Uzuva Kandjou
The brochures paint a picture of paradise. Sun-drenched dunes cascading into an endless horizon. The haunting, skeletal trees of Deadvlei stand sentinel against a sapphire sky. The roar of a lion in the deep silence of Etosha. This is the Namibia sold to the world, a pristine, untouched wilderness, an escape for those with the means to chase its raw beauty.
But for many Namibians, this picture is a cruel mirage. It is a paradise they can see, a beauty that exists on their ancestral lands, but one they can never afford to enter. In the heart of this magnificent nation, a quiet, bitter truth has taken root: in the business of beauty, it is tourists first, Namibians second.
The most glaring symbol of this division is the luxury lodge. Perched on cliffs overlooking dramatic canyons or nestled deep within private game reserves, these establishments offer world-class comfort for thousands of dollars a night. They are architectural marvels built on Namibian soil, drawing water from Namibian earth, and showcasing Namibian vistas. Yet, for the average Namibian, whose monthly income might only cover the cost of a single dinner at one of these places, they might as well be on another planet. They have become spectators to a feast laid out in their own home, forever kept outside by the velvet ropes of affordability. This isn’t just tourism; it’s an exclusionary industry built on the land of the many for the pleasure of a few.
The industry champions itself as a creator of jobs, a noble pillar of the economy. But what kind of jobs? Look closer at the employment structure. Namibians are trained, often with meticulous care, to be exceptional cleaners, waiters, trackers, and receptionists. They are the smiling faces that offer a cool drink after a long game drive and the silent hands that ensure a suite is immaculate. They are taught to serve but rarely to manage, own, or direct. A glass ceiling, as vast and unyielding as the Namibian sky, is firmly in place.
Worse still, this model of employment creates a fierce, almost predatory opposition to other forms of development. When industries like mining or commercial farming propose projects that could offer Namibians a path to becoming engineers, geologists, agronomists, or skilled technicians. Professions with higher wages and greater upward mobility, the tourism sector often fight back. Under the banner of conservation, they lobby against development that might “spoil the view” or “disrupt the ecosystem”. What they are truly protecting is their business model, one that relies on a ready supply of low-wage labour and the preservation of a romanticised, preindustrial landscape for foreign consumption. They are fighting for the nation’s soul, but only the parts of it they can sell.
This economic arrangement slides perilously close to a modern form of feudalism. The lodges are overwhelmingly private companies, owned by a handful of wealthy individuals or foreign corporations, with headquarters in the air-conditioned comfort of Windhoek or overseas. Or they claim to manage on behalf of the community, ensuring all of the profits disappear as management fees. Meanwhile, the local communities that surround these oases of luxury are often trapped in a cycle of dependency.
They are told they can no longer graze their cattle on ancestral lands because it interferes with the game. They are forbidden from subsistence farming in certain areas to maintain the “peaceful and natural” environment for guests. Their traditional economies are dismantled, piece by piece, under the guise of environmental protection. In its place is a single, fragile lifeline: the lodge. The community becomes a reservoir of labour, its people forced into economic servitude, their futures dictated not by their own ambitions but by the seasonal whims of international travel. They are no longer custodians of their land but tenants, living in the shadow of an industry that has commodified their very heritage. Many of these magnificent lodges don’t even have a leasehold in place; they merely build and scoff at anyone who dares to question them.
Namibia’s beauty is its gift to the world, but it should not be a curse upon its own people. A tourism model that creates pristine bubbles for foreigners while leaving the majority of its citizens on the outside looking in is not sustainable; it is a profound injustice. Until the day a Namibian family can afford to watch the sunset from the deck of a lodge built on the land of their ancestors, the promise of tourism will remain a hollow one. The silence of the desert is vast, but it cannot drown out the unspoken question on the wind: for whom is this beauty truly for?
