I have to be in Germany. I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere because I found myself right in the middle of Bavaria. Seriously. When you see these pictures, I dare you to tell me I’m NOT in Germany:

Then I went to dinner. Everyone was speaking German (or Afrikaans, which to my untrained ear sounds the same), beer was flowing, and the decor was straight out of some of the brauhauses I visited in Germany years ago.

I ordered up a draught and had a Bratwurst dinner, complete with mash & saurkraut.

As I was enjoying my dinner at the bar, I heard my name called. Wouldn’t you know it, but my increasingly good friend, Patrick, was having dinner at one of the tables. You may remember Patrick from Mauritius, who I’ve now run into in Livingstone, Zambia; Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe and Maun, Botswana. We can now add Swakopmund, Namibia. It was a good reunion yet again. Patrick is one of those folks you meet and just have a really good sense about him. He’s a straight-up bloke.

After dinner, he recommended that since I was new to town (having arrived a couple of hours earlier) I should stay at the backpackers at which he was staying. But by the time I got there around 11:00, reception was closed, so I ended up staying at another backpackers a couple blocks up the road.

A little more about Swakopmund:

According to Wikipedia, “The Herero called the place Otjozondjii. The name of the town is derived from the Nama word Tsoakhaub (“excrement opening”) because when the Swakop River floods, it carries items in its riverbed, including dead animals, into the Atlantic Ocean. However, Prof. Peter Raper, Honorary Professor: Linguistics, at the University of the Free State points out that the name for Swakopmund is based on the San language, namely from “xwaka” (rhinoceros) and “ob” (river). The German settlers changed it to Swachaub, and when in 1896 the district was officially proclaimed, the version Swakopmund (German: Mouth of the Swakop) was introduced.”

The heavy German influence comes because Namibia (formerly known as South West Africa), was a German territory. The influence is seen and felt throughout the country, but it is very strong in Swakop.

One of my favorite TV shows, The Amazing Race, was here in Swakop last year. One of the challenges was to find a classified ad in one of the local German language newspapers in a local bookstore, Swakopmunder Buchhandlung. It was fun to be on one of their locations.

After our second day in Etosha, Giulia and I made our way out of the park and found a place to stay in Tsumeb, a quiet little town to the east of Etosha.

The next morning, I dropped Giulia off at the local bus rank, and she was off to a small town in northwest Etosha to spend a few days with a local tribe there.

I headed southwest toward Swakopmund, the second largest city in Namibia. I had heard so much about the Skeleton Coast, I really wanted to catch at least a portion of it on my way to Swakop. So instead of taking the main highway to Swakop, I cut off from the tar road and made my way to a small town on the Skeleton Coast north of Swakop named Hentiesbaii. The highway to get there was 122 kilometers (75 miles) of groomed dirt road. In the hour or so I drove the road, I passed no one. The flat, arid environment made me hope I would not be stranded out there if my car broke down.

A whole lotta nothing on my way to the Skeleton Coast

I finally emerged from the desert and arrived on the famous Skeleton Coast. This stretch of highway is one of the most remote routes in the world. The road at this point is made of salt, which made for a smoother driving surface than the dirt road I had just been traveling, though travel resources I had read said that in rain or dense fog, the salt road can be as slippery as driving on ice. Fortunately, it was a bright, clear day for me.

The Skeleton Coast gets its name from the high number of whale skeletons that were found along the coast when it was first discovered by Europeans many years ago. It’s moniker has been enhanced as many ships have ended up being wrecked on the coast due to its dense fog and dangerous currents and shoreline.

Per HeniesBayTourism.com, “The Skeleton Coast is one of the most treacherous coastlines in the world due to strong crosscurrents, heavy swells and dense fogs caused by the ice-cold fast-flowing Benguela Current. Rocky reefs and sand dunes that stretch into the sea spell disaster for any vessel that get caught up in the gale-force winds and all-enveloping sea fogs, reducing visibility to virtually nil.”

I had the opportunity to see one of the wrecks as I was driving from Hentiesbaii to Swakop. The Zeila is only 50 yards from the shoreline, but has been languishing there since it wrecked eight years ago in 2008.

When I was in Tsumeb, I stopped at a convenience store and discovered an energy drink called “Skull”. What better way to celebrate my arrival on the Skeleton Coast?

