A Cab Ride in Namibia

“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?”