SKYDIVING IN NAMIBIA!

We drove for 3 full days in Namibia passing only 2-3 towns, each with a population of less than 10, and all of them German.   Where are all the natives in this vast, empty land?

On its east coast, Namibia is home to the world’s oldest, driest desert in the world as well as the Kalahari, in the west, a semi-arid desert,  which is covered with trees and criss-crossed by ephemeral rivers and fossil watercourses.   Namibia’s clear blue skies stretch out as far as the eye can see into the open horizons and has one of the lowest population densities on the planet -  318,500 square miles (825,000 sq. km)  shared by only 2.1 million people – or 1/10  sq. mile per person – lots of elbow room for the ancestors of the German colonials who occupied the country in the late 1880’s.  The Afrikaans invaded the country at Britian’s urging after World War I, then known as South-West Africa, and proceeded to claim all of its valuable diamond and mineral mines, including uranium, as its own.   Apartheid was official policy here until 1990 when, with the help of Cuban and Angolan rebels, including Che Guevera, Namibia finally achieved independence.

Day 3 in country we rose at 5 am to witness sunrise over the red sand dunes and the nearby “sussevlei.”   The dunes, all of which are numbered, (we visited Dune 45, reknowned for its perfect viewing position), rise as high as 1,000 feet (300 meters) and extend to the Atlantic Coast.  The sand is extremely fine grained, deep rust red and undulate for miles, their varying heights hiding the horizon.  We climbed along the ridge of the dune, which is easier than climbing from the side.  But easy, it was not.  The sand is thick and heavy and I sunk up to my ankles.   Each time I stepped forward I had to remove a foot from below the sandy surface.   I finally realized that if I walked fast enough into the footsteps of the person in front of me the sand was more compact and easier to navigate (hadn’t MJ told us that before we started out?).   During the 20 -30 minutes it took to reach the summit, I had to stop several times to catch my breath.   I hope that the photos, posted at the link above, capture just a small fraction of the studpendous panorama that we discovered when the sun poked its brilliance out from behind the distant dune.

Mark dragged his foot like a heavy weight the whole way and reached the summit with the rest of us.    No help (pretend or otherwise) needed.  (See below post for explanation.)

Hungry for breakfast, we ran down the side of the steep dune, enjoying the warmth of the sand on our feet, falling and rolling most of the way to the bottom, where eggs and bacon awaited our arrival.

Next, we walked about 15 minutes to the “Soussevlei.”   A combination of both Namib and German words, meaning “dead lake.”  Once, about 900 years ago, there was a lake with trees here, fed by a nearby river.   The slow but steady enlargement of the dunes blocked the river from feeding the lake, drying it up completely and killing the trees.   Only their trunks and branches remain, slowly petrifying in the dry desert air.   We had no idea what to expect.   It was unique; a sight we had never seen.   Other-worldly. 

On Wednesday morning we pulled into Swakopmund, “Adrenaline Capital of Southern Africa.”   Just 2 hours later we were quad biking on the sand dunes, riding their crests and valleys, twisting and turning with the land.  Once I learned to trust the bike, I ran at full-throttle and the 3-hour trip ended with me wanting more.

The City of Swakopmund is a strange place.   A combination of German colonial buildings and vacation homes,  the architecture of both and the prevalence of the German and Afrikaans languages and people, are completely out of sync with the surrounding desert and its location on the African continent.   Its claim to fame is that it is the location of  the birth of Shiloh, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt's baby as well as its designation as Namibia's second largest city, after the capital, Windhoek.  It is modern, clean, well-stocked and full of people – 20,000!   This is the first significant center of population we’ve seen since leaving Cape Town 5 days ago.  

I had heard since last year that the thing to do here was to skydive over the desert.   I was determined not to.   The risk far outweighed the benefit.   But I couldn’t help myself.   I signed my life away and off we went.

We were driven to the center of nowhere, about 15 minutes outside of town.   We knew we had arrived when we saw the plane -  a zebra, polka-dotted, single engine, Red Baron thing, with no door,  that looked like a relic from World War II.   Once the 5-minute briefing was over, I donned the jumpsuit, and was chosen to be the first to jump (It must have been the “B” in Bernstein – I should have registered under my maiden name – “Waldman").  

