At home with the Himba of Namibia
A homestay scheme allows travellers to experience the life of Namibia’s mud-caked Himba people – including braving the lenses of curious day-trippers
“Take your clothes off,” Simson translated, bashfully. I peeled off my T-shirt and untied my sarong, until I was left standing like a toddler in my underpants. A crimson Simson beat a hasty retreat from the mud hut leaving me with Mama, second of the chief’s eight wives and the woman in charge of the Annabeb Himba homestead in northwest Namibia while her husband is away.
She lived up to her name. Sitting cross-legged in front of me, her almighty breasts tickled the tops of her thighs while a two week-old baby lay nuzzling at a nipple.
Mama motioned for me to stand up, rummaging in the dark corner behind her until she found what she was looking for: a goatskin skirt. It was cool and oily against my skin as she tethered it around my waist. A cloth of royal purple was whipped out and fed through the waistband of the skirt, covering my modesty.
Next: two necklaces – one of metal and shell, the other of rope – were produced and passed through the smoke curling from the small fire between us, rubbed with wild sage and strung about my neck. Then, to complete the makeover, rows of metal beads were wound around my ankles and black rubber bands rolled up my shins to sit just below my knees.
Mama leant back and gave a nod of approval. I jumped to my feet and struck a model’s pose and she let out a high-pitched giggle. Another wife, Kakuhara, joined us and – with a minxish smile – motioned to knock out my bottom front teeth with a stick and stone to match their own gappy grins.
Mud on the cracks
After 15 minutes of ineffectual tugging, the cow and I lost patience with each other so Kakuhara introduced me to a woman from the neighbouring homestead who had come to repair the cracked walls of Mama’s hut, where latticed branches poked through the walls like exposed ribs.
The day before I was due to leave, a 4×4 arrived carrying jewellery-seeking tourists. At first I was shy and signed to Mama that I’d stay inside and look after the baby. But curiosity got the better of me and I sidled up to say, “Hello.” Jill and Andy – a middle-aged UK couple – were clearly shocked at the mass of orange skin and frizzy hair standing before them. They ogled me unreservedly and, for a brief moment, I caught a glimpse of life on the other side of the fence.
The next morning I pulled my old T-shirt and sarong over my ochre-stained skin and, as I waved goodbye, I couldn’t help musing how the contrast summed up my homestay. I’ll never truly understand their life, but the experience of trying will leave traces long after my ‘holiday tan’ has washed away.
The author travelled with with Kunene Tours and Safaris. This article first appeared in issue 125 of Wanderlust: it won the 2012 Responsible Tourism Award for Best in Responsible Tourism Writing.
