Locked down in Paradise If tourists are to return in July and August, it will be our lockdown blessings that will make them feel safe enough to discover Namibia’s amazing emptiness, that feeling that the centre of the universe is right here where we have been lucky enough to get stuck. We call it Luckdown Paradise.
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very morning, sipping cappuccino in our temporary home in Swakopmund, we count our Lockdown Blessings. Number One: we are in Namibia. Number Two: we are still in Namibia.
Piero hangs up, shakes his head, and announces that Italy has shut down due to the coronavirus. We will not be leaving Namibia. Uh, what? It takes some time to process this thought.
Today marks four-and-a-half months since we touched down in Windhoek for an eight-week stay.
We drive to Windhoek for a farewell dinner with friends, which now is not going to be a goodbye. Weird, still processing. Other friends call us and offer a holiday apartment in Swakopmund. This is Lockdown Blessing Number Three: the wonderful hospitality of Namibians, both our dear friends and strangers.
Despite the years we lived here, and the dozen times we’ve been back, Namibia always seems new, even thirty years after independence. Yet, it is ever the extraordinary same. If we had been offered the chance to lock down anywhere in the world, we still would have chosen this place. There’s only one letter’s difference between lock and luck, you know. Stage Zero (pre-virus) was the perfect vacation. Friends, farms, Etosha, Sandwich Harbour, animal sightings, grand late summer weather. Oysters, game steaks, more oysters, wine. With regret for the end of a perfect vacation we pack the car to leave for the airport. As we stand in the driveway saying goodbye to our friends in Swakop, the phone rings.
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Stage One (isolate at home) could have been far worse. Instead, we feel safe here. We are careful, washing our hands, stocking up on hand sanitiser gel. We walk to the grocery store or stroll on the beach, stop at the yellow school bus for Africa’s absolute best fried calamari and chips. We amble past inviting beachfront houses and apartments, closed hotels, shuttered restaurants. Masked joggers wave as they run past, keeping the prescribed distance. The park remains lush, with flocks of fat guinea
