Namibia Road Trip – Day #6: Sesriem
above: The tranquility I never got to enjoy
We’d just completed a 200 mile journey from Swakopmund to Sesriem via Walvis Bay and the aptly named Solitaire. This challenging drive meant traversing dry riverbeds, navigating miles of treacherous sand strips posing as roads, swerving around the occasional kudu, and negotiating passes so narrow and steep, your ears popped. It was an exhausting drive.
We were camped at a small camp site on the edge of the Namib Desert. It was hundreds of miles to the nearest vestige of civilization, so I figured I could really recharge my batteries in Sesriem. I fired up the braai, got a chilly Windhoek lager out of our truck’s small fridge, and readied myself to enjoy a peaceful sunset in the desert.
Don’t I wish.
Just as the sun began to set, the next campsite over began blasting music. It was the worst “college mix” I’d ever heard. I couldn’t believe it. Who brings a giant radio out in the desert with them? They started playing Bob Marley’s “Legend”, always a sure-fire winner on fraternity row, and then launched into a medley of Phish tracks. Thinking themselves clever in this Age of the iPod, they’d interspersed Johnny Cash and Edith Piaf. As an encore, they played the Grateful Dead’s most clichéd single ever: “Truckin’”.
During the pauses in this hit parade, I must have heard the word “dude” about 100 times.
“Ah,” I realized. “My fellow Americans.”
It was a mother and her three teen-aged children from La Jolla, California They were traveling through Namibia in a 4×4 like we were, but they had their own guide. They were using a real, black Namibian guide, because the mom had read an article in the New York Times on-line about Namibia, and they just had to follow in Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie’s footsteps. And they loved Namibia. I mean they just laaaaaahhhved it!
I couldn’t speak a word to them, as I was in danger of vomiting. So how did I learn so much about them? Well, with Americans abroad, you don’t have to ask us a single question, as we tend to explain everything aloud for the benefit of everyone else in the rail car, restaurant, museum, or Vatican.
What can I say? We’re big children.
What always makes these types of encounters worse for me personally is that I’m certain I did the same thing at one time. I think it’s the excitement of traveling abroad for the first time; not to Cancun or Niagara Falls abroad, but abroad abroad. It’s knowing your the first guy in your neighborhood to visit the Tower of London, the Berlin Wall, the Colosseum, or in this case, Sesriem. This family from La Jolla was no exception. And they were so freaking cheery. Ugh.
I couldn’t take it. I walked away from the din about 200 yards into the desert to get better shots of the spectacular sunset. To my dismay, they actually followed me out into the sands, yakking all the way:
“Oh my Gawd,”the daughter cringed. “What is that sound?”
“Dude, those are birds.” Brother #1 answered.
“No dude, those are crickets.” Brother #2 responded.
“Oh my Gawd,” she cringed again. “Are those really crickets? They don’t sound like crickets.”
“Yeah, dude. They’re Southern Hemisphere crickets.”
“Oh you kids will just love this sunset. Now you have to stand here and wait. It gets better every minute. See? Now it’s good. See? Now it’s better. See? Now it’s even better-”
“Dude, should I watch the sunset with the Polaroid lenses or the Ray-bans?”
“Well, the Polaroids really fire it up, dude. But try them both!”
“Awesome idea, dude.”
“- and now it’s even more better! See how the sun is setting? Kids?”
Take the above dialog, record it, and play it back on three different stereos simultaneously, over and over again until you want to hang yourself.
Now in all fairness, they weren’t the only guilty party that ruined my tranquility that evening. Sesriem is always full. At the gateway to Sosussvlei and the heart of the desert, it’s pretty much the only game in town if you want to catch a desert sunset or sunrise. Trucks were pulling in and out of the camp at all hours. One Coloured family was whacking back beers with alacrity and whooping it up until midnight. Some Afrikaner kids squealed with delight as they chased around Sesriem’s resident fox population. I question the potential wisdom of allowing children to chase potentially rabid/aggressive predators in Africa, but perhaps the parents were applying Darwin’s Law to thin out the herd and reduce the number of mouths to feed. I wouldn’t have minded the kids so much had they been successful in chasing off the foxes, but they weren’t.
Some inconsiderate jerk had left a bag of garbage near our truck. The two bat-eared foxes growled and yelped below our tent until well past midnight, ripping the garbage bag to shreds in the process. This cacophony went on all night long, and I resorted to putting in my shooting ear plugs that I’d only brought for some peace and quiet on the plane ride.
All of the above crap pissed me off as much as my inconsiderate fellow countrymen did. The difference was I didn’t feel a sense of responsibility or guilt for a bunch of Afrikaners or Coloureds (or bat-eared foxes). Also, these California idiots really got on my tits. Even through the ear plugs I could hear ‘em:
“Dude! Where are you dude?”
“Over here on the other side of the campground, dude!”
“Well, get over here, dude, and take my picture. I’m totally doing the dishes!”
“On my way, dude.”
“And bring a flashlight, dude. It’s like midnight or something.”
“Adjust your watch, dude. It’s like 1:30 am now.”
“No way, dick. It’s 12:30 am. We’re nine hours ahead of California.”
“Ten, dude.”
“Are you, sure? Hey MOM! WHAT TIME IS IT?”
I didn’t bother counting sheep in hopes of drifting off. Instead, I sent the following prayer of ill-will to them and all my fellow Americans abroad who’ve similarly offended me over the years:
To the Californians now blasting Blues Traveler less than 100 feet from me: I beseech you to please SHUT THE F*CK UP! I don’t care about your trip, your school, or your buddy TK back in La Jolla. I hope TK’s stint in rehab only drives him over the edge and he gets arrested for trying to knock over a liquor store. I also hope you’re eaten by lions on the next part of your trip.
