Africa, My Passion Read online

  Eventually we reach the famed Etosha National Park. We’re due to spend two nights here so we’ll already be under canvas. The Etosha Plain was once a lake that evaporated. Normally it is white with the residual salt, but right now it looks like a lake again. A calm sea of water stretches all the way to the distant horizon. As we drive along the edge of it we come across lots of giraffes and now and then we have to stop for a panicky ostrich or two. We also find ourselves gawping at distant zebras, impalas, wild pigs and all sorts of bird life. It is fabulous staring across this shimmering deep-blue and occasionally silver sea. The wild savannah grasses and sparse bushes contrast vividly with the cloudless blue sky. I could look at it all for ever.

  There’s a watering hole not far from where we are to pitch tent for the night, allowing us to get a closer view of the animals. We are lucky to find a large herd of zebras and gnus heading for the water. There are so many of them that they jostle one another to get at the drinking water, though the zebras keep looking round to make sure there are no signs of lions approaching. But there are only a few jackals that send birds flapping into the air and none of the other animals seem much worried by them.

  At night the watering hole is lit up for us to give us a better view, which is amazing because we observe a herd of elephants trotting up to the water, making slurping noises as they use their trunks to take the water to their mouths. Before long two rhinos come and join them. It is mesmerising. We are just sitting there, on the other side on an electrified fence, watching this spectacle as though it were a live show laid on for us.

  Later I lie there in my tent listening to the noise of the wild world outside. Some animal – I have no idea what – comes up and snuffles against the tent wall. At one stage the roar of a lion from the watering hole wakes me up. It would appear one of the other animals has been taken by it. I’m tempted to get up and run to the observation area, but it’s too cold and dark, so instead I just lie there with my pulse racing.

  The next day we set off again through the vast national park and find ourselves continually amazed by the wonder of nature on display. It’s all magnificent but deep down I can’t wait to get started on the trek and see the real wilderness beyond the fence.

  About a thousand kilometres on we come to the Okangwati District where the trek officially starts. It looks great, very dry and savannah-like, and reminds me a lot of the Maralal area in Kenya. There are no more fences here.

  We set up our tents on land owned by a couple of expat Germans working for a local charity where the lady of the house entertains us. Around nine o’ clock a car drives up in the darkness and a man climbs out with my big, heavy suitcase in his hand. I can hardly believe that after all my phone calls and pleading, my suitcase has finally arrived just in time. The man who’s brought it has driven a thousand kilometres and has to head back again to Windhoek tonight. I’m immensely grateful for his dedication to bringing my belongings to me, and I’m delighted to get a change of clothes for the first time in days.

  I meet my first Himba just after breakfast: two elderly ladies crossing the dried-up riverbed to get to the centre of the village, a collection of a few bars, three basic shops and, of course, several churches. Both women are covered from head to toe, including their hair, with red ghee. Looking at the Himba, you would hardly use the term ‘black African’ to describe them.

  The red fat protects their skin from both the heat and the cold and also protects them against mosquitoes. It’s as if it were an extra item of clothing. Both old ladies are carrying huge loads on their heads, packed in bags made of cloth or goat leather, also coloured red. Their long, carefully braided hair hangs down, and between their naked breasts they wear a white snail shell as well as pretty necklaces around their necks. I am most impressed by their ochre-red skirts, which are short in front, almost like a mini skirt, but hang down to their calves at the rear. Neither of them have shoes on but, like all Himba, wear heavy silver decorations, about fifteen centimetres long, on their shins.

  Despite their age, they move nimbly as they make their way across the sandy dried-up riverbed. This first glimpse of these tribespeople makes me finally feel I’m back in the Africa that I love. Just the sight of them moves me to tears. They remind me too much of the Samburu women back in Barsaloi.

  There is still a little time before we set off, so I go for a stroll around the centre of the village. Here I keep bumping into the ‘red people’, sometimes young girls with budding breasts and huge baskets on their heads making for the market, sometimes mother with babes in arms sitting outside a bar. I’m amazed how much alcohol there is for sale. They don’t just drink beer but spirits too. There’s disco music blaring from one of the bars, a billiard table in the middle of the main room with three young Himba men playing. It’s a bizarre scene: they’re wearing modern T-shirts but with thick silver necklaces, their heads shaved on either side but with a great tuft of hair in the middle sticking up wrapped in a cloth or stuffed into a little hat. To my eyes, the females are a lot more attractive than the men. Next to the glowing red females, the men look ridiculous. The women also seem jollier and more inquisitive. They wiggle their bodies naturally to the sound of the music and as I walk along the streets I come across more groups of girls or women standing together chatting and talking while their men stand around grumpily watching them.

  After a bit I come to a little market where a Herero woman is selling fragrant herbs. These aren’t culinary herbs, but aromatics used as fragrances, leaves or seeds that the young girls use as perfume. Later I discover that some of these herbs are strewn over the embers of a fire and the women squat over them to perfume their more intimate parts. Alongside the sacks of herbs she has some Himba dolls, as well as the red skirts hung on a wooden frame. I feel one of them and am surprised just how heavy it is. It smells of a strange mix of leather, fragrant herbs and rancid butter. I’m not having one of those in my wardrobe.

