Namibian Bank Holi-YAY And A Flat Battery

January 26, 2022 Posted in Travel / The Honey Badger Diaries

You may well ask, “How the Dickens do you two do it?” We don’t know, and we do our best to avoid misadventures. But, as I remind Butch, nobody is interested in a boring story, and everyone loves a liberal sprinkling of drama and tension.

Our excitement intensified as we navigated “real” dirt roads, and the sign clearly read 130 km to Gobabis. Before setting out, make sure your vehicle is well maintained, carry spare tyres, and know how to reduce tyre pressure for dirt roads. These precautions help prevent mishaps and keep our trip smooth and enjoyable.

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Namibia is a major red meat producer, and cattle husbandry is widespread among the local population and the elite. Cattle symbolise wealth and are regarded as a means of saving. At the same time, cattle can plough fields, pull sledges, and supply milk and meat for home consumption or the open market. Cattle also fulfil essential social functions; they are necessary for lobola (bridewealth payments) and are often used in cattle loans, with which wealthy herd owners furnish poorer relatives. This insight aims to inspire admiration and respect for local traditions and the environment.

Tourists are encouraged to buy their supplies in Namibia rather than import them from South Africa, which makes perfect sense. Butch and I prefer to support local industries whenever possible, and I avoid the “Customs” sign at the border like the plague. As John said, “They’re like SARS. The less you have to offer, the fewer questions are asked.” Indeed.

Strict quarantine laws prohibit transporting uncooked meat from the north to the south. At the time of our trip, we were permitted 25 kg of meat (mutton, goat and beef) per person (aged 12 or over, limited to three people per vehicle) for our own consumption only; no permit was required.

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We set off to Spar to fill our basket with lovely fresh produce; Butch had the meat list. Although the store is very well stocked with all the usual products and surprisingly good speciality products, we found the butchery disappointing. Fortunately, I did manage to select a Gammon for Christmas.

As a seasoned shopper, I’ve learnt that it’s okay to ask for help. I raised my voice in the braai goods aisle and asked a local gentleman to recommend a good meat supplier in town. Not accustomed to women in red hats buttonholing him, he gripped his trolley and, after a moment’s hesitation, told me his preferred butcher was the “Groentemandjie” (Vegetable basket), a bright green building on Church Street. He warned that it was a bank holiday and that the farm stall might be closed. We found it using TripAdvisor.

At the fuel station, I dashed off to find a stash of Aweh! DATA to last us while we were bushwhacking. Butch filled up and did the tyre test, lowering our tyre pressure to suit the well-maintained dirt roads.

My search took longer than we’d planned, but I got 4 vouchers, which we thought would last for ages. We were ready to roll. I hauled myself into my seat and buckled up. The last stop would be for our meat supply, and we were running to schedule.

While shuffling to get comfortable, Butch turned the key in the ignition. Click. Again. Click. His top lip glistened. Click. Turning to me, he said, “It’s the @#$%ing battery; it’s dead.” Deader than a dodo. I shut up. This was not the time to comment.

Soon, we had all the fuel attendants lined up behind the truck. With the gear in second and his foot on the clutch, it was heave-ho; the enormous wheels inched forward enough to turn the engine over and fire it up. With a splutter, a cough and a hiccup, the engine fired up. There was no way to switch this engine off until we sorted the batteries.

But we still had shopping to do. Fortunately.

While Butch went off with our list to find the perfect steak and traditional boerewors, I diligently performed my role as a car guard. Without qualms, I people-watched. Colourfully dressed in their 19th-century gowns, Herero ladies in long, fully pleated dresses and hornlike headgear carried their shopping or held a child’s hand. Some cooled off under indigenous umbrella trees, where they met friends for a chat. The ice-cream vendor on his bicycle did a brisk trade on a hot day. The engine kept ticking over.

Butch came trotting across the street, hopped in, and, while manoeuvring us out of the parking space, said, “We must follow that bakkie. Tell me where he goes.”

