Brangelina: Namibia's Biggest Game

By Elliot Hannon
Special to The Washington Post
Sunday, May 28, 2006

There's an elephant in Namibia. Actually, there's more than one elephant trudging through the bush in Namibia's Etosha National Park, but this particular elephant is more protected than even the most endangered species -- and has better abs.

What's going on in Namibia these days isn't much of a secret: Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie's decision to have their baby there. While you don't have to be a National Enquirer subscriber to know that at this point (just able to read or operate a TV remote), the question on the lips of a puzzled world, excluding National Geographic junkies, is what's so great about Namibia?

Sensing potential for a third-trimester tourism craze, I embarked on a four-day "Should I have my baby in Namibia?" road trip. I wanted to uncover the good, the bad and the prenatal of this once-unloved part of the world -- and maybe spot the parents-to-be in the process.

Because I'm not an A-list personality, I must take a bus north from my home in Cape Town, South Africa. Eight hundred miles and 26 hours later, I arrive in the Namibian capital of Windhoek, where I spend my first night curled up in a youth hostel called the Cardboard Box. Despite its name, the Box provides all of the trappings of your average youth hostel, complete with bunk beds, barren whitewashed walls and a bathroom to share.

Brangelina is nowhere to be seen.

* * *

While the celebrity couple appears to be undergoing a personal African reinvention, so too is their country of choice.

After decades of strife and struggle, peace came to this region in 1990. U.N. Resolution 435 paved the way for the nation's transition to independence when the colonial South West Africa was reinvented as the Republic of Namibia. The transformation ended a tumultuous and often brutally repressive century of colonial rule that began with the arrival of German settlers at the end of the 19th century and was later maintained under South African control.

So far, peace has allowed for relative, yet uneven, economic growth but hasn't yielded any financial boon. Namibia's geography doesn't help. More than twice the size of California, it has immense swaths of unforgiving terrain that remain largely unoccupied by its 2 million inhabitants, making Namibia one of the world's least densely populated countries.

In Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, however, Namibian officials believe the country's moment has finally arrived, and that the birth of the One will prove that tourism is the ticket to development for this adolescent nation of paradoxes. Rich in diamonds and uranium, the country is plagued by high unemployment, one of the greatest disparities of wealth in the world, and the rising specter of HIV/AIDS.

An ad posted over Windhoek's Independence Avenue proclaims that "Local Is Global," adding to the feeling that Namibia is aching to be discovered, to join the global dance and become a destination, not just an aid-receiving afterthought. To do so, it seems willing to continue an extreme makeover, whether designating English the official language, building luxury hotels to woo discriminating tourists or simply providing privacy for discriminating celebrities.

Eager to get to the bottom of Namibia Fever, I hire 25-year-old Benjamin Batista, a former cabbie, to give me a tour. We pass by a Windhoek shopping mall with banners saying "Pardon us while we reinvent ourselves." If they could make a sign big enough, it could apply to the nation as a whole.

"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.

* * *

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.

Again, no signs of Brangelina, though I'm getting closer. Nearby is the town of Langstrand, home to the Burning Shore beach lodge, where the couple has put down roots -- at least temporarily. The next day I pull into the cloistered community, which is just past a roadside ensemble of painted white tires that spell out the word "JESUS." Within the celebrity hamlet -- perched just out of reach of the Atlantic and surrounded by the red-tinged sand dunes of the Namib Desert -- construction workers are erecting home after home. The material of choice appears to be concrete.

These Namibian McMansions seem to be stacked one on top of the other as if oblivious to the endless miles of shore and desert at their disposal. This isn't chic, this isn't Hollywood glitz. This is desert sprawl.

* * *

Engrossed in a fog of my own aesthetic revulsion, I inadvertently come to a beachfront dead end and, without warning, I'm parked in front of the Burning Shore lodge.

My first thought is that I have to get out of here. Despite dozens of hours on the road, I have no game plan. A security guard comes to intercept me. "Can I help you?" booms an Afrikaans-flecked voice, who doesn't seem too concerned with customer service.

Striking up a conversation with the beefy enforcer, who introduces himself as Johan, I wonder out loud where all of the paparazzi are. The blocked-off entrance to the hotel seems suspiciously quiet.

"They're everywhere," he says with obvious disgust, "but we'll get them." I'd expected armed guards to be perched on rooftops, but all Johan is carrying is a walkie-talkie. He manages to give the device the aura of a weapon that he would not hesitate to bludgeon me with.

"Do you have a card?" Johan asks, as if he's given me a once-over and deemed me harmless, if not a bit pathetic. A card? A business card! I'm in. Well, at least, I'm not out.

After mentally groping through my backpack for a shred of paper that might have my name on it, I'm unable to produce any form of documentation. Johan and I shake hands, call it a thankfully bloodless draw and part ways.

I hop back in the rental, resolving to leave the celebrity-watching to the professionals, and head off to the mountainous sand dunes at Sossusvlei, about five hours and a lifetime away from Burning Shore. At the dunes, which have accumulated over millions of years in the heart of the Namib Desert, I hop in the back of a four-wheel-drive shuttle that churns and slides through the loose sand.

The copper-colored dunes -- the largest in the world, with crests over 1,000 feet -- undulate until they meet the horizon, making me feel as small as the grains of sand I'm trudging through. As I hike up the slippery sand ridge, I stop frequently to clear the stinging windblown sand from my mouth and eyes.

From the top of the dune, the rippled expanse of sand looks like the ocean floor without its saltwater blanket. Parched and panting after only 20 minutes, I feel fragile. While mountains are imposing, they begin and end right at your feet, and somehow feel destined to be conquered. The desert, however, is unconquerable.

I return to Windhoek in time for a final midday stroll through town. The pace is unhurried but not aimless, as men in dark suits pass traditionally clad Herero women with full shopping bags while the line at the KFC begins to lengthen. In the glow of a warm afternoon, the isolated city feels like a potential boomtown, patiently preparing and waiting for its big break.

The parting words of Benjamin Batista, my guide, flood back. "The future will be nicer than now," he had told me. "We'll find it somehow, some way." As I head for home, I find myself believing this is true. With or without Brad and Angelina.

Elliot Hannon is a freelance writer and graduate student living in Cape Town.