Hmmm… it’s been so long since I’ve written anything here that I don’t even know where to begin now. This year has been pretty crazy. Hopefully I can do it justice in a single update.
For starters, I’m still in Namibia. As most of you know, I came back to help with the 2008 MYO staff transition. To be perfectly honest, my help with that probably wasn’t needed and not even really wanted in some respects. The staff this year is still going through some changes, but overall they are a very capable and experienced bunch that didn’t require a lot of my input. Also, as often happens to a project like this when new blood is injected, new ideas take new directions and the interest in protecting the status quo isn’t at the top of the list.
So basically my time with MYO this year was lackluster. I ended up bowing out of it earlier than expected at the end of February. Although I still believe in the program and the work being done there, it was time to make the break and follow the new direction in which my life is headed: Mozambique.
This is the point where you’ll start reading along and probably notice your head start shaking involuntarily, thinking, “Ah, here he goes again...”
In a nutshell, I’ll be moving indefinitely to the east coast of Africa to begin work on a long-term conservation project. My initial focus will revolve around getting a small tourist operation going in the northern coastal town of Pemba. On board a dhow—a Arabian style boat used extensively in East Africa—I’ll organize sundown cruises, snorkeling, fishing expeditions, etc. to get a sure footing in the area before expanding to the islands further north to begin a joint land/sea project working with elephants inland and marine conservation issues on the sea.
My timetable for coming home has understandably changed with this new adventure. In order to make the move to Mozambique possible, I need to go home for a couple of months to tie off loose financial ends. That originally meant moving my flight back to Boise up to the end of March and canceling my backpacking plans in Mozambique and South Africa so that I could be on the ground in Pemba for the end of May.
However, just as I was getting everything in order to leave, my friends at EHRA (Elephant-Human Relations Aid) approached me with a job offer working with their program in the Damaraland bush. I decided to accept for a couple of reasons: first, since the dhow project will be in conjunction with the founder of EHRA, they needed an extra set of hands to help organize everything here before anything can be done in Mozambique. Second, and probably more importantly, the experience working with volunteers will go a long way towards preparing me for my job when I come back.
So now I’ll be in Namibia until the end of May, spending two weeks at a time out in the bush and returning to Swakopmund every other weekend. My job is to oversee the building of elephant dams with volunteers for each first week and then helping out with various tasks in base camp for the second week while the group is out on patrol tracking the desert elephants.
I’m happy to be staying here for a little while longer. Although the work of hefting big rocks and shoveling sand in the 100+ degree heat doesn’t sound too appealing, living out in the open, sweating up an appetite in a rugged expanse of natural beauty has an undeniable charm. It’s difficult to explain the attraction I feel for the doors opening up before me. I suppose I’ve gained an appreciation for a lot of the aspects of life that have been more or less ignored with what I’ve done with myself until this point. Who knows where all of this will lead… but I’m excited to enjoy the ride and find out.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
A Beau Update
Hi everyone. I’m back in Namibia after a brief stint in Idaho township of Mondesa
This new year brings a lot of changes at MYO. There are plenty of new faces in the staff, including three new volunteer teachers, a new music teacher, an academic coordinator and a field manager. They join the existing Namibian staff and the two of us foreigners who have returned from 2007.
My living situation provides the most telling example. Upon arriving in Swakop, my first stop was at the flat shared by Alexis, Casey and me last year. The keys traveled halfway around the world with me, allowing for the familiar sense of coming home and turning the lock to enter my domain. However, that is where the allusions of times past began to fade. Over the break, our apartment was rented out to vacationers so several changes had been exacted: furniture moved, curtains re-hung and minor transformations that cause your mind to pause even when your eyes don’t immediately recognize the alteration. As a person who cherishes the order to my surroundings (even though it doesn’t often look like order to others), the newness took me by surprise. But now, after a week of adjustment, much of the new environment has grown on me. Sure, I miss the chess drinking set holding the bookcase together, but the circa-1970 book on natural childbirth probably didn’t ever need to be on display.