We jumped tandem  with professionals who have a well-known reputation for safety and skill.  As I climbed into the plane with “Jack,” I was suddenly not at all nervous, although I hadn’t slept the night before and was praying for bad weather so that the jump would be postponed.   He had a way of making me feel relaxed and comfortable.   As we climbed to jump altitude (10,000 feet – 3,000 meters) I relished the view from the open door.  It was simply stunning.    Except for Swakopmund  (named for the Swakop River which empties into the Atlantic at the southern end of the Town), all I could see were sand dunes - thousands and thousands of sand dunes -  stopping only when they met the coast, swelling, heaving, surging, undulating as far as the eye could see, then quickly flattening out as we climbed higher and higher.  

When it was time to jump, my jacket was attached to Jack's and I sat in front of him, between his legs, with our feet dangling outside the plane.    I think he pushed.   All I know is that we were suddenly airborne.   I saw the plane disappear into a tiny speck above me as I felt the adrenal rush of 35 seconds of freefall – 185 miles per hour – with total clarity, vision and calm.   Once the chute opened it was as if I was floating through air, breathing effortlessly as I swam in a cool, calm lake  for the remaining 7 minutes of flight.  The landing was painless and easy, and the Group and Yosy had seen everything from down below.   They all cheered as I touched down.  It was time for Victim # 2 to make his way to the plane.

But I was still flying.

MARK

Leg 2  started with the typical African bang.  Just outside of Cape Town the cops stopped us.  Our vehicle, we were told, had been ticketed several months ago for document failure.   Although all  docs are now in order, a trip to the closest police station/magistrate’s office is required so that the “OK” can be entered in the country’s computer system and we can avoid further stops along the route.  A mere two hours later and the problem is fixed.   No one is bribed, everyone is pleasant and alert,  the computers work and the office is air- conditioned. 

We’re not in West Africa anymore!

The roads are well-paved with painted, bright- white divider lines.   There are gas stations with gas, and surprise!  convenience stores with lots of food and clean bathrooms that flush.  As we travel along South Africa’s western coast the wind is hot, the temperature even hotter, above 105 degrees, and the landscape is barren desert, reminiscent of the Sinai Peninsula.   We are parched, soaking wet from perspiration and tired from near-dehydration.  There is no water tank on this truck but we can buy ice cold drinks (YES!  ice cold drinks!)  at every pit stop.   We drink as if we have been wandering in the Sahara for days. 

But the biggest surprise so far, this Leg, was the appearance of Mark from Connecticut.   The Leg 1 group talked quite a bit about him.   With a severely deformed and useless left hand and right foot, Mark had been part of the Leg 1 group that had started in January in Doula, Cameroon.   He never made it though to Accra, Ghana, where I  joined.   Apparently he had been stalking Alice, a fellow passenger, for quite some time.  According to the group, Alice first tried ignoring, and then strenuously rejecting his advances.   When that didn’t work the group leaders gave Mark several lectures, then stern warnings, but he persisted to an intolerable point.  With the blessing of the main office in the UK, he was summarily dismissed from the trip and left somewhere in Togo to make his own way home …… or wherever.   He had been variously described by the West Africa group as “weird, ” or by the more generous among them as, “nice, but weird.”  He slept in the truck, not in a tent, kept mostly to himself, didn/'t  share, and failed to help, even when he could, with the considerable amount of work that was required – food shopping, preparing, cleaning, lifting, etc., to summarize just a few of the descriptions I heard.

The new, Leg 2 group met at 6pm sharp in Cape Town for a pre-departure briefing.   There were only 11 of us:   Mark, the Constable from the UK;  John, the  Continental pilot from Missouri, now living in Guam;  3 Norwegian girls, newlyweds from Sydney; and Margaret, also from the UK.   The 11^th person arrived late, halfway through the meeting. 