  I’m amazed at how different from the Himba the Herero look, even though the two tribes are closely related, like the Samburu and the Masai. One distinctive difference between the Herero and the Himba is the big hats the Herero women wear at an oblique angle, and their multi-layered ankle-length skirts. The women are clearly proud of their style of dress, even though it was forced on them by missionaries. They are the complete opposite to the scantily clad Himba women.

  The far end of the market is what we might call the food hall. Women sit around big open pots in which they cook meat bought from the nearby butcher. There are two half goat carcasses hung up waiting for someone to purchase them.

  There’s a stark contrast between this traditional idyll and the pickup trucks anomalously parked in front of the clay-walled huts and shops. But everything seems to move at its own pace without any fuss or hustle.

  Strolling back to the rest of our group I run across an elderly Himba man heading for one of the bars. Despite his age, he cuts an imposing figure with his height and noble bearing. He is painted red from head to toe and wears a little woolly hat and a pair of aviator sunglasses, and carries a little folding stool in his left hand. He has a machete in a scabbard hanging from his waist, a long stick under his right arm and the usual silver one-piece necklace. He looks at me and says, ‘Moro, perivi.’ I don’t know what it means and just give him an embarrassed smile. Later I’m told it means, ‘Hello, how are you?’

  Finally, we’re off. We climb into the back of the pickup and set off for the rendezvous point where the trek is to start. Tonight we will sleep under canvas in the wilderness for the first time. We each put up our own tents. Suddenly there’s a strange growling noise and I look up and see a smiling young man walking towards us leading two camels. This camel herder, who will be with us for the whole six-week expedition, is trying in the gentlest of manners to get the camels to settle down. I’m pleased to see this young Namibian seems to be so good-natured. The camels seem nice too. One look at their thick lips and their big saucer eyes with long eyelashes and you fall in love wi
th them. They are two males, incredibly big and strong. But then they have to be as they’re going to be carrying our entire luggage as well as our tents, not to mention food supplies and canisters full of water to last us for six days.

  Before long it is night and we sit down to eat around the flickering campfire. Somewhere an animal growls and in the distance a jackal howls. Each of us is sunk in our own thoughts, excited about the journey we are to begin in the morning.

  It takes two hours to load up the camels. First of all we have to put blankets over their backs, then an iron frame on to which the luggage and water canisters are fastened. One of the camels seems not too impressed by all this and makes his feeling known loudly. It sounds like a lion roaring, which in the days to come is going to frighten a fair few Himba.

  When at last we set off, it’s already hot. The expedition leader goes in front with the animals, followed by Lucas, the camel herder. The rest of us follow behind. The pace is brisk, and if I stop to take a photograph I have to run to catch up. We’ll be walking for four to five hours a day. I count on my regular hiking in the Swiss Alps to stand me in good stead, but by the second day I’m having problems with the heat and humidity. By noon it’s over forty degrees and my clothes are stuck to my body. The rucksack on my back that holds my water bottles and lunch doesn’t exactly help.

  But the magnificent landscape makes up for the ferocious heat. Most of the time we’re walking along a riverbank with bushes, trees and palms on either side. By late afternoon it’s time to set up camp for the night. The expedition leader has picked great spots, either under tall trees on the dried up riverbed or right next to the water. Dinner is prepared and we all sit down to eat around the campfire, after which everyone goes to bed early. We’re all tired and it’s already dark by 5.30 p.m.

  Every now and then we run across some Himba or they come to visit our camp. It’s always interesting, even if we can’t actually talk to them. Sometimes a few lads on donkeys ride up and stare at us; from time to time we spot a Himba woman walking along on her own, presumably off to visit her family.

  On the third day we have to cross a river. The water isn’t deep but it’s very wide. The riverbank is dark and damp and the heavily laden camels are afraid to wade into the river. No matter how we push, pull and shout at them, they refuse to move. They are simply terrified and resist any attempt to get them across. The expedition leader suggests unloading them so they will be lighter and less frightened. Lucas then starts pushing one from behind while the guide pulls him, but the animal stands there, its legs apart, refusing to budge, until eventually it settles down on its knees. If we don’t get the camels across the river, that’s the end of our trek.

  Suddenly a pickup truck appears, a rare occurrence in this isolated area. The driver offers to help and in the end the camel is pulled through the river using his substantial horsepower. In fact, the camel’s resistance diminishes markedly when it realises that the wet ground beneath its feet isn’t that dangerous. The second camel isn’t so hard to move, though its loud bellowing makes perfectly clear what he thinks of it all. Now we have to get all our luggage across and load up the animals again, which takes us another two hours.

  It’s 3 p.m. by the time we reach our campsite for the night on the other bank. I’ve got blisters on my feet, which I never get when walking in the mountains. But the extreme heat in the afternoons here makes your feet swell up and soften. I’ve got blister plasters but in these conditions they don’t last long, as they can’t stick properly to wet skin. Most of the time we’ve been walking on dried riverbeds or sandy trails, both of which are hard work. The landscape around us is changing now too: it’s starting to get hilly and in the distance we can see small mountain ranges.

