An Attempted Transaction

A Pretentious Vignette of a Namibian Afternoon:

We are heading south from Tsumeb back into Windhoek. Approximately 90 minutes into our trip I am shaken from a half slumber by an abrupt application of our bus brakes. The car behind us quickly swerves to the right and slingshots around the bus, quickly overtaking us. This reactionary maneuver is safe because there are no vehicles approaching in the opposite direction. A quick swivel of my head reveals that we are pulling into one of the periodic rest areas that abut the two-lane, tar road. We are pulling into a stop which, like all the others that appear every 10 kilometers or so, consists of a dirt semicircle adjacent to the main road, a fairly large tree, a picnic table protected by the tree, and a trash can. Is our driver stopping for a brief cigarette break? He did so on our northward journey to Tsumeb. Does our driver need to urinate? We have seen him do that too. Are we all getting an opportunity to stretch and talk? Unlikely.

I momentarily catch the sight of a young boy, perhaps fourteen years old, standing on the roadside holding two brilliantly white mushrooms, one in each hand. They are enormous. The stalks might be 4 inches long, and their heads are only marginally smaller than the size of band cymbals. This boy must somehow be the purpose of our stop.

We casually loop back around the lone tree. Two dogs, each wearing leashes which are not attached to anything at all, lie peacefully in the shade. They are motionless except for their panting and the slow turn of their heads as they follow our bus with their tired gaze. The young boy, carrying the mushrooms and wearing only green denim pants that reach his shins, wades through the tall grass between the road and our dirt turn-off. Our driver opens his door and hops to the ground. He walks toward the boy and stops at the edge of the high grass. The back of his immaculately white hat says "Reebok". The back of his light blue polo shirt reads "National Council of Higher Education."

A conversation ensues. Several moments later, the young boy and our driver part. The boy returns to the roadside with the mushrooms, and our driver turns back to our bus. The negotiated price must have been too high.


Twenty minutes drive further down the road, beyond the fencing that separates the denser bush and the occasional group of animals from the lesser foliage next to the road, I momentarily see a dark, muscular, middle-aged man with deep blue jean pants snap a thin branch from a tree and toss it into a thigh-level pile by his side.