Namibia weblog 2005

March 8th 2005

Rosanne writes:

"You drive up to Angola, up, up towards the first range of hills you have encountered in thousands of kilometres of flat sands and then up over the brow you can see eternity of trees and greenness and some mountains, graceful and remote in the distance. It is spectacular. Turn left and when the tar road runs out you drive a short distance into this beautiful restcamp.

We pitched our tents in a hurry. The clouds had been gathering black all day and we had seen huge patches of rainfall and lightning sparking just where we thought we were heading. It was seven thirty and darkness was only a short time away. I changed into my mosquito outfit of total coverup in shades of pink and grey. We sped efficiently to prepare the evening braii and easily had time for an essential gin and tonic. We are Katherine, Veronica, Caroline, Pam, Ann, David, Michael and I, members of two families, two sets of VSO intakes, whose loyalty and support and closeness is very special.

We were feasting off steak and foil parcels of roasted butternut squash as the lightning show intensified around us. It was reassuringly far judging by the space between huge antlers of forked lightning and the thunder. The river was flashing silver. We all were sloughing off assorted trials and tribulations, and the wine was flowing and so too was the laughter. Huge and sudden raindrops; we all sprang up and grabbed whatever needed to keep dry. I stood under an umbrella surveying the scene for a long and happy time, sharing it with David and Caroline. The chat rumbled on and then we all dived off into our tents.

The morning was clear and glorious and the river lay wide at our feet. Birds were everywhere. The next three hours were spent birdwatching and taking a slow breakfast and, amazingly, a hot shower from yesterday’s solar power. The giant pied kingfisher was the first thrill, and umpteen bright green bee eaters swooping low into the river to snatch dragonflies. Then two fish eagles were clearly visible in quite distant dead branches, but brilliant white against the dull wood. A grey laurie like a parrot with a big grey spikey hairdo, a coucal dashing from bank to bank with a flash of tan across its back…we were seeing, squeaking, rushing to consult the definitive bird book, handing round binoculars, sighing with satisfaction.

The fit and keen walkers left and I had a long meander along the riverbank, seeing the footprints of a large wader…a jacana, and wondering if the slight incline was enough to deter a crocodile or if I should be higher up the bank. This sort of thought creates a slight frisson. I was the duty driver and I took the less energetic team up to the falls. At the peak of the hill we could see the plume of spray from the falls rising up like smoke signals. The others had arrived there already by foot and were sitting huddled and silent looking down and across at the awesome sight of the floodwaters of Angola cascading down the rock face in hundreds of little waterfalls. The sound and the spray in our faces and the majesty of it all left us all speechless. There are steps to the bottom. 520. We picked our way down, through running torrents, slimy steps, foliage hanging low, precarious jutting points with a broken handrail, down, down, down, pausing for the thrill of the view and breath. Someone saw the flashing tail of a crocodile. A second glimpse showed it to be a huge rock monitor, a miniature dragon, who hurried away to a secret rocky place.

I could have stayed at the bottom for several hours. The sun was fiercely hot but softened by the spray into a delicious soft haze. I lay down on an old engine block and gazed up at the hundred meter waterfall in roaring white, green, blue. 520 steps up is a serious piece of work. I paced myself at 50 steps and a brief rest. At the top mine and many others’ legs were jelly. I took the walking option back home to camp. We could have been strolling through the Lake District apart from the intense heat and the exuberantly horned cattle. To one side was a waterpipe three feet in diameter, carrying the lifeline water of Namibia into the country from Angola. It seeped in places, sent arterial hissing spurts in others.

The camp was solitude and afternoon napping, more birds, books, crosswords, vegetable chopping for the evening brew in a black pot bellied pot one the fire. Three of the group brought our their big African drums and started to play. The sun was setting, making us all red-gold. Then Michael saw the first of the three crocodiles sliding through the water, crossing from one side to another, eyes above water, the body visible below the surface. We were all agog. Suddenly our idyll had become Africa in the raw. We watched until it became too dark and the stars were out.

For the first time since we arrived, the Southern Cross was visible opposite Orion. So there was star gazing, and then moon gazing and I went into a quiet place to do some yoga in the moonlight, making strong and sculptural shadows.

I was up at six, Michael too, creeping about in the shadows, making tea and eating a mango before we met Mina our Himba campsite worker who was going to take us up to a Himba village to meet a family. She was in a strange state of dishevelment and set up a peal of giggles in the car to explain that she had found a snake in her hut in the night, so had left the door locked on the inside and crawled out of a small window hole and was then stuck without adequate clothing for the morning.

The Himba village was down a track and then a thin path and we stopped outside the stick fence to seek permission to enter. We caused a flurry of activity. Some women hoeing in the field saw us and came rushing out to inform the headman. A very old man tottered past to pick up a stick and return to his squatting place. Mina was busy negotiating for us to come in and chat. While we were waiting, respectfully, outside the homestead, two glorious young men came thundering in on donkeys, jerking their steeds this way and that and then leaping off and tying them to a tree with a flourish. These people need to be seen. Their adornment is remarkable. The men wear their hair bound up on top of their heads in a banana shaped cloth parcel that looks like a little boat. They are naked save for two pieces of cloth tied front and back to form a sort of skirt.

The front piece is often tartan cloth in little pleats, but can also be a tea towel. Their jewellery is heavy steel beads turned into thick rope necklaces and fattened and solidified by being rubbed in a mix of butter and red earth.

We were finally welcomed in when all the women had returned from the field and we all squatted around having a talk much aided by gestures and the translation offered byMina. They were very curious as to why I only had two children and wanted to know if I had taken medicine to stop babies. They didn’t think much of my pathetic jewellery, just a wedding ring, and if it was to show I was a wife, why didn’t Michael have one too?

We met the headman, his elderly and wrinkled mother and his wife one and wife two and each of their eight children and two nephews and some cousins. They were beautiful, full of laughter, all the women coated in the red earth butter mixture which gave off a rather pungent smell. The babies were covered in flies which didn’t seem to bother them at all. Grandmother asked me to bring her some headache pills and a tarpaulin on my next visit. Wife one showed us into her store hut which was like a treasure trove of blankets and baskets and tools and jewellery and goat skins; remarkably sound and dry considering it was made of mud and thatch. We gave grandmother a thank you present of tobacco sugar and flour and she gave a huge gappy grin to show her pleasure.

We left feeling privileged, I think, to have made friends with such a fragile tribe. How long can they survive in this land of encroaching education, tourism and AIDS? Their pastoral life with strong traditions and rituals is hanging on a thread".

More to follow...

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