(Photo credit - 'The British Tribe next door' Channel 4 )
'The British Tribe next door' has been causing a stir in the British media over the last few weeks/months. For me it was a joy to come across this recent reality TV documentary, a change from my normal diet of endless episodes of 'Escape to the Chateau DIY.'
The short 4 part documentary has caused quite a mixed response with a shed load of people ready to criticise it as well as praise it. Basically the storyline to 'The British Tribe next door' is that a huge amount of money was spent building a British home right in the middle of a Himba village in Northern Namibia, giving both 'tribes' a chance to live alongside each other and compare notes on daily living.
Having studied Sociology as an A level subject I found it rather refreshing to see something a whole lot more enlightening and edifying than the normal reality tv choices. I suggest you watch the whole thing before you make any judgements. I could launch into my opinions and add them to everyone elses but I don't want to do that. I want to reminisce a little and celebrate again a rather magical experience in my life.
The Himba were listed as one of the most primitive people groups when I spent my gap year in Namibia back in 1989/90. Politically we can't use that term 'primitive' anymore, 'first nation' peoples is more acceptable and to be honest when you have completed watching the documentary you will also feel incredibly embarrassed at our old self righteous judgements.
When I was over there 30 years ago, the country was going through a massive shift, leaving behind the rule of South Africa and becoming an Independent nation. South West Africa was about to become Namibia. There was a National Flag to be designed, a National Anthem to be written, a Constitution to be written and elections to be held. For the first time the residents of this beautiful land, many of whom are illiterate men and women, could choose who they wanted to lead them. As a result the country was a political melting pot of potential corruption and turmoil. Bribery and illegal voting tactics needed to be monitored which meant the country was hosting huge numbers of UN soldiers to keep the peace and monitor the election and Independence process. The soldiers came from all over the world.
I was spending my gap year volunteering with Project Trust teaching English on a farm out in the middle of nowhere. With all the lengthy school holidays and the freedom to fill our time with our own choice of activity, my work colleague and I used to make use of the regular convoy of Landrovers and Range Rovers using the roads to reach every remote town and the furthest villages in the country. These luxurious vehicles were usually stuffed full with UN soldiers and other hitch hikers, making it possible to hitch lifts around this big empty landscape.
We used to regularly pull out a map, decide on a destination and see how far we could hitch hike whenever we had a week or two off.
We saved our trip to Northern Namibia for a long school holiday because we knew that catching a lift in such remote places could take days. There was no guarantee of traffic on any day and we knew we might be stranded for days on end in certain places. Our aim was to go North, up to Opuwo and Kaokoland.
The Himba were on our wish list because they were so unusual. We had been told that they smelt of rancid butter due to the fact the men and women were covered in cow fat and ochre and never washed. They braided their hair and slathered it in mud. They wore simple animal skin aprons to cover themselves.
Today it is easy to sit back and watch this Himba world unfold from the comfort of your home. But for us this was not a possibility. We had to actually hitch hike all the way to Northern Namibia to meet the Himba people. This was in the days before we were swamped with information overload. You couldn't google Himba back then and instantly see an image. There was no such thing as the internet. A fax was considered a miracle, we relied on good old fashioned letters which could take weeks to arrive. You were never guaranteed a clear line for a phone call overseas. Most were far too expensive to make and conversation was hard to follow due to crackling noises and a bouncing echo coming down the line.
I only took a few photos in that long year in Namibia and not many of them have survived. Since I had to raise money to go on this trip and it was required that I would report back to my sponsors, I also took a load of slides which are not much use to me today in trying to show you some shots of myself and Jessica and Lotti in Namibia. Anyway, the one above I have used before but this is a typical shot of the dry landscape. These remote dry desert roads were the places we would sit for hours waiting for a vehicle to drive by.
So where should I begin this story? It took us a few days to get up North and then after spending hours in the hot sun at the side of the road waiting for a ride out to Opuwo, we ended up getting taken in by the police and thrown in jail! We later realised that it was our excessive love of writing that had caused the confusion. How do you endure hours and hours waiting for a ride? Sometimes we played cards, listened to BBC world service on a tiny radio. Read a book or wrote in our journals. Hence the excessive note taking caused us to be mistaken for spies!
