"Sister, Step Into My Shop": A Township Experience (NAMIBIA - post 2 of 2)

The beaten dirt paths by the beachside of Swakopmund are lined with several dozen craft vendors displaying their handiwork on top of blankets or propped against desert palms. As we wound lazily between the merchandise, vendors rushed out to greet us as "sister"and pulled us by the wrist into their "shop". Where one shop ended and another began was difficult to determine; the various wooden and stone statues, masks, and trinkets were near carbon copies of each other and only distinct in terms of handmade flaws. Similar to our experience from Moroccan souks, the vendors are relentless salesmen and the slightest interest in buying will lock you into a done deal before the price of the item in question is even determined. My motive, however, was not to buy and I soon discovered that as soon as I shifted my weight backwards onto my heels and brought my eyes up to their face rather than down at their goods, the men dropped their unctuous personalities and became folk conversationalists. One particular man made it his 30 minute goal to educate me on the "poor"foods of Namibia, once I proclaimed an interest. Instead of game meats most foreigners associate as local cuisine, most Namibians eat what can best described as homecooking. "True food is in the townships,"he informed me as if privileging me in on a secret, "You cannot find it in the restaurants or out here in the cities".

Townships are slums along the fringes of larger towns in many parts of Southern Africa. Villagers relocate to townships, most craft vendors included, where they will travel from their communities (sometimes as far as 20 km without a car) to sell their goods in the city centers. The disparity of wealth in Namibia is appalling. From the 2005 census, 30% of Namibians lived on $1 or less a day while 50% lived on less than $2 per day. Contrasted to the cozy oasis of Swakopmund, the townships are tight, packed communities with their own governing body and system of order. Crimes are notorious to townships and most tourists are sheltered from the periphery of these communities much less experience the culture and lifestyle within one. However these are the neighborhoods where the majority of the citizens live, eat, bath, and function day-to-day. This was the place to go for the "real"food. My vendor-friend shrugged casually and sent me on my way, muttering about bringing me some dried Mopani caterpillars (a regional specialty) to test the limits of my curiosity the following afternoon.

NAMIBIAN STREET FOOD
Even without the advice of my vendor-friend it soon became apparent that street food in Namibia was not only uncommon but nearly non-existent. Despite studies reporting that the majority of Namibians consume their food from street vendors, I only chanced across one solitary woman working her blackened grill one evening. She was strategically positioned, steps away from the entrance and exit of a karaoke bar, leading me to think she may have had familial connections with the owners of the local joint. Her food sizzled enticingly and was taken from mismatched tupperware containers of marinated meats, macaroni salad, and butter, pointing to the homemade nature of her production. A red-and-white checkered, lined picnic basket housed bread from the supermarket, disposable eating-wares, and napkins set beside the grill. 25 Namibian dollars ($2.5 USD) and a three-minute wait bought us a grilled slab of meat, your choice amongst a juicy marinated pork chop, steak, or spiced, long sausage. Dripping with lard and charred from the grill, the meats were penetrated with flavor, with the pork being especially tasty. The grill set-up is a common feature of Namibian foods and "braai"or bbq is ingrained in the nation's culture. Our hostess was shy, plump and good humored in her printed red cotton dress and apron. She runs her grill from 10PM until 4AM, breaking only on Sundays from the routine. Tourists, who are distinctly not among her regular customers, are missing out on some of the most authentic bbq around.

NEIGHBORHOOD COOKOUT
On our final day in Namibia I was finally able to visit the Kuisemund Township, a five minute drive to the edge of Walvis Bay, with a touring group. Corrugated sheet metal, brightly painted to liven up the atmosphere, make up the rickety shacks nudged tightly into countless rows. The expanse of the township is unbelievable. It is a necessarily closely-knit community, with rules and a formal governing system to oversee activity within the township (one could very well label it a small city). Order is strictly enforced and although the members of the township we visited were gentle, curious, and openheartedly kind, foreigners are advised to avoid the townships unless invited by a reputable member from within.