I eventually got to Swakopmund just as the sun was setting, a long day now in my rear view mirror.

Money is an interesting thing here in Africa. Each country has its own currency. Well, almost every country.

Zimbabwe has the unique distinction of using the American dollar as its official currency. That’s right. The US Mint prints money for the government of Zimbabwe as well.

Back in 2008, Zimbabwe’s economy was so mismanaged by Robert Mugabe and his buddies, inflation began to spiral out of control. In fact, it got so bad so rapidly that people needed wheelbarrows of cash to buy a loaf of bread. Same phenomenon as what happened in Germany in the 1920s.

The Zimbabwean mint tried to keep up with the hyperinflation by repeatedly printing new denominations of bills. They finally gave up after their 100 Trillion Dollar note was rendered worthless (their unit of currency was also called the “dollar”). In fact, one can still purchase an authentic, discontinued 100 trillion dollar note on the street from enterprising street vendors.

The US dollar is also the preferred coin of the realm throughout Africa. Vendors will always want to take the greenback over their local currency. The reason? Similar to Zimbabwe, African currencies tend to be volatile (usually not to the degree of Mr. Mugabe’s blunder, but volatile nonetheless). By taking US dollars, the vendor can rest assured that he will not run the risk of losing value.

Another curious discovery. Remember the much-maligned US two dollar bill? It’s alive and well here in Africa. It’s shown up a number of times in my travels.

For those too young to remember, the two dollar bill was introduced in 1976 to much fanfare. The US Mint advertised that it would help streamline cash transactions by reducing reliance on the one dollar bill. The new issue quickly went the way of the dodo bird (which by the way, my friend Patrick from Mauritius said was exclusively indigenous to the island of Mauritius before it was hunted to extinction). The reason for the two dollar bill’s demise? Retailers hated it because their cash register drawers do not have a space for a two dollar bill. Ones, fives, tens and twenties, but no one was going to completely redesign the cash register for this new bill. Fifties and hundreds could go under the tray, but to do it for twos was too much hassle.

While still considered legal tender, the two dollar bill is virtually extinct in the US (except for collectors). Not so in Africa.

African currencies (at least the ones I’ve encountered) almost always have a depiction of some sort of an animal on the different denominations as well as a picture of a founding father (Mandela in South Africa, Sam Nujoma in Namibia – similar to the US and George Washington).

The currencies I’ve encountered on my trip:

Tanzania – Shilling (a holdover from the days of British rule)
Rwanda – Franc (likewise the days of French occupation)
Zambia – Kwacha
Zimbabwe – Dollar (previously Zimbabwean, now American)
Botswana – Pula
Namibia – Dollar (their own currency, but it’s tied to the Rand, so I’ve gotten a great exchange rate here too)
South Africa – Rand (though their currency has taken a beating recently due to economic mismanagement by Jacob Zuma, I’ve gotten a fantastic exchange rate while here)

Etosha is one of Africa’s greatest game reserves. Located in the northern part of Namibia, it encompasses 8,600 square miles (roughly the size of New Jersey) and is home to the Big 5 (elephant, rhino, lion, leopard & water buffalo) as well as a variety of other animal species.

The Etosha Pan is the main geographic highlight and is a vast depression in the center of the park. While dry most of the year, it will fill to a couple of inches during rainy season, when a couple of rivers deposit their contents into the vast depression.

Giulia and I arrived late after our long drive, and made preparations to spend two days driving the park. Our first day was to be spent driving the western loop and the second day would be spent driving the eastern part of the park.

During our two days of driving, we encountered the following members of the Wild Kingdom:

Elephant (with zebra and oryx bonus)

Giraffe

Lion

Zebra

Ostrich (with Oryx bonus)

Oryx

Springbok

Wildebeest (also know as Gnu)

Animals have the right of way in Etosha

And for good measure, let’s just throw a bunch of animals into the same pan

Unfortunately, we did not have the luck to see any rhino, leopard, or cheetah – three of the species of which I was hoping to catch a peek. As visitors must stay on the roads in the park, there is a vast amount of territory where the animals can roam in obscurity. Whether one sees these animals comes down to just pure luck.

