Visiting A Himba Cultural Village

I suggested visiting the Himba Cultural Village, and Butch agreed. He paid the R400, and we made the arrangements. We alerted the guide well in advance to prepare. We went for our bike ride. On the way back to Oppi Koppi, we popped in since it was on our way.

We arrived at the farm, exhausted and hot, and a group of small boys ran ahead to show us the way. Our bicycles were an oddity, and they eagerly inspected them from every angle, prodding the brakes, gears and tyres.

With some encouragement, Butch persuaded them to show us the way to the village where we were expected. Only one boy spoke English; he attended the local school and even translated for us. We thanked him but assured him the guide would be proficient in English. He folded his arms tightly across his chest, lowered his gaze, and said quite succinctly that the guide wasn’t there.

We were puzzled, looking at the blank adult faces around us and realising no one understood us. Then the penny dropped. He quickly sent one of his sidekicks to fetch the village guide, but he would gladly accompany us in the meantime.

Who could refuse such an offer? Not us. He valiantly tried to rouse the rest of the tribe, but they just stared at us. Unwelcome guests are a pain, and I felt like an unpleasant mother-in-law dropping in for an inspection.

People started dashing about, clearing, sweeping, and herding small children. They removed a few small solar panels from the roofs to stash away, and Butch noticed a large domestic solar panel being carried off and hidden under some brush. It was mayhem.

Butch and I stood around, feeling unwelcome, though the self-appointed guide, if truth be told, didn’t seem too popular himself, and encouraged us to look around as much as we liked. He showed us a lady busy preparing maize porridge, their staple diet. Only on rare festive occasions do they slaughter a goat or chicken.

Finally, as Butch was about to start herding me, hands flexed and head cocked toward the bikes, ready to guide me off, we spotted the guide coming up the path, and he’d arrived just in time.

He wore a Hawaiian shirt, denim shorts, trainers, and a Panama hat. He looked positively relaxed.

Noticing our discomfort, he quickly assured us we were most welcome, then had a quick word with the villagers, presumably to tell them we were there to look and learn and to make sure everything was spic-‘n-span. Codes for “get grandma’s unwanted gifts back on the mantelpiece!”

The Himba speak a dialect of the Herero language called Otjihimba. We were taught customary greetings, but the clicks and sounds were far too complex for me to remember. At the time, I did say Hallo and thank you.

I shall now recount, to the best of my ability, what he told us.

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The Himba tribe lived in northern Namibia, near the Angolan border. A severe drought forced them to migrate south a few years ago. As hunter-gatherers, they need a reliable water supply, abundant grazing, and enough food and game to hunt.

They found that the land they currently occupy met their needs. The owner, a farmer, has permitted them to live there if needed. During the drought, they lost many cattle; now the headman has only four. They have increased their goat herd to a sizable number.

Cattle are prized and reflect the community's well-being and wealth. When a man proposes to a girl, he customarily pays a bride price, lobola. The bride's father and the groom negotiate how many cattle he must pay. (It turns out that the fathers arrange marriages, and girls can be married off at the age of twelve.)

Because wealth is measured by the number of cattle a man owns, not by how much he pays in lobola to another man, men have found it acceptable to marry their cousins. This way, cattle remain within the family.

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The Himba are traditionalists, and their society is strongly patriarchal. Elders set the rules, and these become tradition. Young people are obedient but free to pursue their desires by leaving the tribe.

Traditions are strictly observed; for example, when a young girl starts menstruating, her body may never again touch water. They use a mixture of cow or goat milk butter and ground red ochre to protect and coat her skin, and they smoke-bathe her to cleanse her body and infuse her hair.

The Himba people live in one of Earth's most extreme environments, with a harsh desert climate and no access to potable water. However, their lack of bathing has not compromised their personal hygiene.

Her skin protects her from the elements and is the only garment she needs, apart from the leather coverings and adornments she wears. They grind stones daily to produce the red ochre used in various treatments.

Women braid their hair and cover it with red ochre-stained mud or clay and butter, then fashion strips that attach to the hair and touch them up periodically to neaten it or as it grows. 

To beautify herself, she fashions an attractive headdress, the Erembe, from leather, small buck horns, and feathers, which she may wear only after bearing her first child. Although the Himba do not accept modern conveniences or technology, women may buy highly sought-after hair extensions.

All Himba adults have one front tooth extracted. The headman does the honours by placing a small stone on the tooth and using a larger rock to knock it out quickly. They will use traditional herbs as a poultice to treat pain and infection.

A handful of fragrant indigenous herbs is placed in a pottery bowl, and a lump of hot coal is added to set it alight. The aromatic smoke infuses the hair. I couldn’t resist having my hair infused, which the young lady did for me while she enjoyed her daily cleansing smoke-bath ritual. A larger bowl with more herbs, such as the leaves and bark of the Commiphora tree, is used. She ties a scanty leather skirt/apron around her waist, which covers her as the smoke permeates her skin and purifies her body. The process takes ninety minutes and is repeated at night before bed.

We sat in her sparse hut while she performed this routine. To convince me this method protected her skin, she let me touch her arm, which was surprisingly soft, smooth, and fragrant. If I close my eyes now, I can still feel her skin like the silkiest satin.

