09/03: Thimbi Thimbi - Days 3 and 4
Category: Bumbling | Posted by: Cads
Walvis Baai is Western super-mare gone mad. There's the mud flats and the general shabbiness, along side the surreality of a mountain of salt harvested from the sea. Driving along the main road there is pure sandy desert on one side while on the other is the blue atlantic trying to eat its way inland. There are flamingos and the salt mill... there is a wind that rips out of the desert as the ocean reflects the warmth of the sun. The wind snarls and grabs at our legs and clothes and we bundle up warm in fleece and wind-cheater. This is midday in Africa and we are wearing the latest technical clothing designed to be up an alp somewhere. It is as normal as putting socks on your ears. Walvis Baai is the meeting point of two cultures that will never see eye to eye, but need each other. The ocean and the sand break against each other, each giving no quarter and taking what they can where they can. That humans have planted grass and lawns out here just adds to the confusion - white, not pink, flamingos round out the whole surreal package.
The road to Swakopmund is a virtual trip through the images of the middle east. Baghdad looms over the horizon, Kuwait is a memory that lingers in the rearview, and at the end of the straight blacktop is Swakopmund, thriving metropolis. There's a full on backpacker scene here with adrenaline junkies catered for as in all mainstream places. You can hurl yourself from perfectly serviceable aeroplanes, ride quadbikes around the dunes or even grab hold of a waxed piece of hardboard and launch yourself face first down vertiginous sand. It's a weird little outpost of backpacker hell, but topped off with the wonderful friendliness of Namibia. There's no pressure, no hard rush and no money at the bank. Things happen with a lacksadaisical efficiency along the lines of "maybe yes, maybe no". If there is one thing that Swakop needs, it's a surf shop. There is a guy who will lend you a board, but when the wind is blowing surf to nothing, there's no point. I was really hoping to surf Namibia, but the closest I got was belly down in a dune.
If you've ever tobogganed down a hill near your school, or slid on a slip'n'slide, then you've got no idea at all what it is like to sandboard. The long hard slog up the hill is made harder by every step slipping back 3 feet. The sand is everywhere. There's no cold. You are superheated by the sun and the climb. Fitness is not advisable, it's required. Getting to the top of the dune, some dude will dig a bit of hardboard out of the sand for you, and say "Off you go then!". There's no training, no safety helmet, no forms to fill in, and all of it is gleefully lapped up by the inner child. If Watterson had been Namibian, Calvin would have had a field day. The moment of truth comes as you launch yourself belly first down the dune... And you keep going... and going... and then you have a moment of clarity where you are past the fear and feeling the speed and the soft swish of the sand under the board and you keep going... and going and BANG... wipeout. Remember your left and your right, Cads. I marched up the small hill twice or so and then the large hill another two times. My final ride was a full on stand-up throw myself through the air, land and sliiiiiiiiiiiiiiide... "Wheeee" as Calvin would say.
We spent a little longer in Swakop than we desired due to funds issues and a broken driveshaft. But then it was a rip back to Windhoek via a small craft fair. Craft fairs are what describe the locals trying to eke out a living from passing tourists. We bought a stone and took some pictures, but after Swakop this brought us back to Africa with a huge thud. It was as though we had been parachuting through tourism and dropped back in on reality before we realised it. It is impossible for these people to live except through tourism and yet there they are trying to work for a living, to supplement whatever food they can grow, catch, eat with some money from the rich westerner who somehow exacerbates the issue while all the time trying to help. This part of Africa is somewhat still the old dichotomy of white and black, but where black was oppressed and downtrodden, now white is taken advantage of, and does not realise it. Or perhaps they are willing partners in the game. When truly disposable income for a typical western traveller exceeds the quarterly earnings of a local, perhaps I should be less cynical. There is a work ethic here that I admire and respect greatly. It is offensive to locals to be tipped large amounts of money. A small tip is welcomed, a large tip is an affront. With some grounding in what tipping should be, it was good to see that tipping responsibly is fast becoming the norm.
After our trip back to Windhoek, it was awesome to get back into a comfy bed (though Swakop was good) and relax before the next part of the adventure... Etosha, Bushmanland, Okovango and the Caprivi strip. We'd be getting up early, but hoping to see the big 5...
The road to Swakopmund is a virtual trip through the images of the middle east. Baghdad looms over the horizon, Kuwait is a memory that lingers in the rearview, and at the end of the straight blacktop is Swakopmund, thriving metropolis. There's a full on backpacker scene here with adrenaline junkies catered for as in all mainstream places. You can hurl yourself from perfectly serviceable aeroplanes, ride quadbikes around the dunes or even grab hold of a waxed piece of hardboard and launch yourself face first down vertiginous sand. It's a weird little outpost of backpacker hell, but topped off with the wonderful friendliness of Namibia. There's no pressure, no hard rush and no money at the bank. Things happen with a lacksadaisical efficiency along the lines of "maybe yes, maybe no". If there is one thing that Swakop needs, it's a surf shop. There is a guy who will lend you a board, but when the wind is blowing surf to nothing, there's no point. I was really hoping to surf Namibia, but the closest I got was belly down in a dune.
If you've ever tobogganed down a hill near your school, or slid on a slip'n'slide, then you've got no idea at all what it is like to sandboard. The long hard slog up the hill is made harder by every step slipping back 3 feet. The sand is everywhere. There's no cold. You are superheated by the sun and the climb. Fitness is not advisable, it's required. Getting to the top of the dune, some dude will dig a bit of hardboard out of the sand for you, and say "Off you go then!". There's no training, no safety helmet, no forms to fill in, and all of it is gleefully lapped up by the inner child. If Watterson had been Namibian, Calvin would have had a field day. The moment of truth comes as you launch yourself belly first down the dune... And you keep going... and going... and then you have a moment of clarity where you are past the fear and feeling the speed and the soft swish of the sand under the board and you keep going... and going and BANG... wipeout. Remember your left and your right, Cads. I marched up the small hill twice or so and then the large hill another two times. My final ride was a full on stand-up throw myself through the air, land and sliiiiiiiiiiiiiiide... "Wheeee" as Calvin would say.
We spent a little longer in Swakop than we desired due to funds issues and a broken driveshaft. But then it was a rip back to Windhoek via a small craft fair. Craft fairs are what describe the locals trying to eke out a living from passing tourists. We bought a stone and took some pictures, but after Swakop this brought us back to Africa with a huge thud. It was as though we had been parachuting through tourism and dropped back in on reality before we realised it. It is impossible for these people to live except through tourism and yet there they are trying to work for a living, to supplement whatever food they can grow, catch, eat with some money from the rich westerner who somehow exacerbates the issue while all the time trying to help. This part of Africa is somewhat still the old dichotomy of white and black, but where black was oppressed and downtrodden, now white is taken advantage of, and does not realise it. Or perhaps they are willing partners in the game. When truly disposable income for a typical western traveller exceeds the quarterly earnings of a local, perhaps I should be less cynical. There is a work ethic here that I admire and respect greatly. It is offensive to locals to be tipped large amounts of money. A small tip is welcomed, a large tip is an affront. With some grounding in what tipping should be, it was good to see that tipping responsibly is fast becoming the norm.
After our trip back to Windhoek, it was awesome to get back into a comfy bed (though Swakop was good) and relax before the next part of the adventure... Etosha, Bushmanland, Okovango and the Caprivi strip. We'd be getting up early, but hoping to see the big 5...
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