Chapter 8 – The coast

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Sayowa opened her eyes. A swarm of needles drove straight into her head. She closed them right away, squeezing them as shut as she could, but the needles remained.
She was lying down. She tried the process again, slower that time. Her brother was not there... she was not in her bed. Actually, she was not in her house.
She was in a rectangular room, white, decrepit, on a mattress laid directly on the ground, in a corner. The longest wall of the room, the one she could see when she turned her head to the right, was pierced with a window leaving a shy natural light in, the light of the morning or of the evening. On the other wall, the one that was in line with her feet, a door was opened. In the opposite corner, there was a trunk from which the silhouette of some cloth was spilling out.
It was cold. Sayowa stretched her arm and grabbed a thick blanket which she pulled over herself. She savoured the warmth of the sheet, soft against the naked skin of her arms. She noticed that she was still wearing her clothes, but not her shoes which she saw at the foot of the bed with her chitenge. The softness of the linen contrasted with the roughness of her skin. She could feel the sediments of dust and sand lodged into her pores scratching, bothering.
The needles in her head changed into hammers when she remembered her last conscious moments. The dune... the sea... and then nothing.
She curled up under the cover and closed her eyes.
The image was imprinted on her retina: the infinite and turbulent stretch of the Atlantic Ocean, for which she had travelled so far. She still felt the mark of the languorous motion of the waves in her eardrums, the rough smell of salt in her nostrils, the power of the wind against her face. That sound, that perfume, that sensation seemed all too real to be just a memory.
She reopened her eyes. The window. It came from the opened window. It must have been opened onto the beach. She had to see.
She placed her hands beneath her, contracted her muscles to lift herself. The effort made her arms tremble, her legs straight out refused to obey. She released the pressure and collapsed into the fluffy mattress, back in the exact position she had just left.
She breathed slowly out of her mouth, in trough her nose, reorganized her members to optimize her next try. She chuckled. It was not the first time she was getting out of a bed, was it?
She pushed with her arms and knees together and managed to get on all fours. She stayed like that for a moment, her head between her elbows. Then she rose on all twos. That time, the operation happened instinctively, she did not have to compute every movement. Reflexes had taken back control over her body.
She moved her foot forward to go to the window but her balance failed her, she thought she was falling over. Her foot made a fast adjustment and she remained standing, her legs spread out, a little shaken.
She estimated the distance between her and her goal. Four metres at the most, nothing insurmountable usually.
She walked with caution, like an infant who is mastering his new skill, until she could grab the edge of the window with her hand. The muscles of her legs were tight and did not serenely carry her weight.
She did a few more baby steps to face the opening, her belly pushed against the frame.
She was high up and could see the beach descending in front of her with successive plateaus. The ocean was there. The vision she had then was almost identical to the one she had before she had lost consciousness, but with a subdued lighting intensity. The last remembering she had was the electric blue of the water, the blinding sand, the burning strikes of the sun. Now, the sun was just small harmless red ball floating a few centimetres above the horizon, about to be swallowed up. Its heat was gone. It was West, which meant that was evening. Only remained a cold wind that brushed past her fingers and the tip of her nose. The water was dark blue, disrupted by white swirls, the sand had become dull, almost grey.
The inspirations and expirations of the waves synchronised with her own breathing.
– I knew I heard some noise!
Those words startled her. She suddenly turned around. A man was standing at the doorstep. He was looking at her with a huge smile which unveiled a set of well arranged white teeth.
– And how are you? You scared me, I thought you would never wake up. What would I have done then?
He was speaking with a loud and high voice, almost cheerful.
– Are you thirsty? You must be thirsty. Do you want to drink? Water? Or no, wait, I’m going to make you some tea.
– Yes water, thanks, Sayowa stopped him.
Her voice was hoarse, as if sand was still stuck in her throat.
– Well okay, I’m gonna get you that. You can come, it’s this way.
He flipped and he left. Sayowa followed him. The path led to another room of identical dimensions to the one she had awoken in. She was moving slowly, dragging her feet, and she used the time of her trip to observe.
There was also a window and a door, which looked more like a front door (indicating that there were no other rooms). Against the wall, a rusty-looking metal sink harboured two dirty plates, two forks, two knifes, two spoons and a pot. Next to it, a kind of stool with gas cooking plates, a very small fridge and on the ground, an empty beer crate.
