The Tribes of Opuwo

The next day we only had to stand on the side of the road for an hour before we got a lift. We were lucky, because the closer we got to Opuwo, the more empty the roads were. One of the only bits of traffic we passed was a mini bus that had smashed into a cow. I wanted to cry, the poor big thing lay there on her side obviously suffering. The front half of the bus was pancaked and everyone stood around looking quite stupefied. I wanted to get out and help the cow somehow (it isn’t unusual for me to be more worried about animals than humans) but our driver refused to stop. He said that sometimes it is a ploy to get cars to pull over so you can attack and rob them. I thought... how did he explain the battered cow getting in on that act?

But that accident was by far the most populated event on those desolate roads and I wasn’t too eager to join the pack of abandoned passengers waiting in the heat for the next generous ride.

Our driver’s name was Harald, he was from Norway and working in Northern Namibia on a ‘development project’ that he chose not to share the details of. But he was a useful resource of knowledge, he gave a good introduction to the tribes of the north that we were about to meet.

He explained to me the various tribes – the Herero, the Damara, the Kavango, the Themba and of course, the famous Himba.

He explained that the Himba have managed to hold onto their traditions because even the missionaries didn’t make it this far until the late 1960’s. Tar roads were only built in the north in the last decade and the only other interactions the tribes had were with Angolans who crossed to boarders to swap Himba cows for cases of beer. The Himbas have no real concept of money which makes them vulnerable to exploitation. On top of that, alcoholism had begun to run rampant amongst tribes, especially in Opuwo which is the town we were heading to, the last town this far north and the centre for all the various tribes.

He warned me that some traditions were positively remarkable – such as the women covering their bodies head to toe in a mix of animal fat, dung and clay, yet other traditions were not so positive, mainly wife beating and wife swapping (against a woman’s will – as a form of trade between men).

As we neared Opuwo I got a little hopeful - would I see one of these enigmatic tribe people? What would they look like? What would I say or do if I did see one?

The town snuck up on us…. And so did the sight of its people.

I didn’t spot one or two of these people… the entire town was teeming with them!

Chris and I became animated with excitement. Astounded and thrilled I wanted to leap out of the moving vehicle. On the one hand it was so surreal… the sort of images I had only seen on national geographic. On the other hand it was totally intimidating. And on the third hand (if I had three) I was simply blown away.

Of course there are a lot of people in Western clothes, particularly men, but the different tribal people were so fetching that they held my attention. The Hereros and the Himbas were easiest to spot - and yet so vastly different from each other.

Herero women wore brightly coloured Victorian-style dresses with a matching head piece in the shape of a bull’s horn.

The Himba women wore cow-skin skirts and were the same ochre colour as the dust under their feet. Their hair was dreaded but caked in clay and their bodies were adorned with extravagant heavy iron and leather jewellery.

Then there were the Themba women who wore cotton skirts and layers of jewellery around their waists, necks, ankles and arms, but theirs was made of brightly coloured beads.

Harald dropped us at the cheapest lodge in town which for a clay hut with nothing but two single beds and some torn up mosquito nets it was over-priced but we didn’t care at that stage, we wanted to hit the streets.

The town was bustling as it neared dusk. It was dirty and dusty and the edges of the road were lined with rubbish – mostly empty beer bottles. The brick houses that were actually shops or bars were old and run-down, and the make-shift tin shacks looked like they were only ever intended to be temporary.

But I loved it. I loved how gritty it was. I loved how raw the people were. I loved the energy. I LOVED that Africans did their business on the streets, not behind closed doors - it makes far more entertaining tourism.

Opuwo is quite small. It had a market place that had already closed up for the day, a bakery, a supermarket, a few banks and one café. It had plenty of bars though. And none of them seemed to be wanting for business.

We got stared at the whole time… of course! But we were staring back just as intensely. Many people came up to us, and spoke to us, but very few spoke English. It was hard to know at that stage if the greetings were friendly or hostile.

We stopped in front of a very large brick bar, full of people. Squatting against a wall was a group of a dozen Herero women, in their beautiful bright robes plonked down on the dusty ground in a pile of empty beer bottles. We watched in awe, as they passed around bottles of beer, belched and wiped the snot from their face with the sleave of their elegant satin robes. The sight was so contradictory it was exceptionally peculiar.

I suggested to Chris we have a beer at the bar. He hesitated, as I wanted to, but I forced myself forward. Every eye in the place followed us all the way to the bar and then all the way back out the door again to the outside where we perched on the step to devour our beer, and the best view in town.

Within seconds an old Herero woman in a bright yellow dress stumbled up to us and leant down to rest her elbows on my shoulders. In my ear she slurred something in words I didn’t understand. Her eyes couldn’t find a focus and she reeked of alcohol, but she was in a damn good mood and her toothless smile spread ear to ear.

