Finland in the Dark Continent

A Journey Through Southern Africa

Copyright 1989-1993 by Richard Bollar - All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except brief extracts for the purpose of review, without the written permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

Swakopmund

Only thirty kilometers from where we had entered South Africa, we left it and burned another half-hour processing visas inside a South African tent. That done, we were once again in Namibia in the town of Swakopmund. Just past the post were 'holiday bungalows;' A-frame houses that were just great for four people to stay in for a couple of days. We were definitely there in the off-season, though and it took us a bit of sweeping to get the sand out of the first level.

Once we unloaded our stuff, we eyed the shower. It had a huge nozzle and looked like it could easily pour a few of gallons of hot water a minute. Pam and John hit the showers while I got the grill going and Pat went to find some food for dinner.

It was getting dark as we all got back together. Pat had found some steaks along with some very attractive vegetables and a bottle of red wine from a South African vineyard. We ate inside around a small table, but really, it was the first time that we had actually eaten together instead of sitting on stumps or picnic tables or the like. We even had some kind of canned pudding for desert. It tasted just like the one on a Wendy's salad bar, but once we added some canned cherry pie filling, it was pretty exciting.

After dinner, Pam cleaned up while Pat and I took turns with the shower. It was heaven! Scalding hot, and it put out enough water to sink a battleship. Really, really terrific! The water was even soft enough to let the soap suds up. Pretty cool. Better yet, as I was the last one in, I could pretty much feel free to use ALL the water. I got tired of the shower after about twenty minutes, though and the water was still quite hot. Gee, even better than at home!

The effects of the great dinner, along with wine and good showers made us decide that we'd all like to just stay in and read. Not that there was anything to do at night or anything. I had a few Le Carré novels and I was interested in putting a dent in them. Pat and I stayed up to read for a couple of hours before retiring for the night.

The mattress was a little squishy, but despite what you naturalists might say about the magic of sleeping outdoors, I'd just as soon have a too-soft mattress and a great comforter than a thin foam pad and a sleeping bag. Feel free to call me spoiled.

We had a lot of things to get done on Tuesday, May 9, but we didn't get such an early start of things. John and Pam were still in bed when Pat and I went to get the Land Rover looked at. The distributor problem yesterday had troubled us, and the machine obviously needed a going over. A tune-up to correct our heavy-handed timing adjustment would be really appreciated.

As we looked for a garage that could make the repair for us, I started to feel really weird. First, I noticed the buildings. Every one of them was a split timber design, looking like they would be more appropriate in a German village in Bavaria than in southern Africa, and since there were no trees around, they were even more suspect. Then, I noticed the street signs. We were on Kaiser Wilhelm Straße, and had just crossed Bismarck Straße - Holy cow! We were in the Twilight Zone! Third, I noticed the signs; they were all in German and English. Not English and Afrikaans. Further, they were German-style shops, with the first pastry shop I had seen since I got to Africa.

At Bahnhof Straße, we found the Land Rover repair center and parked in front. We entered the office adjacent to the garage and found the owner sipping coffee with his friends near a kerosene heater. They were speaking to each other about the U.N. in German but stopped abruptly when Pat addressed them in Afrikaans. While Pat negotiated the repair, I noticed that the other two guys were just staring at us. I let that pass, and started looking around. Of particular interest was a picture of Adolph Hitler with a young man who looked strangely like the owner....

Calm down, Rick, how likely could that possibly be? After all, let's assume that the picture was taken in 1935 or so, and that the guy in the picture was twenty-five years old. That would make him about eighty years old. This guy couldn't have been older than sixty.

There were other pictures around, though, many of which included the man. In some of the pictures, the man was in uniform. While I'm not an expert on World War II era German uniforms, I did recognize the 'SS' insignia on the collar. "So," I asked in German, gathering up all my balls and smiling in what would hopefully be received in a friendly manner, "is this your father?"

He looked at me reproachfully for a moment before smiling and answering, "Ja." His dad had moved to South West Africa right about 1945. He had been born in Swakopmund, and had never been to Germany. He was proud to be in Africa where there weren't so many rules. Hmm. {Expand}

We left for a small walk while the Land Rover was getting the tune-up. And found a poster than said 'UNTAG Namibia - Vrye en Regverdige Verkiesings' (Free and Fair Elections). It just figures that they would publish their stuff in Afrikaans instead of German, which it seemed that most people were speaking.