After a translator sorted out the confusion we were released and since it was too late for any traffic to be attempting the road so late in the day, the Chief Police officer said he had a contact who would be travelling our way on the following day. We ended up hitching with an attractive man who we nick named 'Marlboro man.' This was in the days when smoking was still considered cool and cigarette adverts showed great looking men swaggering around looking like cowboys and smoking cigarettes by the name of 'Marlboro.' Our cowboy was bearded, had broad shoulders, twinkling eyes, comfortable faded jeans, a white T shirt and heavy boots. He was a dream and we spent many happy hours in his truck hurtling down empty roads laced with potholes, passing wonky signs warning us to be careful of 'landmines!'
'... we drive down the sticky tarmac road, the horizon shimmering and dancing in the heat, taking on a life all of its own. And when the tarmac stops, we continue on the dirt road, throwing up gravel to the left and right into the endless miles of flat empty landscape. The wisps of early morning cloud have burnt away. Shading my eyes against the reflected glare of the sun bouncing off the parched, dry, desert, I squint, searching the horizon for the desert elephants. They will be marching through this barren land, their cracked leathery feet carrying them from oasis to oasis.
I scan the shades of red earth. Black angry rock faces like weeping scars, bite into this hot arid place. There is only an occasional thorn bush or spray of brittle grass. It goes on for miles. For hours and hours. They call this ' the land God made in His anger.' The earth burns beneath the blue sky and white sun. The cracked soil and bare slabs of rock face are beaten into an arid silence by the smouldering sun.
We listen to Marlboro man tell us of the gemstones that lie like a salt crust on the caked earth.
"They are out there sparkling in their glory if you know where to look for them," he says turning to smile at us and wink his own sparkling eyes.
Quartz and Aquamarine jewels, sparkling Diamonds - a testimony to something of rare beauty and worth, buried beneath the gravel and sand.
Our rugged companion's treasure lay not in minerals, the earths' harvest, but in the debris of war. The discarded brass ammunition shells are his particular addiction. He makes his money from collecting boxes of the bullet shells and melting them down to be recycled. He has his contacts with the people of this place, the Ovahimba. They bring him these treasures in exchange for salt and sugar.
The Himba, a people of thick soiled braids, skin caked in red ochre, clothed in animal skins and leather bracelets. I wonder how they feel being dragged into a war that isn't their own? The splutter of gunfire along the Angolan border. Invading armies intruding on their spacious living room and laying the ground with landmines that blow up their children and livestock!
Where is the sense in it all? Where do you turn to for answers when the spirits stop talking, when the ancestors remain silent and powerless in the face of this intrusive enemy?
The sun is sizzling in the blue canvas of the sky. We stop for lunch. A fire is lit, tea brewed, followed by steaks cooked over the coals and a cold beer from the toolbox under the front seat.
"You certainly know how to live the good life!" Jessica shouts in the direction that Marlboro man has disappeared to find more wood to stoke the fire.
"Well after serving for years in the army I come equipped for the rough. But I also know how to lighten the load with a few of life's luxuries," he replies, returning with an armful of thorns riped from a nearby bush.
I like his style - so at ease and laid back. Not a bad looking man either, he must be in his late thirties.
In need of a toilet, I set off to find a bush or rock to hide behind and am warned to not wander too far from the road.
"The place is still scattered with landmines! It is not safe to walk round unless you know what you are looking for. A disturbed surface to the soil, a small glint of metal," he smiles and turns back to tending his fire.''
It was exciting and slightly dangerous and in the end became a lot more dangerous than we had bargained for !
'Marlboro man' said he would drop us off in Opuwo town while he drove out to the Himba villages. (If I could do that trip again I would insist on going with him but at the time the idea of being blown up by a land mine was not that appealing and instead we thought we would see more than enough Himba in town.)
' The town consists of one street and doesn't take long to explore. We find what we are looking for on the outskirts of town. Here in an open marketplace, people are milling around chicken coops and have set up small piles of tomatoes, onions, melons and potatoes on the ground. There are a group of Himba men resting under a tree. Keeping a respectable distance, we sit down to watch them.
