Entering the Republic - 4 Sep 2002
Boering behaviour (a.k.a Hippy slags everyone off)
A brief stop in Keetmanshoop
VSO bit
Fish River Canyon
Paarly Views
Paarl comforts
The end of the journey?
Boering behaviour (a.k.a Hippy slags everyone off)
To those of you who are unaware of Namibian history - it was a German colony and than taken over by the South Africans and got itís independence from SA in í90, although the port of Walvis Bay was only given back in ë94 as one of the first actions of a certain Mr Mandella. So equally this is when legal apartheid gave way to economic apartheid.
It felt very strange in Namibia, probably less than 10% of the population are white, but thatís the majority of the people you will see in the bars and restaurants. In a bar, in Swakopmund, with an all white clientele, 2 Namibians were trying to convince me that the blacks didnít come to places like this from choice. That even if they had the money, which of course they donít, it would not be their thing. During the conversation a black couple ran the gauntlet of stars and entered, defiantly approaching the bar, but it was clear that they felt unwelcome, and within minutes, left defeated. The white folk I was talking to, were dumfounded when I said that it felt weird to me that in a country where the majority of the people were dark skinned, everyone in the bar was white, and that in England with a minority of blacks this would be unheard of in a town pub. This rather squashed their theory that blacks prefer to be with their own. Iím afraid that my face probably physically cringed, as they tried to claim that the blacks chose even now to live separate lives to the whites, just because they like their own company. (Under the circumstances, itís hardly surprising that they keep away)
The huge differences in economic wealth between groups did not seem to be regarded as a social problem that needed addressing. The fact that during apartheid there had officially been 13 levels of race, with the San people (bushmen) being so lowly that they were not even ranked in the system, has left a legacy of unemployment being correlated with level of race. The closer the similarity of the tribes culture to that of the West the higher the rank. Hence the Herero people, who still dress in Victorian garb as a left over from the missionary era, were quite high on the list, and funnily enough the few blacks you have made to middle class tend to be Herero. How you rectify centuries of value and wealth creation, I donít know? I realise that the UK is racist but at least many people are aware this is not justified.
Selective use of facts, to in their minds ëproveí that blacks deserve their position, was quite delusional. One couple in particular, the wife more liberal than the husband, showed how easily economy with the truth can distort the picture. The husband was adamant that the blacks were violent and criminal, but the wife pointed out it was a white farmer who had stolen their sheep. Again I know that people are equally capable of such distortion in England, but here it was so crass it was frightening.
There was a certain German-ness about the way things were done.
We all know the towel thing and sun loungers. We found that some Namibians extended this to any communal object. Let me set the scene:- a backpackers hostel with 50 people staying and about 20 seats to dine, we took the only remaining 2 spare seats began to eat brekky when a large middle aged German announced as he returned to the room, with a cup of coffee, that one of them was ëhisí seat and demanded that we move. We did, not without Pat voicing an amount of sarcasm.
Hippy has a habit of pulling me up in such circumstances, saying ìDonít, Pat. Itís not worth it.î In my opinion, to not protest or point out the ignorance of these folk is to cave in. Come on everyone letís start telling people when theyíre out of order. As it was in this case, we had to go upstairs balancing our breakfasts and eat off high stools at a stale ale smelling bar while our helpful co-hostellers had a leisurely coffee in the breakfast room.
Throughout Africa we were impressed by the resourcefulness of Africans, to solve a problem:- to make a plan, without specialised spares or tools. But after losing the key to the bike and to get another cut become a battle of wills. In Tanzania a chap was quite happy to munter a spare from an old padlock key. Here German shop owners seemed unable to adapt, and bleated repeatedly, ëVee do not carry BMW blanksí and complaints like ëI know but surely you can adapt somethingí hit a thick wall.
Of course, round the corner we found a very nice man who actually did have the right blank for cutting me a key.
Southern white Africans, tend to go overboard on the camping thing. 4x4ís with tents, fridges cookers trailers with yet more stuff, but seemingly minus the essentials e.g. a scourer to clean pans with.
Keetmanshoop is a nice functioning town South of Windhoek. A spot of lunch revealed a nice set up that the caff had with the local street children. Soon after we arrived a large group of tourists left. Within minutes 3 kids came in, cleared the plates of left-overs and collected pop bottles to reclaim the deposits. Although this must sound a little seedy, it felt more like mutualism. They discretely cleared the plates of contents while tidying the table for the owners. Quite a reasonable exchange ñ donít you think.
