To Otambura, hill of marble and myrhh

So the journey continued, with 2 four-wheel drives, 2 dogs, and 4 unusual and remarkable women whom I greatly value.   It was completely the right combination.  We were a spectrum of ages and backgrounds; and we were collaborative in the easy way that women often are.  Carol assumed the role of chief tea-maker. We had a small teapot which served 3.5 cups, too small for tea for all of us at one sitting, so a compulsive tea-maker like Carol was a requisite for the journey.  I was chief packer, at least for one of the vehicles, which was a good challenge for my rather poor spatial awareness skills, not to mention an ode to my expert-packer parents.

I caught up on sleep and began to wake up early with first light. We saw both sunrise and sunset most days, and we forgot what day of the week it was.  I had neither a watch nor a phone to look at, so I never knew what time it was either. It was a relief to let go of scheduling altogether.

We drove for another day through dusty Sesfontein to the ochre sand plains of Puros, through kilometres of mysterious fairy circles that none of the experts can explain.  In Puros, herds of oryx graze together with cattle, the lifeblood of the Himba people. 

Our camp was frequented by pearl-spotted owls and gurgling crimson-breasted shrikes. The landscape is arid, striking, and older than the human mind can begin to imagine.   The Himba are as exotic as the reputation that precedes them -- and for the most part seemed disinterested in us and the outside world, including the women whose 'traditional homestead' we visited.

From there, on to Orupembe on an unmapped 'back route’, which only allowed a speed of 20-30km/hr, and much of it up a dry river bed.  After about 3 hours of driving, and having not seen any sign of human life for all that time besides one other tourist group and a handful of unused Himba kraals, we came across a lone Himba man standing in the river bed, selling some crafts, probably one of the most remote hawkers in the world.  We had no common language with him, though he spoke a little Afrikaans: apartheid’s legacy found its way here, even to the remote northwest.

Not far from Orupembe was Otambura lodge, our taste of luxury for the week, with its infinity decks and views forever, blending into the dry hills. Groves of commiphora – the myrhh of biblical fame – are the defining characteristic of Otambura. 

They are a litany of curious trees, thriving on a bedrock of none other than marble. Threads of lava and ancient metamorphoses wind this way and that amongst the boulders. The metamorphic rocks of the Kunene date to over 1800 million years old, so perhaps no surprise that these commiphora trees are like a foreign language from a different epoch. Their papery peeling bark rustles, clicks, whispers in the air currents; they sport flowers and pods like I’ve never seen before.  Nowadays, the myrrh is harvested by ochre-clad Himba women and sold to L’Oreal as part of community conservation projects.

Our Otambura guide was a man called Onuva.  Alice and I visited his seasonal homestead on the plain, and met his sisters and wife, who were dressed in the traditional way, as most Himba women seem to be.  They were friendly, relaxed, proffered jewels - to which I succumbed – and a taste of woodsmoked maize porridge from the communal cooking pot.

Beyond the biblical trees, my enduring impression of Otambura is an all-encompassing night-time silence that makes me hunger for more.  One late night, I stepped out under the sky, looked up, even though I hadn’t planned to, and stood paralysed in complete wonder.  It sounds cliched, but I was bowled over by my own insignificance under its vastness.  Not much time for philosophising though....from there, the journey back south began and our final nights were spent in the happy crook of boulders near Sesfontein and Twyvelfontein respectively.

The Awaited Journey: Namibia’s Far North West

August brought with it Namibia and a journey I’d long been waiting for: to travel through Erongo and into the far north west to Kunene region.  The stylish Alice joined me from London, and we met at Jozi airport before boarding for Walvis Bay, where Angela collected us from the next-slowest immigrations queue after Heathrow Terminal 1-3.

We began in Swakopmund on an uncharacteristically sunny day, and took Angela’s dogs for a customary walk along the beach.  The next morning we were off and away with streamlined luggage and camping gear.  We edged our way up the Skeleton Coast for 4 hours and then down an unmarked gravel track to Wereldsend, an oasis set amidst the lilacs and ochres of ancient hills and plains. 

We arrived in time for a sunset walk with Namibia’s premier conservation doyennes.  The space of Wereldsend and its surrounds is pure exhilaration.  Space, openness, and the curious feel of being with people that one has a history with.  There is grass, white grass, as far as the eye can see, uncharacteristic thanks to the heavy rains this past season, and the one before that.

