Story and Photos by Alison Moran
“It’s starting to feel a lot like jail,” a shipmate said as we lay buried in our cabin cell like packed sardines, gazing out the window, hoping for the first sign of life.
I was reading Herman Melville’s Loomings, which redolently suggests the ocean is the most bonding medium for man and the natural world: “Meditation and water are wedded forever.” Melville was right – being at sea for days evokes a philosophical awe, but the longer I spent floating in the Atlantic Ocean, the more I longed for land more than anything in the whole (very) wide world.
Anticipating my arrival to Namibia, the oblong shaped country that borders Angola, Botswana, and South Africa on the southwestern tip of the plateau continent, I was looking forward to a separation from the sea and constantly sitting and thinking.
The gale force winds and torrential surf in the mighty South Atlantic is what gave Namibia’s water it’s nickname, the “Skeleton Coast” – an appropriate aphorism considering the convoy of shipwrecked frames that litter the 450-mile shoreline. It appears a tragic place.
Docking the ship in Walvis Bay in the middle of the night, there was no moonshine in the sky as if we passengers had liquefied the moon’s magnificence into a pirate’s grog, secretly storing it in mouthwash bottles for late night boozing.
The next morning, my first steps on Namibia’s barren terrain were as strange as walking on the moon. My sea legs felt inebriated and yet a sudden wave of freedom came over me. I imagined the Germans who claimed and settled this arid territory some 200 years ago had at one point in time felt as alien as I.
Today Namibia occupies an area roughly the size of Texas; however, with a population of only two million, it is, after Mongolia, the second least densely populated country in the world with an average of one person per every square mile.
I consulted my rose-colored map for a reality check and placed myself geographically.
“There,” I pointed at the central coast. “That’s where I am.”
“Let’s go to Dune Seven,” my friend suggested. “I hear it’s wild.”
“Dune Seven?” I asked. “Is that like a dance club?”
As it turns out, “Dune Seven” is literally a dune and quite the destination. Standing at 700 feet, it is the highest mound of sand in Namibia’s coastal dune belt and a hotspot for adrenaline junkies looking to board and quad bike down some gnarly sediment .
During the cab ride there, through the vast Namib Desert – the only African desert inhabited by elephants, rhinos, and lions (oh my!) – faux fur seat-covers protected our rear ends from the scorching hot leather. Out the window we discovered alkaloid plants, leafless mopane trees, thorn bushes and, more than anything, sand.
While Namibia is the only country to have written environmental protection laws into its constitution, there were no animals to be found in the northern end of the desert. I half expected a vulture to swoop down licking its lips at the sight of us humans, a tasty feast, but the sky was as empty as the can of beer in my hand.
Once we got to the dune, I took on the role of the photographer; it was much too visually arousing a photo opportunity to pass up. It felt good to stretch my legs, walk up and down the hot sand – a welcome break from sitting and thinking on the ship at sea.
I waited at the bottom, muttering declarative phrases like “Oh my god!” and “Holy shit!”, drinking a sandy Heineken, snapping shots of folks boarding the dune, and, inevitably, biting the dust. We had a “jol” – South African slang for “good time” – rolling in the sand like children on a snow day, bandaging bloody elbows and spitting up grit.
Back to the Bay
Later that day, we tipped our cab driver generously for driving an hour into the middle of nowhere, and then sticking around to deliver us safely back to Walvis Bay, which, in itself, is a sight to behold. The town is a combination of Old West ghost town and colonial German charm – not what I expected to find in Africa.
Stepping out of the cab, we were bombarded by several people, some who had traveled more than 500 miles to Walvis Bay through the Kalahari Desert after hearing that an American ship was in port.
The nomadic Himba tribe of northern Namibia brought tribal masks, beaded baskets, aromatic perfumes, wood jewelry, and stone sculptures to sell. I sat with a group of half nude women, their bodies covered in otijzel, a brick red mixture of butter fat and ochre, used as a form of sunscreen and cosmetic.
Two doe-eyed Himba boys curled up in my lap. One of the Himba women – one of the few that spoke English – informed me that this was the first time the boys had traveled outside their village. They gazed at their reflections in my sunglasses. “First time they see their face,” she informed me. I pulled out my powder compact and handed it to the smallest boy, who giggled at the site of his mirror image.
I bought a necklace and a bracelet from a woman but she wanted more. She told me her baby was sick so I went back to the ship and accumulated the bits and pieces of what I had: laundry detergent, lotion, and Nestle Crunch Bars. I handed her what I had and then went to find solace in the shade of a parked truck labeled “Uranium.” But when the truck departed to the nearby nuclear plant, it left me exposed to the blistering sun, staring at the woman and the chocolate bar, which was injudiciously melting down her face.
Another woman walked by wearing a low-cut blouse, flirting with passer-bys, perhaps looking for work. Nearly half of Namibians are unemployed, and though prostitution is currently illegal, it provides work for many.
A man teasingly pulled her shirt down exposing what looked to be lesions from AIDS across her skeletal breastbone. She took off her broken high heel shoe and struck the man across the head, screaming obscenities. He just laughed. I noticed more lesions on her feet and arms. Her eyes, bloodshot and the color of yellow birch bark, locked with my eyes.
I was appalled and stone-faced. Walvis Bay has the highest rate of HIV prevalence in the country (28%) and nearly a quarter of Namibians are infected with AIDS. I wanted to sit down in the parking lot, bury my face and cry.
Read the second part of Alison’s story and learn about another of her Semester at Sea adventures.
