Somewhere north of Tsumeb in northern Namibia the German influence ceased. I found myself back in the African cultural heartland - unorganized, dirty, crowded and vibrant. After some lame attempts by the Angolan border-police to extract bribes, I was inside the country, swarmed by teenage moneychangers. In a dirty 4x4 a fat white man with a wry face, sat jammed between the seat and the steering wheel, which sank into his belly. He would take me as far as Xangongo for a beer, he said, which sounded great to me although I had no clue where it was. Big fields of late-summer grass would glow with a pink hue in the sunset and the great Baobabs would rise from the plains like petrified monsters. Along the roadside there were only a few houses, but the fat
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