I knew it was him as soon as he entered the room.    His left arm and right foot were cruelly palsied and he was a little “off.”     But how could the company, I thought, banish him from one trip, only to allow him to rebook a new trip, in a new country, with a new group, just 7 weeks later?   Where had he been for the past 2 months?   How had he survived Africa, with his significant handicap?   Did the new group leader know his history?

I would have to wait to know the answers.

Meanwhile, as we made our way north, crossing the border from South Africa into Namibia was not uneventful. 

Namibia, which means, "vast dry plain," and  previously “owned” by South Africa, became independent only in the 1990’s, and, particularly in the south, benefited from the white Afrikaan and German settlers that had previously ruled and continue to live here.

The border crossing was surprisingly neat and organized.   The post was large, clean, paved and air-conditioned.  Order, not chaos, reigned.

 Could this be Africa, I wondered?

Just as we were approaching Immigration, we suddenly realized that Yosy may have a problem entering the country and stopped short in our tracks.

When Yosy tried to use his American passport to check-in for his flight out of JFK, he was told that he wouldn’t be allowed to board for 2 reasons:  (1)  The American Express credit card used for purchasing the ticket did not match the American Express credit card he presented at check-in, and, as if that wasn’t enough, (2) his passport had only 1 blank page remaining, not the internationally required 3 blank pages for posting entry visa stamps.  I explained (via cell phone) to the ticketing agent that the credit card did not match because the one used for the purchase had since expired.  Problem 1 eliminated immediately.  Thankfully, Yosy had his Israeli passport with him, with all its beautiful empty pages, and used that to  exit the US and then enter South Africa    

Now that we were entering Namibia a similiar problem arose.   If Yosy used his American passport, the preferred identity because Americans do not need a visa, he risked being denied entry because it lacked the 3 blank pages.  If he presented himself as an Israeli, a visa, which he did not have, was required.  Either way there was a very high risk that he would not be allowed to cross the border and would have to leave the trip and return to Cape Town, only three days into the 22-day journey.   And, that meant that I too, would have to forget about Namibia, which like Mali, was the main reason for coming here.

What to do?

Back in Cape Town, and immediately after our orientation meeting, I asked to speak privately to our trip leader, “MJ,” a Kenyan with 9 years of leading groups for the company.   “Yes,” he said.    The company had phoned him only the night before to advise  that Mark had been dismissed from the West Africa trip, but he was not told why.   I filled him in as best I could, and we both agreed that everyone is entitled to a second chance; that I would not tell the other travelers; and that we would keep a close eye on his interaction with the 3 young Norwegian girls.

Mark, in the meantime, didn’t even try to pitch his tent the first night out – it was clearly too difficult for him – but he refused all offers of help.    He asked MJ if he could sleep on the truck, as he had in West Africa.  While he was showering, and without his consent,  Yosy and I set up his tent.   Without acknowledging what we had done, he happily went to bed in his tent, and slept, he said, “like a lamb.”

Meanwhile, back at the Namib border, we decided to tell the truth – sort of.

We first gave Immigration the Israeli passport.    They noticed immediately that there was no visa and explained that none could be obtained there, at the border.   Yosy would have to return to Cape Town and request, and then wait for a Namibian entry visa from there.  We then whipped out the American passport, with its measly one blank page.   Miracle of miracles!   Without a bribe, within the blink of an eye, the passport was stamped and Yosy was in.  

Mark knows that I know about his booting in West Africa.   We've learned not to offer him help.   We just do whatever needs doing.   He pretends that he doesn’t notice us helping, and we pretend that we are not.   We’ve been taking turns pitching his tent and he has slept in it since leaving Cape Town almost a week ago.  So far, he’s been “nice but weird” and is keeping his distance from the Norwegians.

He told me that when he left the first group in Togo, he met up with some other travelers, and actually made his way to the Mali Meccas of Timbouctu, Djenne and the Dogon country, despite the warnings of tourist kidnappings and murder.  He seems to have fared far better than I, disabilities and all.  Unlike me, he completed his Leg 1, as he had planned, alone and relatively unscathed and in one piece.

No one else (except Yosy) knows about his personal debacle and humiliation in West Africa.   We’ll keep it a secret and hope for the best.