Day 8. Namibia - Grunau
This morning we could actually see the dam by day, something which was quite hard to see last night.
The camping spot really was beautiful and peaceful, except when
in the morning, workmen started construction. There is
nothing worse than being dragged out of a blissful sleep by loud
noises.
After breakfast, we waved goodbye to our German friends (who
looked like they would be staying on another night) and set off
again. This time our first port of call would be Springbok,
some 180km south of Vioolsdrift and the Namibian border.
We made good time; the terrain became more barren, short brown
grasslands replaced by stony hills. The air too, was getting
drier and our dry air barometer (our nose) started producing
crusties. The bare and uninspiring surroundings stretched for
hours. The odometer clicked over, kilometre by kilometre, the
fuel gauge dropped little by little, the mouth become dry, but the
foot on the accelerator stayed still. We pushed on.
It was a warm day and if it had not been for the air
conditioner, we would have been not only tired but also
dehydrated.
We arrived in Springbok shortly before 2pm, our fuel was low,
both in the car and in our bellies. First, let's take care of
the car. I pulled into the first service station in town, the
lady started pumping and luckily I asked if she accepts credit
cards. She said no. Hell, what now? I instructed
her to stop pouring while I searched my pockets for cash to cover
the already dispensed diesel. I had enough to cover the 20L
already in the tank. Further up the road we found a station
that accepted cards - we filled up one reserve canister as
well. I gave the man my card; he looked at it then walked
away to process at the EFTPOS terminal.
He came back and didn't look too happy. "It needs a pin
number", he said - oh great. What now? After a number
of tries it turned out that they accept VISA, but only VISA debit
cards. I didn't have any spare cash so I asked the guy to
point me to the first available ATM - luckily there was one which
accepted my cards and we were safe again.
Now we tended to the human hunger. Springbok is a very
small town, I guess we both expected a little more in the way of
restaurants, but realistically one can't expect much from a town
clinging to a main highway in the middle of nowhere. We did
find a restaurant which filled that hungry spot, it wasn't the best
but it would have to do. Back in Cape Town we had bought some
potatoes and now we were thinking that perhaps it would be great if
we could bake those potatoes in the fire later tonight. We
asked the waitress if she could get us about 30cm of aluminium
foil. She replied that we would have to check with the
boss. I approached the boss while Ann-Marie went to the
restroom.
The boss, a white man of Dutch descent, sat in the centre of the
eating hall, monitoring everything that happened. Up above
him a large sword, the heads of animals he's slaughtered, and all
sorts of other trinkets surrounding his cubicle. I asked
again about the foil. He yelled out something to the staff
and a woman came running up with two rolls of aluminium foil.
He yelled again, "hurry up woman, open it" - I could see that this
older lady was quite distressed by taking orders from this easily
enraged megalomaniac. She tore off the requested amount and
ran back into the kitchen.
In the end I felt sorry for asking given the drama the woman had
to put up with. It would have been easier spending 20 Rand
for a roll of my own foil. Rage, inequality and superiority
of the whites are still evident when you drive further away from
larger cities.
Perhaps I should have told the guy to stop yelling at the woman,
put him in his place, but in my own defence, I had this woman's
interests at heart. Had I spoken up and publicly embarrassed
the big white boss, what's to say that she would still be in the
job tomorrow? It's easy for us to judge by our western
standards and ways of life, but we are in this small town for an
hour at most, tomorrow we'll be somewhere else. She has to
live with the consequences.
When we got back into the car I told Ann-Marie what had happened
with the lady and foil. She reacted quite strongly and I'm
sure, had she been by my side during this whole episode the boss
would have gotten a good talking to. I admire her strong
& unwavering convictions but in this case it may have done the
poor waitress a disservice.
On the way out of town we stopped by and bought firewood as well
as some fire-starters. The wet wood wouldn't beat me two nights in
a row. Two hours later we were close to the Namibian border. The
sun was setting and we both knew that we'd be pitching the tent at
night once again.
Seeing that border sign really put us both in good spirits. We
approached the crossing slowly, the last thing we needed was
speeding ticket a few hundred meters from the border.
