Namibia - nuts and bolts


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Africa » Namibia
November 13th 2006
Published: November 15th 2006
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chameleonchameleonchameleon

(my thanks to Keith Leggett for finding the subject-matter and then lending his back for the photograph!)
My sister suggested that it might be useful/interesting if I filled in some of the blanks of living and travelling in Namibia that I now take for granted and which would have been too run-of-the-mill to feature in any blog.

Please feel free to skip through the blurb and go straight for the photos which, I’ll be the first to admit, have little to do with the blog itself but are intended to brighten up the black and white text.

In the meantime, as you may have spotted from an earlier blog, I’m now in South Africa. Prising myself away from Namibia was hard: it’s a fabulous country and I am still in love with it. Now to find the excuse to go back…

COMMUNICATIONS

(1) MOBILE PHONE

Given the humungous charges imposed by European networks for “roaming”, one of the first things that I did when I fell off the plane from Jo’burg to Windhoek on 7 July was buy myself a Namibian SIM card. Amazingly, it only costs N$0.80 (about 6p or 10 US cents) to send a text (SMS), whether to a local number or abroad. Having taught my mother to text before
the road north from Windhoek to Otjiwarongothe road north from Windhoek to Otjiwarongothe road north from Windhoek to Otjiwarongo

Nothing breaking the horizon until Zimbabwe's Highlands...
I left the UK - and, to her credit, my mother having learnt to conquer this mysterious and alien technology - this has proved to be THE most valuable means of communication during my trip. I was assisted by having a mobile phone that stores texts to be sent until it reaches an area with sufficient reception, but, nevertheless, I was amazed at how frequently I could contact her (and Colin, of course) along during many travels. It was also, of course, invaluable for communicating with the friends I made along the way, many of whom would have been put off contacting a UK mobile number because of the cost.

However, the Namibian mobile phone network is not particularly robust. After the rainy season started - a good couple of months’ early as I’ve probably already mentioned - I became accustomed to the entire network, mobile and fixed-line, being down after a rain shower, never mind a good bangs’n’crashes thunderstorm.

(2) INTERNET

When I went travelling round the world in 1993-4, the internet was a twinkle in the eye of academics. Us ordinary folks had barely even heard of the phenomenon. Nowadays, it is regarded as a primary form of communication with internet facilities being provided as standard in all levels of accommodation and on the high street, as a matter of course.

In Windhoek, I found, at an early stage of my travels, a delightful little place, World Connect on Fidel Castro Street, part internet café/part mobile phone shop, with delightful staff who would put up with my sitting at a screen for, often, many hours at a time. I am indebted to them for charging me so little for the many hours I spent there. On my record-breaking occasion, I was at a screen for more than seven hours, with printing and CD-burning done in addition; yet, they charged me barely 60% of the amount that, according to their schedule of charges, I would have racked up.

When I returned there in late August, I was enchanted to find that, in addition to the fridge-ful of cold drinks on offer, they were also producing coffee to order: arguably this was close to the best coffee in Namibia!

They also looked after my possessions. Often, after hours at a screen, I would lose the place as regards my various possessions, particularly if the day was so advanced by the time I left that my sunglasses or waterbottle were no longer required when I emerged and if I knew that the staff had stayed a little past closing time while I finished what I was doing. Time and again, I sheepishly returned to the shop to be met with a beaming smile…. and my possessions.

Elsewhere, I relied on my hosts, whether the owners of commercial accommodation (Rivendell Guesthouse and Chameleon Backpackers in Windhoek) or my friends (Keith Leggett in Outjo, and various South African friends on the other side of the border). Alternatively, there was always the run-of-the-mill internet café which was much cheaper than my friends at World Connect, although, from my point-of-view, these places didn’t cut the mustard: they wouldn’t help with my completing blogs as UPloading information, such as photographs, is verboten.

