When I arrived at Mondesa Township, I felt as if I had regressed in time. The roads turned to sand and the shanties sitting side by side had been made of any available material—tin, wood, plastic, rubber, scrap metal and even fabric. Many of the homes were spray-painted with numbers in a meager attempt to give the residents actual addresses. Clotheslines crisscrossed the dusty yards. The occasional chicken pecked at the sand.

Mondesa was in the desert. A lone palm tree stood like a beacon on the vast landscape; it was the only sign of vegetation in sight. The sun felt direct and hot, like it would bore holes in just about anything, and it wasn’t even summer. The surrounding jumble of shanties was a candy-colored sprawl of rag-tag housing of bright pink, sea blue and granny-apple green doing its best to look cheery in the sun. But it looked as if the homes had been haphazardly crammed together: Some leaned to one side; some sagged in the middle; others were on the verge of collapse.

Even though I would be in Africa for 22 days, I was still at the beginning of my trip. I had landed on the continent just over a week ago and planned to visit South Africa, Botswana and Zambia before going home. For now, though, I was in Namibia. I was the only American traveling with a group of 12 Europeans, Australians, and Canadians. Besides the driver and the cook, I was also the only black person on the tour. I found this gave me an advantage.

When we stopped in small towns and cities, I could stray from the tour and blend in with the locals. Beggars and vendors didn’t bother me as much as they bothered the other travelers. I also noticed that black Africans took special care to connect with me. According to the Africans I met, African-American women didn’t usually travel in Namibia. Often, they’d ask me questions about my life in America or give me insider tips on the area.

I’ve always loved to travel, and I planned this African tour in celebration of my birthday. I’d fretted about the details for months, but now that I was actually here the details didn’t seem to matter. Instead, I couldn’t wait to meet real people. I wanted to talk to black Namibians. I wanted to know how they spent their days and how they sustained themselves. When my tour group was given a free day and told to choose from four different activities, I decided on the one that would take me to visit a township.

Namibia had once been under South African rule, thus the tenets of apartheid had been applied here. Because the cities had been deemed “for whites only,” blacks were forced out of urban centers and into townships. Even though apartheid is no longer the law of the land, segregation and inequality linger. Many townships still exist throughout Namibia, even though apartheid ended in 1990. Often they are situated on the most undesirable, barren land. Many of the homes are built from scavenged materials; most do not have plumbing.

Four other travelers from my group had also decided on the township tour. The morning of our trip, we piled into a van and sped into the desert, leaving the Atlantic port city of Swakopmund behind. Though conditions were clearly harsh in the township of Mondesa, the people appeared friendly. As we pulled into town, children waved from their gates and followed the van until it stopped. As soon as we climbed out, they were immediately upon us, laughing and playing. They held our hands and climbed on our backs. A barefoot boy, clad in a bright yellow shirt and shorts, ran ahead of us rolling a tire. It seemed they already knew our destination.

Local art

Our destination was the home of Ernst Taniseb, a local artist. I could see his house in the distance. It looked like a makeshift playground—Technicolor and whimsical. Painted tires demarcated the yard, and the fence was made of multi-colored wood scraps. There was a vibrant wooden archway over the front gate, and on the top of the archway was a hand-painted house number. The entire house was painted in swirling white, orange, and green designs. Ernst appeared in the doorway with a smile that was warm and beautiful. He stepped aside and welcomed my group into his home and studio.

I passed inside and momentarily lost my breath. Ernst’s home was not what I expected to find in this dusty, desert township. Potato sacks and cardboard, which Ernst had pulled from recycling bins, covered the ceilings and walls. They were painted every color of the rainbow with dense, Van Gogh-like strokes.

The kitchen was red and rose. Miniature, painted flowers dotted the cabinets and shelves, which were loaded with antique tins and boxes and other random things. The head of a red hartebeest hung on one wall. Its long curly horns jutted toward the low ceiling and dominated the entire kitchen.

We sat in Ernst’s living room while he made tea. Zebra-print rugs and brightly colored furniture made the space feel alive. The walls were adorned with pictures of Ernst’s children, past visitors, and even a white, blue-eyed Jesus. The thick aroma of cloves filled the house as the tea brewed. Finally, Ernst entered with six tiny teacups on a tray. A fly landed on the mound of sugar, but no one brushed it away.

Over tea, Ernst entertained our questions about his life, his house and his work. He explained that just about everything in his house was once trash: the tables and chairs, the pelts, the tins and boxes. He designed and built the house himself from things he’d found at the nearby dump. Ernst passed around a collection of news articles that mentioned his name; he’d successfully designed a line of hand-painted children’s wear.

As he talked, I watched him. The sunlight coming through the window bathed Ernst in a warm light. He was a very slim man with an easy smile and a spirit that emanated hospitality. His long, perfectly trimmed soul patch and his charm necklace gave him the look of an artist. His blue shirt and running pants looked plain against the backdrop of his home. Occasionally, he made brief eye contact with me and flashed me his smile.

