When I left off I had just climbed into the back of a bakkie after the long drive to Owamboland from Swakop…
I spent the better part of the slip, slide and dip drive along the sand road trying to imagine which of these places shrouded in darkness would be my home for the next 4 days. When there were no farms on either side, I sat back enjoying the fantastic view of the stars afforded this far from “civilization.” No more than half of the plots we passed exuded any visible light. This set me to wondering how much electricity our hosts would have. Herman had assured us the place had running water and electricity, but didn’t elaborate much beyond that. (Another trait I was to experience for the entire weekend.)
Our first night in the village of Ontananga wasn’t overly exciting. Upon arrival, we passed through a typical Namibian fence. Its uprights were made from whatever big wooden pieces could be found with thin wire wrapped around each a time or two and stretched tight to hold the contraption up. Just inside the gate we passed another staple of these northern homesteads: a cattle and goat pen. Constructed similar to the fence, out of tree uprights, I wouldn’t have known what it was without asking.
To be honest, the house was more than I expected. Herman’s uncle lives and works in Swakopmund, and it would appear that the money he sends back home gives the family a better living than many in this area. We had to jump out of the bakkie before it was parked in the garage, which was a cinder block structure without a door. The big piece of corrugated steel leaned up against the outside turned out to be the door. Once we had unloaded our belongings, they clicked off the lights and dragged the makeshift door across the opening. The entire house area was surrounded by a block wall and this served to seal the complex off.
Once we stepped inside the mixture of old and new struck me. To my left and right sat old huts with mud brick walls and thatched roofs. Ahead of me stood the more modern house made of the same cinder block as the garage—it is in here that the family stays. Tall fences of dried mahango stalks separated each hut from the others and the main house as well.
To be honest, the house was more than I expected. Herman’s uncle lives and works in Swakopmund, and it would appear that the money he sends back home gives the family a better living than many in this area. We had to jump out of the bakkie before it was parked in the garage, which was a cinder block structure without a door. The big piece of corrugated steel leaned up against the outside turned out to be the door. Once we had unloaded our belongings, they clicked off the lights and dragged the makeshift door across the opening. The entire house area was surrounded by a block wall and this served to seal the complex off.
Once we stepped inside the mixture of old and new struck me. To my left and right sat old huts with mud brick walls and thatched roofs. Ahead of me stood the more modern house made of the same cinder block as the garage—it is in here that the family stays. Tall fences of dried mahango stalks separated each hut from the others and the main house as well.
Herman led us into the main living room to meet the remaining members of our host family. (For emphasis, I’d love to say this was done around a single candle on the coffee table, but that’s not the case. The house had plenty of electricity and even the TV that you find in many a Namibian house where you wouldn’t expect to see one.) Everyone seemed excited to have us as guests—even offering us some Fanta after our long trek. However the kicker is, at this point, none of them seem to speak English very well. The cousins range in age from around 12-24, and I assumed most of them should be able to understand me. My hypothesis started to fail quickly, though. After teaching English in foreign countries, I have developed a knack for recognizing the glazed look and head nod most people employ when they have no idea what you’re saying. I was seeing a lot of this—and wondering how weird the next 4 days were going to be. We muddled through the next 10-15 minutes of chit chat and were kindly shown to our rooms.
I had expected to be in a village-ish type of accommodation, but we were accorded guest bedrooms in a building connected to the garage. This free-standing structure was built only to house visitors—meaning that family members shared rooms inside while there were empty beds 20 meters away. Growing up in a spacious house in Idaho really made me question why that was, but not loud enough to have them send a random cousin my way. In the end, I did have to settle for sharing with Herman, but we’ve bunked together before on field trips so that was not a big deal. Casey’s situation was slightly more humorous. At first she was told one of the girls would be staying with her, which was funny considering there was only one bed. Then she had a mild struggle convincing the family that sleeping on her own wasn’t a problem. I was secretly hoping she had to share because seeing the look on her face the next morning after sharing a bed with a stranger would have been priceless. In the end, she got her own room and I was the one sharing a bed.
The next morning, I woke up early enough to have a few hours to hang around the farm before we ventured into town. We had a breakfast of toast and jam with the girl cousins since the boys had already taken off to let the livestock out to graze. The initial shyness of having a couple of foreigners around started to wear off a bit after spending some time with us, and our hosts started to be more chatty. I was relieved that we were going to be able to communicate without needing a translator. This shouldn’t have come as a surprise I guess, since when first meeting someone here they are often hesitant to speak English (which is usually at least their 3rd language). It’s probably a mixture of shyness and overcoming the accent barrier.
