A Man from Another Land: How Finding My Roots Changed My Life (9 page)

Amanda pointed out a mountain range known as the Zebra Mountains. They got their name because of the black rock formations
alongside of the mopane trees that truly resembled the zebra. She also showed us a mountain in southern Angola which stood
eight thousand feet high. This mountain, she told us, should never be pointed at, for legend was that it may bring on extremely
bad luck.

As we approached Epupa Falls, Amanda maneuvered our aircraft in a series of forty-five-degree-angle turns so that I could
get some clean shots of magnificent waterfalls cascading off several cliffs. Unlike arriving in South Africa, and feeling
Cape Town could have been any city, my reaction to setting foot in Namibia was quite different. Once we landed, I got off
the plane and dropped down onto one knee, feeling an uncontrollable need to kiss the ground of Mother Africa. “I’m home again,”
I whispered. Tears of joy ran down my cheeks.

Enya, our caretaker, an Afrikaner, met our plane and drove us to the Epupa camp. Once there, we unloaded the boxes of food
and luggage and were assigned to tents. I had tent #7, toilet #3. My tent was pitched adjacent to the Kunene River. I removed
my boots and stepped inside my new mosquito-proof dwelling.

Later, as I sat at the edge of the river and meditated, I contemplated my blessings and my work ahead. While my eyes were
closed, I felt a rough pull on my arms. The force was so strong it almost knocked me into the river.

What the hell was that? Startled, I stood up looking around for a prankster, but there was no one in sight. I stood there,
looking across the river for several minutes, and began to have the most intense déjà vu moment I’d ever had. It was as if
I had been in this very spot before. It was a fleeting sensation but very
powerful. It startled me physically and emotionally, like I had just woken up from a bad dream.

Back at the camp, we got word that our contracted driver had damaged his truck coming to Epupa and now refused to drive us
anywhere. Craig tried to negotiate with him, but he seemed to be having a nervous breakdown. They let him leave. Instead,
we borrowed Enya’s 4x4, and Elaine, Amy, Craig, Cornelius—our interpreter, an African man who loved to dress in red shirts—and
I loaded in and headed out. Before Craig had driven two kilometers, the equivalent of just over a mile, Cornelius’s Himba
brother passed us on the road and stopped to chat with Craig for twenty minutes. In Africa, when you come upon someone you
know, it is considered good manners to stop and chat for a while before moving on to your next destination. I learned very
quickly that one cannot be in a hurry in Africa!

We proceeded for a short time but then stopped again, to talk with Cornelius’s cousins and nephews in their village. We got
out of the truck to say hello. I greeted the men first, then the grandmother, the children, and finally the younger women
as is customary in African culture. There was a Himba woman named Uamahuno. She was a tall, thin, statuesque beauty with smooth
dark brown, reddish skin and big bright penetrating eyes. I secretly referred to her as the Whitney Houston of Namibia. She
stood off in the distance holding her baby. She allowed Amy and me to take a photograph of her little boy and her.

The noonday sun was incredibly hot. After chatting, taking photos, and drinking the customary offering of goat’s milk, we
climbed back into the truck and drove deeper into the Kaokoland, picking up and dropping off other villagers along the way.
Uamahuno had joined us on our journey. She began to sing a beautiful tribal song in Herero, her native language. It was lyrical,
rhythmic, like “row, row, row, your boat”… I couldn’t
understand a word of it, but it soothed me as we drove through this hot, unfamiliar, and foreign land.

Our next stop was the Himba Chief Kapika’s
omganda
. It was a stunning structure, very large and sturdy, almost like a prehistoric ranch. Chief Kapika wasn’t there, but his
semi-blind brother came out to greet us and asked us to retrieve some water for him. We obliged. Apparently Chief Kapika had
traveled to Tanzania, the place I heard so much about from Moza Cooper. Craig and I were both a little disappointed not to
have the chance to meet him.

We drove on, stopping to deliver medicine and blankets to people to whom Craig had promised them on his last visit, and handing
out food, tobacco, T-shirts, and chocolates. We also continued to serve as something of a local taxi service, giving countless
villagers a lift from one place to another.