However, the one thing in common with all internet connections in Namibia is the speed: if you get as fast as 128 kbps - Mum (and other technophobes), this is REALLY slow - you would be doing well. To have a fast connection with ADSL here in Johannesburg is a pure delight. That’s why - in
yellow mongoose taking refuge from the rainyellow mongoose taking refuge from the rainyellow mongoose taking refuge from the rain

My first night on my own in 6 weeks, and I found myself with a delightful furry companion.
case you hadn’t guessed - you’ve had so many photographs accompanying the last few blogs!

ROADS

The roads in Namibia are superb, in contrast to those I’ve travelled in other African countries. The cynical - and possibly accurate - would say that this is because the South Africans, up until Namibian independence in 1990, wanted to ensure that their troops could travel quickly, and with minimum risk from landmines, up and down the country while doing combat with SWAPO in Angola.

The long straight roads - a summit would often give more than a dozen kilometres’ clear view of the road ahead - would have done the Romans proud, and delighted me each time with the space and emptiness that lay ahead. The tarmac-ed roads are a credit to the Roads Department: in sharp contrast to, for example, Zambia, I never saw a pothole in Namibia. And the gravel roads are pretty decent too: once one gets used to the gentle “ping” of stones hitting the underside of the car, it is safe and simple to reach the speed limit - often 80 or 100 km - on these roads.

However, the grading system eluded me. I was told early on that the “B”, “C”, “D”, etc. in a road’s name indicated how often the Roads Department would re-grade it. That made some sense. From memory, “B” roads are tarred; “C” roads would be graded quarterly; and “D” roads would be graded annually. But where did that leave “F”, “M”, “P” and “MR” roads? When travelling with Amanda, we came up with a much simpler system: was the surface of the road smooth enough that a CD playing on the music system of an average saloon car would not jump? This cut straight across the Namibian grading system: the salt roads through the Skeleton Coast National Park were perfect for even the quietest of songs, yet the road to CCF was a disaster for even the most robust of CDs - but both carried the “C” appellation.

The long distances between places in Namibia might suggest that passengers would want to sleep much of the intervening journey; yet, when I was a passenger, I was extremely reluctant to do so. The countryside south of Windhoek at the outset of the second week of the Wild Dog trip in July was a case in point. Although the 500 km or so south to Keetmanshoop is renowned for being an unexciting stretch of road, the landscape DOES change, and not gradually either. Quite suddenly, one can leave the hills for the plains, or drop down into small canyons. I didn’t want to sleep a minute after I’d realised that.

When I was driving myself, I felt curiously possessive about it. Although there were good reasons for my driving rather than Colin or Amanda, when I was travelling with them - they both badly needed as much rest as they could get - I was extremely reluctant to give over the controls for any amount of time, however small. In some basic way, I felt that my driving these vast distances - in total, my trips with Colin and Amanda exceeded 4,200 km - was my connection to the land that is Namibia.

Road signage was reasonable, for the most part. The mileage indicators (or should that be “kilometreage” indicators?) were usually reliable on a “plus/minus” basis, to quote that delightful oh-so-Africa Namibian phrase. But there was one exception. I was enchanted when, driving to Damaraland Camp ten days’ ago, I noticed a sign to Khorixas that said “97 km”, followed, not many kilometres further on, by a sign that said “100 km”: yes, Khorixas was now further away from us, although we thought that we’d still been heading in the same direction!

And the animal signs were enchanting. I never got round to photographing the “beware of warthogs” sign, but it constantly amused me with its happy-looking subject-matter; the “beware of elephants” sign en route to Seisfontein has been pictured in an earlier blog.

Police roadblocks were a new one on me, at least when I was a driver; I’d been witness to them in other African countries, but only as a passenger. In Namibia, these tend to be situated about 10 km outside the major towns, but, off the top of my head, I can’t think of any town other than Windhoek outside which I encountered them. The rules-of-thumb are: comply with the slowing-down signs, stop at the stop sign, and beam beatifically at the cop on duty who, almost invariably, simply waves you on with a dismissive jerk of his hand. Sadly - if one is to be egalitarian about this - my experience is tainted by the colour of my skin. Aimed at checking licences and inebriation limits, these checkpoints tend to be pretty racist: curiously, whites are assumed to have their documents in order and to be within legal limits for the usual dodgy substances.

