a function of playing on an inconsistent surface, but regardless of their age differences, they play like a team. Discipline is not a problem, but punctuality is an issue. I thought a lack of timepieces was the reason, either by a watch or cellular phone, but no, “Namibian Time” means anytime an hour or so after a scheduled appointment. Incidentally, pay as you go cell phones are very common and make up for the complete lack of landlines. A cell tower is much easier to construct than laying kilometers of wire. Government patience paid off.
“So how did I play? …I know, you don’t have to tell me, I sucked.”
“No, you played well, just off-sides a lot,” Theresa noted loading into the truck. “Peter would say, ‘He’s off-sides again.’”
Coming from a hockey background, getting behind the defense is key. No wonder soccer’s goal counts are so low. Then again, so are hockey’s, just not as bad.
“Erick, are you coming?” I invited.
Erick is a 14 year-old from Zambia and a sponsored student finishing holiday before returning to class in Rundu. He was found living with his aunt by a couple from Florida and brought to Valerie Peyper, n’Kwazi Lodge’s owner and community foundation organizer. Valerie and her husband Weynand, sponsor several students at various ages and levels through lodge profits and visitor donations. Only self-motivated and academically driven learners are given scholarship, and in exchange must return and better the area’s community. At present, two students are studying abroad, one as far away as Moscow, and several working their way through secondary education (high school).
I read about n’Kwazi in Lonely Planet’s guide on Botswana & Namibia. The brief but touching article painted an accurate representation of Namibia’s and most of southern Africa’s third-world education and living environment. In the months leading to my trip, I would collect several hundred U.S. dollars to sponsor a student’s education and living expenses for a year. An effort I hope to continue well after returning to the States.
School runs year-round on a trimester system with breaks in August, December/January and April/May. My timing was impeccable for the holiday, although I never did get to visit a school in operation. Something I wish I could have filmed and experienced.
The government supports a child’s education until form (grade) 10, and on to form 12 if a learner’s marks warrant continued learning. Otherwise, he or she is dropped out—if family needs have not already commanded that course of action. The ability to attend school may be paid for, however school funds and materials like uniforms, textbooks, pens and stationary are left to cover by a learner’s family. Doesn’t seem unreasonable, however even these taken-for-granted items are a needed commodity throughout public schools in an almost all-rural Namibia.
The Mayana Primary School caters to a student body of almost 600 from grade 1 to grade 7 with only a staff of 18. Many children are orphans reared by families in the community, yet they still attend class, sometimes malnourished—an issue being addressed by the school. Although wired for electricity, the last couple years brought potable well water to the school and a block fence restricting wandering animals; all through donated, typically foreign support.
“It doesn’t look like I’m going to play, so yes, I’m coming,” Erick answered.
“Are we going to stop at the lodge and pick up your camera?” Theresa inquired.
“We don’t have the time. I think this’ll be one picture for the memory and not the camera.”
I would wish I brought at least one of the cameras. The town of Rundu rests atop a shallow mesa. Not far from the gate crossing into Angola is a bluff facing the west and a flat countryside sinking distantly below the horizon. The Kavango River defines this part’s border between Namibia and Angola, and during the rainy season spills into the adjacent plains quite some distance from its present banks. The sun was just minutes from disappearing behind thickening haze, and reminded me of a color stamp used on Bingo cards at the casino. I thought how cool it would be to witness a partial or annular solar eclipse near sundown from this location, but for now a normal sunset would be my last scenic vista of the country.
“This is great, Mrs. Tha-ray-see-a. Thank you.” That’s not how her name is pronounced in Germany or back in the States, but it is here. Apart for aiding in community education project building, Theresa tutors Erick and the other sponsored learners over holidays and weekends by their choice. As Erick and Elias, my sponsored student would tell me, “Education is the key to success.” And they believe it.
We sat on the edge of a stone pit. The sun had by this time disappeared, although the sky was just as bright as when the sun was visible. Peter left to walk into town leaving the three of us admiring the view.
“You don’t mind me asking about your parents, do you?” I asked Erick knowing only a little about his history through Valerie.
“No, it’s okay. You can ask.”
Erick is always smiling, always seemingly happy. It’s hard not to be the same around him. He speaks softly, and sounds both humble and accepting. His English is very good for a second language: articulate and proper. I could speak to him with speech no different than I would to someone back at home.
“How long has it been since you’ve seen your parents?” I asked.
“For many years now.” I think he said since 2002, five years ago for one parent.
“Why aren’t you with your parents now?”
“I don’t know why my parents aren’t taking care of me.” Erick explained about his father’s alcohol abuse, his parents’ separation, and tossing between aunties before being found by the American couple. He does miss his family very much, but that doesn’t appear to affect his behavior or goals. All the while, working in a smile.
I couldn’t help feel piteous for the all-too-common situation, but at the same time inspired by the drive to overcome adversity. No complaints, no excuses, just action.
Elias is opposite only in that he doesn’t smile as often as Erick (that’s changed with the nickname of “Smiley II”, a former hockey player reference). Orphaned at an early age after both parents passed away, Elias, now fifteen is independent and very self-motivated especially with his studies.

