Namibia Up Close and Slightly Personal

December 23, 2006

If you find yourself searching for a map when you hear of Namibia, you’re not alone. Tucked away on the lower southwest coast of Africa, between the Atlantic Ocean in the West, Angola in the North, South Africa to the south and Botswana to the East, Namibia is one of the most sparsely populated countries on the planet with a population of an estimated 1.87 million.

Achieving independence in March 1990 after 106 years of German colonialism, Namibia is a burgeoning democracy with a constitution structured similar to that of the United States. The President serves a five year term and Parliament is comprised of two houses, one elected directly by the people and the other indirectly by the country’s regional states.

Despite its democratic strides, the people of Namibia are still recovering from decades of apartheid. Segregation is still noticeable even to the casual visitor. Signs can be seen at restaurants, shopping malls and driving through neighborhoods. Before my arrival, I was unaware of the significant role apartheid played in the country, but as it turns out, black Namibians suffered much like those in South Africa, Namibia having formerly been run by a “governor” operating under the auspices of the South African government.

Architecturally, Windhoek, the capital of Namibia, reminds me of what downtown Stockton might have looked like in the late ‘60s, early ‘70s. Security in the capital is everywhere. When you park your car, there is a man with a semi-official looking blue vest that reads, “Crime Prevention”. These are the guys that watch your car while you’re parked at a meter to make sure no one breaks in. When you return to your car, you typically pay them a few Namibian dollars for their services. In the malls, security guards check your bags into and out of many stores. Private security in Windhoek is big business.

(Downtown Windhoek)

Many of the homes, including the pension at which I stayed, have electric wires on top of the cinder block walls surrounding their homes/compounds. There is usually a security gate to many stores on the street into which you must be buzzed to enter and exit, with merchandise far less expensive than that of Tiffanys.

My arrival a few days before Christmas lent itself to an entirely different holiday experience. Instead of “frightful weather” outside, it was 85 degrees and sunny. Santa Claus was a recluse and Jingle Bells and Rudolph were on strike. Still, with 90 percent of the population practicing some form of Christianity, Christmas is the biggest national holiday of the year. Shops close for several days and there is the usual hustle and bustle in the days preceding the actual holiday. However, unlike the last minute shopping that is available in the U.S., shops in Namibia close very early on the day before Christmas Eve. Moreover, most of the shopping for gifts is actually the purchase of new clothes for the kids as opposed to the toy component to Christmas in the U.S..

From my room at the pension, fan whirling above my head as the only cooling source from the hot dry desert wind, Christmas seemed out of place. Namibia is the most arid country in Southern Africa with a humidity of less than 10 percent during the winter months and 50-80 percent in the summer. Afternoon thunderstorms passed over each of my days in Windhoek, which made napping off my unusually heavy jet lag more palatable in my own mind.

Rich in resources, both above and below ground, Namibia is taking aggressive steps to preserve its natural resources. It was the first country in the world to include the protection of the environment in its constitution, providing that at least 10 percent of the country’s surface be set aside for conservation purposes. It is the world’s fifth largest diamond supplier and many other gemstones, most notably tourmalines.

Unfortunately, Namibia is one of the hardest hit countries for HIV/AIDS in Africa. Recent surveys show that 20-23% of pregnant women were found HIV positive. In some regions the rate of infection is as high as 45-46%. But as Namibia makes large strides to harness its resources, development of hospitals and purchase of modern medical equipment is made possible with a growing GDP, of which tourism has only 14%. Plans to cater the upscale safari tourist are well along as upscale lodges throughout the country charge tariffs of $350-$500 per night.

If you’re into self-drive safaris (Etosha Park) with the Big 5 (Lion, Rhino, Elephant, Cheetah and Leopard), beautiful sand dunes (more on them later) and a dry desert climate, then Namibia is a destination well worth the trip.

Ghost Plane to Namibia

More than 8 miles above the African continent at 564 miles per hour, I stretched my whole body across the middle row of aisle 30 of the Air Namibia airbus. From the passenger count on board, Namibia didn’t seem to be at the top of the list for Christmas hot spots. Non-smoking indicator lights in neat corn field like rows were the sole source of light for the cabin. I know because I seemed to be the only one who wasn’t fast asleep. It reminded me of sleepovers when I was a kid and found myself the last man (or boy) awake. I guess it’s good to know some things haven’t changed.

My trans-African flight was the second leg after my SFO-Frankfurt 11 hour Atlantic run. However, that flight bears special dispensation as the travel gods spoke to me through the loudspeaker during the boarding call. “Mr. Rajero please come to the ticket counter,” she ordered. Nevermind the gross mispronunciation of my name to which I have grown accustomed, on this occasion, I would easily forgive the messenger of the travel gods. “Here is your new boarding pass. You’ve been upgraded to business class,” she said handing me the ticket without looking up. Clearly this trip was ordained by forces even greater than the United ticket agents.