I had expected to be in a village-ish type of accommodation, but we were accorded guest bedrooms in a building connected to the garage. This free-standing structure was built only to house visitors—meaning that family members shared rooms inside while there were empty beds 20 meters away. Growing up in a spacious house in Idaho really made me question why that was, but not loud enough to have them send a random cousin my way. In the end, I did have to settle for sharing with Herman, but we’ve bunked together before on field trips so that was not a big deal. Casey’s situation was slightly more humorous. At first she was told one of the girls would be staying with her, which was funny considering there was only one bed. Then she had a mild struggle convincing the family that sleeping on her own wasn’t a problem. I was secretly hoping she had to share because seeing the look on her face the next morning after sharing a bed with a stranger would have been priceless. In the end, she got her own room and I was the one sharing a bed.
The next morning, I woke up early enough to have a few hours to hang around the farm before we ventured into town. We had a breakfast of toast and jam with the girl cousins since the boys had already taken off to let the livestock out to graze. The initial shyness of having a couple of foreigners around started to wear off a bit after spending some time with us, and our hosts started to be more chatty. I was relieved that we were going to be able to communicate without needing a translator. This shouldn’t have come as a surprise I guess, since when first meeting someone here they are often hesitant to speak English (which is usually at least their 3rd language). It’s probably a mixture of shyness and overcoming the accent barrier.
The rest of the morning was pretty relaxed. Once breakfast was finished we all went our separate ways, and I took the opportunity to wander around and check the place out in the morning sun. (Even in August, which is still winter time in Namibia, Owamboland is warm.) I checked out the different parts of the complex with one of the cousins, who explained that the huts were the traditional houses they stayed in up until they had enough money to build with blocks. I forget how long ago that was, but I think it was around the early 90s. A few of the huts were just thatched roofs on wooden uprights—living in one of those would have been an experience. Four wooden supports with a corrugated steel covering housed the traditional kitchen, which was a marvel of finding random objects and putting them to use: a couple old coke bottle crates and a small table held up the kitchen counter; some old car wheels sat very near the fire—presumably a place to set either pots or people; and what appeared to be an old spring from a car’s suspension stood alone, probable as lost as I am figuring out why it’s there. (In the picture a skinny chicken seems to be contemplating the same thing.)
As the morning started to warm up, I retreated to the shade of my room. We planned to spend the afternoon in the nearby town of Ondangwa and my skin needed some rest before hours of solar exposure. I wanted to lie down and listen to some quiet music, but the boys came back and one became really interested in my iPod. I showed him how it worked and let him select a few songs himself before he asked to take it back to the house for a listen. Not wanting to kill his fun (and trying to have few minutes alone to relax), I let him. After the third time he returned, having changed it miraculously to some artist not remotely to his taste and asking me to switch it back, I began to wonder how to take it back without being rude. In the end I couldn’t think of anything so I sent him on his merry way and contemplated following him to see what he was doing to my music player. I ended up settling for shutting my door and locking it. After all I was going to spend my first full day in the north and wanted to gear up.
P.S. I guess the block buildings didn't strike us too hard because I don't have many good pics of them. I'll add one or two when I do the wrap up and post more random pictures that I didn't have room for in the story blogs.
As the morning started to warm up, I retreated to the shade of my room. We planned to spend the afternoon in the nearby town of Ondangwa and my skin needed some rest before hours of solar exposure. I wanted to lie down and listen to some quiet music, but the boys came back and one became really interested in my iPod. I showed him how it worked and let him select a few songs himself before he asked to take it back to the house for a listen. Not wanting to kill his fun (and trying to have few minutes alone to relax), I let him. After the third time he returned, having changed it miraculously to some artist not remotely to his taste and asking me to switch it back, I began to wonder how to take it back without being rude. In the end I couldn’t think of anything so I sent him on his merry way and contemplated following him to see what he was doing to my music player. I ended up settling for shutting my door and locking it. After all I was going to spend my first full day in the north and wanted to gear up.
P.S. I guess the block buildings didn't strike us too hard because I don't have many good pics of them. I'll add one or two when I do the wrap up and post more random pictures that I didn't have room for in the story blogs.