After our first day touring the park, Giulia and I paid a visit to the home of the bartender of the lodge at which we were staying. Kosmos is a member of the local Bushman tribe, and as such, his people live in Etosha, a concession provided by the Namibian government because the Bushmen have lived in Etosha for many centuries.

Giulia and I were not sure exactly where Kosmos lived, but it turned out to be very easy to find him as he is the only person in the area with that name. Ask anyone in or around the park, and they all know Kosmos.

We arrived late in the afternoon to find him in front of his home, with the neighborhood kids all running up to our car. We were quite the novelty for the day. Kosmos introduced us to his two beautiful daughters, and then Giulia spent the next hour photographing the kids while Kosmos and I talked about any number of things.

The kids were fascinated with Giulia’s and my cameras, which we would hand to them to take their own pictures (thank God for the economies afforded through digital photos). The kids were natural subjects, comfortably striking poses for us whenever the camera trained its lens on them.

While we were disappointed with the variety of animals available to us on our trip, Kosmos and his tribe certainly made up for it.

While at Chameleon Backpackers in Windhoek, I had the pleasure of getting to know Giulia, a Sicilian who owns her own travel company. She was on a trip around Africa to see the sights, but more importantly, to get to know the local people.

She will spend some time in hostels but prefers to stay in locals’ villages, getting to know the people and their culture.

She had been considering going to Etosha National Park in the north part of Namibia, but unless you have a car, it’s difficult to a) get up there, and b) get around in the park. When she found out I was renting a car to go to Etosha, she asked if she could join me, and I was happy to have the company.

After picking up the rental car, we were off on our five hour drive to see the animals. As Namibia (and the vast majority of Africa) are right hand drive, it was a bit of an adventure getting used to driving on the left side of the road. Combine that with the manual transmission in the car, and I’ve had to reprogram everything that’s in my nature when it comes to driving.

Giulia and I stayed outside the park the first two nights – it was a little cheaper and we were able to stay in our preferred accommodations – she in a tent and me in a tent-cabin. My tent-cabin was a very cool place, complete with an outdoor toilet and shower.

Shower on the left, toilet on the right – both outside  

Because Giulia is so outgoing, we were friends with the staff In no time, especially a gentleman  named Kosmos, who was the bartender at the lodge. He had an infectious smile and twinkle in his eye.  Giulia and I looked forward to getting to know him better.

One evening I visited a popular bar located about two blocks from Chameleon Backpackers. It’s a cool place called the Warehouse, and it features live music and cheap beer.

On a Friday night, I visited the establishment, and when entering, I noticed a poster advertising a “Speed Dating” night the following night. I’ve never been to a speed dating event before, but thought that it would be fun to go and meet locals in a unique environment.

The next night I showed up, paid my admittance fee and proceeded to have a fun and interesting evening.

The event was set up so that twenty women sat at twenty small cocktail tables. The men moved from one station to another at the sound of a whistle when three minutes was up. While there was a list of recommended questions for the shyer folks of the group, I was able to hold my own in getting to know these twenty women.

To be fair, I made it clear to each woman that I was an American passing through on holiday, but I still had some very nice (but brief) conversations with a number of them.

It turned out that there was a huge shortage of men, and the event was delayed while the women present were encouraged to call male friends of theirs to persuade them to come to the shindig. The event started about an hour-and-a-half late, but we were able to get a quorum of men and then the event commenced.

Problem was, there were forty women signed up, so we ended having the men do two rounds. The event ended about three hours later than planned, but I had a wonderful time and met some very nice women.

There was also a reporter for The Namibian, the nation’s premier newspaper who attended the event. She writes for the weekend section and had a number of interesting observations about the event, her first experience of something like this. I had a chance to get to know her a little better (beyond the three minute time limit) after the event, as she is friends with some of the people I hit it off with.

Her column came out about a week after the event, but wouldn’t you know it, yours truly got a mention:

 

After settling into Windhoek, I reached out to the orphanage’s soccer team organizer to schedule a delivery of soccer balls. You may remember when I was in Zambia, two new friends, Ed and Matt, were distributing these balls in every city they visited on their trip through Africa.

