Uukwambi Stop Station aka Samuel Aambunda

Today I went to the doctor in Ondangwa.  Of course not my favorite thing to do; early morning ride in the back of a pick-up, bumpy roads, paying for taxis, etc., but it has to be done I guess.  The doctor was a comforting man; kind of like a big black beardless Santa.  After assuring me that my rash was not the result of internal problems or a flesh-eating disease, he sent me on my way with a tub of cream.  After some errands in town I made my way to Uukwambi Stop Station, as it’s unofficially known, in Oshakati.  Uukwambi is where I crawl into the back of a pick-up (bush taxi rather) to go back to the village.  I have a love-hate relationship with the place.  When I am not getting hassled, stared at, asked for money, and accosted by belligerent drunks, Uukwambi is an OK type of place.  I can buy my fruit and veggies, get my boots fixed, get my hair cut, and exchange friendly greetings with people who know me but I have no idea who they are.   Besides the old Afrikaner who rolls through occasionally to load his pick-up with villagers, I am the only oshilumbu (white person) around.

I usually visit Uukwambi once a week.  My routine is to show up, greet a few people, buy my fruit, and then find an empty wall to stand against until a jalopy that I recognize as one going to Enguwantale comes around.  However, a cheerful old man called me over today where he and several others were enjoying omagongo (the local marula wine) that is now in season.  I am not one to pass up the deliciousness of fermented juice.  He bought me a pitcher from an old woman with friendly eyes and an even friendlier smile.  I had arrived earlier than the bush taxis at the stop station so I spent the afternoon drinking and chit-chatting in broken English and Oshiwambo with the old farts.  It was one of the first times I really observed the stop station come to life as the afternoon progressed.  I watched as Kangulu fired up his beast (a wired together 2-wheel drive Toyota that very well could have come from the front lines of the independence struggle, as well as Kangulu himself) and move it into position to accept customers.  More and more vehicles continued to roll in as well as villagers wanting to get back into the bush after a day of stocking up in town.  At one point Tate Thomas, who I was depending on for a ride back, nudged me with his elbow and said “Chev” as he pointed at an old Chevy with a makeshift wooden rack of sorts and a payload of coke and a goat that rolled into the stop station.  I was later verbally abused by an old man in Afrikaans who apparently thought I was an Afrikaner.  I asked the man standing next to me what he was saying but he only said, “That man is really drunk. We have no problems.”  Even though I couldn’t understand a word he was saying I could tell by his tone that his remarks were racially charged.  Fair enough.  I am not going to hold it against him given Namibia's past.  After someone finally explained to him that I was American he quickly shut his mouth and even mumbled an apology as he walked past. 

 My Uukwambi experience ended for the day with no customers going to Enguwantale which meant I got to ride in the front seat with Tate Thomas as opposed to in the back uncomfortably crammed with 15 other people.  Uukwambi is one of those things I have taken for granted after a year and half here.  It is by no means a place to visit for the heck of it, but it is nonetheless always an interesting and dynamic experience.