Hell Hitch
(Marie-mail #47)
MAUN TO WINDHOEK
AUGUST 24
I as getting out of Maun. Audi Camp was lovely, but I'd seen the Delta, had enough group fun, and wanted some open road behind and in front of me.
Fortune told me to wake up when I wanted to leave. Instead, I bummed a lift off of a guy from Audi Camp, and was left at the Maun bus station at 7:30 a.m.
The 8:30 bus to Ghanzi wasn't there yet, but the bus going north was. I thought about my options. I could go southwest, to Namibia, or I could hang around Maun until the others got back from the Delta.
A quick spin around Maun eliminated it as a possibility. There was nothing to do there.
Victoria Falls wasn't really a possibility either. I'd be there later in the week regardless, and could think of no reason to prolong my exposure to touts and overland trucks.
Namibia, then, was the best choice. I'd go to Swakopmund, perhaps look up Shawn from Crazy Kudu, and do quad-biking over the dunes. I'd catch the Monday night bus back to Vic Falls and have a few days there on the Zambia side before heading north to Lusaka.
The 8:30 a.m. bus turned out to be a short, slow bus that stopped every twenty feet for a passenger, a chicken, or a piece of litter. The "2 1/2" hour trip extended into a four hour trip, and I was relieved to be in Ghanzi at 12:30.
But the new twist was that the connecting bus to the border left "when full" -- which it wasn't.
"Do you know when the bus leaves?" I asked a man wearing an official-looking badge.
"Maybe half past one," he said, before wandering off.
I asked a middle-aged woman in an enormous, colorful hoop-skirt (a common sign in Botswana).
"Two," she said with certainty.
I walked to the junction where the road to border was. Could I hitch? I asked the two Botswanan women at the Shell station for advice.
"It is not safe for a woman alone," they decided.
I was skeptical, but had to bow to local advice. Deflated, I went back to wait for the bus.
Four German tourists showed up. One of them, Oliver, took a seat across the aisle from me. Then a grandma squashed in and I was sandwiched between her and a hoop-skirted woman wearing an enormous tribal hat and a small child as a lap decoration.
There was a Windhoek van sitting next to us. It was empty.
"They have no license to pick you up here," explained the woman next to me. "They'll wait for you on the Namibian side of the border."
"I hope so," I said, wondering if there was any other way to Windhoek.
Finally, the bus was full. Actually, it was overfull and many stood in the aisle.
Like the earlier bus, this bus stopped every few hundred yards, and traveled slowly. The bus is the lifeline of the community in countries where the population is mostly carless, and diamond-rich Botswana was no different than its neighbors in this respect.
The video player came on and the woman next to me said, "Bruce Lee."
Huh? I looked up. Close enough. It was an old Jackie Chan movie, "The Way of the Cat." Jackie Chan cuts across cultural boundaries. We were in for a treat.
Within no time, the bus passengers were howling with laughter. Slapstick and kung fu translates easily into any language, and every time Jackie landed a good punch or kick, the older teenage boys on the bus would yell "Jack-IE!"
The movie ended with Jackie Chan taking kung fu lessons from a cat. He snarled and struck out. Even the hoop-skirted women giggled.
We started losing passengers after the movie ended, as we neared the border. I completely ignored the Steven Seagal movie that came on next. So did everyone else. Before too long it was turned off in favor of "Sarafina."
Finally, no one was left on the bus but me and the four Germans. The driver left us at the border at 5:30 p.m. The five hour drive from Maun to Mamuno had taken nine hours.
I filled out my Botswana exit forma and raced ahead of the Germans to cross the border. If there was transport, I would ask it to wait for the others.
I walked from border post to border post, across no-man's land. Then, I spotted clean toilets and knew I was back in Namibia.
The immigration officer gave me some bad news.
"There's no way to get to Windhoek without hitching," he said. "But someone will give you a ride. Don't worry."
