“He is sick,” Andrew spoke with a normal voice, but the words were barely audible above the radio and the wind as we pulled away. He spoke matter of factly. I looked at him, and saw no sadness in his eyes.
“Sick how?” The girl in the back seat asked. I grimaced, unsure if it was our place or not. Andrew turned to me—still no sadness, but something else, a look of jaded hope, of pleading, of two eyes tired of watching his brother being slowly consumed, tired of waiting, and a look that said “really? Sick how? You have to ask?” He gave me a sort of half smile,
“There’s only one sickness here.” Oh. It dawned on me, and I felt foolish.
“What?” yelled the loud girl from the back, but Andrew wouldn’t repeat it. He wouldn’t name the disease, as if speaking it somehow made it real. We hushed the girl. The desert wind screamed in our ears. Aging American pop music blasted from the speakers. No one spoke.
Of course, we’d been given all the information before we arrived in Namibia. Twenty percent of the population has HIV. Just like the rest of Africa, prevention is a problem. Organizations are doing what they can, yadda, yadda, yadda. Twenty percent. 1 in 5. It’s a jaw dropping number, but sort of arbitrary—one of those things that makes you say damn as you continue about your business. Now, suddenly, all the statistics, all the numbers evaporated. 1 in 5 became Andrew’s brother—the one I met less than five minutes ago. Now there was a face.
“How old is he?” One of us ventured to ask.
“40.”
I met Andrew earlier that evening. He’s a cab driver. We were on our way from Walvis Bay, where the ship was docked, to Swakopmund, a small German town up the coast. The intention was to celebrate our friend’s 21st birthday even though the U.S. is apparently the only nation on earth where the drinking age isn’t 18. The locals thought the whole thing a bit silly, and it was. Turned out Andrew was awesome, and we all enjoyed his company so much that we invited him to come in with us when we reached the bar. He agreed. Of course, being a good driver, he didn’t drink anything but coke and apple juice, but we did share copious amounts of conversation. The topics ranged from politics to singing happy birthday in his indigenous tongue. By the end of the night we were fast friends.
Two others and myself decided to head back to the ship a bit earlier than everyone else, and Andrew (you should be rolling the r) obliged. However, we took a couple detours first. We were told again and again in our on ship briefings (we do them before every country) not to go into the townships—
Townships are the areas surrounding cities and towns in Namibia and South Africa where non-Whites were forced to live during apartheid. Both countries are “free” now, but the distribution of wealth still very much resembles the colonial model. A few rich white people. Lots of poor Africans. Because of this, many many people still reside in the townships.
—because they’re rife with crime and people trying to bridge the gap between rich and poor by any means necessary, and the opportunity to rob an American (American= rich) would be to good to pass up, etc, etc. So, naturally, when Andrew asked if he could show us the townships, and his home, we said, “Of course!”
The difference was stark and sobering. Whereas Swakopmund abounds with colorful German architecture, bed and breakfasts, and beach front villas, driving into even just the fringes of the Swakop townships feels like you’ve come someplace else entirely. The villas and high end shops vanish in the place of row after row of shanties and shacks—some that look like they were constructed the same way you start a game of pick-up sticks—jumbled together precariously so that some streets allow easy access for cars while others offer room for little more than a bicycle. Roofs of tin sheets or whatever other material could be found must be held down with old tires or cinderblocks, anything that could be used as a weight. From a distance, many township blocks could easily just be mistaken for junkyards.
Beside one of the nicer houses—it had a cinderblock foundation—we pulled up, and parked. Andrew explained that his brother lived here, and he’d just gotten off work. He wanted us to meet him. The house had two rooms. The living room (I guess that’s the best thing to call it) was about the size of a small bedroom in an American house, the walls naked and gray. A smaller-than-twin-size bed doubled as a couch and, well, a bed, and a small TV flickered on the floor, the picture going in and out. Against one wall rested a tiny table, atop that sat one electric burner. I don’t recall a refrigerator. There was no oven. There may have been a toilet in the other room, but I think it was just the living space for his roommate. Despite his… modest living conditions, Andrew’s brother greeted us warmly. He apologized for having nothing to offer us, and suggested maybe we could go drinking together. Unfortunately, it was already getting quite late, and Andrew seemed uncomfortable with the idea of taking three Americans to the township bar, so we politely refused. We were just pulling onto the highway back towards Walvis Bay when Andrew told us of his brother’s ailment.
