Trip to Twyfelteain | Chased by the Damara Tribe | Drive through The Giant's Playground

Article by guest author Peter Brooker

We headed north along the Skeleton Coast, then inland towards Damaraland, passing the Brandberg (Fire Mountain) Namibia's highest mountain.

Today our destination was Twyfelteain, a perennial spring situated in the Huab Valley flanked by the slopes of the sandstone table mountain. It's here that some of the most important concentrations of rock art in Africa can be found.

Marius continued with his unsympathetic mandate towards the Damara tribe, which we passed along the way. The tribe are primarily hunter-gatherers, thought to be the oldest tribe in Namibia. As we passed the small children, dressed in only a loincloth waved an empty water bottle.

"They’ll be waving empty water bottles, begging you to stop. When you give them water they try to sell you stones and necklaces , putting them on your wrist forcibly. Then you have to pay."

"It's happened to your previous customers?" I asked Marius, eager to exhume the origins of his noticeable disdain.

"The last time I stopped was seven years ago. I was with a couple whose enthusiasm to experience culture outweighed their common sense. They wanted to meet the tribe, but after the aggressive nature of the Damara they left in tears."

Marius won't win any awards for philanthropy, but he does care for the wellness of his passengers. In his line of work, the Damara People are an irritant. The wasps at the picnic. The shops and the cafes display signs telling you not to buy food for the Damara Tribe. They're being squeezed out of existence.

"They have a choice," Marius said. "They don't have to live like this, like beggars. But they do."

After a few hours I ask Marius to pull over so I can take a piss. In the distance at the foot of the hill, I see two thin black shapes sprinting towards us.

"What is that Marius? Who runs in the desert?"

Marius who puts out his cigarette and ushers back into the car. As we set off the two thin black shapes bulge into two young men and they flap their arms at the car, waving the empty water bottles.

The fields and valleys are strewn with mountain-sized piles of sandstone boulders that look so perfect in their arranged shapes as if they were appointed by hand.

Marius pointed, "We call these mini mountains 'The Giant's Playground'."

The African Art merely carvings on the rock faces that have endured over the centuries. Early depictions of giraffes and lions. Some depict watering holes giving the natives a map of the area. You can take it or leave it.

We took a walk through The Organ Pipes, a shallow gorge eddied with columnar basalts that resembles organ pipes. The ephemeral quality of the gorge would befit a final cat and mouse shootout scene in some science fiction caper. I do ponder sometimes how I would make a very good location hunter for the film studios. Namibia and South Africa especially have been relatively overlooked by Hollywood, for reasons I cannot fathom.

Our final destination, nestled amongst the imperious Mopane Trees, was the Malansrus Tented Camp. It consisted of several tent-like structures with a small pool in the open plains. The lady introduces the dinner in both English, and the Damara language. Three tables of internationals all applaud in reverie except some dickhead sat in the lobby area, blissfully unaware and rabbiting into his phone. A lady from the same table as the dickhead, becomes conscious of the collective unrest, and scurries over to tell him to stop. Which he does without protest.