"Yeah," I thought. "But the Germans will be along shortly. Will someone give all five of us a ride?"
I was glad for their company, as I had already determined I didn't have the nerve to hitch solo. But five tourists with backpacks could prove problematic.
The van we'd seen at Ghanzi was long gone, and had probably filled up with passengers instantly, from the looks of the crowd of Namibians ahead of me in the hitching line. Some of them looked like they'd been waiting a long time.
At least we'd gained an hour. I'd gotten to Namibia at six, but we'd set our watches back and Windhoek was only three hours of paved highway away. Surely we'd find something.
I asked the first driver I saw.
"Are you going to Windhoek?"
"Sorry, I'm going the other way."
The next man I accosted had already promised his space to the Namibians ahead of me. When the Germans arrived, the good news was that were were at the front of the line.
We asked every driver that came through for a lift, and finally one of them was cooperative.
"I am waiting on many cars. We can split you into different vehicles and drive you to Windhoek."
We all went to the BP gas station for dinner and a tasty meal of potato chips, jerky, and bananas. I bought a phone card and called the Cardboard Box (http://www.ahj.addr.com/). Yes, they had two spaces left. I booked them for Oliver and myself, and the other three booked spots at Chameleon Backpackers.
We waited. And waited. And waited. I accepted that I would not be in Swakopmund that evening. At eight, I desperately accosted the next man who pulled up, a Namibian man in an Isuzu pickup.
"I'm too tired to drive," he said. 'I've been driving for three days. But I'll take the two women to Windhoek."
Actually, he said something in broken South African-accented English that meant approximately the same thing.
"No," we all agreed. "Not two women. One, and..." I pointed to Oliver because we were both going to the Cardboard Box, and he'd been really nice so far. "...him. We're together." I had just met him, but I wasn't getting in the pickup truck as a single woman.
The other three Germans agreed. Oliver and I would go on ahead, and they would wait for the convoy.
It turned out that our Isuzu was part of the convoy -- the fastest part, as our driver was a speed-demon. We put our bags in the covered pickup bed and got in the cab -- only to learn that we had to wait for the supervisor.
The convoy was made up of new cars and trucks, all purchased at a discount in South Africa. The vehicles were being driven to Namibia for reselling at a huge profit. The supervisor brought up the rear in a little red car, and we had to wait for him because he had the Customs paperwork and the gas money.
Finally, the paperwork was stamped. The drivers all hung around and shot the breeze for a while.
"This man," said our driver, pointing at the supervisor, "he is my brother. He is my white brother. He is white, and the supervisor, but I love him like my brother."
Oliver and I nodded and smiled. It was going to be a long trip.
Two Germans had scored a seat in another pickup, and the third was in the supervisor's car. We were all relieved when we finally got moving.
On to Windhoek!
Then, no, we were just on to the BP again, for refueling.
Three was some financial advantage to delivering the vehicles on empty, and the supervisor had to negotiate with each driver separately to put in as little fuel as possible. The drivers didn't like to drive on empty, and each tried to negotiate for more gas money.
Our driver was adamant. He wanted half a tank for the 300 kilometers, but got only a quarter.
After refueling, it was time to buy junk food and chat. Our fuel stop took an entire hour.
Oliver and I were bored at first, but then we became concerned when our driver stuck a beer in my hand.
"You want a beer. This is your beer," he prompted me.
Right. So our driver was drinking but didn't want the supervisor to know.
Oliver was wearing his seatbelt, but I was in the middle seat. There was no seatbelt. I was worried.
Finally, we left the BP. Our driver sped ahead to pull over a few kilometers up the road at the East Gate BP.
"My cousin," he said, motioning at the man inside.
He went away for a minute. We waited nervously. Was this going to be another hour-long stop?
Thankfully, no. The driver only had stopped to bum two cigarettes off his cousin.
I eyeballed the East Gate Rest House, just behind the BP. "An oasis," the guidebook had called it. Should I get off and stay the night?