Beyond the aesthetic elements of change, the loss of my fellow inhabitants continues to hang over everything at 32 Libertina Amathila #6. I can’t deny that this has been the most challenging part of my own personal 2008 transition. Looking back, I doubt I realized how close our circle had become. During the break, there were so many distractions in
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
The North Episode 2: The Farm
When I left off I had just climbed into the back of a bakkie after the long drive to Owamboland from Swakop…
I spent the better part of the slip, slide and dip drive along the sand road trying to imagine which of these places shrouded in darkness would be my home for the next 4 days. When there were no farms on either side, I sat back enjoying the fantastic view of the stars afforded this far from “civilization.” No more than half of the plots we passed exuded any visible light. This set me to wondering how much electricity our hosts would have. Herman had assured us the place had running water and electricity, but didn’t elaborate much beyond that. (Another trait I was to experience for the entire weekend.)
Our first night in the village of Ontananga wasn’t overly exciting. Upon arrival, we passed through a typical Namibian fence. Its uprights were made from whatever big wooden pieces could be found with thin wire wrapped around each a time or two and stretched tight to hold the contraption up. Just inside the gate we passed another staple of these northern homesteads: a cattle and goat pen. Constructed similar to the fence, out of tree uprights, I wouldn’t have known what it was without asking.
To be honest, the house was more than I expected. Herman’s uncle lives and works in Swakopmund, and it would appear that the money he sends back home gives the family a better living than many in this area. We had to jump out of the bakkie before it was parked in the garage, which was a cinder block structure without a door. The big piece of corrugated steel leaned up against the outside turned out to be the door. Once we had unloaded our belongings, they clicked off the lights and dragged the makeshift door across the opening. The entire house area was surrounded by a block wall and this served to seal the complex off.
Once we stepped inside the mixture of old and new struck me. To my left and right sat old huts with mud brick walls and thatched roofs. Ahead of me stood the more modern house made of the same cinder block as the garage—it is in here that the family stays. Tall fences of dried mahango stalks separated each hut from the others and the main house as well.
To be honest, the house was more than I expected. Herman’s uncle lives and works in Swakopmund, and it would appear that the money he sends back home gives the family a better living than many in this area. We had to jump out of the bakkie before it was parked in the garage, which was a cinder block structure without a door. The big piece of corrugated steel leaned up against the outside turned out to be the door. Once we had unloaded our belongings, they clicked off the lights and dragged the makeshift door across the opening. The entire house area was surrounded by a block wall and this served to seal the complex off.
Once we stepped inside the mixture of old and new struck me. To my left and right sat old huts with mud brick walls and thatched roofs. Ahead of me stood the more modern house made of the same cinder block as the garage—it is in here that the family stays. Tall fences of dried mahango stalks separated each hut from the others and the main house as well.
Herman led us into the main living room to meet the remaining members of our host family. (For emphasis, I’d love to say this was done around a single candle on the coffee table, but that’s not the case. The house had plenty of electricity and even the TV that you find in many a Namibian house where you wouldn’t expect to see one.) Everyone seemed excited to have us as guests—even offering us some Fanta after our long trek. However the kicker is, at this point, none of them seem to speak English very well. The cousins range in age from around 12-24, and I assumed most of them should be able to understand me. My hypothesis started to fail quickly, though. After teaching English in foreign countries, I have developed a knack for recognizing the glazed look and head nod most people employ when they have no idea what you’re saying. I was seeing a lot of this—and wondering how weird the next 4 days were going to be. We muddled through the next 10-15 minutes of chit chat and were kindly shown to our rooms.
I had expected to be in a village-ish type of accommodation, but we were accorded guest bedrooms in a building connected to the garage. This free-standing structure was built only to house visitors—meaning that family members shared rooms inside while there were empty beds 20 meters away. Growing up in a spacious house in Idaho really made me question why that was, but not loud enough to have them send a random cousin my way. In the end, I did have to settle for sharing with Herman, but we’ve bunked together before on field trips so that was not a big deal. Casey’s situation was slightly more humorous. At first she was told one of the girls would be staying with her, which was funny considering there was only one bed. Then she had a mild struggle convincing the family that sleeping on her own wasn’t a problem. I was secretly hoping she had to share because seeing the look on her face the next morning after sharing a bed with a stranger would have been priceless. In the end, she got her own room and I was the one sharing a bed.
The next morning, I woke up early enough to have a few hours to hang around the farm before we ventured into town. We had a breakfast of toast and jam with the girl cousins since the boys had already taken off to let the livestock out to graze. The initial shyness of having a couple of foreigners around started to wear off a bit after spending some time with us, and our hosts started to be more chatty. I was relieved that we were going to be able to communicate without needing a translator. This shouldn’t have come as a surprise I guess, since when first meeting someone here they are often hesitant to speak English (which is usually at least their 3rd language). It’s probably a mixture of shyness and overcoming the accent barrier.