We really only looked in windows, but saw that the variety in the stores was the best we had seen in several days. We found the post office and finally made our telephone calls. British Airways said they would be more than happy to send my bag on the next flight, and I could expect it to arrive on the flight from Windhoek this afternoon. Great!

Pat learned that the scum mongoose photographer had been stripped of his awards. The guy will never work in photography again, Pat gloated, along with a few colorful words meant to further describe the man's parentage.

We retrieved the Land Rover and appreciated how much better the drive felt. It was excellent to hear a purring engine again. The drive back to the bungalows took only a couple of minutes, and at that point, Pam and John had prepared breakfast for us, and we wolfed it down before starting off on our errands.

First off, it was time to do the laundry. We'd been cruising for about a week, and had gone through most of our clothing. Everything smelled like smoke and woeurs, and since my inventory of clothing was particularly small, I was much the worst off. We found a laundry which would wash, dry and fold our clothes for almost free and dropped our stuff off. I was surprised how busy it was, but then realized that most people don't have their own washing machines.

Next, we walked over to the Swakopmund Tannery to see what they had to offer. They had many skins of non-endangered animals for sale, and though we passed on the tour, we did pick up a couple of items. John got some moccasins made from kudu (an antelope which is quite plentiful), for which this tannery is well known, and I got a floppy hat also made of kudu which continues to serve me well in protecting my fair body from the sun.

From the Pricelist for Private Tanning:

ATTENTION! The tanning of leather and reptileskins takes appr. 3 months, hairskins about 10 weeks from the day of starting the process. Please send only good and sound raw-skins with as few cuts, holes and bug-eaten patches as possible....Further we would like to draw your attention to the fact that tanning of hides and skins is not a very clean job and involves a lot of unpleasantness....

Unpleasantness? Sounds just like a sun-tanning salon in the States.

Next on our tour, we visited the town hall, which was a beautiful building that would have fit well into most any European city. However the mosaics inside were much more attractive than any I've seen in Europe. In the town hall we found the library, and ran across not only the tourism bureau, but also the United Nations Transition Assistance Group (oh, so that's what UNTAG stands for) office. I got a pile of U. N. stuff talking about the upcoming elections and independence. I found the upbeat tone of the U. N. flyers a little unsettling, and wondered if the transition to independence could possibly work so well. There were, after all, four stages, as called for in UNSCR 435 (United Nations Security Counsel Resolution 435 - 1978), each of which seemed to be rife with possibility for failure:

1. The Commencement of Cuban Withdrawal - The Cuban involvement in Angola since 1975, along with their support of SWAPO (South West Africa People's Organization) guerrillas represented South Africa's excuse to not accept the resolution. In January 1989, the Cubans agreed to withdraw, and SWAPO and UNITA forces agreed to a cease fire. Aside from small border clashes by both sides, the Namibian/Angolan border was now almost passable by land.

2. The Confinement to Base and demobilization of Namibian troops and the progressive withdrawal of South African forces - Through 1989, a complex series of troop movements was to happen, almost simultaneously. After the beginning of Cuban withdrawal, SWAPO forces were to return to their bases in Angola and Zambia; the South West Africa Territory Force was to be disbanded (though officers and soldiers were to continue to be paid); and the South African Defense Force was to return to South Africa. In the vacuum, 4,560 U. N. troops would monitor the vacuum and provide peace-keeping services throughout Namibia as well as in the near-border towns in Zambia and Angola.

3. The Electoral Campaign and the Election of a Constituent Assembly - If the troop withdrawals worked, then the election should be a cake walk. The U. N. committed to the return of exiles and political prisoners on both sides and the repeal of remaining restrictive or discriminatory laws. The interim government, though, was completely white and male. I wonder how efficiently these men would carry out the U. N. resolution?

4. The Adoption of a Constitution and the Establishment of an Independent Government - Assuming that the election is fair and meets U. N. certification, the elected Constituent Assembly has the authority to approve any constitution which meets all of the articles of UNSCR 435 and receives a two-thirds vote. At this point, the UNTAG troops would depart (by April 1, 1990 in any event) and Namibia would be an independent, democratic country.