By chance, Butch had stopped the owner’s husband (Danie du Plessis) at the meat counter and explained our predicament. In a small town, everyone is on first-name terms; Danie escorted us to his friend, the auto electrician, who carried out the diagnostics. The truck’s battery was dead.

While they fitted a new battery, the boys got to know each other, and it turned out that Danie had grown up in Robertson! Small world. Although the family makes pilgrimages to the Cape to see family and friends, he has no desire to relocate and loves Namibia. An hour later, we lumbered off.

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At five o’clock, we started looking for a wild campsite. We were nowhere near a campsite and had to sleep on the road. We spotted a kraal in the distance and decided to ask the farmer if we could camp on his property next to his home. Soon we spotted the sign OTJININGANDU FARMING – Paul Nependa Murangi. We turned in.

The farm manager let us park and set up camp for the night, assuring us that Mr Murangi would not mind. While the family readied themselves for the night, herding the cattle into the kraal and preparing fires for the evening meal, we stretched our legs. Later, we lit our fire, and at sunset we settled into our camp chairs, listening to the nightjars and the barn owl’s high-pitched, eerie screeching.

Later, Paul came over and introduced himself, telling us about his farm, the drought they’d experienced, and the anxiety he'd felt since his borehole pump had packed up and the cattle had been thirsty.

That explained the frantic mooing, bellowing, and grunting from the cattle as a large Brahman bull scratched the earth with his hooves, sending up a plume of red dust and groaning in frustration. On the stoep, a long-tailed, scrawny watchdog barked and growled to warn friend and foe.

A peaceful silence, broken only by crickets, cicadas and frogs, fell over the farm at nine o’clock as we all settled for the night.

Although there were no facilities, I can highly recommend this safe campsite for an overnighter. I have marked the site on the iOverlander app. GPS: S 21.22207, E 20.27600. We paid R150.00 pppn, although nothing was asked for or expected.

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The further we ventured into more remote parts along Namibia’s eastern border, the more interesting the landscape became. Travelling along the dirt roads, we encountered men on horseback, mule-drawn carts, herds of long-horned cattle, goats and the odd chicken crossing the road.

Villages became more rural, with small settlements of huts forming familial kraals with livestock enclosures. On small farms, they prepared the soil and planted in anticipation of the summer rains.

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I couldn’t resist the invitation from a young Khoisan guide to visit his village. This appears to be a community collaboration with the Government, in which impoverished San communities are encouraged to welcome tourists and offer guided tours. We were shown around the village and met the schoolteacher, her assistant and the toddlers. Although our guide tried to teach me to click my tongue, it wouldn’t cooperate. The soft, lyrical language, with its melodious clicks, proved too complex for my tongue.

These tribes remain hunter-gatherers and continue to practise traditional hunting, farming, and social customs. For example, spears are still forged in fire and beaten to a sharp point, and plant-based poisons are used. Medicinal and edible plants are foraged. These people truly walk gently on the earth.

A conundrum, for I understood the reasoning behind the initiative. Still, I saw the mortification and shame in the eyes of the proud elders subjected to this humiliation and invasion of their privacy. The abject poverty in which these small communities live seemed insurmountable, yet while I felt overwhelmed, they remained unbowed by their circumstances.

I include photographs because I promised to mention our visit and to show “the world” (die werêld) how extraordinary the Khoisan are through my lens. As I sit here contemplating these words, all I can think of is their smiles and the kindness and openness we were shown, yet the pain in the grandmama's eyes still haunts me.

Please click the link below to read about these remarkable people and the hardships they’ve endured. I can’t recall the exact fee, but it was about R100pp (we added a tip, of course). The bookkeeper dutifully issued a receipt, prepared in triplicate on carbon paper!

To educate foreigners and tourists about village life, farming methods, ancient traditions, and the hierarchies governing these villages, there are living museums where tourists and interested travellers can interact and experience village life first-hand.

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We were ecstatic when we arrived at the Khoudum gate. This was where the adventure began. Butch was eager to fly his Skydio 2 drone, and I can’t wait to share some footage.