The other walls were bare, except for the metal door and a phone receiver hooked beside it.
In the middle of the room, a light wood table, two chairs and the man, standing up, who was pouring a dash of water from a plastic carafe into two assorted glasses.
He was still smiling with full teeth. He had a sympathetic face, round. His ears were sticking out and a dense moustache gave him a comical look. He looked well trimmed: his head and his face were close-shaved (except for the moustache of course), he wore a pale pink shirt in which he was slightly floating, but which still fit him well, tucked into his black pants. He was about thirty, or hardly more.
– So, tell me. Who are you? Where are you from? Why did you go get lost in the desert?
He was shouting more than he was speaking.
– I... I am Sayowa...
Sayowa, on the other hand, was whispering. Her throat was still on fire.
– Oh yes! Water! There, drink and you talk after neh?
He handed her the glass filled to the brim. The energetic movements he imposed upon the small recipient inevitably made a good quantity of liquid go overboard. He did not seem to mind.
Sayowa took it and carried it to her mouth. When she threw her head back to drink, everything started to spin. She once again felt like she was falling backwards. She let the cup go and adjusted the position of her feet to keep her balance.
The glass reached the floor with a muted sound, she felt the water splashing over her feet and heels.
– Ouuuh! Truly you are not well! I know what you need. Come and breath outside, the air is good here.
She man grabbed Sayowa by the arm and pulled her towards the front door, which he opened with a wide motion. Sayowa was forced to follow him.
They exited onto a kind of parking lot: a big rectangle of compact sand marked out by small embankments. There was on old Jeep parked. An alley was leading straight out and met the road perpendicularly.
– Feeling better already nay?
Sayowa performed a quick auto-diagnostic and had to admit that indeed, she was feeling better. She nodded with a head motion of which she quickly feared the consequences. But the world did not spin like the last two times she had done a hasty gesture. The fresh air seemed to have put the things of her head in the right places.
The man lifted a finger and looked like he wanted to say something. He went back running in the house and came out again with the second glass of water he had prepared.
Sayowa took it to her lips, with precaution that time, and managed to swallow its content with no incident. She drank with big, loud gulps. Drinking water, there was nothing better in life! How did she never realise that?
She fully finished the drink with a big “Ah!” of relief.
The man’s smile increased again, compressing his moustache against his nose. He took the glass and threw himself back inside to fill it up.
Sayowa drank with more moderation. Now that the drought of her throat was eased, she remembered that her legs hurt. She flexed her knees and massaged the inside of her thighs with her hands. She made a small moan, as much a complaint as a relief.
– Yeah your legs must be hurting. Do you want to stretch them out? Do you want to walk a bit? It could help.
– Okay.
He headed towards small steps made out of stones, built into the sand next to the house. He climbed down the three of them and walked on a plateau which led to other similar stairs, followed by another plateau, and so on. Sayowa followed him, with a tight gait.
After four stairs they got to the beach: a large plain of wet sand covert with dried seaweed which met the ocean. The motion of the water was leaving a white and shiny scum as it was washing out.
While they were walking alongside the shore, the sun disappeared under the horizon, with none of the spectacular effusions of colour Sayowa was used to.
– Well okay, Sayowa then. Are you going to tell me what you were doing by yourself in the middle of the desert?
Sayowa gave it a thought. How could she say how she ended up there? She was not even sure she could explain it to herself. Instead she asked:
– How did you find me?
– It’s my brother who phoned me. He is the one who brought you from Otjiwarongo to Springbokwasser.
– Oh he’s your brother?
– Yes he’s my brother. After a few hours he went back to where he left you. The guard told him you left on your own and that no car had come in your direction, so he got worried. He used the phone of the entrance of the park to call me. I have phone in the house, did you see? And he asked me to go on the road to see if I could find you. It wasn’t a piece of cake you know! If I didn’t see your tiny footsteps there, close to the sign, I wouldn’t have found you. But I found you and I brought you here.
– Oh, and where is here?
– Pfff, it’s nowhere! Can’t you see? There’s nothing!
– But, are we far from Swakopmund?
– Swakop? No, hundred and fifty kilometres. Or two hundred. Why, you’re going to Swakop?