Known for its kookerboom forest, shed loads of grockles arrive to snap piccys of these desert spiky trees at sunset. Not quite as bizarre as the other strange desert plants mentioned earlier they are a bit of a cross in looks between a multi-branched yucca and a silver birch, although they are in fact not technically a tree at all but an aloe. When youíve seen one you have seen them all, but I guess they make an interesting backdrop for the photographically inspired.
We were kept awake that night by a bunch of camp fire types, who sang along to strums of a guitar. Normally this would be pleasant but the stream songs with single chorus lines for verses became irritating. It was clear that no-one knew more than a chorus of anything, but insisting on either repeating them endlessly, or producing incongruous medleys. Certainly not for the hearing sensitive.
No matter how many times they insisted, I refused to accept that we all live in a yellow submarine.
Down the road was a bunch of rocks that they have tied to turn into a tourist attraction, mainly, I conjecture to compensate for the fact that it is impossible to farm. It had a cunning resemblance to a Cyclopean builderís merchants. Piles of blocks of rocks, as far as the see could see, separated by shrub land.
Pamela Palmer is building on the clear enthusiasm of her organisation. Trained in managing inhabited National Parks from the Philippines, she is having great success working with local tribes, to not only help the conservation effort, but also to help them profit from it. For instance in the past the locals have herded cattle in the reserve areas, but they require more food and tending than indigenous animals. By encouraging them to bred native species, not only does it create a tourist attraction, but it also impacts less on the land. Things have been so successful that other groups of people are volunteering to move in this direction and asking for advice on setting up conservancy status for their area. This empowers inhabitants to govern the conservational development of their area.
This is Namibiaís answer to the US version. Not having seen the latter, I was suitably impressed. The major bonus being that that this is not very famous so it is not heaving with grockles. We sat and pondered the view and watched as the sun set. There are some things that I never seem to tire of in these travelling days ñ this is one of them.
Back at the ranch, the camp site had filled up with overland trucks, and we blagged our way into sharing a campsite with Stuartís (Stuart being a courier working for Dragoman trucks) packs for some beer money. They seemed to have a new driver with them, Paul, who somehow did not seem to have the right style for African truck work. Itís hard to explain, but most truckerís have developed an ability to take everything in their stride and get on with the job. However this chap, who had just left the army, seemed to be expecting everything to run in a European kind of a way. Maybe if we bump into him in a few months time weíll see a new man.
These trips can easily turn into sunset tours, where the truck reaches the dunes for sunset , their packs eat sleep, rise early to leg to the next view point for sunset. Somehow not my idea of travelling.
Some German campers had their pots stolen, so in true traveller style we loaned them ours, asking them to just pop them in the porch of the tent when they had finished. Later, on return to our tent the pots were not only left out to succumb to the same fate as theirs, but they had not even had the courtesy to clean them ñ ungrateful b*#***s. After earlier incidents with German arrogance Pat was not impressed, and muttered on about them in English. I did point out that the slumbering Germans would probably be able to understand every word of his condemnation, but he was undeterred. Although I was trying to think of a plausible explanation for this thoughtlessness, I failed to even convince myself.
Knowing that our time is getting short for reaching the Cape to catch our flight, we planned to get over the border today. The German couple loitered sheepishly around their tent, appearing to be nudging each other in an attempt to urge each other to approach us. In the end the better half of the partnership shuffled over and explained that they were very sorry, but they had also had their pan scourer stolen and had been unable to clean our pots and felt it wrong to return them dirty. Maybe we misjudged them. Hmmmm!
70 miles of gravel later and we needed a pit-stop. What better than a set of hot springs? Now picture this- we arrive in full bike gear to a set of springs in the Namibian desert, feeling somewhat over dressed. I pulled layer after layer off, in the ladies to change into swimming gear, while a small child watched me with dismay. At this point I was pleased that I did not understand Afrikaans, as the comments made to the boys mother I imagine were on the lines of ëWhy is that mad lady wearing all those clothes?í ëSheís English they are all a bit mad.í
With two large piles of bike gear at the side of the pool we dived in to enjoy a bit of luxury. Again this seems to be a luxury that only white folk can afford and it was not until we were about to leave that a sole black family graced the pool area. The beauty of arid climes is that you dry your hair and self in nanoseconds. So within an hour we had changed, swam, air-dried, changed and were back down the road.
