Namibia: I Haven’t Seen the World, I Have Touched It

As soon as the car horn sounded outside the main gate, a gentleman named Hermann opened the door. He is of European descent; generations ago, his family settled in Namibia. Hermann was born here. A large house sits on a vast estate, accompanied by a few guesthouses. Tonight, we’ll be staying here.

After an afternoon of hospitality, Hermann prepared dinner. Cooking and serving, he handled everything himself. Meanwhile, we explored the house, with Lucas introducing us to the surroundings. Lucas, one of Hermann’s three dogs, is the friendliest. At first glance, it felt as if he had known us for years. All he wanted was attention and affection.

Between his chores, Hermann occasionally joined us for conversation. He lives alone in this house, his ancestral home where his parents once resided. His father passed away long ago, and his mother passed five years ago. He learned sewing from his mother, and there’s a dedicated sewing room in a corner of the house.

As our conversation deepened, I was astounded by Hermann’s educational background. He is a highly educated man, having studied in Germany and South Africa. He worked as a university professor and an industrial psychologist, and later ventured into the tourism industry. The guesthouses on his property aren’t for profit—he doesn’t need the money. Hermann owns a 5,000-hectare farmhouse, 70 kilometers from the main house, where he spends time and provides employment for many.

Despite living alone in this grand house, Hermann maintains direct connections with Namibia’s President. In a moment of conversation, he recounted a discussion at the dinner table where he told the President, “Why haven’t you changed the fate of our people? You used to work on a farm yourself.” Through this, I realized that the man hosting us tonight is also a person of influence.

As Hermann prepared dinner, I offered to help him in the kitchen. Smiling, he said, “Tonight, I am your cook and waiter. You just enjoy yourselves.”

The dining table was beautifully set, every detail immaculate. The tablecloth, hand-stitched by his mother, carried a deep familial history, much like many items in the house. Hermann himself had traveled the world. Sharmin, I too have traveled far and wide. Perhaps that’s why he felt some connection with us. At one point, he added, “I wish I had a travel partner like you two.”

I asked him why he didn’t have one. Slowly, through the conversation, he revealed a chapter from his past. Years ago, he was engaged to the love of his life. They dreamt of having seven children together after marriage. But just weeks after their engagement, a tragic bus accident ended those dreams.

Hermann never married. Sometimes, sitting idly at his farmhouse, he imagines what life would have been like with seven children—or even just one.

Toward the end of dinner, Hermann asked me which fruit I liked. I replied, “Mangoes and avocados.” Smiling, he said, “I’ll plant a mango tree on the farm in your name—Bahar’s Mango Tree.” I replied, “When that tree bears fruit, let me know. I’ll return and taste the first mango myself.” He invited us to stay at his farmhouse the next time we visit.

Morning arrived, and it was time to leave. As we packed the car, Lucas wouldn’t leave our side, circling us and trying to climb into our laps. Hermann walked through the garden, where a large jacaranda tree was in full bloom. He approached us with two jacaranda flowers, handing me one and the other tucking behind Sarmin’s ear.

As the gate opened for our departure, Hermann stood there with his three dogs, calming them as they eagerly moved about. We drove off, leaving behind just one evening’s acquaintance and a few stories.

As we drove away, it felt like we had left something intangible behind. Life is like that—you always leave a part of yourself somewhere. But not everywhere.

Hermann’s father had taught him: “You have only two hands. Keep one for yourself and use the other to touch someone else’s life every now and then.”