– Yes, that’s why I’m here. I came to see a friend of my grandfather in Swakop.
– Okay, well come on, let’s get back in, it’s going to be dark. I’m going to cook and you’re going to tell me all that. By the way, my name is George!

Back in the house George took a pot out from the fridge, inside of which was a portion of pap. He put it on the cooking plate and lit a flame with a match. He closed it with a metallic lid and flipped to face Sayowa, who was sited at the table.
He remained standing while she was telling him her story, beginning with the blond lady and until the enigmatic appearance of the German family.
She noticed he always kept his knees slightly bent went he was not moving, as if he was about run away. His stare never truly achieved stillness, it was always going from one spot to the other, observing everything. He sometimes punctuated the speech of his little guest with a yelp, a high communicative laugh, encouraging Sayowa to insist on the oddest details of her saga: her visit of the falls, when she had disobeyed her cousin in Livingstone, the crossing on foot of the Zambian border, the episode of the elephants, the meeting with his brother at the service station.
As she was getting to the end of her journey in the desert, she smelled burning. George did not seem to notice, captivated by the tale.
Sayowa pointed her finger to the pot from which black smoke was slipping away. He had an exclamation and hurriedly shut down the gas inlet. He brought the pot to the table and put it down, still burning hot, on a spot where a number of black circles indicated that that corner was used to those maltreatments.
He removed the lid and they discovered what remained of their dinner: the big ball which should have been white was slightly burnt on the top and completely carbonized at the bottom. He used a metal spoon to served the shreds of pap he could save into a plate.
– That’s all I have, he said with a sorry look on his face. I really need a wife so I can eat properly.
– And why can’t men cook? Sayowa asked with a defying tone.
– That’s just not how we were made...
– That’s just a lazy excuse, she said.
She wanted to tease him, like she sometimes did with her brother.
– You’re probably right, I just need to learn. Anyway, it’s only me around here, so it’s gonna be tough to find a wife.
– You’re alone in the middle of nothing, that’s it?
– That’s it, he said, with his smile still wide, but looking less happy that usual.
– Why is that?
– Ouuuh, that’s a long story, not very interesting.
– I told you my story, now it’s your turn.
– Yes but you speak well, me I don’t know how to speak nicely like that.
– You need to practice to learn, Sayowa said with the intonation of a teacher lecturing her students, we need to speak of something while we enjoy this delicious meal.
George stumped both his elbows on the table and intertwined the fingers of both his hands together. He straightened his back and spoke with a soft and calm voice, looking straight ahead:
– Okay. Before that, I left to go work in Otjiwarongo, with my brother, the one you know. He is my little brother, I brought him along to find work. But I felt we didn’t get paid enough, so I decided to go to the coast. I told him: “you will see, if I go to Walvis Bay or to Swakop, I will become rich!” He preferred to stay in Otjiwarongo. I came to the coast I didn’t find anything, nobody wanted me! I am just paid to stay in this house, in the middle of nowhere, so that it is not vandalised. It’s been years! But I don’t dare going home. My brother who stayed made it better than me. I would like to go home and tell him: “you see, I was right to go”. But for now he is the one who was right, so I have to stay here.
He sounded embarrassed with that last sentence. Sayowa did not know what to reply. She tried:
– At least you had the courage to try, that’s good no?
– Yeah yeah, a mistake, that’s what it was.
– Learn from your mistakes. Grow from them, Sayowa said in a low voice, as if those words had been pronounced by Inyambo.
George looked at her with a surprised look. There was a silence lasting several seconds.
– Okay, well you might have spent half the day sleeping, but I am sleepy. Let’s go to bed!
He put the dishes out in the sink.
– There are toilets and showers outside if you want. You have to go around the house. 

As she undressed in the shower, Sayowa found the caramels in her pocket. She carefully put them aside and rinsed her skin with cold water. The residues of her misadventure tore off and disappeared into a swirl, through a hole hollowed directly in the concrete. The night’s cold air made her shiver. She did not know what she felt anymore, she let the water trickle down her head and all along her body, freezing her. According to Inyambo’s plan she was supposed to be home that evening. She had not even made it to Swakopmund. “And tomorrow’s a school day!” she thought.
She stopped the flow of water and rubbed herself energetically with a towel that George had given her.