I had expected to be in a village-ish type of accommodation, but we were accorded guest bedrooms in a building connected to the garage. This free-standing structure was built only to house visitors—meaning that family members shared rooms inside while there were empty beds 20 meters away. Growing up in a spacious house in Idaho really made me question why that was, but not loud enough to have them send a random cousin my way. In the end, I did have to settle for sharing with Herman, but we’ve bunked together before on field trips so that was not a big deal. Casey’s situation was slightly more humorous. At first she was told one of the girls would be staying with her, which was funny considering there was only one bed. Then she had a mild struggle convincing the family that sleeping on her own wasn’t a problem. I was secretly hoping she had to share because seeing the look on her face the next morning after sharing a bed with a stranger would have been priceless. In the end, she got her own room and I was the one sharing a bed.
The next morning, I woke up early enough to have a few hours to hang around the farm before we ventured into town. We had a breakfast of toast and jam with the girl cousins since the boys had already taken off to let the livestock out to graze. The initial shyness of having a couple of foreigners around started to wear off a bit after spending some time with us, and our hosts started to be more chatty. I was relieved that we were going to be able to communicate without needing a translator. This shouldn’t have come as a surprise I guess, since when first meeting someone here they are often hesitant to speak English (which is usually at least their 3rd language). It’s probably a mixture of shyness and overcoming the accent barrier.
The rest of the morning was pretty relaxed. Once breakfast was finished we all went our separate ways, and I took the opportunity to wander around and check the place out in the morning sun. (Even in August, which is still winter time in Namibia, Owamboland is warm.) I checked out the different parts of the complex with one of the cousins, who explained that the huts were the traditional houses they stayed in up until they had enough money to build with blocks. I forget how long ago that was, but I think it was around the early 90s. A few of the huts were just thatched roofs on wooden uprights—living in one of those would have been an experience. Four wooden supports with a corrugated steel covering housed the traditional kitchen, which was a marvel of finding random objects and putting them to use: a couple old coke bottle crates and a small table held up the kitchen counter; some old car wheels sat very near the fire—presumably a place to set either pots or people; and what appeared to be an old spring from a car’s suspension stood alone, probable as lost as I am figuring out why it’s there. (In the picture a skinny chicken seems to be contemplating the same thing.)
As the morning started to warm up, I retreated to the shade of my room. We planned to spend the afternoon in the nearby town of Ondangwa and my skin needed some rest before hours of solar exposure. I wanted to lie down and listen to some quiet music, but the boys came back and one became really interested in my iPod. I showed him how it worked and let him select a few songs himself before he asked to take it back to the house for a listen. Not wanting to kill his fun (and trying to have few minutes alone to relax), I let him. After the third time he returned, having changed it miraculously to some artist not remotely to his taste and asking me to switch it back, I began to wonder how to take it back without being rude. In the end I couldn’t think of anything so I sent him on his merry way and contemplated following him to see what he was doing to my music player. I ended up settling for shutting my door and locking it. After all I was going to spend my first full day in the north and wanted to gear up.
P.S. I guess the block buildings didn't strike us too hard because I don't have many good pics of them. I'll add one or two when I do the wrap up and post more random pictures that I didn't have room for in the story blogs.
As the morning started to warm up, I retreated to the shade of my room. We planned to spend the afternoon in the nearby town of Ondangwa and my skin needed some rest before hours of solar exposure. I wanted to lie down and listen to some quiet music, but the boys came back and one became really interested in my iPod. I showed him how it worked and let him select a few songs himself before he asked to take it back to the house for a listen. Not wanting to kill his fun (and trying to have few minutes alone to relax), I let him. After the third time he returned, having changed it miraculously to some artist not remotely to his taste and asking me to switch it back, I began to wonder how to take it back without being rude. In the end I couldn’t think of anything so I sent him on his merry way and contemplated following him to see what he was doing to my music player. I ended up settling for shutting my door and locking it. After all I was going to spend my first full day in the north and wanted to gear up.
P.S. I guess the block buildings didn't strike us too hard because I don't have many good pics of them. I'll add one or two when I do the wrap up and post more random pictures that I didn't have room for in the story blogs.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
An Ode to Astro
NO THANK YOU
No I do not want a kitten,
No cute, cuddly kitty-poo,
No more long hair in my cornflakes,
No more midnight meowing mews.
