Namibia is an incredibly beautiful country with incredibly beautiful people. I was completely infatuated with the small portion that I was lucky enough to see. Namibia is the size of Texas and Oklahoma put together, but only has the population of Houston. So people are a little spread out. Looking over Walvis Bay from the ship, it's easy to see the edges of the small town. It looks like a little oasis-- the blue of the ocean on one side, and the white of the Namib desert on every other. When we arrived, there was a group of school girls singing and dancing to welcome us. It was pretty cute. Namibia is trying hard to promote tourism, and it has a lot to offer-- beaches, dunes, German beer, safaris, typical tourist things. It is on the rise, but in a country so small, our ship had a tremendous impact. Everyone new we were coming. In fact, it's estimated that our ship of people alone contributed 10% of the tourist economy for the entire year. People were lined up for a block outside the entrance to the port eager to sell their wares. Some had traveled quite far for the opportunity to tap into the American cash flow. There were even people who obviously came straight from the traditional tribal setting. I can't think of the name of the group off the top of my head right now, but any research on Namibia will bring them up. They're distinguished by the striking red color of their skin, and the intricate hair styles of the women. They use some sort of pigment in the ground to color their bodies, and its actually possible to tell what stage of life a woman is by her hair-- prepubescent, puberty, pregnant, married, etc. There's a different style for each. It's sort of a strange thing to say, but they seemed almost unreal in the urban setting. Though, I think they were beautiful, and I can absolutely see the appeal of their choice in aesthetics.
I spent the first day exploring Walvis Bay. There's really not too much going on. It's just a small town, but there was a fabulous restaurant/bar called The Raft that extended into the water. There were 360 degree views, and we were treated to one of the most spectacular sunsets I've ever seen-- complete with flocks of pelicans flying into it. Our meal was interesting, too. They had all sorts of unique meat. I had kudu. Others in the group had orix, ostrich, warthog, and, I think, springbok. We sort of traded. It was all pretty tasty. Pretty gamey. I think ostrich was actually my favorite. It didn't really taste like bird at all, but was quite delicious.
The next afternoon was spent in the sand dunes. They're just there, right outside city limits. If the Appalachian Mountains suddenly turned orange and yellow and shifting that's sort of what the dune scape is like. The number one past time in the dunes is dune boarding. Think sledding/snowboarding except on sand. We had planned on spending the whole day doing this, and we did in a sense, but the dune we chose-- dune 7 the locals call it-- was so massive and steep that, by the time we got to the top, we couldn't bear the thought of going back to the bottom. Instead, we just chilled at the top. Actually, we most certainly did not chill. The sun was at its highest point, and the sand was something like 77 degrees Celsius. I'm not sure what that is in Fahrenheit, but, if you do the math, I think it equals hot as shit. Sticking your fingers in it was like sticking them in a boiling pot of coffee. So we cooked at the top for quite some time knowing that another hike up was inconceivable. Finally, the prospect of water and a cold beer got to be too much, so we slid/rolled/swore our way to the bottom. Sand boarding is harder than it looks. You go faaast.
One benefit of being colonized by Germans is the fact that they bring their taste for beer. They've managed to come up with several light drinks that seem to have been brewed specifically for the purpose of beating the heat. There's Windoek (pronounced win-dook) Lager, named after and brewed in the capital, and then there's Savannah Dry. It's not beer. It's an absolutely delightful hard cider, and it's 100% refreshing. It's not the same as any cider I've ever had in the States though. That stuff always just tastes like candy in a bottle. This has a bit of a bite to it, and, after being slowly broiled for an afternoon, it's perfect. Then, yet again, there was food. It's hard for me to pass up an open grill, and, in this case I was very well rewarded. It was ox tail-- scrumptious-- served on top of this stuff that I, unfortunately, forget the real name of. Though, I'm pretty sure it's something of a staple in Namibia. I think, basically, it's a sort of corn porridge. Very clumpy, something like a mix between couscous and cream of wheat in appearance. It was very delicious whatever it was.
