NAMIBIA

Visiting Otutati

The patina of their skin mesmerized me: velvety, softly shiny, the color of the red clay African earth I had first fallen in love with in Rwanda. The body paint Himba women use for sun protection and decoration is the salient feature of their culture, rich with tradition and, for me, a beautiful embodiment of quoz. Every morning, including the day of our visit to the village of Otutati in northwestern Namibia, the women milk the cows then spend two hours shaking a calabash container until the milk becomes butter. They grind red rocks into a fine powder and mix it into the butter. The mixture is applied twice a day all over their skin, rubbed in like lotion. The women wash it off only two times in their life. One is when they get married – they wash, go to the village of their new husband and apply the paint made by that village. The other time is if they are hospitalized in nearby Opuwo; the nurses require them to wash before they can get into the ward’s clean white sheets. When I heard that, I felt a little apologetic for my nursing sisters, but then I don’t have to wash the linen.

I never fully understood where all the men were but it was clear the women and children were doing the majority of the work in the village that morning. The chief sat in the center of it all, drinking the fresh, warm milk brought by one of his four wives and issuing orders to the children who were separating the kids from the goats. Young mothers and older women sat working in front of each hut – grinding maize on a large stone, sewing hides into clothes, stirring a pot of porridge. The cluster of mud brick and stick huts housed an extended family and several of these groups made up the village. A large pile of wood designated the center of the village. It was in front of the chief’s large hut and we were cautioned not to walk between that structure and the holy fire. One woman who I noticed did not have painted skin had just returned from the hospital. The fire was laid for a celebration that evening of her return to good health, after which she would re-apply the paint.

We didn’t get to stay for the ritual but we were treated to impromptu dancing and singing by the women. They seemed shy at first, laughing behind their hands and taking only brief, self-conscious turns at dance solos out in front of the group. Gradually, probably encouraged by the bills we were placing in their gourd bowl, the recital really got going and they threw themselves into it, delighting us with their performance. With the help of our guide, we pulled the children aside, not too far away from their moms, because I had been asked by Mark Shadle to try to get a recording of children singing songs their mothers had sung to them when they were little. Four girls about eight or nine years old sang adorably, without hesitation. Several of us had brought small gifts such a stickers, balloons, barrettes, and small balls so that was our chance to pass them out. Unlike some of the other times I’ve done this with children, they did not grab or squabble over the gifts. Tthe older children seemed to be making sure their younger siblings got something.

The loving kindness of the Himba people was demonstrated over and over. The teamwork and cooperation was everywhere evident, with all the adults looking out for all the children and sharing all the work. Women worked on each other’s hair, rubbing in the red butter and arranging intricate plaits. What struck me most was how the moms interacted with the babies. Two or three young women, probably wives of the same man, sat in front of each hut, tending to their chores. They were surrounded by babies. These moms had ingenious ways of keeping the crawlers and toddlers nearby and out of trouble, all without cribs, bouncy seats, playpens or any of the other paraphernalia we American moms and grandmothers seem not to be able to live without. Using only a piece of cloth as both sling and ground cover, these beautiful women managed to feed and care for their babies, all the while continuing with their work. One little one, who had obviously only recently learned to sit up, was corralled in the bend of his mom legs as she sat sewing. Whenever one started to fuss even a little, the mom would put the child to her breast, often quite briefly, and all would be right with the world. Even the toddlers seemed calm and content, sitting and playing with some basic toy such as a small scrap of leather.

As I wandered around the village, I was filled with questions and frustrated by being a visitor who did not know their language. Our guide interpreted for us but couldn’t be with everyone as we scattered out, drawn by the various activities of their morning routine. I wanted to be respectful and not interfere with their work that had to be done, but I wanted so badly just to sit down and chat with the women – about how beautiful they and their children were, about how wonderful my grandchildren were, about all the things that mothers care about the world over. I watched them nursing their babies and I wanted to talk about all the new moms and babies I had been privileged to work with during my years as a labor and delivery nurse. I felt the presence of my own mother and how much she would have loved to be with me and those babies, moms and grandmothers.

Quoz was all around me. This ancient tribe has been living in this remote part of Namibia for centuries, close to the earth, using utterly primitive tools, farming and herding, giving birth and dying. Without any of the trappings of modern civilization to distract me, what I saw was their humanity and their community. What I felt was thankfulness for the sisterhood of all women in our global village.