“How was your last report card?” Theresa asked Elias at the conclusion of an on-camera interview the following morning.
“I would say it was good as the way people saw it,” Elias began somberly, “But then to myself, it was not good, ‘cos that was not what I supposed to get. But when the people saw it, people like my relatives, my friends, all the people that saw it, they said it was good. For myself, I wanted more than that … For example, I will say that if I want to achieve maybe a B in science, of course I must get that. I’m not happy when I get lower than that,” Elias explained. In fact, he is a lot stronger student than he credits himself.
Independence is a quality I noticed with many youths at a young age, perhaps a function of living in the bush. I do not know how the level of education compares with the States, but from what I briefly saw during a tutor session, some subjects appear on par.
The day was getting late, well past “Namibia Time” for my departure to Windhoek. The time was one o’clock with a six-hour drive ahead, and we still needed to pick-up Peter’s daughter, Anna (nickname: Dik-dik for the world’s second smallest antelope).
I dropped Peter off to visit a day earlier and captured the reunion on video. I don’t know what surprised Anna more, a long overdue Daddy or the white man with a big camera.
“See that man over there,” Peter told his little Dik-dik in Oshivambo pointing at me, “That’s your Daddy.” I had no idea.
“No. No,” Anna cried.
At the conclusion of Erick and Elias’ interviews, I asked if there was anything they’d like to say before switching off the camera.
“How about we interview you?” Erick requested.
I work behind the camera and not in front, but in this case… “Fair enough since I put you through it.”
We reversed places. I connected the microphone to my shirt and sat in the hot seat. As part of the scholarship deal I put together for the students, both Erick and Elias are required to write a letter every couple months and take pictures with the three disposable cameras I brought from home. The night prior was spent teaching Erick how to handle a camera and compose pictures using my digital camera—a challenge after a previous sponsored project left virtually every picture unusable I was told.
Behind the HD camera, Erick smartly composed the frame then asked me the following questions:
“Why are you in Africa? Did you enjoy Africa, and what did you like the best? You’ve been to places where those places are not developed and the people are not wealthy, what ideas would you give those people besides working that those people can change things and get a better living? When are you coming back to Africa?”

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.

Namibia - The First

Peter Nuugonya is a Owambo ranger and guide at Sossusvlei Mountain Lodge. He is the father of two children: one on the way through a lodge relationship and the first, a five year-old daughter living with mom 1,500 kilometersaway near the city of Rundu. Peter’s two-week holiday would coincide with my two-week trek throughout northern Namibia and provide a great opportunity to live with his family in Ondangwa then retrieve his daughter before returning to Windhoek. 