The next day, I went up to Swakopmund, a very German town a bit north of Walvis Bay. It's significantly more touristy, but I thought I should check it out. Everything you read about Namibia mentions it. It had lots of interesting shops and stores-- mostly local. However, I ended up spending my afternoon swimming in the ocean with several locals I kind of randomly met, and then sharing a beer with them. Namibians are fun, and totally easy going. Very quick to smile. After several laughs I had to make my way back to the ship.
April 17, 2009
Morocco
So. Morocco. Insane. I'm not exactly sure what I was expecting, but it was like a culture shot straight to the jugular. I went straight to Marrakech when we arrived, and spent my whole time there. I wanted to get to Rick's on the last day just to say I'd been, but the weather was nasty in Casablanca, and I was exhausted and probably would have been late getting back on the ship. Marrakech is fabulous though. Initially, it was a little overwhelming. I ended up by my self for about half of the first day and for the first night. I got split from the group because we were trying to decide where to stay, and I went to the one I thought would be best, and they did the same. My room consisted of a queen sized bed and a sink. That's it. The walls were about 4 feet from the bed on every side. It was a little sketch, but it was also right on the square-- right in the beating heart of Marrakech. So I got settled in, and started wandering around the markets by myself, and, honestly, I got a little nervous for a bit. I don't get nervous that easily, and I like being alone, but it was just so completely different from anything I've experienced. The markets are set up like this: imagine a very large plaza-- they call it the square, but its shaped more like an angular potato-- the plaza serves like the hub, and from it-- from all sides-- snakes and mazes of streets shoot out, winding together like the web of a drunken spider. Along these side alleys are packed every sort of vendor or peddler you can imagine-- every single one tugging, pulling, yelling at you to by their wares. Row after row and shop after shop stocked with scarves, robes, bangles, fake purses, fake sunglasses, spices, shoes, jewelry, paintings, pots-- anything you can possibly imagine-- blast every one of your senses to the point of overstimulation. I spent two days lost in these markets (souqs). To buy something, you have to barter, and I found out I love to barter! It's so much fun. I made several purchases, and each time it's like a game between you and the shop keeper. What makes it more fun is the fact that most Moroccans are the nicest people I've ever met, so the whole operation is done with a smile and laughter.
Then there's the square itself. Every evening as the sun begins to head down, the plaza comes alive. Con artists and performers of all sorts gather, and crowds come together to watch the excitement. I was pleased to see that the majority of the spectators were actually Moroccan, not just tourists. There are funny dancers dressed in wild colors, snake charmers, monkeys, storytellers, and the food stands. Oh, the food!!! When the square is really going, there are rows and rows of food stands, and, when they all start cooking, the steam rises and the smell rises, and everyone just starts salivating. There are lamb kabobs, various kinds of delicious breads, pastries, olives, dates, figs, fish, calamari, snails-- which, by the way, are delicious, and much much more. Probably my very favorite was the mint tea. It's everywhere, and it's sooo delicious.
Oh yeah, I rode a camel, too.
Then there's the square itself. Every evening as the sun begins to head down, the plaza comes alive. Con artists and performers of all sorts gather, and crowds come together to watch the excitement. I was pleased to see that the majority of the spectators were actually Moroccan, not just tourists. There are funny dancers dressed in wild colors, snake charmers, monkeys, storytellers, and the food stands. Oh, the food!!! When the square is really going, there are rows and rows of food stands, and, when they all start cooking, the steam rises and the smell rises, and everyone just starts salivating. There are lamb kabobs, various kinds of delicious breads, pastries, olives, dates, figs, fish, calamari, snails-- which, by the way, are delicious, and much much more. Probably my very favorite was the mint tea. It's everywhere, and it's sooo delicious.
Oh yeah, I rode a camel, too.
February 23, 2009
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?”
“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?”
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