Oh, Sandy Africa!

Salvador is now far in the distance—though the image and stink of piss-stained streets still linger in my mind and nose—as we pass on to Africa; first stop: Namibia.

No one expected much from this obscure place, more town than country, whose whole is blown over with sand that detains the country's development, or so we thought. And as it is all desert, and it is Africa, we all assumed that winter would never drop below 70 degrees. We also envisioned it to be devoid of human life, because of all the sand, and because it is the second least densely populated country in the world (after Mongolia, which I've seen pictures of because of my father who has been there, and though I do remember there being plenty of people around in the background of those photos, I still imagined Namibia to be more deserted). We were also hoping that Namibia would fill that empty space with wild animals, like tigers, or camels, and maybe bears, though bears were unlikely. Namibia was also rumored to have very low crime, due to the lack of people, and (I hoped), because the wild animals overrunning the country cannot be charged for misconduct, considering they adhere to a separate set of rules.

But even the most ignorant and gullible of us were suspicious of any such country existing, as we would have heard about this magical place in a more striking way—like Atlantis, the Amazon, or Nimh, or on the cover of National Geographic, in Hollywood movies, from Darwin himself. But it was Semester at Sea that introduced us to this anonymous African country which, sorry, we know nothing about, and where none of us (if I may say so) extensive travelers, who have the earth's geography carved into the back of our hands, have ever been—Good luck.

What we did know for sure from riding into the country on the boat was that Namibia was (so fucking!) cold (though we failed to connect our boat-findings to our predicted on-land temperature of Namibia which, we still guessed, would be high 70s), its waves were rough and did not practice the same softness and sympathy as Salvador's had, and it is the home of one very hot Victoria's Secret Pink model, or so they told us in a pre-port presentation in hopes that we would recognize Namibia as an active country in the world. This factoid may have sold a good percentage of the Pink-wearing females and model-loving males, but oh, apparently 20% of Namibians have AIDS—we learned that, too—and we were again scared back into ignorance.

A reflection from the fourth day (today): the urine smell that pervaded Salvador was present in a similarly acrid fish odor that slaps us as we step off the boat, but disappears as we walk a mile inland to the port gate at which point any smells are slashed by sand that rides the wind into our eyes, down our shirts, in our shoes. The part about Namibia being covered in sand is mostly true. Trains run through the area between our ship and the gate, though there is nothing to warn us of their arrival but their trudging toward us in our periphery; and the only one I've seen pass, oddly enough, stopped before crossing completely to go back the way it came and then disappear.

Beyond the port are surprisingly modern buildings—not modern, per se, just more modern than expected—organized in easy-to-navigate blocks, between streets so empty two cars would never run into each other. The drivers seem to have some reservations about co-existing with pedestrians, however; drivers, like animals, seem to work under a different set of rules which permit the hitting, running into, running over, or other maiming of pedestrians, and as it happens, pedestrians are also with the lofty understanding that their crossing is always appropriate. Red or green, car or not, they walk; this is especially true for Americans, and it is sure to end poorly for someone at some point in the future.

On Friday, few people roamed the town, and those who did warned us to hold our bags tightly to protect ourselves from those dark guys on the corner. The few times we trusted locals to show us around, another would grab us away and say, No! Don't trust that man, follow me! So much for low crime.

On Saturday and Sunday, the streets were empty. As it turns out, shops and restaurants shut down for the weekend, save for one or two in each city that my friends and I sought out, and those were filled not by locals, (and, sadly, not by tigers and bears, either) but by other Semester at Sea students.

A brief rundown of Saturday and Sunday: Saturday morning, Drew, Kristin, Chris (a small and spunky New Yorker who has, more or less, become our third roommate), Jen, Scott (already introduced) and I headed out to go kayaking, though we didn't know where to go, when to go, and neither did the cab driver. We told him to go to the lagoon and he complied, and when we got there we spotted windsurfers, dolphins, and a woody inn with tourist information; unfortunately, we could not go that day. As we'd heard of many others going to Swakopmünd, a coastal town "more German than Germany," we asked the cabbie to take us there as well, and he did, though for a much higher price than we should have paid.