To the two chicks who sat next to me on the RER in Paris last year: You are the spawn of harpies. How the hell were you able to say the word “like” over 40 times in 60 seconds? (I timed it!) I don’t, like, give a sh*t that you’re, like, studying abroad for, like, a whole semester? I hope that you guys, are like, totally gang-banged by, like, a bunch of Algerian guys on a dirty mattress in, like, some gutted counsel apartment in banlieue St. Denis?
To the paisans from Massapequa (aka., “Matzo-Pizza”, home to Amy Fisher’s high school beau, Joey Buttafuoco), Long Island who shared my table at Oktoberfest 2000: Please refrain from steroid use and picking fights with foreigners smaller than you. It’s not cool. Also, your orange tans and gold chains made you look like complete tools. Drop dead, you choads.
To all the backpacker college kids in Interlaken: You’re clichéd, stupid, and not half as cool as you think you are. I’d like to stuff you all into a giant sack and drown you like kittens by weighing it down with all those copies of “Lonely Planet Western Europe” you brought with you. Switzerland is the most expensive and boring country in Europe, and you go there to go white-water rafting? Save the airfare and stay on Lake Havasu and get out of my face, please.
To the two, uhm, Rubenesque girls who talked my ear off on the tram in Amsterdam: no I don’t care that you’re “totally hooked up” with work for a year in Germany at the AAFES. Do you really think anyone gives a toss whether you two are flipping burgers in Stuttgart or back in Kenosha?
To every baby fat-laden sorority girl I ever met in Prague, Rome, Munich, and elsewhere: No, I really don’t find it interesting that you’re traveling around Europe for, like, four weeks on Daddy’s credit card. I’m was just nodding dumbly in hopes of getting laid. Your brainless optimism and sense of entitlement make me want to tear my hair out. Oh, and Yugoslavia is not, repeat not a Scandinavian country.
To that idiot heart surgeon from New York who wouldn’t stop yakking to me during my Thanksgiving trip: GO AWAY! I don’t care if your somehow related distantly to the Jews of Istanbul, I really don’t. Go call your mother or something. Oh, that’s right, you can’t, because if mom knew you were dating a goyishe girl a foot taller than you (a Russian mail-order gal, from the looks of her), she would have your nuts on a platter, right? You man-child. You pischer.
Amen!
7 Comments
January 9, 2008 at 4:55 am
Dude Like you are so right! Kidding…
My wife and I just spent 3 weeks in Northwest China / Tibet. This was her first time with me in this part of the world, when we got back to the Beijing Airport for the return flight to Los Angeles, I turned to her and said “prepare yourself, for Americans” and explained that one can find their way to the USA bound flights in China if blindfolded, just follow the loud noise. Not 1 minute after arriving at the gate, we heard a lady exclaim “I will be so glad to get away from these f__king Chinese people” as if no one there could possibly speak English, then a father of 3 screaming brats hollered across 8 rows of waiting chairs and hollered “hey your Americans too, right? Come sit with us!” then he proceeded to bump into 2 old Chinese ladies and hop a row of chairs to speak to me up close. So I asked him in a very small quite voice, sir please f__k off.
I avoid my fellow Americans in any country I travel, every time I can.
January 12, 2008 at 1:57 am
Mazeltov!
January 12, 2008 at 1:58 am
you are so incredibly full of yourself.
February 1, 2008 at 2:28 pm
My fiancee is from NY State and I drove her and her sister through Belgium listening to a conversation peppered with enough mentions of the word “like” to, like, keep my quota of the word “like” up to, like, a whole year’s worth of “like”, like. Like, you know what I mean, like?
December 10, 2008 at 1:12 pm
nail on the head…
I used to work in tourism in my hometown (Gent, Belgium), and indeed it is no stereotype, Americans are too often too loud and rude, although they seem to think the same about Europeans.
The thing is that Americans don’t seem to listen to what the surroundings tell them, they don’t feel the atmosphere around them.
And for some reason they want to be seen and heard by everyone.
It’s an endless guessing as why they choose to behave like this, or maybe they don’t have a choice, who knows.
What I have learnt after 14 years of working as a guide in Western Europe is that americans talk loudly with very little content in their words, and no consideration for others around. They tend to dominate spaces. But then again,they have no clue where they are or how to behave, so I kind of forgive them I suppose. They just don’t have a choice it seems, perhaps it is something genetic. By the way, Europeans can also be rude and loud to their fellow humans, but that is often because they choose to be. still not nice though.
my final advice to all americans (and loud europeans) oversea is very simple.
look and listen more, talk less.
tip
mix with local people who don’t speak english
and try to guess what THEY are talking about, smile a lot and be patient.
all the best, Karel
February 20, 2009 at 11:46 pm
Hello Karel, I really enjoyed what you wrote. It was thoughtful, delicate, and balanced. I’ve seen some of what everyone seems to have observed about Americans overseas. I’ve also met some quiet, responsible, open-minded Americans but then again perhaps I can only say this after 11+ trips overseas. In any case, let’s not over-generalize, and let’s ask that all travellers be respectful.
July 20, 2009 at 9:04 pm
This piece written is quite representative of loud, inconsiderate Americans overseas. My wife’s Swiss. She’s a very tolerant person of others in general. However, as someone is quite familiar with European cultures, they do think we’re a bunch of drama queen, over exaggerating most things. And loud braggarts. We really should kick it down a bit. We don’t though. Its so embarrassing I want to run!