Namibian Pilgrimage

I squint down at my feet, bright pink as the hot clay relentlessly heated the soles of my tiny sandals. It was about 8am, and I am in the center of the Dead vlei, or “dead marsh” in the Namib-Naukluft National Park in Namibia.

The heat here is unfamiliar, and the air carries with it a sense of charge. I smell rocks broken open, as if by lightening, and baked salt crackles with each step on the dried soil of the pan. Surrounding this piece of parched earth are some of the highest sand dunes in the world at 350 meters, all various shades of orange due to the oxidized iron in the soil.

This Vlei used to be an oasis, but drought choked off the water 900 years ago. Charcoal black remains of acacia trees, desiccated by the intensity of the sun, dot the floor of the pan. These ancient skeletons stand like a Grecian chorus, singing a paean to fire and water. I measure the distance between me and one of them, and trot towards it for shade. It is a ridiculous notion that a burned tree can provide relief , but my body knew what I did not. That here, in 110 degrees, in the oldest desert on earth, a blackened piece of wood is a much needed memory of cool.

I look around for Christie, my guide. He’d dropped me off for an hour, but the heat was making me panicky. I see Beatrice, my French African tour mate, on the far side of the pan shooting photos. I head toward her, sprinting from one skeletal tree's moment of cool to another’s. I feel deep gratitude for each of these sacred beings, who are guiding my journey around the vlei. I notice a pair of oryx in the distance, large majestic gazelles with three feet dark black horns. Bodies tan with black stripes mimicking the surroundings, with bright white lower legs. The sight of them is hallucinatory.

PILGRIMAGE

Africa was a personal pilgrimage. Born and raised in big cities, the wildness of southern Africa seemed a necessary elixir. I’d reached a breaking point in Oakland, California, as personal trauma surfaced and collided with the traffic, people and growing technology of the Bay Area. Since shamanism, which I had been a practitioner of for a couple of decades, was about journeying through the seen and unseen natural realms, it seemed like a good next step to sell my possessions and buy an open-ended round trip ticket to the heart the earth.

By now I’d been in South Africa for eleven months, traversing the country from east to west and back again. I was deeply restored, having feasted on the Cape of Good Hope, seen whales birthing, hung out with jackass penguins, capuchin monkeys (who each have a unique hairstyle), and other wild animals on a regular basis.

Away from electricity and civilization, I had had conversations with the night sky and plants. They had whispered into me their medicine, and I now felt a matrix of elements reflected more intimately in my body. The land had a palpable presence and fed me subliminally. I’d rediscovered I was most comfortable unmoored from the trappings of stability and normalcy living outside the culture into which I was born. Something about my childhood, and the fabric of my soul, led me to thrive in the in between spaces rather than in the center of things.

I decided to head north to the oldest sea of sand, which at 50-80 million years old, was home to the most endemic species. I felt some urgency about placing my feet on this ground containing decomposed remains, as if doing so might be a direct transmission from this cradle to my eternal self.

JOURNEY

Naïve to the ways of the sand, I was surprised as the bus from Cape Town lumbered for hours along unpaved roads. South Africa had been its own series of revelations, with the effects of apartheid and modernization laid bare. Namibia had been subject to apartheid and war, yet there were not as many noticeable markers.

Suddenly the bus came upon a gas station, our first sign of human habitation in hours, and we weary passengers flooded the small building which had cool drinks and a cashier. I noticed a blinking blue light from a room on the left, and wandered toward it. Poking in my head, I saw a television and three boys of about 8 years old huddled around, watching satellite MTV Raps, decked out in their finest rapper clothing.

WINDHOEK

Once in Windhoek, the capital city, I found a youth hostel on the edge of a freeway, and booked the two day trip to the dunes set to leave in the morning. I took a shower, and to my surprise my skin and hair dried before I got to my towel.

After eating some cold fruit and meeting other travelers, a few of whom had malaria, as common as the flu in Africa, I walked downtown. Even though there was no observable sand, the steaming streets seemed to be coated in a thin silicate film. The restaurants and stores were German or Afrikaans, and weinerschnitzl ubiquitous. I felt like I was on a movie set: half-timbered chalet-style buildings, a vast expanse at 5,600 feet, surrounded by large swathes of tan colored soil and craggy mountains. The streets were deserted. Whatever past colonial glory may have existed was a faded memory. I wondered if during the winter months it was more lively?