Across the plains, ostrich, zebra, springbok, and the incredibly regal oryx feed in abundance. I saw my first desert elephant, and the fake-dead Weltwitschia plants which can live to be more than 1500 years old.  As Carol says, “So when Jesus was kicking around, these were here…”

Our next day in Wereldsend brought the first clouds in 3 months, graffiti-sweeps across a monumental sky.  The sunset was fluorescent, its pinks almost artificial, before we headed back to camp to imbibe the aroma of woodsmoke.  Poor Alice, fresh from London, was dealt endless lion stories around the campfire by the bush old-timers, including the one about MJ and GOS’ first night together, when GOS had his foot mauled. Uber-romantic to the extent that it no doubt created the first of their lifelong bonds. No wonder Alice nearly had a heart attack when I stepped out of the tent to pee during the night, having just heard a hyena.   I had to reassure her the next morning that it was probably about 3km away.

A Room of One's Own

Who would have thought that one day I'd have a a place of my own in a big bad city like Johannesburg. Putting down some roots here is not a homecoming, but rather an aspiration of sorts. An aspiration of belonging. My search was long and thorough, and friends shake their heads in disbelief when they hear my property-viewing statistics. The building dates to the early 1970s and the second-floor corridor grants a view across the green blanket of the north-central suburbs towards Northcliff. The flat itself overlooks a horseshoe garden with trees, tall ones, scantily clad in winter attire, but promising impenetrable leaves in the rains. And there are birds: urban-escapee parrots, grey louries with chicks, tinker barbets and, some mornings, even guinea fowl.

The space is big enough for my spirit, yet small enough to belong. It gives me a sense of delight. There is light enough to inspire and capture the best of southern Africa’s sun, distilled for the highveld of the mining pioneers, the gold magnates and the wretched of the earth. The blinds on the tall windows hold and transform and shift and ebb and flow the light, so that it can be everything and nothing.

As for the residents, there hasn’t been much time for analysis yet -- a handful of younger owners and artsy tenants among a collection of Jewish sixty-pluses, with widely-varying degrees of friendliness. Other wildlife sightings include a plump white rabbit hopping along my road late one night, no doubt also returning from a social event. Another escapee? Might I stumble into its rabbit hole one day. There are yoga studios (my version of watering holes), no less than four, all close by, as well as all the other amenities that one might need.

I’ve been here nearly two years already. The anger, opportunism and inequality of Johannesburg has started to feel normal. The pages of violent crime relegated to the latter sections of the newspapers, or simply omitted. The ongoing labour strikes with demands for pay increases at double the rate of inflation. The way that white South Africans talk about ‘going to Africa’, as if it’s a different continent. The vigilante justice meted out to a petty thief that I witnessed the other night in Hillbrow whilst with some charity workers who do weekly rounds distributing food to the multiplicity of homeless. Despite the mixed reviews of The Bang Bang Club, which I saw on its opening night last week, it was an eye-opener about the nature of the horrific violence that presided during the last four years of apartheid, and a reminder of just how damaged this nation’s psyche must be.

So this is the unspoken backdrop against which a more mundane life of urban exploration unfolds: more visits to the farm stall in Kyalami; more south Indian dosas and uttapam at the Bryanston market; Gujurati delicacies in Mayfair; photography exhibits at the Goethe, Stevenson and Market Photo Workshop; the bourgeois taste of soya hot chocolate, still rare to South Africa; and the hamster wheel of career. All of it sewn together and mulled over here in this room of one’s own - indeed now attainable for the second sex, some eighty years after Woolf addressed the women of Newnham and Girton.

Comedians and High Heels in Lagos

If the average Nigerian church service takes 3 hours, it's no surprise that the entertainment show that I attended last night in Lagos started at 6pm and still wasn't anywhere near finished by 11.30. Nor did I realize that I was signing up to watch this production alongside no less than 5000 other people. Literally.

People streamed in for the first hour of the show…and continued to stream in for the second. More chairs were brought in. Staircases were filled. Health and Safety in Britain certainly wouldn’t have approved, but that is of little relevance because the comedians had the thousands-strong audience virtually comatose with laughter. Chairs shaking and thumping. Howling with mirth. Twas a huge pity my Pidgin wasn’t up to it. The general topics were, of course, the familiar friends of people across the continent: police violence; corruption; incompetent politicians; and a fair amount of demeaning commentary about women. All this was interspersed with dancing, lip syncing, more dancing, hotpants…and the 8-year old Nigerian version of Justin Bieber.