People eyed me with great curiosity. I later learned that I may have been the first African American to visit this Himba village.
One of the first things I noticed was the red ocher smeared all over the women’s bodies. They were elegant, mysterious, rugged,
majestic, and sensuous beings. I couldn’t stop staring at the
erembe,
the headdresses, that sat high on the heads of married women, and their goatskin skirts, called
ozombuku
, and the front aprons they called
outuhira.
They wore beautiful bands on their ankles, copper jewelry on their wrists, huge leather-and-wire ornaments on their backs
called
omaha,
and
ohumba,
huge white conch shells between their bare breasts.

For a minute or two, as we drove deeper into the country looking for Kehapa, one of the councils in command during Chief Kapika’s
absence, I felt as if I had been sent back in time. At the same time I felt strangely at home and safe, and incredibly humbled.
These people had absolutely nothing but their children and, if they were lucky, a few cattle. Yet they seemed to be at
peace. I felt they were looking at me as if I were too complicated. I was unable to speak their language and was overdressed
for the conditions. There were goatskins drying in the sun, hanging from the mopane trees. The leaves of the trees were also
used to make whistles, as Cornelius demonstrated for us. The Himba could not manage this common American trick without the
leaves because they remove four of their bottom teeth, a cultural sign of beauty.

The day was long and hot, and the already long drive was made even longer because Craig knew almost every person we passed
on the road. And each of them ran over to greet our 4x4 and have a chat. He had produced a documentary on the Himba people
and was in the process of negotiating with them, on Elaine’s behalf, to organize payment and travel for twenty-five villagers
to be extras in the movie we were there to film.

As we approached what looked like the nearest small “town,” Cornelius let out a scream at the sight of a man sitting in front
of a pool hall and storefront. It turned out it was Chief Kapika himself! He was more beautiful and regal than I ever imagined
he would be. He had coal black skin wrinkled by the intense heat of the sun, with epicanthic folds in his eyelids. He had
a face you would expect to see in China, Korea, or Japan, not in Namibia, or anywhere in Africa for that matter. Were it not
for his deep, dark, pecan-colored skin, he could have easily been mistaken as Asian. He looked as if he could have been Chinese.
As he was known for his slyness, it is possible he had instructed his people to tell the “foreigners” he was “out of town.”
The Himba people were adamantly opposed to a dam that Westerners were seeking to build in the Kunene River. Perhaps he thought
his absence would forestall such efforts.

Cornelius insisted that we all get out of the truck and greet the latter-day king, and I humbly did so. Chief Kapika remained
seated. He stayed extremely still and watchful, a placid smile on his face. Likely cautious of strangers, after enduring years
of negative effects from Western politics, as well as wage labor, drought, war, and the loss of thousands of cattle, he had
many reasons to mistrust our group of outsiders.

Following our chat with the chief, we proceeded to drop off more goods. We met with Kehapa, who was in command in the absence
of Chief Kapika, and Craig proceeded to engage in a two-hour negotiation. The chief was amazing to watch. Kehapa and another
disgruntled councilman argued their concerns about the “foreigners” stealing the Himba culture and selling it abroad for personal
gain, leaving them exploited once again. Finally, somehow, everyone came to an agreement. I totally understood the angry council’s
concerns and Kehapa’s desire to take advantage of this money-making opportunity. They were extremely proud and graceful people.

Our final stop for the day was back in town to pick up Chief Kapika. We were to bring him back to his
omganda
and begin negotiations all over again! Finally, after an hour of further discussions, we loaded up the 4x4 and set off back
to our camp. We were all hungry again; the quick lunch and water break we had enjoyed earlier in the day, by a riverbed, was
now a faded and dry memory. As dry and constantly changing as the harsh terrain we drove through. The long journey left us
feeling extremely fatigued. “My God! How have these people survived this land for all these centuries?” I thought to myself.
“It’s so hot!” Amazing grace is all I could think of.