In my infinite wisdom I had spotted a short cut to the border on a gravel road. Although the road was by no means the worst the vibrations added to the weariness of the journey, and I could sense that Patís patience was getting frazzled. My mistaken delusions of seeing the tar road in the distance did not help matters, as this only raised hopes that the strain would be short only for them to be dashed again.
A non-eventful border crossing the Orange River (which incidentally is not orange) and we headed for Springbok (the town not the animal). The aridness of Namibia was invaded by the lusciousness of the Cape. Acacia gave way the shrubs and shrubs gave way to green fields, speckled with purple heather and verges of yellow, apricot and orange. It was had to conceive that only 50 miles North the land is parched and desolate.
Unbeknown to us we entered Springbok on National Womenís Day. It being a Bank Holiday, most of the shops were shut and the hotels were all full. This is peak season for this little town, for it is coming into wild flower season. From here for 60miles South for one month of the year the countryside is transformed from a palette of green to an explosion of wild colour ñ they say. And in fairness the purple heather and verges, on the way had been very pretty. Anyway with the town heaving with Bank Holiday botanists, this made our accommodation situation a little dire.
We stopped at a house to ask for directions to a recommended guest house, only to realise - too late, that we had made a terrible mistake. The males of the household had taken the opportunity of a day off to drink the town dry, and this being late afternoon they were a little worse for ware. They were shouting different contradictory instructions, while the most sober tried to out-shout them with what we assumed to be the correct version. As we left one shouted to the other, ëWell you know heís not a real biker!í This begs the question ëWhat is a real biker?í Is it an executive chap who has shining leathers in yellow and blue that match his racing bike, who only dares to go out at when itís sunny on a day run, or is it someone who has ridden through Africa. These comments are simply not worth getting irate about, so we didnít.
But we know who the real bikers are!
The guest house found and fully booked we sidled back into town, and spotted 2 shiny new BMW GSís in front of a pub. Well, we had to pop in if it was only to say ëHelloí to the owners of the beasts. They were a lovely couple, who gave some credibility to a certain email from Andy Smith intimating the sexual orientation of bikers.
As we sat enjoying a few drinks with these kind people the liberal nature of this hill-billy town became obvious. A number of males walked by in drag bearing shiny wigs and wands. I assume that to commemorate womenís day, the men had decided to don feminine dress to go to the pub and as usual leave their spouses cooking their dinner.
We headed to the camp site hoping they could squeeze us in and we were in luck. We chatted with a lovely retired SA couple on their way to Namibia, who in this case had conventional sexual orientation and clothing ñ clearly not from round here.
Whilst I cooked and washed up I shared the kitchen area with a couple from France who were prattling to each other about this and that. Although I find that I can follow conversed French even though I find it hard to string a sentence together, I was not really paying attention until at one point I heard the girl say to her partner,îWhat if he can understand French?î I couldnít resist turning to them and winking. They went all red like.
We rang Mike and Patsy for a bit of floor space in Paarl, but they were engaged. If we failed to get hold of them or it was inconvenient we had a plan B and C so no matter.
The road to Paarl was more than spectacular, it was inspiring. That day we travelled 400 miles and normally I would have been bored to death and fidgety but the scent of wild flowers and the inexpressible beauty of the verges and fields lining the road, made the miles ease by without torment.
The species and colours of the flowers changed as we went South and their proliferation grew. It was clear that the best was yet to come, as some fields buds hinted and teased the onlooker of the display they would reveal in a few days time (that is if the frightening frost does not get them first). Sometimes there were banks of single species flowers, painting the fields, at other points the myriad of colours blended into the painterís palette. Stretch after stretch of road offered more and more visual indulgence. It is on days like this, you are hit in the face with the earthís natural beauty that I can see why some people believe in God. I, however end the day feeling spiritually restored by the earthís ability to continue to out-do itself. I hope that even if the photos do not do this justice my memories of today do not fail me.
I kept myself entertained with road related matters as usual. I could not fail to be distracted though by the roadside safety signs. ìIn the last month 51% of drivers were within the speed limit. Record ñ 56%î What kind of damning statistic is that? Iím sure people read it and think ìWell, no one else bothers ñ why should I?î There were similar statistics for seat belt adherence and other issues.