We rode a while in silence. He looked at me and smiled,
“You want to see where Angelina and—what’s his name?—Brad Pitt had their baby?”
February 23, 2009
February 12, 2009
Espana, Finally
Right. Spain. I was there. It was neat. I did some stuff. It was fun… And that’s all I have to say about that.
Actually, the problem is I have far too much to say about that—so much that it’s taken me this long to condense it all into something fit for a blog entry and not a novel. The difficulty came primarily in determining which observations and experiences were most potent and worth sharing—not that they weren’t all worth sharing—and trying to hard to make them into something profound and life-changing. Okay, so I doubt this will actually be profound or life-changing after all, but I hope, at least, it will be a little interesting and/or entertaining. Annnnnd, we’re off:
Spain is pretty much as old as Moses’s toeseses, and it showseses. Every turn of the head reveals something historical, and tour guides describe something as ‘new’ if it was built after 1500. Cadiz, the city we arrived in, claims to be the oldest city in all of Europe, and they have much to back that claim. A short stroll through the antique side of town leads to the discovery of buildings or monuments from virtually every significant era of Western Civilization. In fact, Cadiz is so artifact rich that it’s virtually impossible for anyone to break ground for a new building project without the Spanish government turning it into an archeological site of national importance due to the discovery of a new cultural layer. The small town was home to Phoenicians, Romans, Moors, Spanish conquistadors—Columbus set sail from Cadiz— and every major European Empire. Its position between the Atlantic and the Mediterranean meant that whoever controlled Cadiz controlled commerce for the entire region……….. I don’t want to talk about this anymore…. Tangent!
So, I spent my first day in Cadiz. That evening I was lucky enough to attend a Flamenco performance. I’ve never really had a full blown encounter with Flamenco before, but it was electrifying. We sat in small, candle-lit room. The stage—little more than a plywood platform—dominated the front of the room. There was an intimacy that allowed, or forced, everyone present to see the fire coming from the dancers, to hear the intricacies of the guitar, and to feel the walls vibrating with the power of the singer’s voice. And Flamenco is about all three—dancer, guitar, vocals. Each part is essential, and none can stand without the other two. I watched and listened fairly mesmerized, and, when the performance ended, the energy lingered until everyone had filed out.
Day two started and ended on a bus. A great portion of the day was devoured in transit between several Andalucían cities and towns. This is not by any means a complaint. The Andalucian country side happens to be every bit as spectacular as the Cathedrals and monuments throughout. The rolling hills and mountains feel and awful lot like Western Carolina—the brilliant emerald color of it all, the farms dotting the landscape here and there. On the other hand, it’s much more drastic, more similar in many respects to the rough mountains of the southwest, but green instead of red or brown. Another stark difference between a drive through Appalachia and Andalucia comes with the realization that, instead of ugly, deteriorating barns or burnt out houses, the ‘trash’ speckled across southern Spain comes in the form of abandoned forts, aging churches, or even a castle or two.
The first two stops were Arcos and Ronda. Both belong to a series of towns in southern Spain known as ‘white towns.’ Not surprisingly, the name comes from the fact that the towns are, well, white. It’s quite remarkable approaching thing on land. You glance up, and the first impression is of a snow capped mountain. As you draw nearer you realize that, no, that’s a town. Both Arcos and Ronda sit precariously atop sheer cliffs. The only way to enter Ronda is across a bridge of phenomenal engineering as it’s literally an island with sheer drops all the way around. The towns are quaint, delightful, and awe inspiring. They’re white because they were originally built of limestone, and every year they would be white washed to reduce dust and deterioration.
The final stop was Granada. Oh, Granada! It’s a place that would be very easy to pass away the years in. My Spanish professor, Ignacio, happens to be a native Granadian (I’m not sure that’s what their called), and he happened to move back there last semester—good for me. I got in touch with him, and we were able to meet up which proved to be a fabulous advantage. I essentially had my own personal tour guide, and a pass to all the super secret local hang outs. It’s no exaggeration to say that many of the best clubs and bars are little more than unmarked doors in random alleyways.
Before I got to all that, however, I had to sleep, which I did because I got into Granada late, and I was quite exhausted. It’s very rough on the nerves, bus hopping in a country that doesn’t speak your language. I have to say that, by the end, I was very pleased with my Spanish performance, but quite spent. I’d been on a total of four buses, and had to successfully make a transaction in Espanol each time. Ok, good, so I got a good night’s repose.
