A reality check in a dream

 

Fairly late the next afternoon, Chris and I were bouncing around on the back of a beat-up old Ute (Colin our guide was in the passenger seat in the cabin). A group of men had to push the stalling vehicle until finally it farted into action and we rattled along a dirt track heading into the Namibian scrubland, heading deep into the big blank patch on our map. Both of us were in jeans and t-shirts, our faces pink and raw from the unyielding sun, goofy grins from ear to ear, we could taste the promise of something awesome to come. We were both standing up holding on to the flimsy sides; I think we were too excited to sit.

The all-Himba passengers (except for the skeletal goat) were staring us down, but Chris barely seemed to notice. I tried to smile at them, I tried to show my’ friendly foreigner’ face but it was received with stone-cold stares. I gave up on the locals and absorbed the surroundings instead. Herds of cows were led past us, beaten on the back by the young boys driving them. We hadn’t seen any villages yet but random groups of Himba people scattered the sides of the dirt path waiting for rides in to town.

My trance on the world going by was cut short when I felt this warm tickle on my bare toes. The goat was peeing on me. The Himba passengers nudged each other and giggled. My eyes met those of the goat and I couldn’t be angry, it was so scraggy and malnourished, and looked like it had copped its fair share of beatings in its life time. I tried to wriggle my toes out of the way, gently as though I didn’t want to hurt its feelings. I owe that goat a favour, the warmth of its wee had melted the ice amongst the passengers and the women in the Ute started to talk to me. They didn’t speak a word of English but tried to teach me some of their language. “Omudwandu” they rubbed their skin, “omuyapa: they touched mine. When we passed a cow or another car they would say a word and I would dutifully repeat it back to them. And then one of the men stood up beside me and sang to me. The women chuckled and I blushed.

The car was spitting up billows of dust which seemed to make the sunset a deeper scarlet colour. Chris was holding on to the cabin and facing the setting sun he faded in to a silhouette, around him the first stars began to glitter. In amongst cleared scrubs sat little villages of half a dozen or so little stick huts, a camp fire and Himba people going about their lives. One by one the others jumped off at their little villages and waved us goodbye, until it was just Chris and I, anxious to reach our destination.

When we finally spluttered to a halt the sun had well and truly set. Jeckey’s uncle, the driver of the Ute, led Chris, Colin and I to a little hut set apart from the rest of the village. This hut seemed bigger than the others, it could easily fit five adults lying side-by-side, it was raised off the ground on wooden stilts made of tree branches, the walls were made of mud clay, the roof was corrugated iron and inside it was bare except for a blanket on the floor. This would be where we slept.

We were instructed to leave our bags in the hut and the uncle led us to three women who were perched on the ground in the centre of the other huts.

‘What do you want to ask us?’

Colin interpreted, in very broken English, what the women said. They sat in bored silence waiting for us to throw a barrage of questions at them. It was all a bit awkward, set up like an interview. Neither Chris nor I had any real questions for them. We were there to just be silent observers or friendly guests. We weren’t anthropologists or politicians, but I got the feeling that those sorts of white intruders were what they were used to. The women kept waiting for us to ask questions. I had none. Chris was better than I was at easing the awkwardness and asking the usual sorts of questions: What do you eat? What do you believe in? Why do you cover your bodies in clay? Despite the awkward atmosphere it was peaceful out there. Quiet. A soft blue light made everything clear, cast from a nearly full moon.

Finally, the women gave us permission to leave and we went back to our hut. We weren’t even offered water, and I was worried we were meant to bring our own.

In the hut Colin, Chris and I made sandwiches from the supplies we had brought with us. Colin gave us the answers to the questions I wouldn’t have dared ask the women. ‘Wife sharing’ what I call ‘trading in women’ is common practice. When a baby is born it doesn’t matter who the biological father is, the husband must take responsibility for it. He then tells us that wearing condoms is common practice – which I do not believe at all. And he contradicts himself by saying that men will never perform oral sex on a woman because a man’s semen stays inside her and you don’t want another man’s in your mouth. He talked a lot about sex, and very graphically.

Sick of the way he was talking about sex and horrified at the way women are regarded I changed the topic, “The women kept telling us how poor they are… yet they own hundreds of cows” I asked him what a single cow would sell for. N$5000 – N$7000 he tells us. “Per cow!” I am shocked! They are really sitting on that much money? I try to tell him that all of my money and possessions combined equal 2 cows. He did not believe me. “Honest!” I protested.

As soon as Chris left the hut to pee, Colin asked me to write down my contact details in Australia: “then through the bank you can transfer money to me”.

