Counting teeth, p.3
Counting Teeth, page 3
General Curt von François had his Schutztruppe build the fort on the top of a hill, from where they could command a good view of their surroundings. And indeed, the view is breathtaking. Windhoek and the Auas Valley stretch endlessly before us, but a niggling thought from the previous day has resurfaced and I cannot appreciate the view. Slowly, it dawns on me: Where Parisian flâneurs provide direction simply by conjuring up the name of a rue, Namibians use their monuments as points of reference. There are statues at the one end of Independence Avenue and statues at the other end. And in between there are monuments and statues in Zoo Park and other places. Namibia has more statues and monuments per capita than any other place in the world. There are South African colonial statues, German colonial statues and memorials and, since independence, an increasing number of new statues to honour the heroes of the Struggle. “At the kudu statue, turn left,” the people of Windhoek say. “Head along Independence Avenue until you see Curt von François in front of the town hall . . .” And so on. Heaven forbid that a landmark should move. What chaos could ensue! And there you have it: The Reiterdenkmal, the statue that commemorates the courage and valour of the German Colonial equestrian soldiers, no longer stands at the top of the hill commanding the gaze of motorists as they round the circle. That is where it still belongs in my memory; now it guards the entrance to the Alte Feste museum. Where it once stood, an imposing concrete structure, still veiled in plastic drop cloth and scaffolding, is taking shape. The relocated Reiter stares resolutely, daring intruders to move him again.
We pass by the shadow the Reiter casts and ascend the steps that lead to the museum. The front porch houses an array of old machinery: a fire engine and a tractor, a wagon or two and a cannon. In the corner, off to the right as you approach the door, stands a huge woven Oshiwambo grain basket. We examine these artifacts before entering the extraordinary, delicate creature that is the museum. Over time, museums develop lives of their own, become tiny microcosms that reflect and often oppose the world outside. The Alte Feste houses the State Museum and Sinead and I spend a few hours wandering through the exhibits. If the imposing colonial statues outside lull your mind into some false cultural amnesia, you come here to forget that legacy and focus instead on the path to liberation and independence. I linger at the independence exhibit, remembering old friends in photographs and becoming reacquainted with the sounds and smells of that year.
Back in the courtyard, Sinead turns to me. “This place reminds me of Robben Island. Both were designed as prison yards and both housed political prisoners.”
Outside the Alte Feste, we take in the view of the city stretching along the valley. I put my arm around Sinead. “Take a good look at what you see around you,” I tell her. “Now close your eyes. Imagine guards in the turrets of the Alte Feste looking out over the five thousand prisoners in the largest concentration camp of the Wars of Resistance.”
Namibians talk about roads the way Canadians talk about the weather. Everyone we ask, including our rented GPS, tells us that the best way to get to the Spitzkoppe is to head north to Okahandja and then take the tarred road to the coast. Naturally, we therefore choose the scenic route through the Khomas Hochland. We are barely out of town when the tar is replaced by a stony road that is badly in need of scraping. Namibian roads are generally in very good shape, but in that interim between the first rains and the arrival of the graders, potholes flourish. Some partridges scuttle across the road toward the water that has dammed in a one of the potholes. As we approach, they rush off into the grass, yellowed from the winter, but already tinged with the green of spring.
About eighty kilometres from Windhoek, we stumble across the dilapidated stone ruins of the Von François Feste, the fort General Curt von François built as a halfway post when he moved his headquarters from Tsaobis to Windhoek in 1890. The sign at the entrance gate on the way up to the fort is pocked with several new bullet holes. Drive-by target practice is the sport of young farmers everywhere, but in Namibia, the neat 9mm holes are a reminder that despite the peacefulness of the surroundings, this has always been a country filled with weapons and warfare.
The footpath up to the fort is lined with pyrite – fool’s gold. When I came to Windhoek to teach in 1990, the streets of the city seemed to be paved with gold too. There was a shimmer of optimism in the streets of Windhoek, and a real desire to leave the past behind. This was a nation weary of war and as Independence Day approached, we celebrated each step toward the withdrawal of the United Nations Transition Assistance Group (UNTAG) and South African Defence Force (SADF) troops from our country. On my early morning walk to work every day, I would marvel at the specks of gold that flecked the pavement ahead of the rising sun. Optimism, when so many doomsayers were predicting the end days.
Here at the Von François Feste, the pyrite reflects the folly of the early settlers who came to find the fabled mineral riches of this desert El Dorado. Most left clutching little more than their memories. It is the silence of this place that overwhelms you. The immense, almost oppressive silence of the Von François Feste and the Khomas Hochland. Like elsewhere in this country, there are things these stones and this veld remain silent about. Stories that remain untold. The tightly packed stones wait for the alert eavesdropper to uncover their story. Their’s is a story of an arduous journey from Tsaobis, the hurried movement of cattle and troops and horses being rushed through the treacherous Bosua Pass and up the Khomas Hochland. The original fort was built in haste during the flight from Tsaobis to Windhoek. After the troops had settled in Windhoek permanently, it became a cattle outpost and a trockenposten – a place where alcoholic soldiers were sent to dry out.