The next day, Friday, I explored Granada. As I said, it’s quite something. There’s just as much history as Cadiz, but in Granada it’s more closely intertwined with the modern. It’s possible to walk down the main strip seeing nothing but neon and advertisements for American movies, only to turn a corner and find yourself face to face with the Cathedral from Gothic times. The skyline is a collage of Islamic domes, Christian facades and spires, and modern office buildings. Somehow, all of this manages to coexist more or less in harmony. Watching over all of this, the Sierra Nevada mountains dominate the view to the east, snowcapped, and glimmering. This was the ultimate treat. I sort of new they were there, but it didn’t cross my mind at all as we strolled through the ancient streets. Then, BAM, there they are. More remarkable still, was the castle, Alhambra, silhouetted against the stark white of the snow. It seemed as though I’d walked right out of the 21st century into the 16th. My jaw dropped. That’s the only response I could have. I stood frozen, incapacitated, trying as best I could to wrap my head around the sight before me. Things like that don’t exist in real life. They’re only in movies and postcards, or manufactured for desktops. But there it was. There I was.
The sun set purple, yellow, and pink as we made our way down from our viewing perch. As sightseeing would be foolish in the dark, Ignacio led the way to our next activity—experiencing the Spanish nightlife. One thing about Spaniards—they are very serious about their nightlife. However, when I say nightlife, it’s more like early morning life. They go until four or five in the morning on a normal night. On a ‘good’ one it’s not uncommon to get home at eight or later. It sounds crazy, and it kind of is, but it’s also important to note the supreme difference with which Spaniards approach drinking, or ‘partying.’ To begin with, I think it would be more accurate to call it socializing than partying. There is a certain maturity and responsibility to their approach that is nearly impossible to find in the US. That’s not to say there’re no drunk Spaniards, but it’s just not such a big deal as it is in the States. Everyone is exposed to it all the time, so I feel they have a better handle on alcohol in general. And you’re eating the whole time you’re drinking. Every drink comes with tapas. You don’t pay more. It just comes, so it’s not just binge drinking… ok, I feel like this is getting boring, and I’m kind of just rambling, so, ummm… tapas are awesome!
I’ll
t
ry to get one more posted for Morocco before I get to Namibia….
Actually, the problem is I have far too much to say about that—so much that it’s taken me this long to condense it all into something fit for a blog entry and not a novel. The difficulty came primarily in determining which observations and experiences were most potent and worth sharing—not that they weren’t all worth sharing—and trying to hard to make them into something profound and life-changing. Okay, so I doubt this will actually be profound or life-changing after all, but I hope, at least, it will be a little interesting and/or entertaining. Annnnnd, we’re off:
Spain is pretty much as old as Moses’s toeseses, and it showseses. Every turn of the head reveals something historical, and tour guides describe something as ‘new’ if it was built after 1500. Cadiz, the city we arrived in, claims to be the oldest city in all of Europe, and they have much to back that claim. A short stroll through the antique side of town leads to the discovery of buildings or monuments from virtually every significant era of Western Civilization. In fact, Cadiz is so artifact rich that it’s virtually impossible for anyone to break ground for a new building project without the Spanish government turning it into an archeological site of national importance due to the discovery of a new cultural layer. The small town was home to Phoenicians, Romans, Moors, Spanish conquistadors—Columbus set sail from Cadiz— and every major European Empire. Its position between the Atlantic and the Mediterranean meant that whoever controlled Cadiz controlled commerce for the entire region……….. I don’t want to talk about this anymore…. Tangent!
So, I spent my first day in Cadiz. That evening I was lucky enough to attend a Flamenco performance. I’ve never really had a full blown encounter with Flamenco before, but it was electrifying. We sat in small, candle-lit room. The stage—little more than a plywood platform—dominated the front of the room. There was an intimacy that allowed, or forced, everyone present to see the fire coming from the dancers, to hear the intricacies of the guitar, and to feel the walls vibrating with the power of the singer’s voice. And Flamenco is about all three—dancer, guitar, vocals. Each part is essential, and none can stand without the other two. I watched and listened fairly mesmerized, and, when the performance ended, the energy lingered until everyone had filed out.
