Namibia: Ship Fever/Been There, Dune That

Sometimes memorable days are quite empty of content. I had read in history books about ship fever, when entire shiploads of immigrants would be struck with cholera, and arrive in a port with three quarters of the souls having been tossed over the side swathed in a sheet, having succumbed to an illness that swept through the close quarters of a confined population. About ten days ago, a virus struck our ship, upper respiratory in nature, with low grade fever, congestion, and a wicked cough. Despite the efforts of our crew to wipe down every possible surface with disinfectant, most of us were tackled. First one person went down, then another, then another---watching the virus spread was like watching the train from Port Jefferson come into Huntington Station, slowly, inexorably, at a stately pace, right to the edges of your feet. First I keeled over, and then Jo, right before we landed in Namibia. It wasn’t an ideal way to start a three-day African adventure, with chills and aches and a cough that started from the bottom of your heels. We’d booked a bed and breakfast in Walvis Bay, however, and decided to go ahead and get off the ship. Since we were both sick, neither of us had to pretend to be feeling up to anything but collapse.

Our bed and breakfast, The Spindrift, was located on the other side of town. Our host, Liz, showed us to our spacious, airy quarters. All the windows and doors were open, and white voile curtains from all sides billowed into the room. A sweet, stupid black lab named Thor nosed around, coming in and out, and a shy, elderly Siamese hovered at the doorway, hoping to make contact, fearing to make contact. It was windy, as seems to be the constant state of affairs on the west coast of Africa, and the trees were rustling a soothing, silvery sound. A spider worked away silently in the ceiling corner, some fourteen feet above my head. We took a quick swim in the cool pool at the back of the house, and then sank into our respective beds. All day, we slept, read, then made some tea, hello Thor, then slept, read, hello Thor again, slept again. Are you hungry? We got up, both of us feeling greatly restored, and took a long walk along the lagoon to meet friends at a restaurant on stilts called The Raft. It was a raucous night, with cheese fondue and South African wine, and five desserts for five people. We played a marvelous game: take two bites, and pass the dessert to the left. (We’d already shared the virus, no need for prevention.) Berry crepes, vanilla ice cream with hot butterscotch, a ridiculous banana extravaganza, and some kind of mystery tart. It was a lovely, terrestrial day. A healing day.

Liz, Thor and the kitchen helper at The Spindrift.

The next morning was quiet as well. I let Jo sleep late while I sat at the kitchen table with our host, Liz, pouring over a map of India, planning the itinerary of her trip in 2011. In between the descriptions of Varanasi, Udaipur, Goa, and Kerala, she told me her story of growing up in Malaysia as the daughter of a rubber baron, of having to leave her home, of returning to Holland and marrying a Dutch engineer, of finding herself out of place in Holland, confined to a narrow, dark house with all the doors and windows shut, the dreary long grey winter with its rain and cold, missing her colonial home that was no more, of their finally settling in South Africa and raising a family. It was one of many conversations that I’ve had in the last month with children of colonials, now all in their early to late sixties, who experienced vivid childhoods in Africa and Asia, who were displaced due to revolution, and then tried to return “home” to England or to Holland or to Germany, only to discover that they were not at home at “home.” Finding a place in the world has not been easy for them, and as one of my colleagues here on the ship said of her childhood in Rhodesia, I can only go home in my memories.

That afternoon we took a trip to the Namib Desert in a four-by-four. Our guide on the desert trip was a critter conjurer, and we all got to hold a black, hairy scorpion, about six inches long, with wildly waving creepy crepe paper legs that felt like dancing velcro, and to pet a gecko, and a shimmering, iridescent sand-diving lizard, and a forest green chameleon with hot pink accents the size of a kitten. The trip in the four-by-four was something like a rollercoaster, going up and down the dunes at great speed, spinning out, with much satisfactory squealing and anxious laughter from the passengers. I loved it when we went slowly down a large dune in neutral, and listened to the dune moan. I didn’t know that dunes could moan, but they can. The phenomenon was explained to us, but I tuned out, as I am wont to do on nature hikes. I simply loath stuff like scientific processes, life cycles, etc, and in this instance, the story was about air pockets around dense, metallic sand particles. I just like to look and listen, and I am telling you: the dune moaned. The visuals in the Namib were stunning. I simply cannot find words to describe what we saw. It was just like being Peter O’Toole in Lawrence of Arabia, desolate, vast, empty, hostile, haunting. I will let Jo’s pictures do the job.

Jo holding a Scorpion.

On our last day in Namibia, we took a small boat ride out into Walvis Bay to see the colony of seals and other marine life. We fed pelicans from the boat, and seeing them in flight was magnificent. We were also visited several times on the boat by savvy seals with unfortunate names like Goggles and Waggles who swim in the bay and know the routine: climb aboard the boat, slither across the middle seat, and beg some fish from the captain. So we were up close and personal with some lovely seals who were sort of stinky, but very sweet. They have big, soulful brown eyes, and respond to cooing and petting just like a dog. Their flippers are black and hard and feel like the smooth side of an emory board, but their skin is very soft, and oddly dry, once you penetrate the outer oily layer. Seals are big, and bob up and down a lot, and when they are nine inches away from you, a little scary. I didn’t want to bring one home. Neither did I want to bring home a black hairy Scorpion, but the elusive old Siamese kitty at The Spindrift---now him, I could have brought on board as a stow-away..

There is an old custom at sea. They call it Neptune Day. When a sailor crosses the equator for the first time, he must roll around in fish guts, kiss a fish, and shave his head. Jo did the first two, and I did all three.

LH

Louise and her fellow initiates on Neptune Day.