There could be worse punishments. The view over the Khomas Hochland is endless and even after winter the stream in the valley runs strong. The strategic value of the post is evident from the view, the easy access to water and the lushness of the grass. The stones are packed tightly in their serried rows, each one carefully hewn and placed. As I bend in close to admire the seamless stonework, a large cattle truck roars past. Each of the densely packed two-foot-wide walls is squared beautifully, held together without any mortar. Only water and lizards wriggle through this rock now. The warmth of the stone comforts me. Swallows circle in thermal currents above us. A hawk hovers briefly over the fort like an aerial sentinel, then catches a ride across the valley on the whorls of air that surround us. It returns at intervals to observe our movements. Here, as in the city, the remnants of the Kaiser’s Reich are everywhere: in the farm names, in the buildings, in the monuments. Tiny snippets of information scattered across the stones. It takes patience to draw stories out of such silence.
After a while, the silence of the fort becomes overwhelming. The rattle of a convoy of bakkies intrudes briefly, but in the end, the silence wins out. You become aware of the blood pulsing through your veins and gradually you are filled with the first racking sensation of loneliness that comes from being in open spaces. This is inhospitable, dry territory and life among the rolling hills is deceptive and tough.
We catch up with the bakkies a short way down the road: they’re all parked at the upper end of a huge parking lot. Off to one side, a lone cattle truck. As we drive past, we see men mingle and twist around the open spaces, lizards trying to pry a way through the rock walls. Two men in the watchtower by the cattle pens give the proceedings a purpose: today is vendusiedag. Auction day. The first spring auction in the Khomas Hochland is a celebration. Farmers from all around gather early in the morning, vying for the prime spot at the auction lot. The cattle milling in the pens glisten with fat. Soon, the auctioneer will begin the bidding war and farmers will trade their cattle, measuring the success of the season by the condition of their beasts and the size of their cheques. In the background, I see the fires starting up – after the auction, they will gather and feast.
I would love to stop, but I want to get to the Spitzkoppe before dark. Too soon, the familiar childhood smell of cattle and dust fades. As the Von François Feste recedes into the background, I open up to the spectacular views of the countryside. A small herd of kudu ewes peeks at us through the bushes. A flock of African hornbills clusters at the side of the road like inquisitive beggars. Yet the sheer drops and the loose sand in the Boschau Pass make driving treacherous. It is easy to forget that this fertile stretch has for centuries been a battleground and that, even today, the land remains contested. Above us, the vultures circle, endlessly rising on the air currents and disappearing from sight, only to reappear low above the valley and circle us again.
The pass folds between mountain ranges and it is hard to know where one range ends and another begins. Once we’re through the pass, the hills begin to flatten and soon we reach the turnoff to Karibib. Gone are the folds and precipitous drops of the Khomas Mountains. In their stead, the valley opens before us and the closer we get to Karibib, the more the copses of camelthorn trees thin out and make way for grasslands. We are approaching the desert. In the distance, we can see the rusty outcrops of the Witwatersberge and the copper glow of the Otjipatera Mountains. Somewhere in those hills lies Tsaobis, where Captain Curt von François established his first fort. Von François was belligerent by nature, and felt that the native population had to be treated with a firm hand. To make his point, he established the fort at Tsaobis directly on the trade route between Walvis Bay and Otjimbingwe, where many Ovatjimba – Ovaherero who had no cattle – had settled at the Rhenish mission station. It was a poor choice, bred out of inexperience and a lack of familiarity with the land. Squeezed between Otjimbingwe and Kaptein Hendrik Witbooi’s people, the small contingent at Tsaobis was constantly under threat. In 1890, Witbooi demanded permission to water his cattle at Tsaobis. When von François refused, Witbooi attacked. The woefully outnumbered German Schutztruppe retreated to Windhoek in a great hurry, erecting the Von François Feste as a temporary shelter along the way.
The closer we get to Karibib, where we will leave our scenic route through the Khomas Hochland and join the main road to the coast, the more prominent the veins of calcite along the mountain ridges become. In Usakos, I realize I’ve driven through towns like this countless times before: a stretch of tar that runs from the edge of town to the edge of town. A bank, a grocer, a church and a recently painted town hall. Everything looks clean because there is bugger all else to do but sweep the streets. Even from the moving car, the marks left by the straw broom on the compacted sand of the pavement are visible. Only the garage at the entrance into town shows signs of life. Beside the garage, a lone man leans on the crowbar he uses to dislodge punctured tires from their rims.
We drive past the garage and round the corner to where the road out of town should be. Somehow, we find ourselves in a maze of streets, so we stop to ask for directions at the local café. Sinead decides to wait in the car while I run in to ask for directions. A bulwark of glass counters separates the merchandise from the customers. Glass jars brimming with sweets line the top of the counters, and behind them sits a woman of indeterminate age. Her carefully curled hair has begun to sag as the day wears on, yet when a group of tweens on their way home from school shove their way past me and into the small space between the door and the counter, she extends herself with the wariness of a cobra preparing to strike. They push and shove their way to the counter, demanding her attention.