Sidenote: Money is rather complicated here, considering how I am being ripped off in Namibia while I simultaneously make a killing in USD. (ex: average cab fare, according to SAS student, from Walvis Bay (where our boat is) to Swakopmünd is 20 NADs (Namibian dollars; 20 NADs = $2.48) whereas we paid 80 NADs ($9.92). For 30 km, 80 doesn't seem so bad, though it is significantly more than the average Namibian, and I suppose there is no problem with supporting Africa by letting it rip us off, right?)

Being ripped off didn't stain our ride, however, which was stunning. At points we were surrounded by sand, its surface blown by the wind to look like stretch marks running through the dunes, then we spotted the coast (pictured above)—Skeleton Coast, to be exact—on the edge of all that sand, the water rolling and glittering, unspoiled by people. As the water sunk below the line of the dunes,
houses appeared in the sand which reminded me of the Japanese concentration camps in California, those thin-walled houses made out of stables always at the mercy of nature and the camp leaders. They were boxes placed in long rows, oddly colored and stagnant. A group of dark boys played soccer outside. A few miles down, after the line of weak pastel houses finally cut off, the water became visible again, and in front of it were a number of houses, all boxes, but not like those from before. These were painted the color of sand and covered with windows like barnacles cake to rocks. They all sat skewed 15 degrees south, each facade identical to the next—same windows, garage, front door, balcony. Coming into the city of Swakopmünd some time later, more identical houses; this time, they were organized more as military housing, but strangely German. Clumped together, they looked like a Christmas tree farm with their acute triangle tops and matching blue trunks.

Being Saturday, the entire city was more or less closed to us, and so we paid 80 NADs to eat hamburgers at an Applebees-level restaurant, get threatened by a camel-colored man with a lazy lip at an outdoor market when I wouldn't buy his carved nuts, and take a brief walk on the beach that may or may not have been littered with AIDS needles as it was with abalone shells. We will be going back there today, after Kristin returns home from her airplane ride around the city, in hopes that the town won't let us down on a weekday.

Sunday was probably my most Namibian day, meaning the things I did and saw could be found nowhere but Namibia. That is not say it was an all positive experience, but it's something to write home about, at least.

In the 40 degree morning, Kristin and I dragged ourselves onto a bus which brought us to a speedboat for our little anticipated Seal and Dolphin Tour. We were tired, cold, hungry, and very grumpy, idly watching a group of six Namibian dancers in bright yellow singing and stamping their feet until we could get on the boat. We were immediately introduced to the pelicans with their heavy rubber beaks and beady cormorant eyes as the guide tossed fish to them. Five minutes in, our guide hollered wildly and a seal jumped onto the boat, over everyone's lap, then leapt onto the floor. Like a puppy, the seal lay by his master awaiting his treat, and we pet him. That seal—whose name has escaped me—stayed with us for another five minutes then slid himself back into the water, making room for another seal—this one much smaller—to come waddling on. This one was uncoordinated and sloppy, dragging water onto the laps of the passengers, bumping into the seats, and tumbling onto the floor when he jumped. Needless to say, he was much more endearing, but he, too, had to say goodbye. From that point on, no one was excited by spotting seals in the water; our new target was dolphins. The dolphins were spotted, receiving some oohs and ahs, and in the midst of them, a whale emerged from the water, its mighty back rising as a mountain climbs in the background, and from it the whale blew water like a rocket and dropped back down again. This happened a few more times before we had to start heading back to the dock, and everyone was happy. We took a different route back and passed a seal colony, absolutely packed with black seals fighting, swimming, playing, doin' their thang. Nearing the dock, the most obese seal to ever live hitched a ride with us, flopping onto the boat, his blubber spreading across the floor as he crept heavily around (think Jabba the Hut). After sitting on everyone's feet, the seal was pushed back into the water and shook the earth as he hit the water.