As regards speed limits, I took advantage of the further rule-of-thumb that I was given early on: cops don’t work far from home. Comply with the speed limit within 10 km of a major town, and you’ll be OK. Outside that parameter, hit the floor without compunction, although this can disadvantage you. A fellow-lodge-guest at Okonjima admitted that driving at 160 km up the long, straight road from Windhoek to Otjiwarongo didn’t leave him a spare hand or brain cell to operate a camera and capture the moment that he saw a kudu jump over a BMW.

Which brings me on to the main driving hazard in Namibia: wildlife. As it was emphasised to me: don’t drive at night - it’s a rule, not a guideline. I saw the results of someone hitting a kudu at something over 80 kph and it wasn’t pretty. Admittedly the human contents of the vehicle were unharmed - more by serious amounts of luck than judgement - but one foot of the buck had gone through the windscreen and the residue, hair and blood, didn’t bode well for the future of the beast.

On the plus side, parking meters don’t exist. Wherever you park your car in a town of any size, you look around for the nearest parking attendant. I found it easiest to try and make friends with the attendants through the usual “Hi. How are you? What’s your name?” approach, though, of course, Colin took the biscuit on that one with football-speak. Yes, even in Namibia, our coming from the UK triggers “David Beckham”, “Michael Owen” exclamations of delight from those that we meet. I’ve lost track of the number of Manchester United fans I’ve met: thank goodness that that’s one team I know something about! In any event, if you personalise the encounter - or so I like to think - the guy might actually look out for the security of your vehicle and thereby deserve his tip on your return from the supermarket or wherever.

PUBLIC TRANSPORT

There isn’t any. Well, barely any.

The one time that I had to use transport other than that provided by friends or safari operators was between Otjiwarongo and Outjo. In Otji - as, I assume, in other towns - there is an ad hoc taxi service. You go to the appointed taxi “rank” - depending on your destination - and you negotiate a ride. If you want the cut-price version, you take a book or something else that is going to engross your attention while the driver waits to see if he can fill the rest of the vehicle. This may take hours. If you want to get to your destination in a more predictable manner, be prepared to negotiate. I negotiated N$100 for a ride to Outjo “now now”, having waited in vain for half an hour for the other three spaces in the car to be filled at N$35 a time, and then tipped the driver reasonably substantially to entice him back to Outjo to pick me up later in the day for a return trip at the same price. When he turned up absolutely on time - completely contrary to everything I’d ever experienced in Africa - his tip doubled. And, when I mentioned that I might need the same ride a week later, he called my mobile the day before to check. But I fear that the wonderful Gerson was the exception, rather than the rule.

Otherwise, I am told that you can register your journey requirements with the local radio station - at least in Windhoek. You will then be put in touch with someone who is driving that route on or about your desired date, presumably on something approaching a shared petrol basis.

Not quite National Express, Connex or Great North-Eastern Railways.

WATER

…. is drinkable practically everywhere in Namibia - and it’s only the residue lawyer in me that has put in the “practically”. Essentially, all water in Namibia is taken from bore holes, so it is as pure as it comes. The only question is whether you like the output. Personally, I find the water in Windhoek a little chlorinated - but not so much as to be objectionable - that from the Hoanib waterholes brackish, and that from Halali to be bizarrely sweet. Only the latter have I ever poured away. Outjo water is, to my mind, the best, with a slight sweetness to it giving it more flavour than some, yet without being at all clawing in its taste, as that from Halali.

LANGUAGE

Given a choice between English, Afrikaans and German in north-central, central and southern Namibia, I’d invariably choose the wrong one. By the end of my time in Namibia, I’d complete a transaction in at least two languages, to be on the safe side - and that was only to say “thank you”: my Afrikaans may have improved a little in the past months, but it’s still at the ultra-basic stage. At least in Swakopmund you can make the fairly safe assumption that you’ll be dealing with a German speaker. North of Outjo, you can put the Afrikaans on hold, but German may come back into play with some of the native tribes. In Walvis Bay, Portuguese may be useful, given the influx of Angolan immigrants from the coastal area north of the Kunene because the similar, fishing-oriented lifestyle that Walvis Bay could offer them when the war forced them to move. Then, of course, there are the myriad of African languages, more or less complicated depending on whether or not they are “click” languages, and, if a “click” language, depending on the complexity of the clicks, some of which, I was embarrassed to find, I couldn’t even distinguish.