I see the woman’s eyes flit from one youth to the next as she watches their movements. Her hand descends with unerring accuracy onto the fingers that reach for some sweets on the counter. “Don’t touch! I’ll give it to you. Show me the money first!” In their rush to get past me, the cluster of youths have pushed aside an old lady and her assistant who entered before me. They are still setting down their bags and untying the blankets the younger woman uses as an abbavel for her child. The youths crane their necks and wiggle like meerkats fighting over grubs. The woman behind the counter takes their money and shoos them out. As the youths head out of the café, the old lady draws back behind the glass door. The woman behind the counter turns her attention to me. I hold back and wave the old lady through. She smiles and rattles off in Damara. Her assistant, the younger one, turns to me with an equally big smile. “Dankie,” she says. “Die kinders vandag respekteer nie meer hulle ouers nie. Die Bybel sê mos jy moet jou vader en moeder eer.” Thank you. Today’s children don’t respect their elders. The Bible tells us to respect our fathers and mothers.
As the woman shuffles back into the street with her package of goods, I ask the woman behind the counter for directions to the Spitzkoppe.
“Ag no,” she says, “I’m not the best person to ask. I have seldom left Usakos in my lifetime. Ask Banie at the hardware store next door.”
Outside, two men enjoy their coffee and a cigarette on the small porch. One of them must be Banie, I decide and walk over. “The tannie next door at the café said I should ask Banie at the hardware store for directions,” I say to the man seated at the door. His head barely moves as his eyes scan my body. His disdain for out-of-towners is apparent, but at least I can speak Afrikaans. With an almost imperceptible gesture, he tilts his glowing cigarette toward the road.
“I’m Banie,” says the man with impressive lamb chops leaning against the pillar. As I turn toward Banie, the man at the door inhales deeply and blows out the smoke with practised leisure.
“They tell me you know this area well.”
Banie shrugs. “Born and bred here,” he grumbles. “I know a thing or two.”
“How do I get to Spitzkoppe?” I ask, hauling out my map.
“Nee, donner, los daai uitlanders se papiere!” he exclaims with an excited flourish of hands and shoots his cigarette butt into the road. “Dammit, no. Leave those foreigners’ papers! Follow me and I’ll show you.” Like so many locals, Banie neither trusts maps nor understands them. The only way to know a country, to really know it, he tells me on the way in, is to live it and to walk the countryside. I follow Banie into the hardware store and to his office in the back. All the while, he’s fishing for stories and information. He lights another cigarette. In his office, he scratches about for a piece of paper, stubs his cigarette in the ashtray. It continues to smoulder as he gathers his writing utensils together from around the room. When he’s done, he leans over and kills the smouldering cigarette.
He starts to draw and talk. “You drive out along this road – the one just to the left of where we are now, down there by the end of the block. About sixteen kilometres down that road, you’ll come to the spot where they sell stones. You can’t miss it. Take the turnoff – it’s the road to Uis. Right there, you’ll hit a dogleg and then you’re on the road to Henties Bay. Keep going toward Henties. Drive till you hit Black Rock and then turn off the road. There’s a camp spot with braai places and showers. Now where did you say you were from again? How long are you in town?”
I grew up with a town full of Banies and I know he won’t let go until he’s run through my entire family history.
“I’m spending the night at the Spitzkoppe. Just passing through on my way to the Herero Day parade and festivities,” I tell him.
“Do you think it is worth it?” he asks. “It’s just a bunch of blacks walking down the street. You can see that anywhere.”
I ignore the barb. “I was born there. I’m taking my daughter to see where her father’s from.”
Banie’s demeanour changes. “Well, that’s different, then. That’s bloedsake – blood matters. It’s in your blood. You have to go. Actually, it’s quite nice to see them march all dressed up in their finery. Ja, just there by the swimming pool there’s a bunch of old Herero graves. They’re probably headed for them. You know, those people and their ancestors.”
“Ja, it’s Maharero’s grave, isn’t it?” I gently hint at the fact that the march commemorates the death of Samuel Maharero, the leader of the Ovaherero at the time of the genocide.
“Ja-nee,” Banie reaffirms, “Dis bloedsake vir hulle. It’s about blood for them. People have to follow their blood. Now, where did you say you lived now?”
“In Canada.”
“Bloody awful place,” he says. “Cold and dark. We have a geologist from Canada here and he went back for a week before he came back to Usakos. Couldn’t stand the place. Where in Canada do you stay?”
“Edmonton.”
“Is that near the Lakes?” He doesn’t wait for me to respond. “I know the geology of the land. There’s stones there.” And he starts to talk stone. It’s a language the people here understand.
I leave Banie and Co. to have another cigarette and discuss the directionless strangers who had just wandered into town. Sinead and I head out to the Spitzkoppe and as we near the campsite, two attendants stop us.
“We heard you coming. Flat tire,” they tell me and promptly start looking for my cross wrench. Jannie and Elvis introduce themselves and begin to change the tire for me. I am happy to do it myself, but they insist. “The most exciting thing that’s happened here today.”
