The minibus towards Swakop left surprisingly close to the time I arrived at the central bus station at 9:30 am. I was pleasantly surprised by the level of efficiency with which we all loaded the bus and set off, an unusual occurance on this side of the equator. Everything was looking good to arrive at the coast by 13… until the driver decided to make an unexpected stop at a petrol station for no reason apparent to me. As the minibus halted to a screeching stop, reggae blasting through broken speakers, the cheery middle-aged woman sitting to my left extended the bag of potato chips towards me that she had been snacking on, urging me to “Eat! Eat!” I smiled and took a chip while offering her my roll of strawberry Mentos. She took one and placed it in her pocket.
The farther we travelled from Windhoek, the more certain I became that I would in fact not be making it to Swakop by 13 hours. Mario texted me a couple of times during the ride, anxious to know my current location and updated ETA. At the second major stop in a small, dusty town called Usakos, I made the executive decision to exit the bus 2 hours early, calling Mario and informing him that I would wait to be picked up there instead, as I crawled over several other passengers in the tightly-packed, non-airconditioned bus to reach the sliding door. I gathered my bags, which were being toted in a small trailer behind us, said my goodbyes to the passengers with whom I had been chatting along the way (my friend ate her Mentos and commented on how delicious it was), and made my way down the ‘main street’ in search of some sort of café or restaurant at which to wait for my ride.
The town was literally in the middle of sweltering-desert-nowhere, in all directions, as far as the eye could see. After passing two restaurant/guesthouses which, by the dilapidated looks of them, hadn’t seen a single soul in years, I found a biergarten that appeared to also serve food. A scrawny-looking fellow with a slight limp, who had been following me the entire time – I had been watching him out of the corner of my eye – asked me if I needed assistance in finding anything. I politely declined and continued walking. He appeared to back off but I knew from experience that this was not the last I would see of him. My suspicions were confirmed as I stepped inside the bar area and made my way to the counter to order. I heard his meek voice from behind me, asking me where I was from. I told him and then paused, waiting to hear the request that I knew had been a long time coming. He asked me politely if I could perhaps buy him something to eat. At the same time, the others in the restaurant turned curiously towards me to hear what my response would be.
“Of course,” I replied, knowing fully well by the looks of disapproval that ensued what they were thinking, that the village thief had just successfully scammed yet another naïve westerner. I gather they weren’t aware that my response was accompanied by the complete knowledge of who he probably was and how often he most likely approached others similar to myself with the same request. However, after having spent months in the Zambian refugee camps, where I went to bed on an empty belly enough times to remember what it’s like to be hungry, I can no longer refuse somebody who is asking me for something to eat, regardless of who they are and in spite of all of the judgment I receive from others as a result.
I sat down at one of the tables in the biergarten with my hotdog and began to eat while texting Mario more about the details of where I had wandered off to. My concentration was abruptly interrupted by the waitress I had met at the counter. She informed me with a slight grin that there was someone who was requesting my permission to come and speak with me. She pointed to a table on the other side of the room next to some people playing billiard. There, my eyes set on a timid, young guy sitting in a large group of smiling friends with curly black hair, light brown skin, and vibrantly green eyes.
I turned my gaze away from him and paused for a moment before replying to her that it would be okay for him to come over. She left to inform him of my response and then came back shortly thereafter, laughing and commenting that he seemed a bit shy. He did eventually come over to introduce himself as Charles, a Namibian native who was currently studying in Cape Town. We chatted for a bit about travelling and flying. The whole time, I couldn’t help but continue to stare at his remarkably green eyes, which he diverted nervously from time to time. His friends came over after a while, signaling that it was time for him to go. Interestingly enough, he is also planning to travel to Swakopmund in the next day or two. I have a feeling that I will be seeing him again sometime very soon…
The farther we travelled from Windhoek, the more certain I became that I would in fact not be making it to Swakop by 13 hours. Mario texted me a couple of times during the ride, anxious to know my current location and updated ETA. At the second major stop in a small, dusty town called Usakos, I made the executive decision to exit the bus 2 hours early, calling Mario and informing him that I would wait to be picked up there instead, as I crawled over several other passengers in the tightly-packed, non-airconditioned bus to reach the sliding door. I gathered my bags, which were being toted in a small trailer behind us, said my goodbyes to the passengers with whom I had been chatting along the way (my friend ate her Mentos and commented on how delicious it was), and made my way down the ‘main street’ in search of some sort of café or restaurant at which to wait for my ride.
The town was literally in the middle of sweltering-desert-nowhere, in all directions, as far as the eye could see. After passing two restaurant/guesthouses which, by the dilapidated looks of them, hadn’t seen a single soul in years, I found a biergarten that appeared to also serve food. A scrawny-looking fellow with a slight limp, who had been following me the entire time – I had been watching him out of the corner of my eye – asked me if I needed assistance in finding anything. I politely declined and continued walking. He appeared to back off but I knew from experience that this was not the last I would see of him. My suspicions were confirmed as I stepped inside the bar area and made my way to the counter to order. I heard his meek voice from behind me, asking me where I was from. I told him and then paused, waiting to hear the request that I knew had been a long time coming. He asked me politely if I could perhaps buy him something to eat. At the same time, the others in the restaurant turned curiously towards me to hear what my response would be.
“Of course,” I replied, knowing fully well by the looks of disapproval that ensued what they were thinking, that the village thief had just successfully scammed yet another naïve westerner. I gather they weren’t aware that my response was accompanied by the complete knowledge of who he probably was and how often he most likely approached others similar to myself with the same request. However, after having spent months in the Zambian refugee camps, where I went to bed on an empty belly enough times to remember what it’s like to be hungry, I can no longer refuse somebody who is asking me for something to eat, regardless of who they are and in spite of all of the judgment I receive from others as a result.
I sat down at one of the tables in the biergarten with my hotdog and began to eat while texting Mario more about the details of where I had wandered off to. My concentration was abruptly interrupted by the waitress I had met at the counter. She informed me with a slight grin that there was someone who was requesting my permission to come and speak with me. She pointed to a table on the other side of the room next to some people playing billiard. There, my eyes set on a timid, young guy sitting in a large group of smiling friends with curly black hair, light brown skin, and vibrantly green eyes.
I turned my gaze away from him and paused for a moment before replying to her that it would be okay for him to come over. She left to inform him of my response and then came back shortly thereafter, laughing and commenting that he seemed a bit shy. He did eventually come over to introduce himself as Charles, a Namibian native who was currently studying in Cape Town. We chatted for a bit about travelling and flying. The whole time, I couldn’t help but continue to stare at his remarkably green eyes, which he diverted nervously from time to time. His friends came over after a while, signaling that it was time for him to go. Interestingly enough, he is also planning to travel to Swakopmund in the next day or two. I have a feeling that I will be seeing him again sometime very soon…
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