She indicated that she wanted us to move over and she fell down between Chris and I.

Her head lolled from side to side and occasionally she stretched her arms out in front of her face and waved them around like she was dancing.

Shortly after we were surrounded by a swarm of drunken women. They all started running their fingers through my hair, poking at me and grabbing my beer to swig from it. It was hard to see who was playing with Chris, I was literally trapped in the circle of women. They all talked at once and then pulled me up and over to the dance floor.

I kind of awkwardly shuffled along with the girls and tried to imitate their dancing style. They stuck their bums out and shook it, while they held their elbows up and out to the side. It is a very bum-heavy dance that I was not used to and I felt a great sense of relief when Chris appeared at my side, shaking his arse to the beat. The girls loved it and I am believed their laughter was in good jest. The dance floor attracted a very entertained crowd.

Then this girl staggered up to me, she was so drunk I was impressed that she managed to stay reasonably vertical. She started grinding up against me, touching my breasts and my face and she wedged her thigh between my legs. I kept backing away until I hit the wall. I sent Chris ‘help me eyes’ but he shrugged in a ‘what the hell could I do’ kind of way.

I was too careful not to be rude. I didn’t yet know what was and wasn’t culturally appropriate, but I wanted her to back off.

Finally one of the girls that had pulled me to the dance floor marched over and pulled her off me. But that didn’t go down too well and a fight broke out.

The full-on drunk girl’s friend stomped over and started yelling and then four more girls appeared and the fight was on. Chris and I stood there helpless and dumbfounded. It would have helped if we knew what they were saying.

The girl who had first saved me grabbed me by the arm and yanked me out of there. Chris shuffled close behind. Her name was Elsie and her English was quite good. Her posse followed us to the next bar a few doors down.

It didn’t take long for the drunk girl to hunt us down again, this time she wrapped her arms around my neck and pressed her body against me “don’t you want me?” she slurred in my ear.

“What the hell was happening here?”

 I was so confused at that stage. If a girl did that to me in Sydney I would have had an inkling into what it was she wanted… but in the farthest reach of Northern Namibia could this girl actually be gay?... And open about it! Or was it simply a matter of confused cross-cultural communication and language barriers?

I wriggled free and told her she needed to go home and sleep. Chris just stood there and laughed as she tried to embrace me again.

Again Elsie came to my rescue and heaved her off me. This caused an even bigger fight. It was mostly verbal except for a few pushes and shoves.

Elsie and her friends won the fight again and the drunk girl and her friends sulked off. Mostly I was afraid that they all knew I was gay then, and afraid of any repercussions it could bring.

We all move on to the next bar and I bought Elsie and her friends a beer for saving me. They dragged me up to the dance floor again and yet again a crowd of gawkers gathered around. Chris and I must have been a sight though. The girls did their best to make my awkward body bounce around like theirs.

Another horribly trashed woman stormed up to Chris and demanded money. He said “no sorry” and she stepped over to me and in the same aggressive growl she demanded money. She poked a finger between my eyes and I stared back at her and said nothing. For a third time that night poor Elsie came to my rescue and for a third time that night she got into a fight doing so.

I was over it then, exhausted and overwhelmed. Elsie suggested we go to another bar, I suggested we went home.

As we left I saw the drunk girl number 1 watching me (the sleazy one) and I knew that leaving was the right decision.

We all headed out of there together and were walking down the street when Elsie yelled “police!” She grabbed Chris’ bottle of beer from his hands and hid it under her animal-fur mid-riff jacket.

The paddy wagon pulled up and three cops in camouflage crawled out. I couldn’t understand the words but it was plain to see that the cops were not happy with Elsie and her bottle of beer. She tried to object and all of her friends were protesting flustered. One of the cops walked around to the back of the car to open the wagon door. In Australia it is a fairly empty threat, but I could see the panic rise in the girls and I got fearful for them.

I stepped up and grabbed the beer from Elsie and emptied its contents out.

“It was my beer” I told the cops. “I am sorry I didn’t know the rules, she is my friend, she was just helping me… see no more beer, my mistake”

The main cop stared me down, he stared at the girls and back at the other cops. There was silence as we all waited with held breath. Finally they all got back in their car and drove off.

We kept on walking and I saw that Elsie was literally shaking, her teeth were even chattering. She didn’t even get slightly scared in the other three fights she faced that evening and I only just realised what a close call it had been. Perhaps in Opuwo the cops didn’t just parade around in pathetic attempts to look macho like they did in Australia, maybe in Namibia their threats were real.

Back in the silent hut I exhaled fully for the first time since getting dropped off in Opuwo. No more watchful eyes on me, no more dodging drunken bodies, no more people sticking their open palm out in my face demanding money… at least not for another 8 hours anyway.

That pile of beer was where the Herero women were sitting

two herero women

A himba family