As we headed off to the north of Namibia and the lands of the Himba, this is probably a good time to describe the experience of Namibian driving (and a lot of other under-developed African countries no doubt). The basic premise on these gravel, untarmacked roads is to hug the centre line (which usually has quite a camber built up of gravel and stones), maintain a steady 80km/h until you see the tell-tale plume of another vehicle coming in your direction. When that happens, a game of chicken ensues where both vehicles hug the centre bank until the last moment when someone veers to the left or right (depending on local preference for driving on left or right – Namibia like South Africa has the English habit of driving on the left...).

It's quite nerve-racking at first, but you get used to that and the resultant sliding into the ruts at the side of the road when you finally slew out of the way of the oncoming traffic. Of course, after the vehicle has passed, you then spend a couple of minutes in their dust-cloud where you can't really see very much anyway. Obviously, if there was another vehicle behind the first one this can make life very interesting!

After several hours of this dusty driving we found ourselves at Opuwo – one time administrative centre of Northern Namibia. It definitely had the look of an outpost and it was with some trepidation that I spotted a building clearly marked 'SWAPO'. I'm not sure whether it was a monument to the old SWAPO or an active recruitment office, but it definitely reinforced the fact that we were in lands that had known bitter fighting less than a decade ago. Our main task seemed to be to find Mandela – not THE Mandela, you understand, but A Mandela. In fact Nelson Mandela has had such an impact in sub-Saharan Africa that generally any bright enterprising young black man seems to adopt the name. After a few circuits of the town and a brief conversation with a Herero woman – Elizabeth – who we bought some trinkets from, we finally found OUR Mandela. Somewhat disappointingly, he was wearing a Kangol fishing hat, a spotless Nike white polo shirt and jeans and white Puma trainers. The rest of Opuwo were either brightly clad Herero or the first glimpse I'd had of the ochre-smeared Himba. Hell, even the few whites I'd seen were in standard issue khaki shirts, shorts and desert boots!

Anyway Mandela, or Wohongora in his native tongue, turned out to be an excellent guide and a pretty jovial chap. He told us that he was going to take us to his tribal village – he himself lived in a more westernised condominium, but his family and elders were in the village on the outskirts of town. Bru had already told us that Mandela was the most reliable guide in Opuwo and had excellent relations with his tribe, as well as very good English.

We followed Mandela with Bru, and after some brief financial transactions we understood that for 50 Namibian dollars each (about five pounds at the time) we could take unlimited photographs of the Himba performing their ceremonies. The ceremony seemed to consist of a young woman, a sort of priestess, who danced in a kind of trance in the middle of a circle of her fellow Himba while they chanted and clapped. We approached and Mandela invited us to join the circle. The circle was mostly women but a few men were there – dressed either in Western attire, or in kilts, while the women were in their traditional garb of cowhides, beads, smeared ochre and other odds and ends. The smell of the ochre and rancid animal fat was quite over-powering but the whole scene was transfixing. Mandela joined the dance in the middle and appeared to do a stint of impersonating a chicken flapping, before being replaced by one of the Elders. Myself, Lisa and Tina had been snapping away all this time – occasionally getting disapproving glances, mainly from the priestess, when Mandela invited me to do the dance. I didn't really know what to do but thought it would probably be an offence to the Himba not to dance so, talentless white boy dancer that I am, I was ushered into the centre of the circle and did my best to mimic Mandela's 'chicken dance'. It was actually pretty exhausting in the heat and I quickly excused myself but received smiles and cheers for having got into the spirit of the thing! In fact, only afterwards did I learn that the 'spirit of the dance' was a bit closer to the actual event than I had thought.

It indeed transpired that this was not a celebratory dance as I had thought but actually a funeral! As a participant in the dance I was then offered some of the funeral wake meat – a dead ox lay hacked in the grass with large lumps of meat bubbling in a cauldron of water. This time, at the risk of giving offence, I declined, saying that I was not hungry and only needed water – the flies sitting on the carcass and the guts hanging out rather put me off! Bru laughed and it was at this moment that a rather drunk man, in western clothes, ran in and grabbed a leg of the ox and ran off. He was pursued and brought down by a mixed group of men and women, but no-one seemed very bothered when he dropped the haunch and sped off into the veldt. Only later did I realise he might have actually been shot had the Chief's son been nearer the impromptu barbecue!

After the excitement had died down we got back in the Land Cruiser and headed to the village to erect our tents and set up camp and start the fire for a braai (South African barbecue). Sure enough, within minutes of cooking in the corral, we were approached by some cute Himba kids who ran amok and generally got a lot of photos taken of them! As the sun went down, the Chief and the Chief's son (in Western clothes) came over and Bru presented them with some gifts – flour and other sundry food items such as rice and dried goods. They seemed in fine fettle and we honoured them by offering them beers and some of the braai – which, unlike me earlier, they accepted with gusto. Soon we were conversing, using Wohongora as our translator and everyone seemed to be having a good time. Bru was impressed at how courteous we were to the Chief and said that sometimes, especially our transatlantic cousins, were a bit scornful of their hosts which didn't make for a pleasant experience. We asked about Himba culture and history and learnt that the Himba very much see themselves as part of the Herero nation – if not necessarily the other way around – and are proud that they have retained their customs and culture. Apparently the Chief was well travelled and had even been to London at some point in his life – I imagine he may have changed out of his dusty kilt for that trip but you never know! At some point two young and full-figured Himba women came up and giggled at me and Mandela laughed and said that the Chief's grand-daughter had taken a shine to me. I was as usual a little worried and wondered how long it was before someone asked me to marry them again; but my worries as to how to deal with the etiquette of refusing an offer of marriage into the Chief's family were unfounded, and generally Mandela seemed to also prefer women who were not coated in ochre and rancid butter from temple to toes so he understood my reserve!

Once the Chief and his favourite son had left for the night, we all turned in and there followed an uncomfortable night as the insects bit me – I almost wished I DID have the ochre covering whose main purpose is to ward off insects. In addition, the goats snuffling round the tent kept me awake most of the night. Bleary-eyed, in the morning we brewed up an extra strong camp coffee to wake us all up, and then, after sharing it with the Chief's son, we were taken to one of the huts and a surly Himba woman gave us a demonstration of how they mix the ochre paste. However, she brightened up when we bought a necklace and a headdress for 200 Namibian dollars each and didn't mind the photos so much after that!

We said goodbye to the Chief's sun who had driven up in a battered bakkie, and it was as he stretched in the early morning sun that he revealed a South African Star automatic pistol jammed into his jeans waistband. It was a timely reminder that this was frontier land and that in Namibia guns are legal and part of everyday culture and defence. Bru always said he preferred a good baseball bat, but it was still a bit unnerving and we left the corral with Wohongora in a contemplative mood. We dropped Mandela in the village, said goodbye in Himba to him and started our long trek into Damaraland.

General Travel and Place Articles Archive

Paris McMahon

20.11.08 Front Page

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