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.