With a k.
My Hansa Brauerrei beer is a perfect balance of hops and malt. A Prussian brewmaster stares down at me from a faded 1905 black and white photo as I sip and listen to Bavarian satellite radio play the hits of the 80s. The beer is brewed right here in Swapokmund, a couple blocks away, past a beautiful series of Art Nouveau buildings from the early 1900s that wouldn't look out of place in Hamburg, through the fog, past the Kaiser Wilhelm Hotel on the eerily wide and often empty Bismarck Strasse, past bakers making brötchen and kuchen and past butchers producing wurst. Walk another two blocks and you're in the high dunes of the Namib Desert. Go the other way, cross the highway and you're in a township of tin shacks that sprawls far inland.
Germany was kicked out of its African colony a hundred years ago, but other than the Namibian flags, you'd be forgiven for thinking that the war had a different outcome.
Surreal doesn't even begin to describe this place.
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