Uamahuno managed to accompany us on our entire adventure. She seemed to be quite taken with me, even though she was happily
married to three husbands. We headed toward the camp, dropping off villagers who had hitched a ride at some point on our journey.
Uamahuno was the last Himba to get off.
I watched in the side view mirror as she seemed to reluctantly step down from the Jeep. She turned and said something in her
native tongue to Cornelius and then gestured for Craig to turn the 4x4 toward her
omganda
. Craig declined and shook his head no.

I reached for her outstretched hand and shook it firmly, yet gently, conscious to convey as much respect as possible. She
then gestured for me to get out and “sleep” with her people that night. I was deeply moved and profoundly shaken by this Himba
woman’s generosity. I politely declined her very earnest invitation. She then proceeded to open my door and gestured for me
to get out! I sat there frozen, blushing, honored and proud that this traditional woman saw something in my spirit that made
her extend herself without shame or apologies. But, graciously, I declined again.

It seemed like forever passed before my door was finally closed. I saw Craig smile at her and say, “Not tonight.” I was rendered
speechless. As we drove off, I waved at Uamahuno, thinking about how much I loved my wife and the African women of the world.
I know that from America to the motherland, black women are truly goddesses and a force of nature.

As we returned to the Epupa camp, I felt as though I were floating as I made my way to my tent. I sat quietly on my bed for
a while, pondering the day’s many gifts. The sheer vastness of the Kaokoland and the Himba people, nomads of Namibia, overwhelmed
me. For a long time, I simply and desperately tried to digest it all. I was thrilled to finally be in Africa, and working
on a film. The pay was $175,000, more money than I had ever made. I knew I could take care of my expectant wife and my family
waiting for me back in LA, where I had moved. I had to resist the unmistakable pull on my spirit to stand up, walk across
the Kunene River right into Angola, and never look back. It would be seven years before I understood that this was
more than an idle thought. For now, I was shaken to the core, humbled, educated, and forever changed. “There is something
here that I must do,” I thought to myself.

I just wasn’t quite sure what it was.

Silently, I thanked God for using Elaine Proctor to get me to Africa. Later, at dinner, I personally thanked her. She simply
smiled and responded, “Pleasure.” We were all seated around a table, Craig, Janet, Elaine, Miranda (the Australian actress),
and Amy, all to my left, and Enya, who had prepared a wonderful dinner of roasted potatoes, green beans, and rice, to my right.
Three crude, loud-speaking Germans, quite curious as to why I was there, were seated across from me. I gave them a cordial
glance every now and then but continued to eat and converse with Amy and Enya. But they seemed to get louder and cruder. Then,
failing to get our attention, they soon quieted down.

I finished off my second helping of the delicious food and noticed that Elaine was totally engrossed in an intense conversation
with Cecil, our other pilot. She was explaining to him what
Kin
, the movie we were all there to make, was about. He seemed genuinely interested and curious. Elaine later explained that
he was a purely ignorant representation of the old South African racist regime. That’s all I needed to hear. Armed with that
bit of information, I thought of what fun I could have with him. I planned to kill him with kindness and a bit of African
American bravado too.

Also that night, I finally got a chance to chat with Craig. He spoke candidly and in great detail about dealing with the Himba
people, Chief Kapika, and his news-breaking photojournalism during apartheid. He told me of the Himba women and their annual
125-kilometer, five-day walk toward the Angolan border to retrieve horns filled with red ocher.

They mix the ocher with butterfat and cover their entire bodies with it, including their long locks of hair that hang
past their shoulders. In the Himba culture, a woman’s hair is a cherished symbol of beauty. Craig explained to me that culturally
the Himba women were not allowed to have water touch their bodies from birth until death. I was stunned by this fact and found
it hard to believe, because the Himba women’s hygiene was impeccable! In fact, they emanated only the earthly scent of iron
ore.

Craig also talked about his wife and four kids back in Cape Town. Missing Jenisa so much, I asked him how he could spend all
that time away from his family. He looked at me and simply replied, “This, Isaiah, is my passion!” His words lingered there
in the warm African night air. I looked out the window and decided to take a walk outside. I lit up a cigar and leaned against
a dusty Land Rover. My mind wandered back to my experience at the Kunene River the night I first arrived. I looked up at the
starry night sky and heard myself say aloud, “Behold, the only thing that is greater than yourself.”