Namibia Road Trip – Day #1: Windhoek
At first glance, Windhoek didn’t look too different from any mid-sized city in South Africa. I think I expected something different since the street names were so outrageous. A third of the streets were German (e.g., Schloss, Schoenlein, Planck) and ended in “strasse”, another third were Dutch (e.g., Hoogenhout, Van der Bijl, Papagei) and ended in “straat” or “weg” and the other third were named streets or avenues – some of them clearly local heroes (e.g., Namibia’s first President Sam Nujoma) and others were named after international heroes of the Left.
When I wanted to get a short-cut to a restaurant, the fellow at our guest house didn’t blink when he told me to “head down Rieks van der Walt straat, make a left on Lazarettstrasse, make a left on Robert Mugabe [Avenue] and head past Fidel Castro and Nelson Mandela will be on the right-hand side. You can’t miss it!”
Ooookay.
In retrospect, I see that Windhoek is an excellent microcosm of the currently peaceful co-existence between Namibia’s German and Afrikaans populations, and the earlier native African settlers (technically, only the San Bushmen and the Damara can be construed as true “natives” of Namibia – everyone else migrated in by land or by sea later on). I write “currently peaceful” co-existence, as that was not always the case. When Germany controlled what was then Deutsche Suedwest Afrika (“German Southwest Afrika”), Kaiser Wilhelm’s troops ran a series of brutal campaigns against the Hottentot and Herero tribes infamously culminating in orders calling for total destruction of the Herero tribe (specifically including non-combatants). This Vernichtungsbefehl was issued by the German theater commander von Trotha. It resulted in annihilation of 75-80% of the Herero people and has been provocatively called Germany’s first genocide of the 20th century.
SWAPO has been in charge since Namibian independence in 1990, and there never were any “revenge” taken. (Indeed, Namibians black and white seem to love the historical connections to Germany. During a remembrance ceremony for the Herero massacre last year, the Namibian government invited descendants of General Lothar von Trotha (all expenses paid) to take part!
Today, signs in English, German, Afrikaans, and Oshiwambo abound in the capital. Although whites are only 6% of the population, everyone understands Afrikaans and English (and in many cases German).
Since we only had one night in Windhoek I’d been recommended by a few locals to head to Joe’s Beer House for dinner. It’s considered the liveliest place to go, and we’d be lucky to get in without a reservation. As instructed, we got on Mugabe, completely ignored Castro, and made a right on Mandela. Sure enough, Joe’s Beerhouse was on the left. As with most restaurants in South Africa, you had to tip a parking attendant who wore a day-glo orange or yellow vest. His job was not so much to show you where to park, but to ward off any car thieves.
Joe’s Beer House is a huge operation. It was hard to take in completely, as the sun was setting quickly. It consisted of a number of interconnected buildings, and outdoor bars and huts. The hostess lead us through a maze of dining areas, bead curtains, and mosquito nets to get to another dimly lit hall. The walls were decorated with tons of crazy crap รก la TGIFriday’s, but at least they were Namibian curios and antelope heads (and loads of old Jaegermeister bottles) rather than American stop signs and pinball machine parts. We were lead to a table in the back with all the other plebes who hadn’t reserved, and we shared our table with an Afrikaner family. To our right was a black family chatted away in Oshiwambo, and behind them a group roaring at each other in German.
I didn’t know if the Germans were tourists or locals, but I considered it a good sign that they were at the Beer House, but I needed to evaluate the place for myself. The litmus test for just how German these Namibians still were was of course – the beer. I tried Joe’s house brew called Hansa – and was badly disappointed.
It had no body (at least compared to German pilseners), and very little taste. Like the Aussie joke, it was “fucking close to water”. It tasted familiar somehow. I knew I’d tasted it before, but I couldn’t remember where. I kept screwing up my face to the annoyance of my wife.
“It’s beer,” she chided, “not wine.”
“Silence, woman. I’m trying to classify this dishwater.”
Bingo! That was it. Dishwater!
“I got it!” I exclaimed. “This shit tastes like Coors light!”
My second Namibian beer of the night was a bottled beer called Windhoek Lager. Man, what a difference. Now that’s good brew. It hit the nose like a tasty pilsener, but it went down like a lager. Great stuff!
My wife wisely stuck with imported German Weissbier, but she very unwisely selected spaghetti from the menu. It was overcooked to hell and the sauce was a reject from the Chef Boyardee labs, consisting of the run-off from a Bolognese with a shitload of salt and pepper. My meal, however was amazing: Springbok Filet Kebab served with corn fritters. It was fantastic; so good in fact, I think I cried.
So, moral of the story is Namibians do indeed know beer as evidenced by Windhoek Lager, and like their neighbors to the south, they know their game. But you better wait until you’re in Italy (or New York) if you want a decent plate of pasta.