A seven-kilometer two-wheel track at the conclusion of an eight-hour drive would bring us to a Mopane wood fence under full moonlight.The Mopane tree is as useful as it is common in north-central/western Namibia. Aside for its termite resistantwood, Mopane leaves have medicinal properties. If falling victim to a spitting cobra’s venom, one could have someone chew the tree’s green leaf and spit the saliva mixture into one’s eye. It’s either that or flushing the venom out with urine; Peter experienced the former.
Strangely, spring brings a change of color to the leaves no different than autumn for the maple tree as an example. And with that change, a secreted crust forms on the leaf’s surface that is edible and is referred to as natural chips—tasting like a sweet potato chip.
“This is my home,” Peter announced as we narrowly squeezed the truck through a narrow passage.
The huts—or rooms—are built of clay bricks from soil at the base of meter-plus high, spire-like termite mounds, and the roofs are tightly bound Mopanie twigs or long grasses thatched together over a concave circular frame. The interior is decorated to the person’s tastes or interests, and can resemble a dorm room at one extreme. Peter’s room, though, is the only structure made from concrete brick and sports a tin plate ceiling and bare walls. These village-like homes make up the vast majority of houses through Namibia.
At night, everyone gathers together around a small fire gradually fed by long Umbrella tree branches. The smoke carries a sweet, yet pungent fragrance that is unique to this wood’s character. Peter is the fifth of nine siblings at age 24, with five sisters, the youngest being 13, Josephine, and the oldest, a 32 year-old brother, Philemon, and police chief in Opuwo whom we met on the way to Epupa.“Good evening, sir,” Nelao shook my hand speaking very slowly, as if rehearsed. All children are very polite and proper when formally meeting people, and Nelao, a family kid at age seven, was being trained as such. She seemed nervous though and had a very uncertain posture to her body language.
“You are the first white person to visit our village in seventeen years since the independence,” Peter’s mom explained in Owambo and translated by her eldest daughter, Benny. “They are afraid of you—well, not afraid, but they’ve never seen a white person before,” Benny added.
Nelao and two other younger children sat and stared at me with steady big eyes, Josephine though, would shy away every time I spoke to her.“You can expect a lot of people to tear away when they see you tomorrow. But it’s good because they will learn about the independence in school and they will be able to tell their friends how a white person came to the village and say how different you are.”
Nice.
The now-ruling Swabo political party revolted against colonists from South Africa on the 26th of August in attempt to make Namibia a state of the country. The first bullet against the South Africans began the liberation at a place named Omugurugwombashe. Every year the Namibian president addresses the nation on the 26th, also known as Heroes’ Day. In fact, President Nghifikebunye Bohamba addressed the nation from Eenhana, a small town an hour’s drive north of Ondangwa and east Oshinkango, a border city I tried to get into Angola on Heroes’ Day. I found this out after the fact, and would have visited the festivities instead of being interrogated about filmmaking in the chief border patroller’s office.
“Maybe you will come here and marry a Namibian woman.” Benny continued after I laughed, “It’s not about color, it’s about the person inside. That’s all that matters.”
I agreed. I wonder if I’m being groomed as a sugar daddy, I jokingly thought.
Peter’s mom spoke again and Benny translated, “You can have her daughter; do you want her?” Referring to 22 year-old Beatha.
I’ve been here all of an hour and already been accepted as a potential husband. Not bad for the first white guy in seventeen years, I thought.
Even under the moonlight, I could tell Beatha was blushing. I looked at Josephine; she shied away again.
“Does Beatha agree with that?” I asked. No answer, but the idea would be brought up a few more times into my stay. Maybe Peter’s mom wasn’t joking.
A metal tub was placed in front of me and a bowl of macaroni and fresh chicken is served to Peter and I. I asked why there wasn’t enough for the half dozen or so here.
“Because we don’t eat white food,” someone answered.
“Is that white as in white person food, or white as in the macaroni is white?” I joked as the others ate their “black” meal (maiz meal). Maiz meal: a sticky, thick porridge-like substance made of maiz seed, cooked into a porous cake and eaten like cotton candy for consumption. The meal has a plain taste, but I am told, provides all of the nourishment required by the body. Preparing it is the woman’s task in the mornings. She will sift sand from the seed then pound it to a powder. The women of the house do a fair amount of physical work, as the men maintain the livestock and bring money to the family.
The house has no electricity, nor running water and toilet facilities. Back in the States, we would call this camping—with all one’s personal effects. Water is drawn from a well and balanced in small tubs at the top of one’s head (usually the woman) sometimes a couple kilometers hike to home. The water is not always clean, and is boiled for drinking and cooking, but also to provide warm hand baths. Contrary to what one might think, hygiene is very important. Hands are washed before every meal and baths are taken every couple days.
The village spans many hectares and consists of dozens of homes and families, a community water well, shabeen (shack convenient store and major hangout), and one or more soccer fields made of cleared sand turf and wood goal posts. On the weekends, villages play against each other with teams made up of talent regardless of age. Soccer balls and jerseys are not in abundance, and cleats are a luxury. Children will wrap scrap plastic bags or ragged fabrics bound together by tape or string to fashion a ball. Shirts and skins sometimes define teams, and foot apparel consists of hiking boots, sneakers, sandals, or more commonly bare-feet. I tried all but barefooted and regret not trying.Playing in the sand, or gravel in the case of Sossusvlei Mountain Lodge’s village (identified as the “World’s Greatest Soccer Field in the World” by a local paper), has its advantages and difficulties. I found it easier to lift the ball on a pass or kick, but dribbling is chaotic on the inconsistent surface forcing many pass plays. Superstars shine controlling and protecting the ball, but rely heavily on support. I was pleasantly surprised by the strong team play and communication even with younger players, but given the playing conditions one really has no choice to rely on his teammates.