She went back in and shared the caramels with her host, both of them sited cross-legged on the mattress. They talked about that strange ghostly desert, each comparing it to their native region.
Then George decreed it was time to sleep. He laid on a thin mattress he unfolded in the middle of the room.
The sound of the waves coming from the opened window cradled them.
Sayowa, laying her back, had her eyes still opened.
– By the way... thanks for saving my life.
– My pleasure.
A moment passed, then George started shaking with a muted laugh.
– What?
– You’re a hell of a small girl.
There was another moment of silence, then he stated:
– Tomorrow I’ll bring you to Swakop and I’ll help you find your friend.
Sayowa smiled. She turned on her side and fell asleep.

The next morning, George woke her up early. They swallowed a few slices of bread with butter, tea with milk and sugar (lots of sugar). She gathered her things, which only meant her chitenge still holding the bundle of wheat, and they both got into the old Jeep. They took the salt road in the direction of Swakopmund. Sayowa started to get nervous: at last, she was about to reach her goal.
The road was, as usual, a long straight line. To their left, there was nothing but the grayish beige desert, to their right the beach and the ocean. The morning atmosphere was foggy and the visibility limited.
They drove like in a dream. Sayowa could imagine whatever she wanted passed the limit of her perception. If she had not known her geography, she could have thought they were on the moon.
George grunted.
– I can’t take this flatness any more! I miss the mountains.
Sayowa remembered the red mountains she had passed the day before with his brother. Those were indeed quite different landscapes. She thought that she would probably also miss her region if she left it for good. All those places seriously lacked vegetation and fresh water!
She sometimes saw, set on the side of the road, small tables made out of wood sticks.
– What is this? she asked as they where driving past yet another of those constructions.
– It’s salt, for sale for people who came by here.
– Salt?! It’s on my list! Can we stop?
– Well sure! At the next one.
They kept going for a few minutes, during which Sayowa avidly scrutinised the surroundings.
– There! she shouted. Stop there!
George steered and stopped the car next to the frail stand. Sayowa walked out and ran to finally gaze upon the commodity for which she had done such a long detour.
The legs of the table were made out of twisted dead wood. They supported two small planks on which were exposed the salt crystals, arranged by size, the smallest to the left, the largest to the right. A price was written on the wood itself for each crystal size.
They looked like translucent rocks, made out of tens of minuscule cubes assembled together. Sayowa also noticed that the colour had an influence on the price: the white crystals were cheaper than the pink. On the edge of the table, a cylindrical metal box was meant to receive the money from the buyers.
George joined her.
– Which one do you want?
– I don’t really know. I actually don’t have money.
George reached for a pink fragment of salt in the middle of the table and gave it to Sayowa. He winked at her and put a bank note in the box. Sayowa did not see its value.
– Thanks, she said. So this is it, salt?
– Yep, go ahead, taste it!
She touched the rock with the tip of her tongue. The salty taste made her immediately salivate and she shook her head in disgust.
– So?
– It’s salt all right, she confirmed sticking her tongue out.
She put her new acquisition away into her chitenge, with the wheat, and they went back on their way.

The salt road became tarred. Houses slowly replaced the sand, soon to be themselves replaced by buildings.
– Here is Swakop, George said.
“Here we are” Sayowa thought. It was not as she had imagined, although she had never really imagined anything in particular.
Swakopmund was different than Livingstone. Everything was clean, new, the architecture seemed sophisticated. There were houses with pointy tiled roofs and exposed wooden beams. The population was also different, the majority was white.
Sayowa saw families which seemed happy, well dressed. Kids were playing with dogs in a nice green grass square while their parents were watching over them. She noticed an old lady walking a tiny dog with a leach, and another woman, younger, with a giant dog.
– Why do they all have dogs?
– Eish! White people and their dogs...
George did not extrapolate more.
– All right, where is your German friend?
– Italian... Torino Guest House. Do you know where that is? Sayowa said as she took out the piece of paper from her t-shirt’s pocket.
– There’s not more details? Me I don’t know Swakop, I never come here.
– Why? It’s nice!
– Yeah, and expensive! Let’s ask where is your “Gorino Guest House”.
– Torino, Sayowa said in a low voice.
George parked the Jeep on spot marked out by a dotted line of white paint, right in front of the terrace of a café.
