She had a complex ancestry: “I’m German and Malay and Herero, and some Khoisan, and others.”
Her name was Johanna, and she was going home to Windhoek. This was the best way, through the Northern Cape. “Beautiful countryside,” she said, “especially when there’s flowers.” She loved to travel, even on this old bus.
“I’ve been to Britain. It was nice. But my cousin lives in Croydon, a sort of suburb. I didn’t like it at all. Too many people. Not like this.” Johanna gestured to the emptiness, the surrounding darkness, the immensity of night sky, the glitter of stars. “I went to Malaysia once, just to see it.”
“Did people ask you where you came from?”
“Ach, yes. Some of them asked, ‘Are you an Australian aborigine?’ ” And she laughed. “I told them ‘Namibia,’ but they had no idea what I was talking about. They didn’t know this country. Never heard of it.”
Her friend Edith was with her, the woman I’d spotted who looked like a Roman emperor with her scraped-down Gertrude Stein hair. But now I could see that she had a distinct and rather handsome hue that marked her as mixed race. She was bound for Rehoboth, on the road to Windhoek.
“They say the most dreadful things about us,” Edith said. “They” I took to mean the world at large. “But you know, we have everything here, plenty of food and lots of space. I reckon we’re luckier than most people, but no one knows us, no one really gives a toss.”
“You’ve traveled the world too?”
“A bit. Enough to know that I don’t want to live anywhere else.”She regarded the night sky. “And it’s peaceful here now. Not like what it was. We had a war, you know. Shooting. Bombs.”
“It’s so much better now,” Johanna said.
“Except there’s no work for the young people,” Edith said, and turned because someone had shouted — the bus driver, calling to us. Edith shuffled toward the bus, muttering, “Mustn’t get left behind.”
The Namibian side was Noordoewer (“North Bank” in Afrikaans). Another stroll, more formalities, a new country. It was getting late, and when we set off on the bus again I slept, not waking until the stop in Keetmanshoop, where I saw Edith again, hugging herself against the chill.
“How are we doing?” I asked.
“Very well. Only five hundred kilometers to go.”
Johanna screeched. Edith laughed. Other passengers were yawning and stamping the fatigue out of their feet. No one minded the distance. Off we went into the darkness, deeper into Namibia, across the desert.
* For his hate speech and for “sowing divisions,” Julius Malema was removed from his Youth League post and expelled from the African National Congress in April 2012. Later that year he reemerged, using the killings by police of striking miners to position himself as a leader once again, with his stated theme: “The government has turned against its people.”
5
Night Train from Swakopmund
O N A DAZZLING HIGH-DESERT early morning, I stepped off the bus into thin air, in the center of Windhoek, a city of wide streets with the kind of old-fashioned wooden arcades jutting over sidewalks that you see in cowboy movies. It was a Sunday. The dignity and somnolence of a Sunday, gone in most countries, was observed in Windhoek, and that made my arrival simpler. Among families in formal churchgoing clothes — men in suits, women in frilly dresses or long-sleeved robes, all smiling as though newly baptized — I walked toward a hotel a few blocks away. And I saw that rarest of workers in Africa, a street sweeper — two of them, actually — one chucking at the granite gutters with his yard-wide broom, the other scooping with his shovel, succeeding in their labors. The clean streets added a touch of surrealism to this African capital.
Stopping to look and to catch my breath, I became self-conscious in my way of gaping at the city. It had become my habit on this trip, a sudden pondering of a landscape or a
Her name was Johanna, and she was going home to Windhoek. This was the best way, through the Northern Cape. “Beautiful countryside,” she said, “especially when there’s flowers.” She loved to travel, even on this old bus.
“I’ve been to Britain. It was nice. But my cousin lives in Croydon, a sort of suburb. I didn’t like it at all. Too many people. Not like this.” Johanna gestured to the emptiness, the surrounding darkness, the immensity of night sky, the glitter of stars. “I went to Malaysia once, just to see it.”
“Did people ask you where you came from?”
“Ach, yes. Some of them asked, ‘Are you an Australian aborigine?’ ” And she laughed. “I told them ‘Namibia,’ but they had no idea what I was talking about. They didn’t know this country. Never heard of it.”
Her friend Edith was with her, the woman I’d spotted who looked like a Roman emperor with her scraped-down Gertrude Stein hair. But now I could see that she had a distinct and rather handsome hue that marked her as mixed race. She was bound for Rehoboth, on the road to Windhoek.
“They say the most dreadful things about us,” Edith said. “They” I took to mean the world at large. “But you know, we have everything here, plenty of food and lots of space. I reckon we’re luckier than most people, but no one knows us, no one really gives a toss.”
“You’ve traveled the world too?”
“A bit. Enough to know that I don’t want to live anywhere else.”She regarded the night sky. “And it’s peaceful here now. Not like what it was. We had a war, you know. Shooting. Bombs.”
“It’s so much better now,” Johanna said.
“Except there’s no work for the young people,” Edith said, and turned because someone had shouted — the bus driver, calling to us. Edith shuffled toward the bus, muttering, “Mustn’t get left behind.”
The Namibian side was Noordoewer (“North Bank” in Afrikaans). Another stroll, more formalities, a new country. It was getting late, and when we set off on the bus again I slept, not waking until the stop in Keetmanshoop, where I saw Edith again, hugging herself against the chill.
“How are we doing?” I asked.
“Very well. Only five hundred kilometers to go.”
Johanna screeched. Edith laughed. Other passengers were yawning and stamping the fatigue out of their feet. No one minded the distance. Off we went into the darkness, deeper into Namibia, across the desert.
* For his hate speech and for “sowing divisions,” Julius Malema was removed from his Youth League post and expelled from the African National Congress in April 2012. Later that year he reemerged, using the killings by police of striking miners to position himself as a leader once again, with his stated theme: “The government has turned against its people.”
5
Night Train from Swakopmund
O N A DAZZLING HIGH-DESERT early morning, I stepped off the bus into thin air, in the center of Windhoek, a city of wide streets with the kind of old-fashioned wooden arcades jutting over sidewalks that you see in cowboy movies. It was a Sunday. The dignity and somnolence of a Sunday, gone in most countries, was observed in Windhoek, and that made my arrival simpler. Among families in formal churchgoing clothes — men in suits, women in frilly dresses or long-sleeved robes, all smiling as though newly baptized — I walked toward a hotel a few blocks away. And I saw that rarest of workers in Africa, a street sweeper — two of them, actually — one chucking at the granite gutters with his yard-wide broom, the other scooping with his shovel, succeeding in their labors. The clean streets added a touch of surrealism to this African capital.
Stopping to look and to catch my breath, I became self-conscious in my way of gaping at the city. It had become my habit on this trip, a sudden pondering of a landscape or a
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