On the way we had booked our bit of floor and found our way to Mike and Patsyís easily in the heart of Cape vineyards, in Paarl. Their generosity was amazing, they let us into their sonís flat who was away in Belgium. This place had more room than we had had in the past year, own bathroom, lounge complete with hi-fi and TV and fully equipped kitchen. They had even gone to the trouble of filling the fridge. How good is that?
Very good is the answer. Perhaps too good. We spent a few days doing less than we expected; shopping for bits and pieces, eating extremely well, visiting vineyards and generally making ready to fly back to Blighty.
The Cape vineyards have been established for a considerable length of time. Only in recent years have they attempted to get their wines accredited for their quality. But quality there is in abundance. Thanks to Mikeís generosity in navigating us about, we called in at some of the most prestigious local estates. KWV which used to be a co-operative but is now a public company boasts one of the largest winemaking and ageing facilities in the world and so we took the guided tour there to see their stuff.
Top Tip If you can find Cathedral Cellar wines in a shop near you, buy it. This is the rebadged premium brand from KWV and is named after their largest cellar which resembles, yes, a cathedral. This is most excellent quaffable wine with excellent nose and fruit. If at all possible, get the Tryptych ñ itís the tops.
Our other main aim in Cape Town was to complete our souvenir shopping. We reasoned that as everyone had told us that pretty much all of the African crafts were represented in the markets here, we would be able to pick up some of the larger objects that motorcycle travel had prevemted us getting before.
Indeed, there was everything from the Malawian chairs through Kenyan soap stone chess sets to the ubiquitous five foot giraffes. On the down side, though, was the sad fact that seemingly all of the lesser quality versions of everything is shipped here on the basis that the endless variety of carving and craft will blind the buyers to the lack of skill used. We did find a few nice bits and bats in the end and started negotiations.
Having been there, seen it and done it, we knew how much these items were worth up the road and so we added on a bit of a margin for the sellers and transport costs to arrive at ëourí price. In keeping with the rest of Africa, the male vendors persisted in failing to play the bargaining game and so lost out completely on sales whereas the women reached a happy conclusion and made sales with all parties happy.
Reaching Cape Town had something of an odd feel. It was as though our journey had finished. We had a home to stay in for a while which was, I guess the one thing that weíve really missed in this year.
The real big question is ñ What have we learned from all our travels? Well, we set out with the intention of finding somewhere new and refreshing to live and, sadly, nowhere has really fulfilled our expectations or really leapt out at us. Top countries so far have all had their downsides;
Most of eastern Europe is sufficiently developed to be attractive and has opportunities but we have to be brutally honest and confess that the winters do not appeal.
Middle Eastern countries are of course from Hippyís perspective somewhat restrictive. Where it not for the position of women in society, we would seriously consider these countries for they have some major benefits, low crime rates, none the least.
Northern Sudan has by far the most amazingly hospitable and charming people. The south is an unknown quantity and I fear that as with most smouldering disputes between religions in countries the world over, along with the oil issue to muddy the waters, peace will always be on a knife edge. Besides, the climate is pretty hard work!
Ethiopia was a complete revelation to us. What a beautiful country. This is a place that we must certainly revisit and see more of, but as an option for settling it seems unlikely. It would be hard to live in an environment where you are seen as charitable concern simply because of the colour of your skin. Seemingly this does not change with time and possibly will not for years to come.
Somehow Kenya and Tanzania did not cut the mustard. The minor exception was in the Usumbara Mountains. Even here, the whiff of corruption was all pervading.
Corruption reached a bit of a peak in Malawi with the result that food has been all sold abroad and starvation is on the way. Not the most of appealing situations!
Zimbabwe, as we have pointed out at length is a very fine country indeed but once again hampered by problematic government. Of all countries visited in depth so far, it would be my choice. Time will tell whether it has a future or not.
Both Namibia and South Africa feel like Europe with sophisticated delis and cafes on the pavement. It is possible to buy all manner of high tech stuff in the shops there. But the gulf of a divide between the white inhabitants and the blacks is a little too much to bear. It would be easy to swan around these two countries enjoying a high standard of living and not be aware of the abject poverty that most of the black population are subjected to, as the townships are hidden from view and the streets in towns are almost devoid of the majority ethnic groups. As a white person in these countries things feel easy but for me extremely uncomfortable. Probably, not the place for me.
Give South Africa a chance.
To be fair, weíve only spent the briefest of periods in SA and so we will reserve judgement until weíve had more of a flavour. On our return, there, we will be spending a few weeks getting around seeing how the land lies.
Watch this space.