Two men with worn out skin, redden by the sun, were sited at a round black metal table. They each had a big cup and a plate in front of them, filled with toasted bread, eggs, green and red vegetables. The other tables, customerless, where each ornamented with a shiny wooden box in which were neatly arranged sugar pots, red paper serviettes, metallic cutlery, a salt and a pepper cellar. The place was welcoming.
A glass door opened, releasing a strong odour of coffee and pastries that made Sayowa’s mouth water.
A young waitress emerged from the building, balancing a tray on a single hand. She wore black pants and a black shirt with a red apron. She was the first black woman Sayowa had seen since they had arrived in Swakopmund.
George stopped her before she could go to her customers.
– Sister! How are you? he said with that big smile of his that was so distinctive.
– I am fine, how are you? the waitress said with an amiable voice, slightly surprised.
– Do you know where is the Gorino Guest House?
– Torino Guest House, Sayowa clarified.
The waitress appeared to be thinking and answered, still with the same polite tone:
– Torino? No, I don’t know. Do you know in which area it is? In the centre?
– No but there is an Italian man there. His name is Stefano.
– Stefano? No, I don’t know.
Sayowa glanced at her paper.
– Stefano Limoni.
– No no. But wait, I’ll ask my colleague.
She pushed the glass door open and vanished into the café.
Sayowa noticed other tables inside, occupied by other customers, whites but also blacks. She heard the waitress speak to someone she could not see:
– There are people outside asking for the Torino Guest House.
A woman’s voice answered:
– Don’t know it. Eliot, do you?
– Never heard of it, a man’s voice said.
Sayowa saw the waitress turn to the customers and ask the question. They did not know either.
The two occupants of the terrace started to get impatient. They were exchanging short phrases in Afrikaans and stretched their necks to see where their waitress had gone. She exited the café once more and excused herself to Sayowa and George, before she went to her customers.
Sayowa was decided not despair, even if she had no idea of how she would manage to find her Italian. George was on tip-toe, rapidly spinning his head in every direction, as if he could, out of sheer luck, find what they were looking for.
The waitress passed in front of them again addressing them a last smile before she disappeared once more through the door.
– It doesn’t exist any more, a gravelly voice said.
That was one of the Afrikaners who had spoken.
– What? George said.
– Torino Guest House, said the man, that’s what you’re looking for right? It does not exist anymore, for a while, it had been bought by a German man. Now it is called Düsseldorf Guest House.
Sayowa held her breath.
– And where is that Duresolf Guest House? George asked.
– Düsseldorf... It’s in that street right there (he showed the intersection). You can’t miss it.
– Thank you my good sir!
George rewarded them with one of his large smiles and threw a military salute along. That seemed to amuse them
– Good luck hey, the other man said.
– Thankyousir! George said slamming his heels to the ground. Company, forward march!
He seized Sayowa and took the indicated direction, walking in quick time. Sayowa did not understand the reason for that little game, nor for that good mood. The men had clearly said it: the place they were looking for had been sold a long time ago. That meant that Stefano would probably not be there anymore.
George noticed her sullen look.
– Don’t worry, come on. We found the place we were looking for! Let’s go to Dursefol!
– But Stefano won’t be there...
– In that case they will tell us where we can find him right? I thought you liked adventures! March, one, two, one, two!
His silly walk forced a smile on Sayowa. He was right, that was just another twist to her adventure. An additional chapter in the story she would tell Inyambo.

They arrived in a street with taller buildings, still in the same European style, with shops on the ground floor.
They walked slowly, scrutinizing each sign to unearth the Guest House of Düsseldorf.
They found it in the middle of the street. Indeed, it would have been difficult to miss. The name was engraved with large gothic letters on the imposing construction’s facade, the highest of the block: three storeys, plus ground floor, a very sharp pointy roof supported by impressive beams, windows framed by old wood, a big door painted green, intimidating.
Sayowa and George exchanged a look. Sayowa’s heart was beating at full speed. She apprehended the imminent conclusion, she almost wanted to turn around, one hundred and eighty degrees, and go back home. George shrugged and pushed the door.