Ed had raised funds from benefactors in London for the purchase of the balls, and he had brought over 100 balls to distribute to about 10 different orphanages. Earlier they had been in Windhoek, but had been unable to get the balls to the orphanage, and so left them at the hostel expecting to come back and see the kids. Their plan to come back to Namibia fell through when they decided to see the Africa Cup final match in Rwanda.

When they found out that I was planning on coming through Windhoek, they asked if I could deliver the balls to the orphanage. I was honored to have been asked.

I established contact with the soccer organizer, Peacemaker (and yes, that is his given name), and we agreed that I would come visit the orphanage on the next day. Peacemaker picked me up, and we made out way across town to the orphanage, which is located in a township that is pretty much a shantytown.

I was greeted by Greg and Sandra, two local people who have dedicated their lives to making sure the orphans get at least one good meal a day. While technically it’s a soup kitchen, they hope to expand the operation to become a refuge for kids to sleep instead of wandering the streets.

I pumped up the balls and handed out the 13 orbs to some of the kids, who were very excited to have something new to play with. Per a promise made to Ed so he could show his benefactors, I took a picture with the kids and their new balls.

They then assembled in the main room and sang me a few songs, mostly with a Christian theme.

The kids are orphans for two main reasons: either their parents have both died of disease, usually HIV, or the kids have been abandoned. It’s an awful situation for these innocents. They do, however, go to school, as mandated by the Namibian government.

It was then lunchtime, and the kids assembled around some large buckets and began washing their hands in the soapy water. I was privileged to help distribute meals to the kids. According to Peacemaker, up to 400 kids show up at the Home of Good Hope for a meal, which the day I was there consisted of a slice of bread with a small ladle of stew on top. The kids were very grateful to even have that.

As I handed the plates out to the kids ages 3 to 18 sitting on benches in the room of the soup kitchen, so many of them would look me in the eye and say, “Thank you”. They were precious.

After a couple of hours, I said goodbye to everyone, and Peacemaker and I stopped at a lodge that is run by battered women. These brave women are learning to make a living on their own and have received support from the Peace Corp in their efforts. Peacemaker and I drank a Coke overlooking a lake next to the lodge.

Peacemaker and yours truly.

Peacemaker drove me back to my hostel afterwards. When I had a quiet moment to reflect on my day, I quietly sobbed thinking about those wonderful kids I met, many of whom had happy, carefree dispositions and outlooks while they have absolutely nothing but the shirt on their back. The experience really brought so much into focus for me, and I thank God for my many blessings, especially my wonderful parents.

By the time I rose in the morning at Eastside Rest Camp, a fine layer of dust coated everything in the room (including yours truly) from the previous night’s sandstorm. Part of the adventure, eh?

I had arranged for a shared taxi to get me the 320 kilometers to Windhoek, and the car had arrived early. Levi, the manager of the Rest Camp and the gentleman who had set up the ride-share, knocked on my door early and said, “Your ride is here!” I had to scramble to get dressed and out of there.

Valentino had four other people in the back seat and we immediately headed off for the hour’s ride to Gobabis, a quaint, clean town on the way to Windhoek. Once in Gobabis, I had to change to another driver’s car – the previous one only went as far as Gobabis.

I got into the car with an elderly couple and we were once again on the road to Windhoek. We arrived in the capital of Windhoek, and the car dropped off the elderly couple, who were on their way to the hospital. As they did not seem to be in distress, it was probably for tests of some sort.

I was then dropped off at my backpackers’ hostel. I spent the rest of the day at a nearby shopping mall looking for an air pump to fill soccer balls. I had agreed to help some friends I met at Jollyboys in Livingstone to deliver some soccer balls to a local orphanage.

I found a pump and made arrangements to deliver the balls the following day.

In the morning, I immediately called KB and got a ride to the Bus Rank in town so I could jump on another westward bus. KB is a wonderfully nice, honest gentleman. We hit it off wonderfully, had a number of interesting chats. In the end we exchanged emails.

I climbed aboard the Charles Hill (the name of the farthest western town in Botswana on the way to Windhoek) bus and then waited for two hours until the 1:00 departure time. After all, everything (including myself) operates on Africa time here. I wanted to get in early so I could get a window seat. Important since that allows me some comfort when I nap. As usual, I was the only white person on the bus.