In short. English may be the national language, but it is far from being the language-of-choice of the majority. And the cacophony of languages around you make you realise your inadequacy - at least in my case: many people seem to be able to speak at least a smattering of three or more languages.

PEOPLE

… varied, enormously, as you might expect. But, throughout Namibia, there were two things in common with those that I met. First, everyone has TIME - “Hello. How are you?” prefaces everything, even the shortest encounter, whether with a parking attendant, an immigration official or the guy behind the desk at the gate to a national park.

Secondly, everyone is friendly… to a greater or lesser extent, admittedly, but, nevertheless, I can make that generalisation pretty safely.

I figured latterly that I must have been in this country a long time. I recognised people working at the check-in counters at the airport, and was on recognition terms with the parking attendant at Maerua Mall in Windhoek. Mind you, in the latter respect, so was Amanda, with all of ten days in Namibia under her belt. Maybe it was the combination of blond and brunette, both chattering unintelligibly fast at ninety-three-to-the-dozen that he recognised; certainly, we remembered his name and were only sorry that, when we emerged from the Mall on the last occasion, he was nowhere to be seen and his N$5 was pocketed by a colleague.

MONEY

The oddest thing about Namibian money is the one thing that I, at least, took for granted in no time at all. The Namibian dollar operates on a one-for-one, dual currency-basis with the South African rand. I can appreciate the logic: Namibia’s economy is heavily dependant on its neighbour and there will have been many who argued that, even at Namibia’s independence, Namibia should retain the SA rand as its currency. Yet, to evidence its independence and sovereignty, Namibia has its own dollar and, so far as notes and coins in the general course of business are concerned, this is the dominant currency. You can’t use Namibian dollars outside the country, but banks will exchange them for rand without a commission if you are heading to South Africa.

There are ATMs - or “holes-in-the-wall” - in every major town, though, for some unknown reason, they took offence to my Barclays Connect card. No matter: I’d brought out a pack of plastic, or so it felt. Generally, therefore, I didn’t feel at all exposed when it came to cash…

…except that once, which will ensure that I never again leave myself short of a petrol tank’s worth of wonga!

On 29 October, I left Outjo for Windhoek where I was to meet Amanda the next day. I was slightly distracted in my departure: Keith’s housekeeper, Anne-Marie, had a friend visiting and the friend’s return ride to Walvis Bay had gone awry (I lost track of quite how this had happened, it must be said). Anyway, I found myself with a passenger, and didn’t object. Victoria was good company for the 60 km to Otjiwarongo and we talked about a range of things from current affairs in Namibia to her work at a kindergarten. Nevertheless, I was conscious that I didn’t have enough petrol for the remaining 200 km or so to Windhoek, and I had been too impatient to get to Outjo the previous day to stop and replenish either the petrol tank or my diminished wallet.

On reaching Otji and disgorging my passenger, I discovered that the entirety of Namibia’s ATM network was down…. Oh, and petrol stations don’t take plastic other than pre-charged petrol cards which I don’t have. Oops. What to do? I talked to kind, helpful folks in SuperSPAR and at the Shell garage… and they couldn’t help. No-one would take plastic even though, I was told, the Shell garage now did - contrary to what I’d been told - because the networks to verify the transaction were also down, and no-one (this, I admit, was an outside chance) would take sterling or US dollars in lieu.