No, I decided. Windhoek was too close to give up now. We'd be there by midnight.
Off we went. The driver smoked one cigarette, and then opened the beer. He drank it quickly and handed the empty bottle to Oliver.
The driver motioned to the window. Oliver looked uncertain. He didn't want to throw the bottle out the window.
The driver motioned again. Oliver shrugged and tossed out the bottle. In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought.
There was no turning back. We'd gotten in over our heads, into madness winding down highway B6. We'd just have to keep the driver awake and sober.
Desperately, we tried to engage him in conversation. Unfortunately, he could barely understand my accent and was hopeless with Oliver's. We both simplified our English, learning that key words or phrases could set the driver off on a rant that kept him alert and awake.
What I said:
"Is the HIV rate as high in Namibia as it is in the neighboring countries?"
What he heard:
"Blah blah HIV blah Namibia blah?"
What he said back:
"BlahblahpleaseJesusblah... I have one wife... blah... HIV... danger... one wife... my children need me... blahblahblahdifferent now... one wife... HIV... blah... Jesus."
We were communicating, sort of.
"A Chinese man in Zambia," he said. "Found..." he struggled for the words.
"Important research," I suggested. "Possible breakthrough."
He nodded. "I pray to Jesus."
Continued conversation indicated that he had fourteen children, and one of them was either born today or had a birthday today. He also told us that the roads were dangerous at night, because kudu tended to wander onto the highway (thus the phrase "crazy kudu).
When conversation became too taxing, Oliver and I would give up. Then, we'd notice the driver nodding off, and one of us would engage him again.
"You are sleepy?" I asked.
"Yes."
"I can drive." I pointed to myself and mimicked driving.
"Woman? Driving me?" He howled with laughter at such a ridiculous thought.
He asked where we'd come from.
"Okavango Delta. Chobe. Victoria Falls."
The mention of Vic Falls sent him on an anti-Mugabe rant.
"Mugabe is bad. The white man is my brother. I do not need to kill him to get his land."
While this was perhaps an oversimplification of Zimbabwe's problems, it was well-said.
We went 120 all the way to Gobabis, arriving there at ten. We waited at the gas station. We were running on empty, and needed the supervisor to pay for fuel.
But the supervisor was going 80 kph, and bringing up the rear. We waiting, while two of the Germans continued on.
"This is excruciating," said one. 'It's such a short distance, but it is taking forever."
I looked in my guidebook. Gobabis had two decent hotels and frequent daytime connections to Windhoek. I could get out, but I had booked the Cardboard Box already.
Then, our driver had an idea.
"Seventy dollars of petrol," he announced.
Oliver and I pooled our money and put in $8.50US worth of gas into the tank. If we could go before the others showed up, we'd be in Windhoek in two hours.
The gas went in, and we were off. We'd driven out of the gas station and into the street, when the supervisor pulled in.
Our driver stopped and go out.
"Shit," I said. Oliver nodded agreement.
Half an hour later, our driver had been reimbursed (meaning that we had paid him for the lift), and shot the breeze with his supervisor-brother. Blatantly lying, Oliver and I had both assured the supervisor that our driver never went above 80 -- we couldn't imagined why our Isuzu used so much gas.
Finally, I went to the driver.
"C'mon," I said. "Let's go."
He followed and we left Gobabis.
"They tell me that I am too tired, that I must stay in Gobabis and sleep. Never. My son was born today." He looked disgusted, and then drove on the left side of the road for a while.
Namibians, like all Southern Africans, drive on the left. Our driving on the right did not fill me with confidence.
Then, our driver began swerving all over. I hoped a kudu, or another car, didn't come around the bend.
He couldn't keep his eyes open. I nudged Oliver -- what could we do? Beg to be let out? Was the driver able to comprehend why we were concerned?
I stared hard at the Southern Cross for a minute, wondering if this was it, if I had come around the world to go in a simple road accident.
Then, a respite from impending doom. The driver pulled over and stopped.