Following the tour and a five hour nap, a group of us departed the ship to find a restaurant, any restaurant that was open. Our taxi driver spoke little English and had just as little knowledge about the town itself, so he darted from street to street, backing up, turning around—thank god the streets were empty—until we eventually found a place to eat. Crazy Mama's was the name, and its specialty was pizza and wine. After waiting forty minutes for a table, as this was the only restaurant open, we were seated, ordered immediately, and received our food a full hour and a half later. This gave us more time to drink wine, which we did, (the cheapest on the menu), and by the end of the meal, Kristin, Julie, Emma (Julie's roommate who I don't know terribly well), Hillary (a girl I met at the circus, a tall skinny one with short short blonde hair), and Anna (was her name Anna?) were so exhausted that while everyone else continued on to a bar/club (was not yet determined which), we went home.

Or we at least tried to; outside, a taxi cab and its driver waited, asleep. We banged on the window until the driver was startled awake and asked him to take us to the port, "to the big ship, please," we said. He nodded slowly and said, "sure, sure," and we asked, "do you know where that is?" and he said, "sure, sure," so we told him "5 NADs each, that's 30 total," and his nodded and said, "okay," and we got in. It was immediately evident that he did not know where he was going, then we grew suspicious by his fluent accord with us, accepting 5 dollars while most drivers won't settle for less than 10, and by saying nothing more than "sure" in response to our questions, as most drivers either admit they're unsure or will assure us that they will deliver us to the port safely. So this man is driving, he is slithering down the roads as if the tires are bald, and he is driving in the wrong direction. We redirect him but he doesn't understand English, and he doesn't understand pointing, and eventually we end up in a sandy parking lot, without lights, without people, and he stops.

We are all quiet, including the driver who has taken his hands off the steering wheel and is staring blankly through the window, when another car pulls up to ours so that it is staring the cab in the face and its lights are bright and blaring. Men file out of the car and confidently approach the cab driver and we are all thinking drug trade? money scandal? knife fight? then there's a knock on the window and the driver hastily rolls it down. "You're overfull," the man says, and the driver replies, "what?" so the man repeats, "you're overfull, you're overfull," then seems to say it in Afrikaans, because the driver finally understands and provides a lengthier reply in Afrikaans. The man tells us to all get out of the car, so despite it being 40 degrees, we comply and stand shivering outside.

As is probably clear by this point, the men who met us in the parking lot were cops, (which was a surprise, considering we had never seen cops there before) and they confronted the cab to arrest the driver who was, as it turned out, without a driver's license, and severely inebriated, so said the cops. One cop played with his handcuffs as he put the driver in the back of his car (without handcuffing him). Another cop (in another car) let us girls wait in his car while two more cops took over the cab, and we all drove to the police station together. There, the driver of our car settled things inside as the other cops stood idly on the sidewalk smoking, listening to music, and flirting—or so it appeared—with one girl who had decided it would be a good idea to bear the cold and smoke outside with Namibian cops. I shivered in the car watching them all as the girls in my car filled my head with distressing theories: what kind of cops would smoke and listen to music while arresting someone? why do they all look sixteen? why aren't they in uniform? I resolved that the rules were simply not the same here, that sixteen year olds may take care of business better than thirty year olds, that a high stress job demands frequent smoking—as is also the case in the states, as I've seen—and two of the cops were off duty, which allowed them to go out without uniform. Simple.

Half an hour or more later, the badass cop returned to our car to drive us home. We followed a truck which belonged to the station and as we drove, our cop, his window down, yelled to an off-duty cop in the back of the truck in Afrikaans. He then turned to us and asked if we wanted to go out on the town with them, as, apparently, the girl who'd been smoking with the cops raised that wonderful idea. We all immediately said no, take us home, and two minutes later, we were safely outside of the ship. After taking a photo with the nice policemen, the fish smell chased us up the stairs to the gangway and we sped to our rooms to be warm and sleep. This ship is finally feeling like home.

Today I woke up early and ate breakfast for the first time in days. In an hour, I will be off to Swakopmünd for more adventures, assuming my cab driver is licensed and the city is open, and hopefully I'll get around to supplementing these colorless blog entries with photos.