With my visa documents handed in, and email assurances and reassurances that they have been sent to the Home Office from an increasingly careworn though not unkind agent in Windhoek, I have been able to start my second reconnaissance mission into the North, and my three field sites. I quite enjoy the long drives, really. I meticulously pack up my stuff from my recent home, tidy the back of the pickup, fast becoming something of a snail or tortoise shell to me, and plan the driving of the day ahead. It’s much nicer now I’ve made the executive decision to take my driving easy from now on in, having run two experiments that were both dismal failures last time I was in the North.
My first mistake was to take advantage of the lack of livestock on the road south of the veterinary cordon fence and blast my way from there all the way down to Tsumeb at 140kph. I thought that the reduced amount of time spent on the road would make up for increased fuel consumption while driving. This is not the case, and meant that my driving was both expensive and stressful. My second mistake was to drive from Tsumeb back to Windhoek for five hours on a Sunday, hungover from a party and with no shops open to sell me a morsel of food. I have officially redefined what “irritable” means after being cut up by a taxi after four hours of nothing but gas station energy drink for sustenance and thirty-five degree heat.
My drive back up, by comparison, was a dream. I cruised up, stopping every hour or so in one of the many rest stops under trees at the roadside to sip from the flask of coffee I had thoughtfully remembered to bring. It was hampered only by my slight anxiety about finding a room in Tsumeb. I wanted to stay in the same place I spent my birthday just a few weeks beforehand, but phoning in the morning I was told it was fully booked up. They said they’d keep an eye out for cancellations, and gave me the number of another hotel. They were also fully booked, but didn’t give me the numbers of anyone else. I’d run out of places I knew in Tsumeb, and resolved to head on up to see what on earth was causing the rush just as the tourist season is winding down.
It turns out that my being hungover on the drive down, or at least the reason for it, was incredibly helpful. I’d attended a party the Saturday night with the owner of the hotel in question, and bought him an awful lot of drinks. Upon arrival at the hotel (dropping in in person always seems to help) I of course asked for him by name, which got me a bit of an odd look from the receptionist, who asked how I knew him. I told the tale of our partying escapade, and she resolved to phone every booking that had not yet turned up to check in to see if they were turning up that night. I, meanwhile, found numbers for every place to stay in Tsumeb and rang most of them. All were booked out, with nary a room at any inn within ten kilometres. I appreciate a good historical reference as much as the next man, but this one was a good six weeks too early, and I am almost definitely not pregnant.
The last person she could have phoned, it turned out, was not coming that night, and I was saved from a night wild camping next to the road somewhere, the legality of which I am unsure of. Needless to say I left enough of a tip with the reception staff to buy all of them a drink or two.
The hotel, incidentally, is the Makalani, and I thoroughly recommend it for N$450 (€30) a night and the most helpful staff I have ever met. The owner also knows his way around Tsumeb’s nightlife, to which I can attest with enthusiasm.
Tsumeb, despite being an adventure in its own way, was simply a stopping point on the way up to the Hai||om settlement on a resettlement farm at a place called Mangetti, named after the Mangetti nuts (|Gom) that grow on the trees (|Gom hais) around there. I’d been there before. It was the field site of my supervisor when he studied his PhD, and everyone there knew him well. The last time I went, however, I looked incredibly different (curly mop, beard, and about twice as big) so I did not expect them to remember me. How wrong I turned out to be. Smiles of recognition all round from everyone there, and words to the effect that they were wondering when I would be back. It is as at home as I felt with my hosts in Brakwater, and I am looking forward immensely to doing research there. As before when I was at Ekoka, I wrote field notes, and what follows are some excepts of my impressions of the place.
Wednesday 12th November 2014
So it turns out that this is something of a flying visit. I lost, or forgot to write down, [The chap who owns a campsite in a nearby town and who has offered to provide me with an employee of his to do translation]’s number, so on this trip I just had to turn up at [his site] and hope he was there. He wasn’t, but I had my second stroke of luck in two days in meeting the owner’s second-in-command, a !Kung guy who was the person he recommended for translation for me. We sat and had a chat, and it looks like he knows or is related to almost everyone on the farm. He was free the next day to head up there for a day and a night. I greeted him in Khoekhoe, which seemed to go down well. For last night, he gave me a spot on the site to camp, complete with flushing toilet and actual shower. I was pretty pleased with this.