Because the Himba are nomadic, they have very few personal possessions. The huts are rarely furnished. Men use a wooden stand to rest their heads while sleeping; women aren’t permitted to use it. Beautifying oneself with handmade jewellery in leather, wood or animal bone is very popular. They fashion metal beads into wide ankle "bracelets" to protect women's legs from snakes or scorpions.

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Smoke is central to many Himba rituals. Fire is a constant presence in their community, used for cooking during the day and at night to ward off animals such as hyenas. The small community gathers around it to eat, hold meetings, speak to the forefathers' spirits, and ward off mosquitoes, moths, and other pests.

“Holy fire/Supreme being (Mukuru)

The Himbas are animists, and their supreme being is called Mukuru. They communicate with their god through the holy fire. The smoke of the sacred fire rises towards heaven, allowing them to communicate with their ancestors, who are in direct contact with the Supreme Being. In every village, the holy fire smoulders; next to it, logs rest on a sacred stone to feed it when needed. Outsiders or those not invited into the village are not allowed to cross the holy line. The sacred line starts at the main entrance of the chief’s hut and runs straight, past the holy fire, to the opening of the cattle enclosure. “From Africa Geographic”

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The spirits of the forefathers speak and guide through smoke, which the headman can interpret and relay to the rest of the group.

Himba children stay with their mothers until the age of three. All group members collectively raise, nurture, and discipline children alongside their siblings. Although marriage is preferred, children are not considered illegitimate. A woman can be pregnant and have children before marriage and date someone from another clan or tribe. Marriages can be polygamous, but this can be expensive. They must pay lobola for every bride.

Boys become herders and hunters. Boys and girls participate in a rite of passage before they are allowed to marry, and both are circumcised before puberty.

Only one child in a family may receive an education, while the others are expected to help with daily chores. Once a child earns money, they are expected to support their elderly parents and family.

Children are not frowned upon for seeking an education outside the clan, but they must leave the group to pursue lives in a modern society such as ours.

Traditional herbal medicines are used, and older women assist mothers in labour. Some traditional midwives are also available to help. It is rare and almost unheard of for a Himba mother to be hospitalised during childbirth. If complications arise, these women have the knowledge to handle an emergency, as is tradition.

No one in the tribe contracted COVID-19.

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The rondavel, or cylindrical hut, is built from branches and mud. They plant branches in a trench, then fill the spaces between with mud that hardens over time. The mud floor is treated with a mud-and-dung mixture, which is smoothed over the surface. The funnel-shaped roof cools the space. A small hole at the top lets cool air circulate and smoke from the fire inside escape. The huts surround the central goat and cattle kraal (pen). Each wife has a separate hut.

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I had many questions about incest, education, healthcare, marriage, female circumcision, and modernity, but the standard answer was that their ways are traditional and that the elders have the knowledge to guide, instruct and teach. Hence, there is no need for modern practices.

We were told that no goats or cattle are sold, but kept for our own use. Each family receives a bag of maize meal four times a year as a government grant. To my mind, the trinkets sold and the tourists who visit the village can’t be the only sources of income.

Signs of modernity have crept into their society because they live near a town. I suspect some people have cell phones that need charging, hence the solar panels. On occasion, I saw Himba women in traditional attire in supermarkets or walking to the village, ostensibly to shop. The hair extensions… what can I say? A conundrum. I suspect a lot of cherry-picking. 

Interesting fact: Davidoff and his team worked with the Himba tribe in Namibia. In their language, there is no word for blue, and they don't clearly distinguish between green and blue.

Another fact or fallacy: The men of the Himba Tribe have several wives and, as a courtesy, will sometimes make one available to visiting guests so that she can provide sexual pleasure. The guest sleeps with the wife while the husband stays outside. (Google)

All I can say is that the feminist in me wasn't happy. Many unanswered questions keep popping up as I type this blog, and I'll probably never know the answers. If you have anything to add or to correct me, please leave a comment.

https://africageographic.com/stories/5-interesting-facts-about-the-himba/ 

While they showed us around the rest of the clan, they set out their trinkets and handmade crafts for us to admire, hoping we'd buy something. I bought a beaded bracelet. I'm sure the tour group would've supported the ladies' beautiful, skilfully made handiwork.

Freely translated from the Otjiherero language, the word Himba means 'beggar'. Why did they inherit this somewhat derogatory name? After the schism, many of those who remained roamed the vast Kaokoland in search of cattle and crops, asking fellow members of their own tribe or other tribes for help (Wikipedia)

Before setting off, numerous people and small boys waved us off and shouted, "Give me your bike!" 

The guide permitted us to take photographs and encouraged us to do so. When I told him I was going to write a story about our visit and that we'd use and display some photographs online, he beamed and said, "No problem!"

Last thought: Although I learnt a lot about the Himba and my awareness has since encouraged me to read and enquire further, I still feel something is missing. Isn't the perception of "the Cultural Village (not a living museum)" a misrepresentation of current living conditions?

Aren't visitors told what they want to hear, shaped by myths and stories? The lingering feeling I have is that we are both patronised and emotionally exploited. I'd rather be educated about what's happening now and how these ancient, nomadic First Nations people have adapted to and embraced the 21st century. The ancient and the new live side by side, complementing each other.