En route to Frankfurt, I relaxed into my seat and took a deep breath as I caught up with the present moment. Here I was again, leaving for my second globe trot in ten months. Leading up to the trip, I encountered some familiar voices such as the “Voice of Responsibility”, the “Voice of Reality”, the “Voice of Opportunity Cost” and my favorite, the “Voice of ‘what the heck are you doing?’” Despite the frequent haunting voice during my daily commute, before bed and at the gym, I ignored them all, choosing instead to roll the dice on the game of life.

Somewhere over the Atlantic I moved past my post takeoff anxiety and cracked a book given to me by a friend shortly before I left. The Art of Travel, by Alain de Botton, held some interesting insight to my personal quest with the following:

Journeys are the midwives of thought. Few places are more conducive to internal conversations than moving planes, ships or trains. There is almost a quaint correlation between what is before our eyes and the thoughts we are able to have in our heads: large thoughts at times requiring large views, and new thoughts, new places. Introspective reflections that might otherwise be liable to stall are helped along by the flow of the landscape. . . . Thinking improves when parts of the mind are given other tasks – charged with listening to music, for example, or following a line of trees. The music or view distracts for a time that nervous, censorious, practical part of the mind which is inclined to shut down when it notices something difficult emerging in consciousness, and which runs scared of memories, longings and introspective or original ideas, preferring instead the administrative and the impersonal. (Page 56)

“Couldn’t you just fly to LA and be done with it you ask?” Probably not because by the time I down my gingerale and honey roasted peanuts the plane is landing. “How about NY, could you fly there?” Not really because then I am thinking about all of the things I am going to do when I arrive, plus I speak the language and can easily navigate the city. For me, travel to completely unfamiliar and semi off the beaten path places is the greatest time for personal reflection. It’s a cross somewhere between a monk in a mountain retreat and a wanna be Indiana Jones.

De Botton goes onto write, “It is not necessarily at home that we best encounter our true selves. The furniture insists that we cannot change because it does not; the domestic setting keeps us tethered to the person we are in ordinary life, who may not be who we essentially are.”

I’m not sure my furniture has any say in whether I change or not (especially worrisome if you’ve seen my furniture), but I did notice greater personal creativity on my first trip. Plus, despite the allure of a beachside setting with crystal clear aqua blue water, I actually find the challenge of getting around in third world countries more mentally relaxing, otherwise I sit on the beach thinking about the things I should be doing at home.

There’s also the sense that the world is growing smaller with technology and each year it seems there are less truly native cultures and habitats to visit. I still want to see countries where McDonalds and Starbucks aren’t serving happy meals and tall, no whip, non fat, extra foamy decaf lattes.

Back in business class, I tried hard to take advantage of the larger lazy boy like seat by inserting ear plugs, applying eye shield and burying under the blanket. Like a kid wishing for Christmas in June, I waited for sleep to take me. Closing my eyes under the shield and lying still, I hoped my mind would take note and succumb to my wishes. Hours rolled by in the dark cabin as hope transformed to pleading, begging, anything that would get me closer to the prized REM stage. Alas, my first success (biz class upgrade) and failure on the trip would be within hours of my departure (call it “trip yin and yang”).

On the ground in Frankfurt, I had my first expected travel hurdle, find a place to crash during my twelve hour layover. Cruising the airport in a sleep deprived daze, I inquired about a day room at an information booth. A kind young woman with a thick german accent gave me precise directions on how to get to the hotel phones. I thanked her and proceeded in the first direction that she indicated. By the time I completed the first part of her directions (about 75 yards), I completely forgot everything else she had told me. I found another information booth and asked the gentleman behind the counter. He told me where to go, which sounded vaguely familiar. Following his directions, I got to the front of the terminal and was at a loss for what he had said to do next. I looked all over for any indication as to where to get hotel info, but to no avail.

I found yet another information booth and again made inquiry about a day room. The woman directed me downstairs as I stared blankly through her, again remembering that the first woman and the man from the two previous information booths had told me the same thing. Either thirty-something dementia or lack of sleep were taking their toll. Downstairs I found another woman behind a desk who said she could make reservations for me. It wasn’t the hotel phones I was told existed three times, but it would do the trick.

Ten minutes outside of the airport, I found a single room at the Hotel Post. I wouldn’t remember much about it, except for the fact that I was impressed that the hallways had energy efficient lighting that clicked on only when someone was in the hall. However, when I opened the door to my room, a gust of heat from the space shuttle’s booster rockets overcame me. Someone had left the booster rockets (read thermostat) on full blast. So much for energy efficiency.

Landing in Windhoek, the capital of Namibia, overcast skies with a warm 90 degrees greeted me walking down the stairs to the tarmac. Not only had I flown across the Atlantic and Africa, but also across the seasons. Summer was one day away.

Happy Holidays to all! I'll be camping in the Namib Desert this time, looking for three, or even one, wiseman. Todd