Planes, Trains, and Bakkie-mobiles

I get lost easily. When driving to the community center where I regularly played ping-pong as a kid and took yoga as an adult, I still almost always missed the street. You can then imagine my discomfort in the African bush where every tree and sand road looks identical. It took me two full months to feel comfortable walking the seven kilometers from my house to the nearest busy, though still gravel, road. Despite being generally disoriented, I managed to navigate over 2,000 kilometers in one month and return to my village intact.

My first experience with Namibian transportation was the combi. A combi is a van. Some are large, some small. Almost all are in some state of disrepair. In my first combi ride, I sat on an armrest that unfolded into an extra seat. It unfolded a bit too close to the seat in front of me. As a result, some stranger spent a cozy six hours between my thighs.  I later maneuvered into the back seat only to find it was not bolted to the car body. Whenever we went over a bump, which was often, the seat and its occupants bounced a few inches off the floor.

The second combi I rode in was more comfortable but had its quirks. Most combies pull a small open trailer for luggage. In a feat of engineering, the drivers load these trailers 10 feet high with bags, tires, furniture, farm equipment, and puppies. Yes, puppies. About three hours into an eight-hour trip the driver stopped to give us a brief break. I was merrily eating a popsicle outside when I heard a puppy barking hysterically from the depths of the trailer. I tried rearranging the furniture and pitchforks to find the puppy, but at risk of toppling the carefully balanced pile, I gave up. I still feel a little guilty.

Even the best, puppy-free combies aren’t all that appealing. An eight-hour combi trip costs about 20 American dollars. Admittedly an eight-minute cab ride in the U.S. costs the same, but on my budget that’s a week worth of groceries.

Enter hitch hiking. I know what you’re thinking: I was mildly horrified at the idea when I first arrived. However, it doesn’t carry the serial killer taboo here that it does in the States. Hitch hiking is common in Namibia. All I do is walk to the designated hike point, usually marked by a universally ignored “no hitch hiking” sign, stick out my hand and eventually someone will stop. Sometimes this process takes five minutes, sometimes a few hours.

I usually hike with my friend Derek. Our story is we’re married. This arrangement is mutually beneficial. I get to enjoy a hike free from unwanted romantic advances, and Derek gets a hike at all (drivers are more likely to stop for women). Our first hike together was particularly smooth. We were standing in the rain, looking pathetic, for less than 15 minutes when a semi-truck picked us up. The driver was reasonably safe, but he had a bladder the size of a walnut. We stopped 12 times in seven hours. Other volunteers who left an hour after us arrived at our destination before we did. Frequent stops aside; this was still much better than a combi. It cost five American dollars, and there was air conditioning.

Derek and my second hike together was equally memorable. We were attempting a multi-legged trip from the capitol, Windhoek, to the resort town of Swakopmund. The first car to stop was an Audi, which took us about half way. When it dropped us off, Derek and I remarked at our good luck and thought it unlikely we would ride in such luxury again. Forty-five minutes later a Porsche pulled over. It was easily the nicest car I have ever been in. The driver and his friend, named Silas and Elvis respectively, were young and very stylish. 

All in all, the December holiday and its travels were a blast. Namibian schools take another month long holiday in April. I will probably hike some, but I am planning a trip to Cape Town, a solid 18 hours away. As an early birthday present to myself, I am going to take the fancy tour bus. It has reclining seats, air conditioning, on-board movies, and—best of all—no puppies.