The Fall (part 2, told by Peter)

It’s Saturday July 16th 2005, day 950 of our journey by bicycle. At nine a.m. we’re sitting somewhere between Opuwo and Sesfontein in the inhospitable, barren, dry and inhabited north west of Namibia. We’re not sitting on our bicycles, but on the pebbles of a gravel road, a few kilometres north of the Joubert Pass in the desert hills of Damaraland. We’re in the direst distress.

Waiting for a car. Waiting for salvation.

Despite the extra sweater, the emergency-blanket and the fast rising temperature Karin sits next to me, shivering from the cold. Sometimes she looks at me, with one eye, and asks the same questions over and over again. “Where are we, where is Namibia, what happened, what year is it, is my bicycle broken, are you hurt as well, did you take a picture, did I do something stupid?” Loyally I answer her every time again, hoping her memory will be restored soon. For the time being this is not the case, after thirty times she asks the same questions again. And again, and again.

Waiting.

After having waited for 45 minutes for a rescuer I decide to temporarily abandon Karin, with more pain in my heart then I have ever felt in 45 years. I cycle back to the hamlet we passed a few kilometres ago, which consisted of a dozen huts and where I saw a car an hour ago. Panting I’m standing between some children and women a little while later. The Damara-language, full of tongue-clicks, is incomprehensible for me, but one woman luckily speaks some Afrikaans. She understands my story and question, but has to disappoint me: the only car in the village is broken. I could have known: maintenance and Africa are not compatible.

Quickly I cycle back to Karin, over the two little mountains that divide us, and hope a car has arrived from the other side in the meantime. No luck. Karin still sits on the same place on the road, in the same pose, with the same questions.

Waiting.

I force her to drink as much as she can, check her wounds. Every ten seconds I glance at the road and over the hills, hoping to see a truck or car coming around the corner. It’s an hour after the accident already and still there’s no traffic. Never before in my life have I wished for a car as much as I do now.

Waiting.

At ten o’clock I inspect Karin’s bicycle. Panniers, frame and wheels seem to be in good order; both brake-cables are broken because the handlebars have turned 360 degrees during the fall. No problem.

Waiting.
Some curious children from the village have arrived in the meantime and watch Karin with big eyes, watch how I give her water and dress her wounds.

Waiting.

“Car, car!” the children start yelling suddenly. A few moments later a pick-up reaches the top of the hill, the green number plate of the government barely visible. Two black workers in blue overalls get out of the car at my violent gestures; they immediately understand the situation and help to get us and the bicycles into the car. Karin sits in front with the driver, I get in the back between the bicycles and sit on an old car tire and see the amazingly beautiful landscape glide by. Two hours of waiting is rewarded. We’re on our way to better times.

Sesfontein, a village of a few hundred inhabitants, a shop, a bottle store and a clinic, is even smaller than our map indicates. The clinic – dusty, broken and in all aspects resembling a messy warehouse more than a medical wonder centre – is run by male nurse Wonus this weekend, who doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to examine, help and diagnose. After some time, at my insistence, Karin’s head wounds are taken care of. And that is it. The wounds on her face, arms and legs are my job. There is no hot water, no electricity. There are no blankets, no pillows. There is no doctor.

There are threadbare mattresses, a broken toilet and left and right boxes filled with medicines for the take. We get assigned to a room with two beds and a sink with mirror, which is contaminated by Karin with her image. Every time she looks at herself it’s like it’s the first time and she says: “What a monster, is that me?”

The nurse really hasn’t a clue as what to do with Karin and wants to transport her by ambulance to the state hospital in Opuwo, where there are doctors. My mistrust against the governmental medical profession grows with the minute and I manage to keep Wonus from making the phone call.
In the meagre light of my head flash-light I bathe Karin at night in the rusty bath with cold water, whilst she screams for pain. Filled to the rim with painkillers she dozes of in a restless sleep; three times I help her to go to the toilet this night. After ten times she still doesn’t know where it is.

After a dozen attempts I finally reach Johan, the manager of the Oase Guesthouse in Kamanjab, the next morning. The only thing that feels alright now in this situation is to go back to that place, with warm people in a friendly environment. Four hours later Johan and assistant Jakobus are standing in front of the clinic with the 4x4.

This morning Karin woke up as out of a coma: her memory is slowly coming back. Bit by bit she recalls the last three months of our journey, something that was an impenetrable black cloud only yesterday. For the first time in 36 hours she is hungry. Chewing isn’t possible, but a light soup is devoured. I pay the clinic’s bill: four euro for a drip, a night stay, the treatment of her head wounds, a bottle of iodine and fifteen pieces of gauze. The medical insurance we terminated last year, which cost us five hundred euro per person per year plus the own risk of five hundred euro per person per year, would call for at least 250 treatments like this.

In the dusk and dark Johan and Jakobus drive us back to Kamanjab; regularly Johan has to break to avoid crossing kudu and springbok.

To end all uncertainties – and because of the insistence of nurse Clementine of the clinic in Kamanjab, who is a REAL nurse – we go to Otjiwarongo to take X-rays. Dr. Kesslau in Outjo reassures us: no broken bones, ‘only’ a bad concussion and a lot of abrasions. When we return in Kamanjab from visiting the doctor, there are three food packets waiting for us, donated by the Oase-supermarket around the corner.

Kamanjab, a village with 36 white and 5.000 black inhabitants, is our safe haven for two weeks. Royally we’re being cared for and spoiled, first in the Oase Guesthouse owned by oom Japie Burger. After a week, during which Karin’s wounds heal a bit more every day, we move to ‘The Movie house”.

In the Movie house, built last year for the filming of the movie “The Trail”, we relax completely. It’s situated some twenty kilometres from Kamanjab, is built against and on a koppie formed from gigantic boulders and constructed completely from natural materials. We visit the Himba-village of Jako Burger, that’s close by and get honoured by a visit of some of Jako’s wives as well.

The last days we stay in Kamanjab proper again, at Loreen Scholtz of the supermarket. She invited us in her home and we have a wonderful time here. However bad the accident is and was, everything has been made alright by the affection and hospitality of these great people.
Whom we’ll never forget.

Oase Guest House &
Jakarongo Himba Safari’s &
The Movie house
Kamanjab
e-mail: Oase Guest House