"Please," he whispered to Oliver. "Help me."
Oliver was delighted to oblige. The two changed places and the driver instantly fell into a deep sleep.
Oliver fastened his seatbelt and sped up to 120. But he was a good driver, and was used to driving on the left as he had been working in South Africa for several months.
I would've been happy to go to sleep myself, but couldn't abandon Oliver. I was in a waking-dream state, asking irrelevant questions just to keep talking.
But there was no danger of Oliver falling asleep. The only danger was from kudus and other animals who might wander into our path.
We got to the police checkpoint on the outskirts of Windhoek.
"How are we going to explain this?" I wondered.
"They'll just let us go. Buckle his seatbelt," said Oliver. I struggled to belt in my neighbor, who didn't wake up.
The police smiled and waved us on.
We drove in, to Sam Nujoma Drive.
"I know where we are," said Oliver. He was on his second trip to Namibia as well.
Oliver drove us straight to the Cardboard Box. We were able to get our bags out -- the pickup bay wasn't locked. It was after one.
"Wake up, wake up!" Oliver shook the driver. "We are in Windhoek!"
The driver woke up, shook our hands, and went on his way.
Ephraim of the Cardboard Box was awake and let us in.
"The girl from reception has gone home. Do you have sleeping bags?"
The dorms were locked, with people asleep inside. We'd have to sleep in the TV room for the night.
"I'm happy too," I said. "I'd sleep anywhere. I'm just glad to be alive."
The TV room was as comfortable as a dorm, anyway.
WINDHOEK
AUGUST 25 TO 26
Dean, who worked at the Cardboard Box, had some bad news for me.
"It's a holiday weekend. There's nowhere to stay in Swakopmund."
I could go anyway, of course, and try. No doubt I'd find something. But my planned quad-biking over the dunes would be crowded, as would the sweet "Out of Africa" coffee shop and the tasty "Blue Whale" restaurant. By contrast, Windhoek was deserted.
"That's okay," I told Dean. "I'll just stay here."
I told her the story of the harrowing ride from the border but didn't make a lot of sense in my still-excited state. Then I looked out of the big bay window that in the front Cardboard Box room.
The Isuzu was still there. The driver had made it no farther than across the road before parking and going to sleep.
I found Oliver. Together we approached the pickup.
"Should we wake him?" wondered Oliver.
"It is nine o'clock, and he was anxious to get home last night."
Oliver tapped on the window. The driver moved. Using his hand, he waved us away.
We went back into the Cardboard Box, but about ten minutes later, I spotted the driver out of his truck, talking to Ephraim.
We went back out. The driver looked happy to see us and shook Oliver's hand.
Oliver, our exhausted driver, and our chariot
"You were really tired," we explained. "You've slept all night. Shouldn't you go home now, or maybe you should call your squad?"
This reminded him that he was on the job.
"My squad," he said slowly. "Where is my squad?"
We shrugged. Considering his state the night before, he was lucky to be alive. We hadn't thought to find his squad for him, as we couldn't even wake him up.
Oliver and I beat a hasty retreat, before the driver could get any more anxious. We looked again an hour later -- the driver was gone.
I splurged on my own room for two nights, did my laundry, and relaxed in the capitol of Namibia. I enjoyed fast internet connections, good restaurants, and well-stocked grocery stores. I looked for Shawn, but he had taken a group to climb a mountain, hurt his back, and ended up spending the weekend in physical therapy. I contented myself with spending time with Dean, Oliver, and a 70-year-old French woman who had flipped a rental car and was stuck recovering in Windhoek.
On Sunday afternoon, three passengers from my Nomad trip showed up. They'd traveled by local bus from Maun, but had wisely stayed the night at East Gate Rest Camp. Their trip from the border had been comfortable and easy.
NEXT: Back to Vic Falls! Flipping a raft in grade four rapids, and Marie drinks a LOT of the Zambezi River.
