Brangelina: Namibia's Biggest Game

"Namibia is a land of contrasts . . ." Batista says, but trails off, distracted by oncoming traffic as we maneuver down Sam Nujoma Drive, named after the independent country's first president. At the corner of Robert Mugabe Avenue and Fidel Castro Street, in front of the Alte Feste, the former headquarters of German troops, we stop to gaze at the 50-foot statue of a German officer on horseback. It memorializes the Germans who died in battle with the inhabitants of their newfound colony.

We make our way to the Katatura Township, in the city's northern outskirts. In the 1950s, during the apartheid era, Katatura -- which means "we have no permanent place" -- became home for black Namibians who were forced to leave their land and then were barred from owning houses.

As we enter the township, Batista describes the new Namibia as "more accepting," and I try to believe that 15 years of independence is enough to wash away resentment from wounds that took decades to inflict. "Everyone just moved on," Batista assures me.

The black township, however, still resembles the racial segregation of the apartheid era and is home to 60 percent of the capital's population. Batista points out several homes with an "H" emblazoned next to the front door, a remnant of the previous government's policies, when township homes had an H (Herero), O (Ovambo) or D (Damara) denoting the inhabitants' ethnicity.

It's late in the day when we stop at the Oshetu open market. We wander through rows of vendors with baskets full of millet, sorghum, dried fruits, dried catfish and tins full of mopane caterpillars. I pop a dried caterpillar in my mouth and try to focus on the snack's cheese-puff texture, rather than its more buglike traits.

In consecutive cement alcoves at the other end of the market, separate Ovambo and Herero dressmakers bend over sewing machines, stitching together traditional garments. Their brightly colored wares represent the two groups' distinct histories and traditions, with the Herero garments resembling a Victorian style fostered by German missionaries.

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The next morning, I rent a car and go solo in search of Brad and Angelina, puttering along westward well below the posted speed limit on well-maintained roads. Overgrown SUVs roar past my open window as I hug the side of the shoulderless road, every muscle in my body tensed in anticipation of impact. As my confidence grows, however, I unglue my eyes from the asphalt in front of me.

Soon the clumps of squat stringy trees begin to thin and then recede completely, opening up a landscape of dry, gold-tipped grasslands as far as I can see. I pass over parched riverbeds and speed toward what the road signs assure me will be an actual town with actual inhabitants.

As I near the coast and town of Swakopmund, the grass gives way to the bald Namib Desert and is finally consumed by the misty Atlantic. From afar, the small seaside town resembles a German Brigadoon with sea-worn pastels.

I zigzag through the town's streets in search of dinner, landing at the Namib Restaurant. Given its name, it appears to be a good spot to sample local cuisine. When I walk through its door and see that the restaurant is in the lobby of the Deutsches Haus Hotel, I begin to rethink the authenticity of my selection.

Too late. A hostess ushers me to a table and hands over a menu. I pass on the Wiener schnitzel and opt for a fish dish from the Spezialitaten des hauses, or house specialties. The menu is translated into English for German-language illiterates who happen upon this old colonial town, many of whose residents are part of Namibia's small white population.