Five hours later, I was in Charles Hill, basically a gas station at a crossroads in the middle of an extremely hot, barren expanse of the Kalahari. The gas station was about eight kilometers from the border. When I got off the bus and asked the driver if there was a shuttle to the border, he said, “No. You can walk.”

I would have walked it earlier in the day, but with less than an hour of daylight, I didn’t want to be hoofing it to the border along a barren stretch of highway after dark.

I asked around the gas station and found someone who was going in that direction (just to the border), so I hitched a ride. When John, my insta-shuttle driver’s name, dropped me off, I gave him 40 Pula against his protestations. My excuse: what else am I going to do with it (since I was leaving Botswana anyway)? He was very appreciative.

I walked to the Botswanan border post and exited immigration.

Then another kilometer’s walk toward the Namibian border post, (where I got to see the official countries’ border line and the designation of the Trans-Kalahari Highway dedication monument), and I had my passport stamped for entry.

I hiked an additional half-kilometer to a very nice guesthouse called the Eastside Rest Camp. They had room for me, a tent-cabin with concrete walls and a canvas top.

All over the Rest Camp there were large beautiful moths endemic to the area. The pattern on their wings looks like eyes and have evolved to fool potential predators into thinking they are a much larger animal, and thus, not to be trifled with.

After a great dinner, I retired for the night in a loud, windy sandstorm.

 

While on my final night at Elephant Sands, I got to know the owner’s son in law, a heavy, gray haired man named Willem. He spoke with a think Afrikaans accent, even though he is a Botswanan native.

We spent the wee hours of the light drinking beer and talking about life in Botswana and his perspective on the world. Willem chain smoked the entire night, opening beer after beer, and pulling beers out of the bar’s fridge for me as well.

He asked what my plans were, and I told him I was on my way to Windhoek, Namibia the following day. He replied, “My father-in-law and I are going camping in Swakupmund and we leave tomorrow. Come camping with us. You’ll get a free ride over there!” I could hardly turn that offer down, so I agreed. Willem told me that they would be heading out around noon or 1:00 the following day.

I turned in for the night (or, morning, as it was now 2:30 am), and fell into an immediate drunken stupor, having been plied with too much beer by Willem

I woke at 10:00, showered and arrived at the front desk, ready for my journey. According to the woman at the front desk, Willem and Ben were still packing, so I settled in for a wait on the viewing deck, watching the elephants come and go to the watering hole.

Around 1:00, I checked in again and was advised that the guys were still packing. I idled for another couple hours until the owner, Mike, came up to me and said, “Why are you still here?” I replied that I was waiting for Willem to finish packing. Mike then said, “My friend, they already left without you.” When I told him that Willem had promised me a number of times the previous night that he would include me in his trip, Mike said, “My friend, never trust a drunk man.”

I learned that lesson a long time ago, and had already made alternate plans in the event Willem flaked on me. Mike and I had a good laugh, and then I hitched a ride with his wife, who was heading the two and a half hours to Francistown for provisions for the resort. She dropped me off at Nata, a thirty minute drive south of Elephant Sands, at which point she continued east and I picked up a westward bound public bus to Maun.

The coach was sitting in a gas station parking lot with a sign reading “Maun” in the front window. I climbed aboard, found a seat and for 68 Pula (about $6.00 US) was on my way the four hours to Maun.

I arrived in Maun just before sunset and was solicited by a very nice taxi driver named KB. He took me to the Senthaga Guesthouse, a nice, clean, well-run establishment. The girl behind the desk showed me to my room and said goodnight by giving me a hug. That was a first for me in the world of the hospitality industry.

A backpacker lodge named “The Old Bridge” was booked for the night, but I called KB and he took me over there anyway so I could check out the social scene. The place was full of loud, boisterous people, and I ended up running into Patrick, the Mauritian gentleman that Sarah and I had earlier run into in Zimbabwe.

It was a nice reunion. Patrick is a good-looking guy with a bald pate, a clean shaven beard and a twinkle in his eye. His accent sounds British, but he is African. He had continued south through Zimbabwe after we parted ways and I followed a more westerly route.

One of the fantastic things about backpacking is you never know who you will run into again.

We had a great chance to catch up, and by the end of the night we fully expected to run into each other again in Namibia (though we made no formal plans).

I called my new, dear friend KB for a ride back to Senthaga and a well deserved night of sleep.