I passed a pocket of cool dark, and my body reflexively turned toward it. When I did, I came to see a woman huddled in the alcove, half in shadows. She was dressed in a loincloth, beaded anklets and necklaces, her skin reddened with ochre. Splayed around her in a semi circle were a dozen or so small leather dolls, all miniature replicas of her - tiny Himba women. I dropped down, and we entered into a gestural conversation. I toyed with her offerings, which smelled of earth and hide, and chose one to take with me, handing her a bundle of currency. In exchange, she gifted me a small baby to go with the doll I had chosen, a tiny cloth child with a beaded halo.

The Himba are indigenous to northern Namibia and have been able to maintain many of their customs despite imperialism, civil war, drought and genocidal campaigns. Seeing this woman alone in the city, led me to believe that she was no longer living the traditional lifestyle, although her story would remain a mystery.

DUNES

Christie was an incredibly tall, thin man of about 40. He deftly lifted my duffle into the 4x4 as I introduced myself to Beatrice, the other traveler on our journey. Beatrice was from Paris, where her family had emigrated from Senegal and Namibia a generation ago. I was pleased it would just be the three of us, and settled into my seat for a six hour drive to camp. Christie told us of how he had hiked from Sossusvlei to the ocean across 125 miles of sand when he was in his twenties, about his Herero heritage, a larger tribe closely related to the Himba, what it was like for him growing up during colonial times, and his role in Namibian independence from South Africa in 1991. Beatrice was in Africa for the first time, having just visited Senegal, and now traveling to the roots of her father’s family here. She reported feeling like an outsider - more Parisian than African. I listened to them unoffended by their agreeing that the whites had come and created havoc in the region, and that it was good to have Southern Africa back in the hands of the blacks. “Although this is not without it’s problems” Christie offered, “as these generations of strife, internal conflict and war have left us divided and unable to really rule the country”.

“Yes, but it is better to learn through trial and error than to be oppressed” Beatrice responded, and we all agreed.

Christie, Beatrice and I easily formed a temporary tribe. Out the window unpaved roads stretched forth, and as we approached the park the height of the sand increased. We entered through the Sesreim gate, a filling station and camp 45km from Dune 45, where we would take our sunrise hike. The Naukluft Mountains formed our eastern horizon, a blueish, ragged range, while 100 meter Elim Dune, known for its colorful sunsets, was our western view. By the time we set up our tents and ate dinner, the sun was setting in vibrant shades of orange, yellow and purple on the Elim Dune, and we fell into a contemplative silence. Dark and cold came fast, and it wasn’t long before we were asleep.

Christie woke us in the dark, fed us tea and porridge, broke camp, and situated us in the jeep. I dozed along the bumpy ride to Dune 45, noticing that the longer we drove, the quieter the car, as even the noise of the tires was disappeared by the sand. The horizon began to lighten, and I could see the 300 meter dunes encircling us as all horizons faded. Our mission was to ascend the dune and catch the sunrise from the top.

Dune 45 is known as a star dune, which means it is pyramidal. As I scrambled up the rib on it's side, I couldn't believe how difficult it was to gain any traction. Beatrice on the other hand, appeared to be gliding up the face of the massive sand dune. Once at the top, we sat prayer-like in anticipation of the sun, in awe of the 360 degree view of dunes stretching as far as the eye could see. As it rose, the sand turned shades of gold, and I imagined the many inhabitants of the desert coming to life.

After a time, we slid down the dune to meet Christie, who was leaning up against the 4x4, his hat brim shading his eyes. It was then he escorted us to the Dead Vlei, where this story began, and the eerie silence of intense heat.

RETURN

By 9am, the heat had pushed us off the Vlei and back in the truck heading toward Windhoek. We were mainly silent on the return, meditative, the landscape having swallowed our urge to speak. Yet, as I looked out the window and saw the after effects of apartheid, I had questions arise in my heart. I felt the land rise to meet and hold my grief with compassionate understanding. In this place where the land itself was such a powerful presence, I wondered why this hadn't been able to stem the tide of hate? A current of peace and silence entered my soul, as I came to more deeply accept the light and dark of the human story and the many different ways we walk on the Earth.

As I boarded my bus to Cape Town, I carried far more than my duffle, Himba mother and baby dolls back with me. I now had an innate wisdom from the Earth about our human roots that has stayed with me on the rest of my journey through time.