The tea done, Ernst showed us his studio. His work space was a simple, chest-level table beside the kitchen. Light poured in from the window onto a row of paints stored in old mayonnaise jars and food containers. Behind the table, a small rack displayed some of his finished products: toddler-sized t-shirts painted with caricatures of warthogs, zebras, and giraffes.

Back outside, I posed to take a photo with Ernst. He gently grabbed my arm and placed it over his shoulder. We laughed at our sudden closeness. While the rest of my group piled into the van, I lingered to say farewell. There was a kinship between Ernst and me, and I hesitated leaving it behind.

Local medicine

Next, we were to visit the home of Stanley Witbooi, a medicine man. I was a bundle of nervous energy because I didn’t know what to expect from a medicine man. I pictured a witch doctor—an elderly man dressed in animal pelts with strange adornments like bird feathers or animal teeth. I imagined he’d be mysterious and that he’d talk to us about casting spells and the mythical world of spirits and demons.

When we got to his house, a young girl stood in the doorway with her hand on her hips. She was watching us as if we were nothing spectacular. She knew the routine. We were just another group of tourists.

Despite the girl’s watchful eye, Stanley Witbooi was welcoming. He was dressed in blue pants and a matching blue jacket that appeared to be a work suit. He was a handsome man, in his late 30s or early 40s, and did not look like a witch doctor. For the first time, I was really forced to examine my own misgivings and prejudices about Africa—the ones I’d so often seen in the media.

Stanley was a family man and his house buzzed with activity. Several family members cooked in the kitchen. He invited us into a room that was very small and bare. A reclining chair, a loveseat and a foam mattress were the only seats in the room. Stanley relaxed in the reclining chair, so we settled onto the small couch and mattress.  

Stanley told us about his work. He was a medicine man, but he didn’t cast spells, he worked with herbs. Stanley stressed the fact that it is very difficult to be a medicine man because one must know all the herbs well. It had taken him a lifetime to learn what he knew.

He passed around glass jars of roots, stems, flowers and seeds, explaining that he had gathered his herbs himself. We touched them all while he explained their various uses. He even passed a jar of potent-smelling seal oil. Stanley collected the seal oil himself, too. He killed the seals by hitting them once over the head.

Stanley treated various ailments such as arthritis, chronic pain, headaches and stomach problems for community members. He diagnosed clients, gave them the herbs they needed to remedy their situations, and told them exactly how to use the prescription.

Stanley said he was an herbalist and healer because he was born a caulbearer. When he was born, his head was covered in a filmy membrane called a caul. In Stanley’s culture, those born with a caul are brought up to be healers and herbalists.

Recently, Stanley said, traditional healers had been experiencing problems. Western drug companies had developed an interest in the herbal mixtures of his people. Large pharmaceutical companies had begun paying harvesters to gather local plants used to produce traditional remedies. As a result, some of Stanley’s herbs had become harder to find.

Upon leaving, I wondered how much longer Stanley would be able to roam and harvest his natural medicines. My Western ideas had certainly prejudged him. I hated to think that my Western culture would also destroy his livelihood.

Local grub

Before the tour ended, we were treated to an authentic, local meal. We adjourned to a one-room hut, which was only big enough to fit a table and a few plastic chairs, and were served a meal of millet pancakes, stewed beans, traditional barbequed chicken, dried wild berries and, the highlight—mopane worms. Mopane worms are large, fat, speckled caterpillars. They are dried, and then boiled and sautéed for serving.

I was very open to trying new dishes while I was Africa. Before I left home, I had assumed I’d taste everything without hesitation. However, when that bowl full of glistening mopane worms was placed before me, I faltered. Meanwhile, my fellow travelers popped the worms into their mouths with no problem.

I’m afraid of insects, so it was difficult for me to pick one up. I had to grab it with my fingers as this was the traditional way. I squished the worm between pieces of bread to hide it from my eyes and gave myself a pep talk while the others egged me on. If I could just take one bite…just one. And I did. I squealed the whole time. I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that caterpillar parts were crunching between my teeth. I swallowed after much ado and didn’t dare take another bite.

As we ate, local girls kept peeking inside the hut and dashing away in a fit of giggles. They were members of a performance group that would be dancing for us once dinner was done. Finally our plates were cleared, the sun had set and the show could begin.

The girls spanned a wide range of ages. Some were as young as 5, others were 12. They formed a fidgety circle and started to sing as drums pounded out a tempo from behind them. As their song picked up speed, two girls jumped inside the circle and moved together, their voices and their feet keeping perfect rhythm with the drum. They danced effortlessly. As one pair jumped out of the circle, another jumped in. It reminded me of jumping rope double Dutch style. The girls were always trying to outdo the pair that had gone before by dancing faster and singing louder. Their voices carried into the night and I watched, stunned by their energy and noise. When the dancing finished, the girls walked boldly up to us and introduced themselves.