We also got a couple of other brochures describing U. N. involvement and took them before heading over to the tourism bureau.

Really, we might as well have just visited the tourist office as they had all the documents that the U. N. did and a better selection of other stuff as well. I got a good stash of economic brochures published by the South West African Information Service, Department of Governmental Affairs as well as a few 'news magazines' published by the current government. For some reason, I was comforted by the headline on the Final Edition of 'New Nation' (Vol. 5 3/89) which said 'Independence of SWA in danger with incursion,' which referred to border fighting in Owambo, near the Angolan border. The paper continued by saying that the fighting was the worst in twenty-three years. Somehow I doubted it.

I purchased a copy of Swakopmund: Eine Kleine Chronik, which was a history of Swakopmund published in 1986 in honor of its ninetieth anniversary. It was published only in German, which further reminded me of the German influence. We walked out the door and found that a big blue bumper sticker had been placed on the back of the Land Rover: Verenigde Nasies Oorgangs - Ondersteuningsgroep / Vrye en Regverdige Verkiesings. I've gotta say that it looked great with Pat's South African license plates, but he just wasn't so amused....

We had been quite busy this morning, and it was time for lunch. We walked back to Kaiser Wilhelm Straße, which was apparently the main drag through this town of fewer than 20,000 people (Windhoek, the capital has a population of only about 120,000) and started looking for a lunch place.

We found a cafe which was closing as we arrived (about one in the afternoon) and they weren't about to let us in. Pat has a way about him, though, and they did let us buy some ham sandwiches, pommes frites and really, really great chocolate eclairs. The filling was as good as any I've ever had in Europe, and I could well have sucked down another, but didn't want to really infringe so much more upon the store's break time. Anyway, it was time to go to the airport and meet the plane.

The airport was only a few kilometers out of town, and we found it without trouble. There wasn't much there; only a small shed that served as a shelter for the passengers (looked much like a bus shed that one might see by the road in a larger American city); a mud house of the type that might be used by the Wambo tribe which had chickens and cats around it - the airport manager's house; and a new VW van with the Namib Air logo on it. There wasn't really a surfaced runway; it was the same surface as the Swakopmund roads, salt! They filled tank trucks with sea water and sprayed it on the roads. As the water evaporated and left the minerals behind, it hardened into a very nice surface that appeared to be very durable.

The blue and gold Namib Air Beechcraft 99 arrived on time from Windhoek and stopped right outside of the shed. There was no security, and we were able to walk right up to the pilot, who was unloading the baggage. Mine was not there. I was bummed out. We found the Namib Air agent, and asked her to follow up for us. She bid us come to her office in town in about an hour, and she would call to trace the bag for us.

Pat, John & Pam looked a little exasperated, and wondered if we might not want to just screw the bag and make do without it. Right at that second I was not interested in leaving the bag in Swakopmund, knowing that I would never see it again. I was about to whine, when Pat said we should wait to make our decision after we heard from Namib Air.

We met up with the agent about two hours later and she said that the bag had missed the connection in Windhoek, it would arrive on tomorrow's flight, late in the morning. Pat wondered aloud if we might be able to have the bag sent ahead to meet us at another airport, but I whined, and we all agreed to stay until the next flight arrived. I was happy that I was closer to getting the bag, but disappointed that I was holding back progress on our trip.

We decided to eat out and found an acceptable restaurant which had good food and was fairly elegant. We might have looked a little scruffy, but at least we were clean, and the staff was very friendly to us. It was well into the dessert before I noticed that everyone on the staff was white. It was the first time I had seen this since I got to Africa.

After dinner, we looked for a bar. I remembered that the Hansa brewery located by the beach had a bar and suggested that we go there. The walk to the bar didn't take long and better yet, it seemed to be pretty active! Entering the bar, I got a bad feeling. The bar seemed to be a little blue collar, and the place got a little quiet as we all walked to the bar. Pat walked up to the bar and ordered some beers for us in Afrikaans and everyone stopped talking. There was no noise at all, and the barkeep just stared at us....

The tension that I felt was only heightened when I saw the picture of Hitler on the wall behind the bar. Jesus! Are all these guys Nazis or what? An eternity passed, everyone in the bar just looking at us and I wondered why Pat continued to speak in Afrikaans when it seemed to always have this effect.