Day two started and ended on a bus. A great portion of the day was devoured in transit between several Andalucían cities and towns. This is not by any means a complaint. The Andalucian country side happens to be every bit as spectacular as the Cathedrals and monuments throughout. The rolling hills and mountains feel and awful lot like Western Carolina—the brilliant emerald color of it all, the farms dotting the landscape here and there. On the other hand, it’s much more drastic, more similar in many respects to the rough mountains of the southwest, but green instead of red or brown. Another stark difference between a drive through Appalachia and Andalucia comes with the realization that, instead of ugly, deteriorating barns or burnt out houses, the ‘trash’ speckled across southern Spain comes in the form of abandoned forts, aging churches, or even a castle or two.
The first two stops were Arcos and Ronda. Both belong to a series of towns in southern Spain known as ‘white towns.’ Not surprisingly, the name comes from the fact that the towns are, well, white. It’s quite remarkable approaching thing on land. You glance up, and the first impression is of a snow capped mountain. As you draw nearer you realize that, no, that’s a town. Both Arcos and Ronda sit precariously atop sheer cliffs. The only way to enter Ronda is across a bridge of phenomenal engineering as it’s literally an island with sheer drops all the way around. The towns are quaint, delightful, and awe inspiring. They’re white because they were originally built of limestone, and every year they would be white washed to reduce dust and deterioration.
The final stop was Granada. Oh, Granada! It’s a place that would be very easy to pass away the years in. My Spanish professor, Ignacio, happens to be a native Granadian (I’m not sure that’s what their called), and he happened to move back there last semester—good for me. I got in touch with him, and we were able to meet up which proved to be a fabulous advantage. I essentially had my own personal tour guide, and a pass to all the super secret local hang outs. It’s no exaggeration to say that many of the best clubs and bars are little more than unmarked doors in random alleyways.
Before I got to all that, however, I had to sleep, which I did because I got into Granada late, and I was quite exhausted. It’s very rough on the nerves, bus hopping in a country that doesn’t speak your language. I have to say that, by the end, I was very pleased with my Spanish performance, but quite spent. I’d been on a total of four buses, and had to successfully make a transaction in Espanol each time. Ok, good, so I got a good night’s repose.
The next day, Friday, I explored Granada. As I said, it’s quite something. There’s just as much history as Cadiz, but in Granada it’s more closely intertwined with the modern. It’s possible to walk down the main strip seeing nothing but neon and advertisements for American movies, only to turn a corner and find yourself face to face with the Cathedral from Gothic times. The skyline is a collage of Islamic domes, Christian facades and spires, and modern office buildings. Somehow, all of this manages to coexist more or less in harmony. Watching over all of this, the Sierra Nevada mountains dominate the view to the east, snowcapped, and glimmering. This was the ultimate treat. I sort of new they were there, but it didn’t cross my mind at all as we strolled through the ancient streets. Then, BAM, there they are. More remarkable still, was the castle, Alhambra, silhouetted against the stark white of the snow. It seemed as though I’d walked right out of the 21st century into the 16th. My jaw dropped. That’s the only response I could have. I stood frozen, incapacitated, trying as best I could to wrap my head around the sight before me. Things like that don’t exist in real life. They’re only in movies and postcards, or manufactured for desktops. But there it was. There I was.
The sun set purple, yellow, and pink as we made our way down from our viewing perch. As sightseeing would be foolish in the dark, Ignacio led the way to our next activity—experiencing the Spanish nightlife. One thing about Spaniards—they are very serious about their nightlife. However, when I say nightlife, it’s more like early morning life. They go until four or five in the morning on a normal night. On a ‘good’ one it’s not uncommon to get home at eight or later. It sounds crazy, and it kind of is, but it’s also important to note the supreme difference with which Spaniards approach drinking, or ‘partying.’ To begin with, I think it would be more accurate to call it socializing than partying. There is a certain maturity and responsibility to their approach that is nearly impossible to find in the US. That’s not to say there’re no drunk Spaniards, but it’s just not such a big deal as it is in the States. Everyone is exposed to it all the time, so I feel they have a better handle on alcohol in general. And you’re eating the whole time you’re drinking. Every drink comes with tapas. You don’t pay more. It just comes, so it’s not just binge drinking… ok, I feel like this is getting boring, and I’m kind of just rambling, so, ummm… tapas are awesome!
I’ll
t
ry to get one more posted for Morocco before I get to Namibia….
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