Oh but
don’t fret, after World War I the Germans lost Namibia…..to South
Africa. For the next 75 years (give or take) Namibia was merely an
extension of South Africa and was bequeathed all the benefits of
apartheid. They did eventually gain their freedom on March 21, 1990
although in many ways Namibia is still highly dependent on South
Africa economically. For example, the Namibia Dollar is pegged to the
South African Rand.
Wonder
why Namibia has such vast swaths of nothingness? It is a country
roughly half the size of Alaska with a population of 2.1 million.
Density wise it is second only to Mongolia. As some of the pics on my
blog indicate outside the metropolitan areas there ain’t a whole
lot of folks. If you are ever feeling like you need an escape from
humanity Namibia is the place. It is perfect for those wishing to
unleash their inner Ted
Kaczynski.
To be
honest Swakop did not really tickle my fancy. It is the most heavily
touristed area in Namibia and it does not take a psyche major to
understand my aversion to such an atmosphere. Sure, it is the
adventure capital of Namibia but I believe that title is becoming
more dubious by the year….and expensive.
So
we departed Swakop in the morning under a cloudy sky and a light
drizzle. As we drove out of town we were forced to slow our pace in
order to avoid mowing down marathon runners. I suppose if you are
going to run a marathon in the desert a cool rainy day is bliss.
The race was
sponsored by a uranium mine (Rossing, i.e. Rio Tinto). Why does that
just feel wrong to me? Dunno.
We
went north along the coast and, I gotta tell ya, there was a whole
lot of desolate forlornness about the place. Suuuurprise. The beach
vista would fit nicely in the pages of Cormac McCarthy’s The
Road (The
final scenes were actually shot on the coast of Lake Erie).
As if to emphasize the mood you will find the decaying remains of
dilapidated vessel decorating the set. If you want to pretend it is
one year after Armageddon I can suggest a backdrop for your dark
fantasy.
We
toyed with the idea of exploring the Skeleton
Coast farther north but neglected to do so for four reasons.
Firstly, we read conflicting reports about the necessity of a permit.
Second, it appears there was insufficient lodging. Third, the locals
we mentioned the idea to responded with, “Why would you want to do
that?”. And last but not least it was reportedly not Spark-friendly
terrain. I have the distinct feeling we missed something remarkable.
So
at Henties
Bay our compass turned inland to the northeast
toward Damaraland.
There are rumored to be wild elephants roaming the landscape but we
were not fortunate enough to cross their path. Shucks.
On
to the White
Lady of Brandberg. The ‘White Lady’ refers to a figure in a
rock painting on an overhang inside Brandberg Mountain. There is
controversy over the origins of its creators. Originally thought to
be of Phoenician authorship (as in Mediterranean) it is now generally
agreed to be the work of local bushman (i.e. San) that are thought to
have populated the region. In fact it is probably not a lady at all
but a San boy covered in white clay as part of an initiation
ceremony. We never saw it. Upon reaching the entrance we concluded
that it was probably not worth the 45 minute walk to the cave under
the midday sun. Instead we ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and
stared at a lizard.
Equally
unsuccessful were our efforts to reach a rest camp in Twyfelfontein,
an area renowned for extensive rock art galleries and a certified
UNESCO site since 2007. After crossing one particularly iffy stretch
of wet sand we finally threw in the towel when Sparky balked at an
exceptionally ominous patch of sand and water. Foiled again. We had
made an attempt to abandon the Spark in Swakopmund (we never told him
of course) for the safety and confidence of a 4wd Toyota Hilux but
Avis pooped all over that notion. In addition to setting us back two
kidneys and a liver it would have fomented confusion on a biblical
scale (for Avis, not us).
On
our way out of Twyfelfontein we
did have the pleasure of stopping by the local
petrified forest near the city of Khorixas. As a child the term
‘petrified forest’ always conjured up visions of ominous looking
stone trees standing upright on piles of ash in a normal forest
configuration. In my world there may have been ogres and demons
populating the area as well. And although I enjoy visiting such
places I am still always a teensy-weensy disappointed by the reality.
However,
the reality is truly stupefying. When I consider the process by which
all the organic elements of a tree are replaced by minerals over time
(it can happen in less than 100 years) my mind becomes boggled. Some
of the trees we were looking at are not only hundreds of millions of
years old but also originated somewhere in present day
Congo-Brazzaville.
As
interesting as the forest was it turned out to be our female guide
that intrigued us the most. She introduced us to her native language
which is nothing but a series of clicks. Sadly, I cannot remember her
exact ethnicity (Damara? Nama? Herero?). Her demonstration was
fascinating. I believe she said her language was a set of four clicks
but that other tribes had their own languages that had seven or
eleven clicks. And the best part is that apparently they cannot
necessarily understand each other. Nutty.
The
day turned into another driving marathon. We had not intended to
drive from Swakopmund to Etosha National Park but that was how it
played out. Due to the late hour we spent the first night outside the
park not far from the gate. We found a tented camp that was quaint
but a tad overpriced. (Surprise, surprise!) The owner was nice enough
although curiously (upon discovering our nationality) asked us if we
were hunters. Hunters? Huh? I guess a disproportionate amount of
Americans come to Namibia to kill shit on private reserves, at least
in his experience. That’s nice. When looking at Leslie and me one
might arrive at a variety of conclusions but hunters? WTF?
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'Love me or hate me, but spare me your indifference.' -- Libbie Fudim