We stopped at an open air food market and the hidden street food culture of Sub-Saharan Africa was revealed to me without restraint. Street food serves a home-based need in Namibia rather than the tourist population we generally associate with street vendors. The market setup was remarkably similar to a neighborhood cookout. Neatly aligned rows of men and women wielding tongs, knives, tritons, or small hatchets filled a large dirt plaza with their bbq grills, butchering tables, stew pots, wagons, and baskets of puffy fried dough or bread. Tented produce stands lined the front of the entire operation nearest the sidewalk, displaying green apples, onions, and potatoes in bulk, wilting under the depressingly hot sun. I stopped to watch a woman baste her bloodied cow stomach, liver, and scrappy cuts of meat on the crusty grill. Closer inspection is not recommended as hygiene is minimal. One pair of tongs services raw and cooked meats and no refrigeration or running water appeared within sight. A man exchanged a few coins for grizzly pieces of the blackened tripe, which the woman had sliced into bite-sized cubes. A small pile of salt and a smaller pile of pink chili powder waited like miniature-scale sand dunes on a side wooden table. The customer seasoned his cubelettes with a pinch of each before they were deftly wrapped in a scrap of newspaper to take away. Walking between the aisles we watched similar transactions taking place. An army-sized tin pot of mystery curry or stew (probably potatoes, carrots, and meat remnants) bubbled away atop a charcoal grill in the absence of propane stoves. The atmosphere was overwhelmingly energetic and unapologetically full in your face; hot and sweaty from more than just the sun. A short distance away, a man hacked away at an unskinned portion of what was possibly once a larger animal. The local girl said it was a cow...but it could have honestly been anything. I was still debating whether the swarming flies were enough of a deterrence to sample some of the braai when we were called away to our next destination in the township. Looking back I regret my hesitation, (the tripe looked a bit dodgy but smelled amazing), however I was finally able to eat some Mopani caterpillars at our next destination.

Food in the township is basic, staples with few fringes. That being said, I had some of the tastiest food during my entire stay in Namibia at our next stop, the Mola Mola Shebeen (sha-bean). Shebeens were once illicit bars or liquor stores, popularized during Apartheid when blacks were banned from entering white clubs. Many have since obtained a liquor license and serve as historical landmarks and community gathering places in the townships. We brought our chilled cokes and orange sodas to a back room where half a dozen covered pottery bowls filled a wooden bench table. Our guide began by describing the method for eating the dishes, a pinch of "porridge", a steamed bread-like grey dough, paired with a dip into one of the savory side portions: stewed caterpillars, salted fish, rehydrated dry seasoned spinach, yellow lentils (similar to daal), or black-eyed beans. Poverty is apparent in the traditional diet where quantity is next to nothing and the ingenious use of resources is everything. The side dishes were all similarly pungent and condensed in proportion to the speckled mound of porridge, stretching what little is available to flavor the filler staple. Our caterpillars were rotund little buggers the size and thickness of your index finger down to the second joint. The first bite was crunchy and the second yielded an unplaceable Chinese herbal sharpness on my tongue, which sent me longing for home. Most of the stews, spinach, beans, or salted fish, had unique tastes despite their use of the same few ingredients, sweet peppers, onions, and spices. The legume dishes were filling, earthy and comforting, stewed to the perfect "al dente"firmness.


(Caterpillar stew - photo by M. Keen)

WHAT IS (IT) WORTH TO YOU?
A step into a township by no means demystified the economic, social and political problems plaguing the beautiful country of Namibia. What it did offer me was a personal peace in having sought and observed the lives of the majority of Namibian natives. When we haggle for our souvenirs and trinkets from the craftsmen in Swakop or Walvis Bay, we tend to disassociate from the reality these men and women face at the end of a long hot day. "What is it worth to you?"is a parting question many vendors will call to your retreating back after an unsuccessful negotiation. Peers returned with stories of exchanging their clothing, pens, used Nalgenes, cookies, basically anything to supplement their cash shortages. Above the costs of base materials, the vendors will usually come down to your counter-offer, usually about half of the starting price. Crafts and wooden masks have no personal value for the vendors, and I could not understand the seemingly lack of pride in their handicrafts until I stepped out of their shops and into their homes. Money, even crushed, melted Oreos put calories into their families bodies, not canvas paintings or beaded jewelry.