My choices were three-fold. I could drive the additional 45 km to CCF and beg off my friends there, safe in the knowledge that I’d be back there in a few days’ time to repay them… but this would prolong my journey by a good two hours. I could drive south and keep my fingers crossed, either that the petrol in the car would last the distance or that the ATMs would be working by the time I got to the next place for refuelling, Okahandja, 70 km short of Windhoek. Or I could crawl on bended knee to people I barely knew and see if they’d lend or exchange me N$400 to fill the tank, my target being Hanne-Dora, the owner of the oft-visited Kameldorn Garten, whom I knew by sight. I doubt she even knows my name, though we had friends in common. I opted for the latter… and was so deeply indebted to Hanne-Dora’s older daughter, who came up with the Namibian currency in return for forty pounds sterling (which her mother returned to me three days’ later in exchange for the relevant amount being repaid in the correct currency), though she didn’t really know me from Eve, that I presented the family with a box of Quality Street the next time I visited. (For those of you who might think that present derisory, there is precious little choice in Namibia supermarkets!)

LAUNDRY

Well, how nuts’n’bolts do I go? It’s a basic necessity when travelling for more than a couple of weeks, so I thought I’d add this in.

Most places I stayed offered some kind of laundry service of which I would take advantage when the pile exceeded that which I could do comfortably with travel wash and my wee washing line. I thought that getting my entire washing done for N$30 (approximately £2.80 or US$4.80) and back the same day at the Chameleon Backpackers in Windhoek was pretty good going until I mentioned that to my mother and realised that people who aren’t accustomed to business hotels’ prices need a point of reference. For present purposes, I’ll give you the price of one item to be laundered at Sossusvlei Lodge: N$25 for a pair of trousers. Do you appreciate the bargain now?! OK, so my underwear hasn’t been ironed here, unlike in India, though I have been intrigued as to how some places tie up underwear into neat little quasi-knots…. but I guess that’s more information than you needed.

WHAT’S NEXT?

I thought I’d finish up by giving you an idea of what’s next on my plate. Most immediately, I head south to Port Elizabeth on Wednesday 15th November (that’s probably “today”, if you’re reading this “hot off the press”) to spend a couple of weeks with the inspirational Dianne Lang. The nutshell version behind this leg of my trip is that I met Dianne on a train between London Kings Cross and Edinburgh Waverley in June this year, and was bowled over by her work with AIDS orphans and abused children. The aim of the next couple of weeks - I’ll be perfectly candid - is to see if I could handle working at her children’s home in Middelburg in the Karoo next year.

If I can, great: I’ll be back in this neck of the woods from early March or so (I’ve got the delights of jury service in London to entertain me during the first couple of weeks of February…) and there are a number of other things that could be scheduled in Namibia if I need a change of scene, including a return trip to the elephants in Kaokoland and a course in shooting in Damaraland. If the latter sounds a little curious, I can only explain that this would be payment for my editing a short book on crime prevention tactics that a German friend in Windhoek has written. He’s also a crack-shot with a farm in Damaraland. Makes perfect sense!

If I can’t deal with the emotional bit - I’m realistic about this possibility: it’s a far cry from negotiating outsourcing contracts, feeding cheetah or tracking elephants - then I’m back to the drawing-board for next year, but it’s a drawing-board with ideas oozing out of every pore, if that’s not mixing my metaphors. I’d love to go to Mongolia to take part in an Earthwatch project there - part of my fascination with deserts - but, as I’ve mentioned elsewhere, this may require a little negotiation with my nearest and dearest; I badly owe my cousins and friends in both Australia and India a visit; there are conservation-related courses I’m interested in doing, including an MSc in Canterbury; and I’m toying with the idea of seeing whether I can exploit further any of my dubious ramblings from the past few months. Watch this space!

Finally, I’d like to say a huge THANK YOU to all the many friends I’ve met along the way in the last five months and to old friends whose acquaintance I have renewed - you’ve really made this trip so much fun and so fascinating - and to my friends and family back home for all the support that they’ve given me while I’ve been away, not least, of course, to Colin and my mother.


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female grasshopperfemale grasshopper
female grasshopper

(thanks to Brian Bowden for lending a hand with this photograph)
grasshoppers matinggrasshoppers mating
grasshoppers mating

The way that the males seemed to be lining up was intriguing: there were another two waiting in turn elsewhere on this bush.


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