The South African border crossing is a bit weird, first you
enter Room 1, where you fill out a little card and they record your
passport details on the computer. Then you are asked to go to
Room 2, where they take out the small piece of paper Room 1 placed
in the passport and ask you to go to Room 3. In Room 3 you are
asked if you have anything to declare, upon answering no, they all
go back to doing what they were before you arrived and you're left
standing there thinking if there is a Room 4. My eyes searched the
room for clues as to the next step; Ann-Marie and I were puzzled.
In the end I had to ask - what now, is there anything else, can we
go?
And so it was, we were rejoicing because we thought we'd just
cleared immigration into Namibia, of course anyone could have made
the same mistake, particularly when greeted with a Welcome to
Namibia sign. Some 5 km later we arrived at the Namibian
border crossing.
As we pulled in closer to the border, the Namibian guards waved
us into a car bay next to a small office. We grabbed our
passports and walked inside the structure. There were some twenty
people waiting in line, all looking quite aggravated. Some
people were filling in small white forms, so we did the same.
Soon, the line shortened and we were next.
I put down both passports on the desk and passed them to the
official. "One at a time!", she said abruptly. This
introduction set the tone for the rest of our immigration
experience. No please, no smile, just barking orders.
She pulled out the white card from my passport and asked where I'd
be staying. I explained that we are camping, our tent is on
the roof of a car and if we get tired we'll pull over somewhere and
camp. This only caused more problems, all lines of
communication shut down. She sat there not saying a
word. No matter what I said it wasn't good enough.
Obviously they must have hundreds of people in similar vehicles as
us who probably say the same. Ann-Marie had a good idea and
walked up to a pamphlet stand where she pulled out a hotel resort
by random. We copied the address onto our forms and presented
them to her again.
She looked at us both and processed the visas. It's quite
silly really - the resort was some two days driving away and she
must have known that it was a bogus address. To the side of
the immigration counter there was a guest book. Ann-Marie
read through some of the entries and the large majority said that
the immigration experience was unacceptable, problematic and
completely adverse to promoting tourism in Namibia. Someone
even said, why can't the Namibian immigration be as easy as that of
South Africa.
Now off to Room 2 on the Namibian side. Here we had to pay
for the road tax on the car, again we were unprepared at the amount
we would need, and we were short. The only currencies they
would take were South African Rand or Namibian Dollar. I
didn't have either.
Leaving our passports with the immigration staff, we jumped into
the car and proceeded towards the first petrol station. Both
ATM's rejected my cards. What now? My emergency stash
of foreign currency... I pulled out a EUR 20 note and walked over
to someone who might be able to change it. A guy who was
running a tour bus had a hefty wad on him and he made a good
profit. I wasn't in a position to negotiate. With the
cash in my hand we drove back to get the road tax certificate.
Back in Room 2, I counted out the money, but the only thing I
could find were Botswana Pula - no way!? Ann-Marie and I
looked at each other and thought the same, did the guy just rip us
off and give us Botswana Pula instead of South African Rand; and in
our haste all we saw was the 200 but didn't even check the country
of origin. That was it; we were both tired, depressed and
demoralized - not only by the bureaucracy but also by the
immigration official's unfriendly nature.
We stood there at the desk explaining that the Botswana Pula is
actually stronger than the Namibian Dollar. Discussing
currency exchange rates with a road tax collection officer is a
futile exercise at the best of times. In the end she called a
supervisor who confirmed my initial statement about the value of
the Pula. We got the certificate plus change, paid in
Namibian dollars.
We climbed back into the car, completely emotionally drained, we
still had a lot of driving ahead of us in the dark. As I put
on my seat belt I noticed that I'd left the 200 Rand the guy
exchanged for me lying by the gear stick. At least we didn't
get ripped off, that's one saving glory. I must have had the
200 Pula in my pocket from when I was working in Botswana. We
both laughed at the stupidity of the situation and at losing two
hours at the Namibian border; we still need to push on.
After an hour on the road we arrived at the small town of
Grünau, on the junction between the B1 and C12 (which would take us
closer to Lüderitz). It's hard to get your bearings and judge
what a place would be like to pitch a tent at night, but we were
lucky this time once again, we found a nice caravan/camp site just
off the main road.
The tent is getting easier to put up with each iteration and
we've got a routine going whereby everything is ready, including
stove, within 10 minutes.
The fire burnt brightly, and as our eyes danced along with the
hypnotizing flames we relaxed with a glass of that South African
wine we'd picked up in Stellenbosch. Our first night on
Namibian soil.