A DAMNED DRUM

We are a special breed, us Namibians, when it comes to our meat. Admittedly a bit pretentious, or perhaps just very loyal to our local butcher, but we have a high standard fostered by the superb quality of our hormone-free, free-range, grass-fed meat. It is free of almost everything, except the clutches of campers embarking on a long journey. A universal fact is that in Namibian households, the camping fridge has room for one thing and one thing only – the meat. My mum has tried smuggling cheese in there, and maybe the odd salad ingredient. But the green stuff will inevitably give way to what is important.

We are a special breed, us Namibians, when it comes to our meat. Admittedly a bit pretentious, or perhaps just very loyal to our local butcher, but we have a high standard fostered by the superb quality of our hormone-free, free-range, grassfed meat.

It is quite the challenge finding your particular preference of fresh fruit and veggies when you are trekking through the far corners of Namibia. Rocket? Forget about it. Rainbow peppers? Write that off. But it is even more challenging to find a ribbetjie and boerewors that is up to the standard of your sister-in-law’s uncle’s best friend’s butchery. So we stocked up in Windhoek before venturing off on a two-week-long camping trip through the north of Namibia. And by stock up I mean squeeze vacuum packs of fresh meat in the camping fridge and freeze it overnight. No space spared.

The road trip took us all the way through the Kavango Region, into the Caprivi and over the border into Zambia. We feasted. A fire was lit twice a day as we attempted to plough through our abundant meat supply.

Somewhere along the way, at one of the many local markets selling carved wooden figurines, beaded creations and African instruments, my mother began a quest for the perfect drum. She skipped from vendor to vendor, tapping the stretched hide of every damned drum in sight, each drum producing a different sound and featuring a unique shape and decorative carvings. After a long, hard search, she finally settled on arguably the largest drum in the whole of Zambia. Endless arguments ensued every time we packed up camp as my dad was tasked with finding a spot in our already overloaded car for the white elephant.

On the last leg of our trip we had to cross the Zambia/ Botswana border. Now would be a good time to mention that in these parts of Southern Africa, transporting fresh meat is a precarious affair. Foot and mouth disease occasionally flares up, so strict measures are in place at certain borders. We are fully aware of the veterinary cordon fence stretching the width of northern Namibia, where you are permitted to enter with meat and fresh produce, yet not allowed to leave with any uncooked meats, and sometimes fruits or vegetables. Surely, it would not be a problem in our neighbouring countries.

Or so we thought.

Innocently, we pulled up to the border and the very first thing the official asked was whether we were transporting fresh meat. We had polished the majority of the contents in our loaded fridge by this point. What remained was a rack of ribs, three packs of boerewors, two game fillets and some avocados my mum managed to sneak into the mix. In classic border control fashion, my dad casually opened the back of the bakkie, disclosing the contents of our fridge to the official, at which point he enlightened us about the fact that no uncooked animal products may be transported any further. Oh, and the hide stretched over my mum’s drum was a no-go, also.

Considering it was noontime and we were by no means handing over our prized meat, we proceeded to call it lunch. We lit a fire and braaied the remainder of our supply just a metre shy of the border, under the sweltering mid-day sun (avocado toast being the pièce de résistance). As for my mother’s drum – the one she spent a whole day picking out for its nuanced, deep thud – the border control official unceremoniously flicked open his pocketknife and ruthlessly slashed the hide diagonally.

The drum was reskinned in Windhoek. It does not sound remotely musical anymore, but rather like dropping a plastic bucket on a cement floor. It has since been repurposed into a coffee table.

Do you have any funny travel stories to share? Send them to fly@venture.com.na

Charene Labuschagne