Swearing to myself, I spoke to the bartender in German. So sorry that my friend couldn't be understood, but we would like to have some beer. Then louder and in English (mainly because my knowledge of German seemed to be eroding very quickly) I said that we were tourists, and were thoroughly enjoying our stay in Swakopmund. It would be a shame to come here, so far from the United States of America, and not have a fresh beer from the best brewery in southern Africa.

The bartender drew our beers and I learned a lesson: You can't lay it on too thick. It was apparent that the guys in the bar worked for the brewery and took their work seriously. We stayed for a couple of rounds, and while no one seemed really friendly to us, I did talk to a couple of guys for a little bit about the beer they made and their favorite brew. As we took our leave and returned to the bungalow, I noticed the sign outside the bar by the door in Afrikaans: Private bar. Hansa Brewery (Pty) Ltd. employees only.

So then it made some sense to me. I wondered if the bar was really private, or if perhaps they just wanted to keep South Africans out. Then again, it didn't stop Pat from entering.

Having had a light day, Pat and I stayed up a bit longer and read until quite late. It was probably midnight before I went to bed, which was really the latest I had been up. I suppose that I finally got over the jet lag, but still slept soundly.

For some reason, I woke up on Wednesday, May 10 feeling like hell. Even the coffee and eggs that John offered me didn't make me feel all that good. Oh, well. Two Alka Seltzers, and I was in somewhat better shape, and not really any the worse for wear. We loaded the Land Rover, reattached the trailer and went into town to do some shopping. I found a small dime store like Woolworth's, and bought some Hansa beer mugs and some postcards. In the meantime, Pat purchased provisions, and John visited the photography store, which was so old, it had parts for cameras well over thirty years old, but certainly nothing newer. {toilet - outside bldg.}

I also found a news stand and bought a copy of 'Computers in Africa' and a copy of 'The Namibian,' one of the more sensational newspapers. In the headlines, an Australian UNTAG soldier was attacked and castrated by guerrillas near Angola. Yikes! Later, the official story was that the Aussie had tried to 'date' one of the local black women and that didn't sit well with her boyfriend, so they took him out back and decided to hold his 'jewels' for safekeeping. What a great frontier mentality! That bummed me out so much that I bought one of the 'girlie' magazines. Really no nudity at all, but the bathing suits were fairly sparse.

I rejoined Pat before noon, and he shared a thought that he might like to run escorted tours through Namibia. We decided to drop by 'Desert Adventure Tours' on Kaiser Wilhelm Straße to get an idea for how much the local operators were charging for such a trip. The owner was there and greeted us with, "Hey, you guys were at the Hansa bar last night! Everyone's talking about it!" Uh, really? Okay, so apparently even the locals don't go there unless they're part of the 'group.' What group might that be I asked....

"Well, I can't really say as I'm not from here." Oh. Was there a possibility, just perhaps, that these guys might be Nazis? After all the pictures of Hitler and Rudolph Hess that we saw in all the stores, might there indeed be a connection? What about our Land Rover guy? Might he be a Nazi? Our tour guide was a bit tense, but said, "No, he's not a Nazi. He's just very conservative."

Right at that moment, I felt an overwhelming need to get out of Swakopmund. Mr. Desert Adventure Safaris did not help my mood by adding, "Furthermore, the reports in the American press about a swastika flag being raised over the town hall in commemoration of Hitler's one hundredth birthday were greatly exaggerated." But true? Yes.

We met up with the rest of our party at the Land Rover and after topping off with petrol, we went back to the airport. A hand written note was on the shed: The flight from Windhoek will be delayed until 1400. Pat was just beside himself and again suggested that we leave the bag behind. Pam, fortunately came to my aid and said that it would be a shame to miss the bag after waiting so long. We agreed to go have a beer and wait the two hours until the plane arrived.

Pat knew of a hotel with a bar on the main road just outside of town, so we headed there, stopping briefly to look at 'Martin Luther,' a steam tractor which was imported in 1896 to carry goods across the Namib desert into the South West Africa interior. It successfully made a couple of trips before it came to a complete stop in the desert sands in 1897. Efforts to repair the tractor failed, and it was thus named 'Martin Luther,' in reference to the religious reformist's words, "Hier stehe ich, ich kann nicht anders!" (Here I stand; I cannot do otherwise).

