Hiking

When I told my sixth grade class that hitchhiking is illegal in America, they stared at me with flabbergasted expressions. “How does anyone get anywhere?” they seemed to be asking. I received equally surprised faces when I answered yes to their question about whether or not I had my own car back home. Even though I told them that it was a very very old car, this did not matter in the least. It was mine.

Hardly any people in Namibia own cars. In fact, that number is so small in Omatjete that I have slowly come to recognize almost all of the vehicles here. I can gawk along with everyone else now as a stranger passes through. So, if you want to go anywhere (away for the weekend, to get food other than porridge) your only choice is to beg (or pay) for a ride from the lucky few.

Coming from a country where hitchhiking (Namibians shorten it to hiking) is either for hippies still living in the past or people who are just plain crazy (sometimes one in the same), the prospect of riding in cars with strangers was pretty scary when I first arrived. After all, at home you’re trained to not even speak to them. But I have since discovered that because so many people must do this just to get from one place to another, hiking is simply one more routing of Namibian life. More than that, there are rules involved. Follow. Them and you will be plenty safe.

Rule number 1: Find the official hike point. In Omatjete it’s under an enormous tree by the medical clinic. Large rocks have been strategically moved to the best places for shade. I’ve waited in this very spot anywhere from five minutes to two hours.

Rule number 2: Look for cars/ trucks carrying women and children, or else ones driven by very old men. Those are generally much safer—no thieves and slower on the less than ideal roads.

And rule number 3: If the vehicle looks like its about to fall apart, it probably is. Hold out for something better.

I learned this rule the hard way. My third or fourth week in Omatjete I got a lift to Omaruru with a government minister pretty high up in the Erongo Region. The school principal was also with me, so I thought I was all set. Then I saw the car. You’d think that a government official would have a pretty decent ride. Oh, no. Not only was it ancient, the regular ignition no longer existed—it was just a hole where he twisted a screw driver to start the car (Maybe those of you who know about cars will understand this—I could only stare confused). BUT before the car actually began moving it had to be pushed down hill for at least twenty-five feet before he could pop it into gear. Our speed never broke thirty miles an hour. As if this wasn’t enough every ten minutes or so we had to pull over and pump up one of the back tires by hand. What was really amazing was that no one seemed to think this was strange or annoying (though I did catch the principal frowning a few times). It just was. We’d get there eventually.

All in all it took me about two and a half hours to get to town (a usual forty-five minute trip). I don’t know how in the world he made it back (But he did because I’ve seen him since, dressed in full uniform pushing that clunker around town). By the time we got to Omaruru, I just wanted out.

Hiking, in general, is uncomfortable because it usually involves stuffing as many people as possible along with their groceries into the covered cab of a truck. Some drivers are considerate and put down layers of blankets in the truck bed; others toss you in along with spare tires and bags of concrete. This all for the bargain price of $30 Namibian dollars one way—round trip is $60. (About 10 U.S. dollars total).

Each time I hike it’s a new adventure—whether through the people that I meet or the experience itself. There was the young woman only slightly older than myself that ran an entire school on her own—she was the principal, the sole teacher, the secretary, the librarian, the janitor—you name it. She seemed to shoulder her responsibilities with a calmness that I envied while at the same time talked like a kid who’d just graduated from college and was excited about what the future held.

There was the young, handsome man who had left home to work in Malaysia and had been living there the past four years. He was coming to visit his family for a week. He chatted animatedly about his work (a job with some kind of environmental group—focusing more on science than activism), about his life and past, asking me many questions in a kind, open tone. We carried him to the edge of his “road,” a tiny path that cut through the bush. I could not see where it ended. His brothers were waiting anxiously with a donkey cart (this is exactly what it sounds like) that would take him the rest of the way home. His family surrounded him, hugs, grins, affectionate thumps from the boys. It made me soar ahead nine months to my own reunion in the Atlanta airport—exhausted from my long agonizing plane ride but no longer caring, just relieved and overjoyed to see those lovely familiar faces. I think I’ll smile at my mom the same way he smiled at his.

And then there was the old man who demanded that I speak to him in Otjiherero (not Oshiherero as I spelled it in a previous email). When he realized that no amount of insisting was enough to teach me a language I did not know, he settled on one of the other passengers to translate for him. He said he could not understand why someone so young would leave their home and travel so far to live in Namibia Africa for a year. He could not understand it at all. It shocked him in fact. His tone did not seem to be one of admiration but genuine confusion. “Why?” he wanted to know. “Why was I here?”

Suddenly everyone in the van was staring at me. I was at a complete loss for words. I hadn’t even been able to completely articulate this to myself yet. How could I convey it to a truck load of strangers? But I tried, “Tell him I wanted to see some place different—some place new. And tell him I…I just wanted to help. I wanted to help.” This did not satisfy the old man. He shook his head at my answer and spent the remainder of the trip tossing a sort of half glare in my direction before drifting off to sleep. Even I had to admit it was a somewhat feeble reply.

A little more rain came this week, but still not enough. The rivers, which I had been promised would be full by now, remain determinedly dry. I am off to Windhoek for the weekend to celebrate another volunteer’s birthday. And yes, I will be hiking, though in a more official sense—in a cab that leaves from Omaruru filled to the brim. As I head out I can’t help but wonder who I’ll meet next.