It is fascinating to see them so close, drawn into town by their need of salt, sugar and oil but essentially an isolated people. Proud and self sufficient, happier in the wide open space. Preferring the stars to electric light bulbs, the hard desert floor to comfortable beds.
Their heads are covered with a piece of black cotton fabric, tied in a knot at the top and held in place by a canvas headband, studded with small flat metal stubbs imbedded in the material. A long metal pin like a pencil is tucked into the band, used to scratch an itchy head underneath the braids. Nostrils flared, with broad smooth foreheads. Bare chested and naked except for a goat skin.
Around their necks thick heavy necklaces of metal and leather woven into each other and compacted over the years with grime and sweat. A smooth curve of ostrich shell hangs from a choker, like an emblem over the chest.
Barefoot, their feet must be layers thick to survive the scorching heat of the sand and desert thorns.
Two Himba women approach and join them. Also naked except for the skin apron, this time in luxurious folds and flaps, studded with metal discs hanging lower at the back then the front. Bodies greased with red soil and fat. Their arms are heavy with copper bangles, twenty or thirty reaching from wrist to elbow. They also carry a thick heavy choker around their necks. Their decoration is a conical shell hanging between their breasts which lie flat and empty.
Thick thighs carry them on big feet. Around their ankles up to mid calf hang copper bangles like a pair of metal leg warmers. It must be like walking with weights tied to your ankles and arms.
To my Western eyes, their frames are masculine and thick set, heavier and bigger than the men. Their hair is soiled and in braids, hanging long over their shoulders. A section of braids is piled into an ornamental quaff above a high bare forehead.
It had been mid-afternoon when we were dropped off in town and had waved goodbye to our hero. We wandered the streets and watched the elusive Himba from a polite distance. The few women we saw had flat swinging breasts and huge thick thighs from all the walking they do. The men were tall and elusive and handsome. In our opinion they did smell of rancid butter and sweat. Sorry, I know in the Channel 4 documentary the Himba villagers smell sweet. But our experience was different.
It was all going so well until our man didn't show to pick us up! We sat forlornly at the side of the road waiting his return. Hour after hour hopefully watching the road for the sign of his returning truck. The sun went down and we began to shiver in the cold desert night. Stupidly we had off loaded everything on him. Rucksacks complete with clothes, passports and money! Yes, we had stupidly given him everything. We had nothing. Just our sorry selves. A completely dangerous and foolish situation. We were young, naive and trusting. No phone number to call. Not that you could phone anyone back then. No mobile phones. Just landlines and obviously 'Marlboro man' would be nowhere near a telephone out in the bushlands of Northern Namibia.
So what did we do? Went to the police. Cried. Asked for help. They took us out into the desert and we drove slowly up and down dirt roads, through the bush, throwing up a trailing cloud of dust. With every corner we turned I longed to see his truck. But with every minute that passed a little bit of hope died and the reality sank in. We had been too trusting. Everything was gone. After a couple of hours, the police lost their patience and tired of using up precious diesel on 2 idiotic young girls. They threw us out at the local hospital and said we could sleep on a couple of empty beds. It was a miserable night. Despite having a mattress the thin sheet that covered me brought no warmth to the dark empty night. I was freezing cold, dirty and with no toothbrush to clean out my mouth, I felt and smelt disgusting. Jessica and I hardly slept.
How did the story end? Well I am still alive today so you can come to your own conclusions. You will have to read my book to find out!
And watch the documentary. I think you will at the very least be left questioning some of our Western lifestyle choices. I didn't see one villager struggling with loneliness, depression or worry over their future.
Who knows where the electricity and water came from to keep this British home running? Especially since the tribe have to walk 20 minutes to their closest water hole which is drying up. I think the Himba ladies summed it wonderfully when they noticed that we play with water and wash clean items! It was interesting to note when all filming was finished that the tribe voted to have the house dismantled and the electricity and running water supply cut off.
Despite the moral compromises that this documentary might or might not throw out, I still found it a really wonderful watch. I am thankful for my experience 30 years ago. I know exactly where this was filmed and am grateful to have experienced life on that soil with these people myself.
If you can, get yourself out there. Your life will be richer for the experience.
( Photo credit - 'The British Tribe next door' Channel 4 )