Incidentally, upon waking in the morning I also found the biggest millipede I have ever seen.
My new translator was free at ten thirty and we proceeded on our way to the farm. I have no idea how, but I remembered the way completely, having been there only once. No pointers or map consultation needed. My translator was surprised, as was I, although I didn’t tell him that.
I’m sitting in the car writing this now because the rain is absolutely intense. I’ve never seen anything like it here. Sure, a shower of rain that comes down I can deal with here, but squalls coupled with tropical blattering is something else. I keep checking the tents through the steamy car window. Not much I can do about them right now, but I hope they will be alright. This sort of reminds me of home. It’s impossible to do a single thing outside right now without getting soaked to the skin. It seems to be slowing down just now and the wind might be dropping. I hope that’s the last of it. Let me go and check the tents. They seem okay. Wouldn’t want a night of it, though.
I didn’t expect anyone here to remember me, particularly as I’ve changed so much in the intervening time, but it turns out that either the people here have great memories for faces or hats. I was wearing the same leather wide-brimmed hat as I was last time, which is how I think the school principal here recognised me, anyway. So many people who I remember from last time have come up to me and asked how I have been. I’m honestly touched. Someone even said they’d heard rumours I was back in Namibia and was wondering when I’d turned up. I wish I was staying longer.
I managed to find the new headman (the old one passed away a few months ago, I was sorry to hear), and I was happy to see it was a chap I’d got friendly with last time. He took me for a walk around the farm in March, and stopped me from unthinkingly treading on a very poisonous snake. I may well owe this man my life. His smile was broad and warm as he shook my hand. He joined us at our camp for a cup of tea and a pinch of tobacco, and I asked him whether it would be alright to do my research here, and to conduct a task I had been set by the Legal Assistance Centre in Windhoek; a happy “yes” on both counts, which I now understand in Khoekhoe.
The task I had been set was to follow up a signature-gathering trip on a case the LAC are working on, to ask folk whether they signed it, and whether they knew what they were signing. I had a list of a few people of interest to talk to, and the headman agreed to help me locate them.
The third woman I spoke to was incredibly frustrated with the lack of progress that all outside institutions are making when they try to make life better for people at the farm. I asked what the problems are.
“We are under a lot of pressure. The Owambos fence us in from one side (she points) and the farm to the other. We cannot hunt. We are like goats in a kraal. Many cars come and they say “we can get you somewhere to stay”, but it is just empty promises. It is like they are playing a game.”
“This is really important information” I said “and thank you for sharing it, I will pass it on.”
“Sorry, that must sound like another empty promise”
She laughed at that. We’re taking one of her friends to the government office in Tsinsabis tomorrow so he can pick up his disability cheque. It’s some of the little money coming into this village.
We later talked to the headman, as afternoon turned to evening underneath that same Mangetti tree.
“Hunting stopped in 2008,” he said “everything [the woman] said was true.”
My translator lamented the situation; he misses hunting.
“It’s in my blood,” he points to the veins in his arm, “it’s part of me”
I said that in March I saw a man head off into the bush with a bow, and asked if hunting still went on after the ban. I didn’t get a straight answer, nor really did I expect to. It’s my job to ask, but I wouldn’t tell me either.
The last thing we talked about was the approaching storm clouds, a seemingly appropriate metaphor for the increasing problems the Hai||om seem to be facing here. We packed up, and the headman returned home. My translator left to visit a friend, and I sat in the car to start writing.
Burnt my thumb quite badly just now trying to light the stove. It must have got wet in the rain. No tea.
As for now, I sit in a B&B in the northern town of Ondangwa. I should be heading tomorrow for Ekoka and two weeks of camping at another San settlement. I can hear wind outside even now, and while I got more than my fair share of rain at Mangetti it seems not to have found its way here yet. Maybe we will get some tonight and it will be cooler tomorrow. I can but hope. The B&B is nice, and has intermittent Wi-Fi. I hope this will post alright. I’ll probably have a connection again in a fortnight or so.
For now, Tschuß!