You lose count on two accounts: one, when the number exceeds your counting ability and two, when you don’t count and instead just look forward to the next. I started visiting Namibia about two years ago on work and every time I am here, I am decided on what I have to do the next visit. ‘Eat Jollof rice from a Jollof place’ it is already – and I am here for another two weeks. I have come across descriptions like: ‘Namibia is not a place, but an experience.’ While
Vincent came running. “I was in that house cleaning their swimming pool,” he said pointing and with a broad smile I had gotten used to in Africa by now. “The rain and the wind had mucked it up,” he added, swole in damp clothes and wiping off drizzle from his face. The woollen cap was left on. This was my third visit to the Namibian capital, Windhoek, and I had passed through the ‘art island’ – as I referred to the area in the carrefour near a parking lot where
The setting Swakopmund would be a ‘living movie set’ kind of township if there was one. Bright timber gables, solid color tapering steeples, pastel-hued facades, stark lintels and turrets, pavements tessellated into patterns, neatly trimmed median gardens, shiny classic vehicles, all make you feel like that. The people here, as sparse as they come, could be extras whiling away between shots – the bonhomie is not exactly contagious but there is an appealing cordiality. A natural familiarity. Millpond miens till the call for ‘action’. By day three you are familiar
