You can't go through a space like this without having some admiration for the people who live there, and try to bang out a living on rocks and a little bit of grass.
Some photos from my trip are up on our Picasa site.
During the trip, I realized that Namibia, in general, makes you simultaneously want to quickly leave but also go back to examine what you just saw. It's a feeling we've had many times this year. Repulsion, but curiousity. Fear, but comfort. Anger, but contentment.
Here's how that feeling manifested itself for me on the way home from my trip south...
The Road to Maltahöhe *
Racing. My truck flies over stones.
Airborne as we come out of rainwashed ravines.
Towards Maltahöhe.
Uphill. All the way we climb
Through the wash plains of the plateau to the southeast.
The book says when Gondwana broke up and South America
Moved away from Africa
The edge of the continent lifted.
Free of Argentina. Free of Brazil.
Lighter. Floating on magma.
Then, the rains, eons of rains. And winds, eons of winds
Carved this lip, this newly freed land.
Now, plateaus make stairsteps toward the ocean
And rivers of rocks run to meet the sea.
Counting. I keep track of the years as I drive.
Layers in the plateau.
Ocean, desert, ocean.
Sand, limestone, sand.
Climbing. we pass through millions of years, surely,
As the road rises.
Towards Maltahöhe.
Contemplating. Why am I racing?
Isn’t this country to explore?
But, the rivers of rocks and carved stone suggest
What can happen if you stand still in this country.
The wind and the rain.
I listen to the rocks of the plateau and the wind gusting on my truck.
Still speeding
Towards Maltahöhe.
Aha, I say, as I see him.
I knew it, the rocks told the truth.
A farmer fixing the fence.
Living here on gravel plains beneath the plateau.
His forearms scarred like the cliffs, perhaps Acacia trees or barbed wire?
His face furrowed and tanned like sandstone. The sun and the wind.
His hands gnarled like a twisting, dead tree, grasping wire. Pushing posts through rock.
His leg misshapen like the valley. Perhaps a run-in with a leopard or a fall from horseback?
Look what this valley can do to a man.
I wave and push faster.
Towards Maltahöhe.
Escaping. I reach the town.
Atop the plateau.
Away from wind and rocks.
The streets are teaming with more farmers
Bartering for fencing and supplies.
Limping, twisted, slowed. The entire lot marked by the land.
I slow to watch.
Understanding. It is their way.
To push back against the wind and the rain.
To try to tame the veld.
To argue with Nature.
To stand in the middle of endless time.
To know your fate will be decided by the elements.
To shout at the cliffs.
Scarred, moved, and beaten.
A record of a life lived.
Really lived.
A life recorded on forearms, hands, and faces.
Envious. I want to go back
And drive slowly.
To stop and fix fence.
To stand under the plateau in the wind.
To live.
To live on the road to Maltahöhe.
Racing. My truck flies over stones.
Airborne as we come out of rainwashed ravines.
Towards Maltahöhe.
Uphill. All the way we climb
Through the wash plains of the plateau to the southeast.
The book says when Gondwana broke up and South America
Moved away from Africa
The edge of the continent lifted.
Free of Argentina. Free of Brazil.
Lighter. Floating on magma.
Then, the rains, eons of rains. And winds, eons of winds
Carved this lip, this newly freed land.
Now, plateaus make stairsteps toward the ocean
And rivers of rocks run to meet the sea.
Counting. I keep track of the years as I drive.
Layers in the plateau.
Ocean, desert, ocean.
Sand, limestone, sand.
Climbing. we pass through millions of years, surely,
As the road rises.
Towards Maltahöhe.
Contemplating. Why am I racing?
Isn’t this country to explore?
But, the rivers of rocks and carved stone suggest
What can happen if you stand still in this country.
The wind and the rain.
I listen to the rocks of the plateau and the wind gusting on my truck.
Still speeding
Towards Maltahöhe.
Aha, I say, as I see him.
I knew it, the rocks told the truth.
A farmer fixing the fence.
Living here on gravel plains beneath the plateau.
His forearms scarred like the cliffs, perhaps Acacia trees or barbed wire?
His face furrowed and tanned like sandstone. The sun and the wind.
His hands gnarled like a twisting, dead tree, grasping wire. Pushing posts through rock.
His leg misshapen like the valley. Perhaps a run-in with a leopard or a fall from horseback?
Look what this valley can do to a man.
I wave and push faster.
Towards Maltahöhe.
Escaping. I reach the town.
Atop the plateau.
Away from wind and rocks.
The streets are teaming with more farmers
Bartering for fencing and supplies.
Limping, twisted, slowed. The entire lot marked by the land.
I slow to watch.
Understanding. It is their way.
To push back against the wind and the rain.
To try to tame the veld.
To argue with Nature.
To stand in the middle of endless time.
To know your fate will be decided by the elements.
To shout at the cliffs.
Scarred, moved, and beaten.
A record of a life lived.
Really lived.
A life recorded on forearms, hands, and faces.
Envious. I want to go back
And drive slowly.
To stop and fix fence.
To stand under the plateau in the wind.
To live.
To live on the road to Maltahöhe.
L. Powell, near Maltahöhe
---------------
* "höhe" means "hill" in Afrikaans. Maltahöhe is literally "Malta's Hill", evidently named by an early Afrikaaner who had a wife named Malta.
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