The next morning we woke up with the sun, Chris had barely slept anyway, the cold stone floor hurting his back. I am lucky enough to be able to sleep anywhere, anytime, probably the reason I can travel so much.

We left the hut to explore the surroundings. Already the villagers were awake, inside a large wooden pen milking the cows. We stood watching long enough for one woman to invite me in and she showed me how to milk a cow. I crouched down beside her and gave it a go… nothing came out, not a single drop. She laughed and showed me how to do it again. Chris, another woman and some children stood beside me watching. I tried again, and still no milk came out. How hard could it be to milk a damn cow? Pretty hard is seems.

Colin came to take us away from the women and the cows and over to the uncle, it was time to present him with the gifts that we brought. He sat on a directors chair drinking beer, even though it was only 7am. We handed him the bag of oranges, 10 kilos of maize, drum of oil, box of tea and two kilos of sugar. We had also brought sweets for the kids, which neither Chris nor I wanted to do, but Colin had insisted we should. The kids that had taken to following us around all politely waited while Chris handed them all two sweets each.

The uncle did not look happy with our gifts. “Where is the tobacco?” he asked Colin to ask us. We hadn’t gotten any tobacco. A very young child, of maybe two or three was leaning between his knees and he gave the child the beer in his hand and shooed him away. The child happily held the 700ml bottle of beer that was half of the size of him and guzzled its contents. Chris and I flashed each other looks of disapproval but said nothing. Then the uncle opened the bag of sugar and filled the children’s cupped hands with it. The children shovelled the handfuls of white sugar into their mouths, and again Chris and I shared looks of reproach.

The women brought over bowls of sour milk for us. I gagged as soon as I saw it. I thought ‘no way can I drink that’. Chris went first. When he took a sip there were curdled chunks of milk on his lips and I had to get up and walk away, my eyes were watering and I honestly thought I was going to puke. But I had to have a sip next. I stared into the bowl, the water had separated from the solids and it smelt just like off- milk. I tried not to breathe in the smell as I took the smallest of sips and swallowed it quickly, hoping it would slide straight past my taste buds. I passed the bowl on and listened to my stomach turn. To my disgust, Chris actually had another sip.

The uncle swigged from his hipflask and told Colin that if we wanted to stay another night we would have to go back into town and buy more gifts for them. I was pissed off, we weren’t even offered water and he expected more gifts.

One woman took us in to her hut and showed us the cow skin she sleeps on. Her spare head pieces and steel jewellery hung from the walls around us. On the floor was tubs of the animal fat and clay that the women smear all over their bodies. She scooped a dollop and rubbed it on my arm and leg. She asked to see my tattoos, and was shocked by the ones on my back and asked me if it bleeds. She told me they are beautiful. A crowd of children were cramming in the door way of her hut, passing around the bag of sugar we brought and scoffing it by the handful until the bag was empty and they tossed it behind them onto the ground.

She pointed to the cow-skin on the floor and told us that she needed a mattress and blankets and would Chris and I buy them for her. We said no. She thrusted jewellery in my face and told me to buy it. I shook my head no. Then she asked me to giver her some medicine to make her pregnant. I told her that no such medicine exists. She didn’t believe me and asked me again to give her pills that will make her fall pregnant. Again I told her that no such pill exists. And she glared at me angry.

Chris, Colin and I went for a walk to the neighbouring village. We stopped to watch a woman making butter, she even said we could take a photo and didn’t want money for it.  We passed a young girl who was shaking large flasks of milk in the sun. This is how they get soured milk. In Australia it is just off milk and I couldn’t understand why they don’t just drink it fresh. Colin sleazed on to the girl, and later told us that he had been trying for months to get her into bed.

We got back to the village from our walk at only about 10am and from a distance I could see that the uncle was mad. He wanted to be in town hours ago, he yelled to Colin who translated to us. I assumed his hipflask was empty and it was past beer o-clock. He never told us he wanted to leave early, we assumed we would at least have gotten a full day there, though to be honest I was ready to leave, they had made it perfectly clear that we were not welcome unless we were giving them tobacco, mattresses or magic pills.

Standing up on the tray of the Ute heading back into town I had a rare “wow I am in Africa” moment. Those moments didn’t happen enough. Usually I am so caught up in my own head and thoughts that I am never truly present in the moment. But standing on the back of that Ute, with the already scolding sun burning the back of my neck, I watched women walking the side of the road with buckets on their heads, we passed donkeys herded by young semi-naked boys and some totally traditional Himba women were sitting at my feet and I thought with elation “this is Africa”.