The sky wants to rain, or at the very least it gives that appearance. A white haze of fine dust mixes with the blue sky to create a concrete gray horizon. Only at the zenith does one know any different. Although this atmosphere extinction drastically dims the sun to a pale maroon orb at dawn and especially dusk, the sky is opaque to many dim stars. There may be a lack of light pollution, but that doesn’t mean anything if the transparency is opaque. And with a waning full moon, I could be in the center of suburbia and know no difference. Perhaps this is the reason for a lack of interest in the stars for many Namibians. An excuse shared by their light polluted counterparts elsewhere, although I found that impression changes when the stars are put into context.
No exception to the white haze is the Etosha National Park. At the heart of north-central Namibia and stretching over 22,000 square kilometers Etosha means “Great White Place” in Owambo for a giant pan at its center. This evaporated delta is not the reason of attraction for most all visitors to Namibia. Etosha is a living wildlife zoo. If the park were a state or country, its many water holes would be major cities teaming with springbok and zebra to elephants, rhinos and much more.  By my second day, many species would eventually blend with the scenery in the hunt for more exotic game, like leopards and lions.
Finding a leopard was easy. Actually, spotting one was a case of being in the right place at the right time, and in fact a leopard sighting is rare. Lions are little easier to come by. Tipped by a ranger, we found two sleeping under a tree a short distance from the main road. Sleeping, how interesting is that?
We waited for the road to clear of spectators before trucking into the bush via an unmarked, near inexistent two-wheel track. The GPS coordinates I plotted earlier led us just a couple hundred feet away from the lions. They watched me as I unfolded the tripod from the rear cab window and locked the camera. I would have like to gotten closer, but this would do.
Even at a distance, the growl penetrated my chest hanging from the window like a deep thunder. A sudden noise. One lion sat up and looked at his mate as if asking him, “What should we do about these two?” Simultaneously, both jumped into a defensive posture, barking a much louder thunder. Looked more like they wanted to make a snack out of me.
“Oh shit!” I yelped grabbing the video camera and ducking in the truck. Peter laughed.
“It’s okay, they’re not going to do anything. They’re just letting us know to keep our distance,” Peter explained. “Besides, we’re safe in the car.”
Pitifully, I replaced the camera to record the lions’ trot into the bush.
Etosha National Park has a number of visitor-governing rules. Foremost on that list and reminded at every turn and place of interest is, “Stay in you car.” Michael, a guide at Onguma Resort just outside the visitor restcamp Namutoni told us a story our first night in the park—an opportunity arranged just hours before arrival to visit Onguma and meet with the lodge’s general manager about future video production.
“These Japanese tourists happened by a couple lions resting underneath a tree and decided to prop their video camera on the roof of their vehicle and stand in front of the lions. On the video, you can watch one of the lions stalk one of the tourists and take him out from behind.”
I can only imagine what that might look like on TV. Certainly, I get more than a few laughs replaying my lion footage.

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.