From the pages of National Geographic (posting from the road)

 

I dye my hair. Most of you know this...as the colour it generally turns out to be (thanks to my poor attempts to do it at home) is a shade that does not exist as an recognized hair colour. Today I had a reminder of how atrocious it truly is...

I consider myself well educated as to the definition of "African Tribal". Granted it is a self education obtained after a childhood of thumbing through my Dad's extensive collection of National Magazine collections dating back to (not kidding) the 1920's, but accurate nonetheless. In my mind, to be truly "African Tribal" your tribe will need to possess...topless women, naked kids and dudes wearing loin clothes. I realize that those were old magazines and that style is long gone...replaced by kids wearing all the clothes I have donated after a disappointing Christmas or a realization that they will never fit again. Well it seems no shipment of my stylish acid wash jeans and oversized t-shirts ever made it to Northern Namibia.

Unique this area is the semi-nomadic Himba people, who survive mostly off the land (and the money they now make from tourists) these people fit my "definition". Bare breasted women covered in a mixture of rock dust and butter fat (otjize) greeted us today as we visited a small village of Himba people. Naked kids frolicked, fought and played as all kids do the age do while the women worked. The men were either down south in Kamanjab (a small nearby town - and small is not quite a diminutive enough adjective) dealing with "goat business", and the other men were up near Opuwo handling "politics". But the younger men who remained...loincloths made of animal skins.

I sat down off to the side to take in the scene before me...it really appeared to be a National Geographic photo spread. I was focused on two young boys attempting to herd some baby goats and didn't realize initially I had been joined by a young girl of the tribe.


Metachewayup (ok, I made that up...but her name was something like that) is a 15 year old, married girl who has no children. I can tell the just by the position of the braids on her head and the jewelry she is wearing. She has her own mud hut, has never been to school and from what I could ascertain her responsibilities seem to be watching the children, sorting the flour and sugar, and preparing this odd porridge mixture that sustains the group.

She speaks no English and I speak no version of hereo but we still chatted a while.  We compared ankles - hers covered in beads to protect against snakes and mine covered in a crust formed by sunscreen and dust. We compared skin - hers reddened from the otjize and mine from a mixture of genetics and the blazing sun. We compared hands - hers calloused from manual labour but with a gold band on her ring finger and mine soft and apparently unused (which is not true...I just moisturize more). We compared hair - hers is in dreadlocks, encased with an otjize coating and has

puffy extensions at the end (these extensions have traditionally been zebra hair but with the tourist dollars rolling in...they get them from a local salon) and mine...that bizarre colour that is NOT the "chocolate brownie" I was promised.

I don't need to speak hereo to read the look on her face when she held a grand of my hair up to the sun to see the true colour. It was a mixture of disbelief and disgust. Through my travels I have developed a sense when a local is about to make me over. I saw her make a break for a bowl of otjize and I took that as my cue to purchase to requisite souvenirs and get out of there.

Apologies to those who receive them as gifts but I was shopping with the constant pressure to avoid ending up in the pages of a future National Geographic. I figured once my hair was changed it would only be a matter of minutes until I stripped off my top and moved into a mud hut.