The inside was dark, austere in comparison to the outdoor’s brightness. Moving forward, they discovered a hall decorated with dead woods, sculptures of giraffe and other animals, lit by a single golden light hanging from a high ceiling. The walls and the tiling were white, a colour that did not match the wooden decorations well. A few low leather seats, with no backrests, invited the visitors to sit down. Across from the entrance, a counter, also made of aged wood, was set through almost the full width of the room. At its right, a door with a sign “private” and at its left, a staircase which lead to the first floor, vanishing into a spiral.
The place was deserted. The two newcomers progressed until the counter not daring to produce a sound.
They took a moment to examine the leaflets available on display next to the cash register and the black and white framed pictures on the wall (the caption revealed that those were shots from Düsseldorf dating from 1960, Sayowa thus deduced that that name was the name of a town).
A strident grinding noise echoed through the room. It had originated from the door marked “private”. It opened upon a small woman who said, with a high and rasping voice, and with a strong accent:
– Hello madam, sir, welcome to Düsseldorf Guest House. How can I be of assistance?
The appearance startled Sayowa and George who, caught unprepared, did not know what to answer. The woman positioned herself behind the counter and politely waited for a reply.
She had a pear-shaped body and tossed about left and right when she walked, leaning backwards. Her arms and face held too much skin. Her hair was blond and coarse, kind of like the wheat Sayowa carried in her chitenge. She had a small trumpet nose, big cheeks and lips made of two thin parallel lines. She wore large pink-framed glasses which made her eyes look huge, a white blouse with short sleeves full of buttons and way too much jewellery.
She stared intensely but patiently at George. He was staring back, awkwardly. Suddenly, she leaned toward Sayowa.
– Oh, what have we here? she said as if she were talking to a baby.
Sayowa recoiled.
– Sit down, please. I am yours in just a second.
She left the room the same way she had came in.
The two intruders sat on the small seats. George leaned towards Sayowa and said in a low voice (which was a rare thing coming from him):
– You need to ask her about your friend.
Sayowa nodded.
The woman reappeared with a platter which she dropped on a seat next to her two guests. Well organised on the platter were different types of small biscuits and two bricks of fruit juice.
The woman remained standing and motioned towards the food, meaning “help yourselves”.
Sayowa grabbed a cookie and said in a tiny and shy voice:
– We… I am looking for Mister Stefano.
The woman made a confused head movement.
– Excuse me?
Sayowa looked at George who shrugged. She had the idea of taking out the piece of paper from her pocket and to offer it to the woman. She read it, her lips doing the words “Torino Guest House”, but not actually saying them.
– Oh! she exclaimed. Yes, you must be looking for the previous owner. You know, this establishment changed management over ten years ago.
– Would you please now know where could we please find the gentleman now? George said.
– Well it’s delicate…
She stopped when she noticed Sayowa’s face, which was about to melt.
– Well… oh poor little thing, do not cry! I am going to check if there is something in the archives.
She left.
– Well played, George said elbowing Sayowa.
She did not understand which game he was talking about, but it seemed like there still was one last hope. And it was in the hands of that strange woman and her strict appearance which did not fit her sweet grandma attitude.
They waited a few minutes which seemed never-ending.
The woman finally reappeared. She stated as she walked:
– We had to contact him a few years ago for a problem with the building. I do not have his exact address, but I can tell you he resides in Cape Town, South Africa.
She ended her sentence as she arrived in front of the two friends. They remained dumbstruck.
– Are you not drinking the juice? she said.

Sayowa and George sat in the sand. Facing them was the ocean. It looked angry. A long jetty which audaciously ventured into its water was struck by big violent waves. A few families were walking peacefully on a promenade circling a luxurious hotel: parents, kids and their dogs.
“Why did I come all the way here? Definitely, the coast is not for me”, Sayowa told herself.
That was where she was, after a thousand and five hundred kilometres and a three days journey, she had missed Stefano by ten years.
– What are you going to do? George asked.
– I don’t know.
– Well I took a decision. I’m going home, never mind if I didn’t make it on the coast. I want to see my region and my family. I don’t know Sayowa, you inspired me.
He granted her one of his joyful smiles.
– What do you think I should do George? I can’t go to Cape Town, can I?
– I don’t know if you can, but me, I think deep inside you want to. You’re a little adventurer. A bit crazy, but an adventurer.
– Yeah but… Cape Town?

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Excerpt from “Recette de pizza pour débutant” © (SACD) Thomas Botte