Other observations: there is no rhyme or reason to Nigerian fashion. The dresses and styles amongst the audience were allsorts. The take away messages from the Lagosian women were, rather: don’t be shy about your curves…and wear 5-inch heels as often as possible. And if you need to hop on the back of a motorbike in a miniskirt, just get on with it. I can safely say that I haven’t been to any other African country where such extensive exposure of skin appears to be considered pretty normal among the middle classes.

On attempting to leave, and having passed the Rolls Royce, the Hummer and the guy with the automatic rifle at the front door, we found that we’d been parked in. My initial suggestion to drive through the hotel flower bed was shunned, but not for long, once seven versions of an eight-point turn had failed. The flowers turned out more or less fine.

Back at the fancy hotel, I enjoy air-conditioning, running water and satellite television. My window is all steamed up on the outside with the Lagos humidity that I can’t feel on the inside because I’m so privileged, but two hundred metres away is a small shanty settlement. Motorbikes, dust, dirt, open fires, certainly no sanitation. A whole different world.

The average private property in this part of town apparently costs $3 million dollars. That’s Lagos square-metres for you. It must be virtually impossible for a young person, even a very well paid one, to get onto the property ladder. As for rental, you have to pay at least a year’s rent up front in advance, if not two. You’re likely to still have to commute 2 hours to work. One of my colleagues has to leave home at 5.15am if he wants to spend 20 - rather than 120 - minutes on the road.

Departure Day: Thankfully this time I didn’t travel Mugabe-style to the airport. We spent two and a quarter hours with broken air-con in heavy traffic and fumes. And once at the airport, we all queued for a single X-ray scanner, so that was another 90 minutes.

One of the security officials made an announcement to address the line’s quiet frustration:

Security official: “Someone died on Friday. …”.

Random passenger: “Bin Laden!”

Security official: “Ehee. Some people are happy! Some people are not happy! So just be patient while we do our jobs”.

And all were reasonably content and on we queued.

I did make it to the X-ray machine, eventually. I had tasty lentils-and-rice in my hand luggage, cooked, ready to eat and perfectly suited for an arduous journey. I suspected that the stern security woman was going to grill and detain me for carrying food, but instead she gave me a knowing look and an approving grunt, as if to say: yes, any sensible woman would naturally carry her own provisions with her. And that was the end of Lagos, at least for now.

Boats, Prisons and More of Accra

[No excuse for not having posted this earlier. It dates back to December.] Ghana’s apparent lack of heritage management in hot and humid Jamestown is kind of sad, but the by-product is that you get to construct your own tour, with the help (or lack of help) from whichever self-appointed tour guides who happen to cross your path. We started at the 19th century lighthouse where, for some obscure reason, photography from the outside is prohibited. I climbed up the now-rickety hardwood spiral steps for the view of the dilapidated sprawl below.


We spent the next hour weaving between muscular fishermen and their boats on the much-more-vibrant shoreline. The boats are extraordinary: the hulls are single pieces carved from entire tree trunks. The biggest was perhaps 15 metres long and over a metre in diameter. I repeatedly marveled at the size that these trees must have been, but I was informed that ‘in the village’ there were many such specimens. The boats are lovingly carved and painted on the outside: ‘There is Hope’ ‘Feed Your Self’ ‘God is Good’ ‘God is Able’ ‘God is Love’ ‘Thanks to God’ And others less godly: ‘Chelsea’, ‘Obama’, and more.




We continued to the Jamestown Fort Prison – a former slave house, and then prison until apparently just a decade ago. It is now empty and virtually none of its history captured for visitors. We found a lone 'guard' sleeping on a table near the entrance, which is about as much security as is needed nowadays, it seems. Said guard insisted that I part with about 7 dollars in exchange for temporarily interrupting his siesta, after which he resumed his pressing REM duties.


Notable prisoners include Nkrumah, and his cell is clearly marked. There are improvised hand-crafted hangers bound to the high-window bars and draping down the walls in a macabre fashion, on which the prisoners used to hang their food and other items, given space constraints and hygiene in the cells. The men’s and women’s sections were divided, and the women afforded better conditions, it seems.