Only another three kilometers out of town, the clouds which had plagued us since our arrival at Walvisbaai lifted and we could see bright sunshine for the first time since Monday. We came upon the hotel shortly thereafter, and pulled up to the bar, which was open. The hotel looked like a German country estate, and was built by foreign (German) investors. Even the bar looked exactly like a German bier stübe, from the bench seats in booths to the local soccer pennants. This place could have been lifted directly from just about any bar in southern Germany.

We were the only ones there, and the bartender, a South African, was anxious to talk to us and wondered how we found the Hansa bar. Geeze, this really is a small town! We drank Hardenberg, a local liquor identifiable by the boar's snout pourer on the bottle, followed by tall Hansa chasers. Hardenberg was reminiscent of Jagermeister, i.e. after about four of them, it no longer tasted like automotive grease.

This barkeep was a world traveler, and told us some pretty good stories of his adventures. The only thing strange was what was he doing in Swakopmund, of all places? Especially out of tourist season. "Ah, well, I had some money problems, and I'm working off the debt." Our time ran out and we returned to the airport just as the Namib Air flight arrived.

We arrived at the plane right as the airport dog did; he curling up around the nose wheel, while we walked around back to the cargo hold. And was the damned bag there....

Yes!

The bag was festooned with different tags showing its journey around Africa, but still had the Pan Am security stickers on it, intact from when they were placed on in Washington, a thousand years ago. I tore through the tags and opened the brown sausage bag up. Everything was there aside from one sweater which I wouldn't miss anyway. I thought about the guys cleaning the plane in Nairobi and I had to laugh at the thought of one of them wearing the sweater!

Incredibly, the film was still there. I would have thought that fifty rolls of Kodachrome Professional PKR 64 would have been very valuable. I suppose not.

We took pictures of each other holding the bag, and started back off on our journey north towards Etosha. Our original plans were to visit the seal reserve at Kaap Kruis (Cape Cross), but John and Pat thought that we should give it a miss because we were running very late. Pam had been pretty good to me, though, through my trauma and I knew that she wanted to go, so I sided with her. Stuck with a tie, we went to the seal reserve.

The reserve was only forty kilometers out of the way, so I wasn't sure what the big deal was. The big deal was that the reserve was closed to the public on weekdays off-season, and that we might not get in. As usual, Pat came through, and with the exchange of only a few beers to the ranger, we not only got in, but also got a patch for Pam to put on her vest.

We were able to drive right up to the cross in Cape Cross and parked. We were surrounded by literally tens of thousands of seals, playing and fighting among themselves. I was happy that we were separated by a fence, flimsy as it was, but really enjoyed seeing the seals at play. We all blew several rolls of film, and wished that we might have had a sunny day in which to take the pictures.

I got a little tired of the seals (and the god-awful seal smell) after awhile, and went back to the cross. In 1485, Portuguese navigator Diego Cão landed at this cape, and placed the cross to show the furthest distance south that had been traveled by a European. In a country where people celebrate towns that have been around for ninety years, finding a monument that was over five hundred years old, and in extraordinarily good condition was amazing.

A 15th-century Portuguese explorer, Diego Cão was the first European to reach the mouth of the Congo River (1482). He erected stone pillars there and farther south on the Angolan coast at Cape Santa Maria as marks of Portuguese authority. On a second voyage (1485-86) he went as far as Cape Cross, now in Namibia.

It was getting late, and we had almost 300 kilometers to go to get to our campsite for the evening. We flew down the road, which once again was unsealed and were making good time. We stopped at Uis to get some meat as Pat said that the quality up north would be inferior.

Uis is the first real company town that I've ever seen. Everything in Uis was owned by the mine. Indeed, the tin mine was the only employer in town, with even the service employees working for the company. It was an orderly town, with nice little houses set nicely back from tree lined streets. The only thing strange was the fact that all of this was in a desert. The soccer pitch was an eerie color of green set against the dust roads, and it looked very much out of place.