  One of the most exciting things on the six-day trek was coming across our first Himba village. From a long way off we can see the corral and hear dogs barking and children shouting. The Himba, just like the Masai, build huts made out of mud and cow dung in a circle, surrounded with a thorn bush fence for protection. A similar fence runs down the middle of the corral, with the cows penned in on one side of it.

  It’s busy in the village and as we get near, people come out to stare at the camels in amazement. A few small children even burst into tears of terror. The goats start bleating and the dogs start barking.

  Two little girls sit on top of a flat-roofed hut filling a basket with dried maize cobs, which an old lady then spreads out on a tarpaulin for other children to remove the kernels. It’s easy to make out the difference here between girls considered too young to marry and those who are already married. The very young girls aren’t wearing much of the red ghee and have two uncoloured hair braids pulled forward to cover their eyes, supposedly to keep the evil eye off them. Married women, on the other hand, wear their hair in several thick braids pulled back and wear a little leather ornament on their heads like a tiny crown.

  Two old men are sitting open-mouthed and slack-jawed, just staring at the camels. The pair of them are ancient and obviously know every stone and every animal in the vicinity, but camels are new to them. Amazingly, only the women dare to come up and touch one of the animals. The men keep their distance. It’s a scenario I will become familiar with over the coming weeks.

  I could have stayed here longer getting to know the local people and their way of life but we must be on our way. Even though the women at least look well fed I have to wonder how these people get enough to eat living in such a desolate area. It’s been days since we last saw a shop. Later on I learn that they largely live on milk curds and that, after the rains, the animals produce a lot.

  The Himba keep telling us how strange they find it to see white people walking. Up to now the only tourists they’ve seen have been in cars or a few on motorbikes. They regularly ask our camel herder, who knows their language, ‘Where is the white people’s car? Or are they so poor that they have to walk everywhere like we do?’ A few of them point to the camels and ask, ‘Are those their cars?’ We find it rather amusing.

  The nearer we get to our destination the more often we come across Himba heading the same way. One family is travelling with a donkey or, to be more accurate, the father is riding on the donkey while one child runs behind, one in front, and the donkey itself is laden down with sacks of corn meal and other foodstuffs. Naturally the woman brings up the rear. On another occasion we overtake a young Himba mother striding along with a heavy load on her head, a baby on her back in a sort of rucksack made from goatskin. As we pass this beautiful young woman I can’t help noticing a strong rancid smell, almost certainly coming from the red ghee her body is covered in.

  Eventually we near our destination, the Epupa Falls. This means once again tackling an unmade track in stifling heat. It’s so hot that most of us spend our time fantasising about a cold beer, a cold Coke or just a shady tree to sleep under. And then, all of a sudden, what should materialise in front of us but a bar?

  There isn’t another building for miles except for this solitary bar offering ice-cold drinks. They get their electricity for the fridge from solar panels. Delighted as we are to sit there and knock back a chilled beer, we’re also rather disillusioned to know that it’s the beer industry subsidising the solar panels to encourage alcohol consumption among the Himba. And behind the building my illusions are shattered further by the sight of a two-metre-high pile of broken bottles.

  On the sixth day we reach Epupa and the waterfalls. There is a proper bed waiting for me in our lodgings, which is just heaven. Thanks to the heavy rains a few days ago the water plummeting over the high falls is extraordinarily impressive. It’s so loud it’s impossible to hear yourself speak.

  Looking down on the falls at sunset is a beautiful experience. There are trees growing from crevasses in the rocks jutting up between the rushing water, struggling to find a patch of soil in which to put down roots. The falls are part of the Kunene River, which flows tranquilly into the distance with palm trees along its banks. In the distance bare mountain p
eaks glisten gold in the setting sun.

  The Kunene is the only river here where water flows all year round. There are crocodiles in it and the other bank is Angolan territory. It is not unknown for brave – or perhaps just drunk – tourists to wander across it and never be seen again.

  This is the end of the first part of my adventure and my travelling companions – tourists who set out with me on our first warm-up expedition – are returning by minibus to Windhoek the next day. Lucas and I, on the other hand, have to trek back eighty-six kilometres to Okangwati, where we will rendezvous with the expedition leader for the main event. I’m in charge now, but the return journey is a disaster as we have to take a gravel road and are completely devastated by the heat. Every now and then a car will speed past covering us in dust. It’s so unbearably hot that I decide we’ll get up at 4 a.m. every morning so Lucas and I can load up the camels and be under way before sunrise. But the best thing about these few days is the sense of isolation, and the knowledge that it’s all up to me. I also have a chance for more conversation with young Lucas. He’s a pleasant lad and over the coming weeks I find him a real source of comradeship, especially when I fall out with the expedition leader.

  At one point I ask him if he has a girlfriend and he nods shyly. Knowing that his family don’t come from around here, I tease him by asking if she’s a Himba. He looks horrified and says, ‘Corinne! No. What are you thinking of? Those women don’t ever wash and I can’t stand that red colour. My girlfriend is modern.’

  ‘So where is she now?’ I ask with a laugh.

  ‘Still in kindergarten,’ he says without the slightest compunction.