Next on the cards was Makola Market which in this pre-Christmas period on a Saturday, was just completely crazy. We sat for ages in the traffic. Densely packed with people, goods, traders, and cars, it was quite something to behold. I bought fabric, some Ghanaian music (Daddy Lumba) recommended by my driver, and a fabulous collection of glass-bead bracelets and necklaces.


The penultimate stop of the day was the National Museum, another example of apparently no heritage management in years. Nevertheless, I enjoyed what it had to offer. Ghana’s material culture is incredibly rich: beautiful handwoven and printed fabrics each carrying a message and a name; carved wooden ceremonial masks and stools…not to mention a necklace made of some one hundred human teeth (molars, no less) from Congo which won my prize for the most eye-catching jewellery. We rounded my sightseeing with a quick stop on Osu ‘Oxford’ Street, before finally tucking into a much-needed meal of fried plantain, chicken, rice and fish stew at a suitably local joint.

Ghana's Cape Coast

What I really liked about Ghana and Senegal is that no one gave a toss that I was white – it is an entirely different experience from southern Africa. At the end of a busy work week in Accra, I arranged to travel to Cape Coast with a South African friend who happened to be conferencing in Ghana. We were to meet at Kaneshi station, Accra’s biggest transport hub and the ‘spare parts capital’ of west Africa, where it’s totally normal to eg. carry a car door down the road on one’s head.

We didn’t have a meeting landmark in advance, and given other experiences of third-world transport hubs, I had a feeling this was going to be an issue. We settled on meeting at ‘the’ bus stop for Cape Coast. Tom was held up in traffic and I waited in the sweltering lunchtime heat for about an hour, trying to squeeze under vendor umbrellas where possible, before being gently shooed away for obstructing trade. What I loved about this particularly hot hour is that no one cared that I was the only whitey around. Nor did anyone care that I was a tourist. Everyone just got on with their own business and left me to my own devices. Marvellous.

Needless to say, Tom and I both found ourselves at stops for Cape Coast…they just happened to be different ones. We eventually located each other among a sea of traders, stalls, produce, taxis, minivans etc, and boarded a relatively luxurious bus which was fully equipped with plastic seat covers (to save the seats from sweaty passengers), a video screen, and a preacher. As the driver revved the engine, the preacher shared with us a loud prayer, which I thought was quite a good idea, until it became obvious that he, like the bus, was just warming up. And, he announced, he would preach not only in Fanti but also in English (‘for the benefit of the whites’). The passengers joined in, increasingly heartily, with regular ‘amens’ and ‘thanks be’s, and I resigned myself to the fact to the three-and-a-half hour journey ahead.

Thankfully the preacher disembarked after about thirty minutes, not before taking a collection. We arrived in Cape Coast in the dark, and were met by the scent of slum, and a generous stranger who was an acquaintance of acquaintances of Tom’s. I’m not sure if ‘guesthouse’ would be quite the word to describe the first electricity-less accommodation stop we made - clearly getting bourgeois in my old age - but I was more inclined towards the rustic-backpacker-beach-cottage that we ended up in instead.

Our tour of the Cape Coast Castle, a slave-trading fortress built by the Swedish and later captured by the Danes and the English, was overwhelming. Visitors still lay wreaths in memory of the 2 million people who left the shores of Africa from this particular set of dungeons where, with 200 people packed into each 40 sq. metre cell, they were kept in the most inhumane circumstances imaginable. Meanwhile, a few metres above their heads, administrators worshipped in the fortress chapel, and the governor enjoyed an airy high-ceiling set of rooms overlooking the harbour. It is an extraordinary and shocking piece of history to witness. Obama visited here, and in addition to the more serious plaque at the castle, his face and name is inscribed on all things ranging from Tshirts to biscuit packaging to fishing boats.

On a lighter note, having felt race-less at Kaneshi, it was a bit different at the backpackers' lodge. My favourite ‘white’ moment in Cape Coast went as follows:

Bartender: So, where are you from?
Me: Zimbabwe.
Bartender: No!…you’re African?...no!
Me: Well, my mother’s family went to South Africa in 1820.
Bartender: And you’re STILL white?!