The sun was very low on the horizon, but we were only 120 kilometers from Khorixas, our destination for the evening, and the capital of Damaraland, a section of the country which had been returned to the native tribes. It was for this reason that Pat warned me to not drink straight from the tap as we had virtually everywhere on the journey. He said that the infrastructure started to collapse immediately as the new government didn't have any interest in maintaining the area, only to cultivate small plots of land and farm small herds of cattle.

Indeed, the road surface wasn't all that good, and that was surprising. To add irony, we were following a road crew who taunted us for the last fifty kilometers or so. It was difficult to pass them because the sun turned the dust that they were kicking up into a red fog that was impossible to see through. Every time we felt secure enough to pass, the road works truck would accelerate as well. It was apparent that they were about as interested in eating our dust as we theirs. Finally, Pat had enough and floored the accelerator on a curve.

Mercifully, we emerged from the fog to find that we weren't about to be creamed by oncoming traffic, but did kick up a rock onto ourselves and broke our rear window. Though broken, the glass held up, and John taped it up as we sped ahead, preventing the road crew from passing us.

Somehow, we made it to the campground at Khorixas before dark, but the drive through town was a little creepy. It was the first dirty place that I had seen in Namibia. There was trash lying out on the street, and all the buildings were in disrepair. Okay, so Pat might have been right about this one. While it may have validated his belief that the Blacks can't govern, I think it's merely indicative of their lifestyle. The tribes of southern Africa, and perhaps elsewhere, too are geared to provide necessities for their families. They have no need for the public works that motivate the Whites, and I don't think that's necessarily bad.

All that aside, I was pleased to see that the campground was attractive and in good repair. We needed to get an early start, so we hired a cottage for the evening. I spent some time before dinner sorting through my bag, and enjoyed stew for dinner before going to sleep.

Pat woke me up at some ungodly hour on Thursday, May 11, and I was certainly in a fowl mood. It was dark out, even as we left the camp, and I was not in a mood to deal with anyone or anything. Unfortunately, as the navigator, my work was required, and with a surly attitude that would do a government worker proud, I provided directions between slurps of coffee. Sun rise did not come for another hour, and while I may have become polite at that point, I was still not having a good time.

We were expected in Etosha that evening, but had plenty of time to see the geologic sights before then. First on our list was a trip to the 'Finger of the North,' an erosion relic in the Ugab valley. I directed us onto a smaller road which would take us there, but to my dismay, I had to hop out of the Land Rover frequently so open and close gates between the farms through which I passed. Don't these people know about 'cow catcher' grates?

Yeah, I was definitely not in the mood for this little bit of exercise. Hell, I even thought it was a good deal to pay two little kids a Rand each to open it for me. It could have gotten quite expensive, but there I was, willing to pay....

Arrival at Vingerklip (rock finger) couldn't have happened too soon, as far as I was concerned. It was about 0730, and we stopped short of the thirty-five meter high rock so that we could take some pictures from afar. Pat suggested that I get in the back and sleep, but I decided that I should get some pictures and went along.

The air was still a bit cool, and cutting my leg on the barbed wire that we crossed didn't help my mood. Now, I can concede that this rock wouldn't look right in any other light, and I'm glad that we went there, but still I'm not sure if I really appreciated the light all THAT much.

After pictures from afar, we went to the main gate. The land is owned by a Mr. Bertram, a goat rancher, and he let us in to climb right up to the rock for a small fee. Up close, the rock was especially impressive; standing alone on a plain. The goats only added to the sight. As we were leaving, Mrs. Bertram offered us pastries. Since we had skipped breakfast to get here, it was especially appreciated, at least by me.

The drive back to the main road was just as tedious as it was going in, but at least I was awake. The next destination was Outjo, the last town before entering Etosha. If all went well, we would arrive by lunch time. The road conspired against us, though, and we did not make good time at all, entering Outjo about 1300.

For the first time in Africa, I saw tour busses. I shuddered at the prospect of spending time with these people. Like most tourists, though, they were on a schedule and left us to the town alone. Outjo was laden with souvenir shops, many of whom featured semi-precious stones. John decided to check that out while Pam and I sat at a cafe and had some coffee while watching the tour busses enter and leave. Pastries here were good too! I don't think that I had a bad pastry the entire time I was in Namibia. Those wacky Germans.