No I do not want a kitten,
No cute, cuddly kitty-poo,
No more long hair in my cornflakes,
No more midnight meowing mews.
No more scratchin’, snarlin’, spitters,
No more sofas clawed to shreds,
No more smell of kitty litter,
No more mousies in my bed.
No I will not take that kitten—
I’ve had lice and I’ve had FLEAS,
I’ve been scratched and sprayed and bitten,
I’ve developed allergies.
If you’ve got an ape, I’ll take him,
If you have a lion, that’s fine,
If you brought some walking bacon,
Leave him here, I’ll treat him kind.
I have room for mice and gerbils,
I have beds for boars and bats,
But please, please take away that kitten—
Quick—‘fore it becomes a cat.
Well… it is kind of cute at that.
That is a poem written by Shel Silverstein that pretty much sums up my feelings about my roommates’ cat right about now…
except the last line.
No more sofas clawed to shreds,
No more smell of kitty litter,
No more mousies in my bed.
No I will not take that kitten—
I’ve had lice and I’ve had FLEAS,
I’ve been scratched and sprayed and bitten,
I’ve developed allergies.
If you’ve got an ape, I’ll take him,
If you have a lion, that’s fine,
If you brought some walking bacon,
Leave him here, I’ll treat him kind.
I have room for mice and gerbils,
I have beds for boars and bats,
But please, please take away that kitten—
Quick—‘fore it becomes a cat.
Well… it is kind of cute at that.
That is a poem written by Shel Silverstein that pretty much sums up my feelings about my roommates’ cat right about now…
except the last line.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
The Man Without Wings
20 October 2007
Here’s a fun story about the random Friday evening adventure in Namibia.
I was just sitting on the couch reading a book because my two roommates are out of town for a MYO field trip to Etosha National Park. Having the house to myself doesn’t happen very often so I planned on having a quiet night in to unwind from my hectic week. Then I got this text message: “Can you get to the airport in 30 min?”
One of my friends here is a pilot. He told me a while back that I could hitch a ride to Arandis with him sometime. Apparently they occasionally have to drop passengers here in Swakopmund and then park the planes at that airport (about 60km away). Usually the pilots fly over there alone, which means there are empty seats for a guy like me. I hear talk about flying a lot so I told him to let me know whenever he could fit me in. But even having known I would fly with him sometime, the SMS caught me by surprise.
Needless to say, I put down my book immediately and replied that I’d try to get out there. Since I don’t have a car the process was complicated slightly. Not like that was going to stop me, though. I grabbed my sweatshirt and bombed out the door.
Once I was on the street I started looking for a taxi. At 5:30pm on a Friday night, finding an empty one is more difficult than it might sound. (Remember, the taxis here pick up as many individual passengers as will fit inside and charge each N$5.50 [US$0.79] for the ride.) Once I stood on the corner for a while, my taxi came into view. I flagged him down and asked him if he’d take me to the airport. Now the airport here isn’t a normal destination for a taxi since white people don’t usually set foot, cheek or whatever inside them, and tourist pleasure flights don’t figure into the budget of your average black or coloured person. So I knew immediately he’d assume I was a tourist and get ideas of fattening his wallet off the 7 minute drive. My instincts were right. He tried to hustle N$50 out of me. I gave him the ‘get serious’ look—which drove the price immediately down to $40—but I wasn’t satisfied with that. We finally settled on $10 after I pretended to shut the door and look for a more fiscally reasonable driver. I was on my way.
I arrived at the modest airfield and watched the planes from the various flight companies touch down and queue up for fuel. Our plane was first in line, so the wait wasn’t very long. It did give me enough time to watch something I’ve never seen: planes being pushed and pulled around by a single person. I’ve flown quite a bit in my life, but never in a machine that weighs less than my dad’s Dodge truck. I suppose this is where some people might have had some reservations about the plan… but hey, I survived jumping off a bridge with a glorified rubber band attached to my ankles six months ago, didn’t I? This didn’t seem out of the question.
Once I finally climbed into the co-pilots seat of the Cessna something-or-other (210?) my focus immediately shifted to the –ometers, gauges, knobs, dials and switches on the instrument panel in front of me. There are the dozens of them. The setup is quite impressive. All of a sudden, learning to drive a car seemed like child’s play—a couple of pedals, speedometer, fuel gauge and maybe a tachometer—who can’t do that? I think I saw my first window into why most pilots are extremely confident, if not cocky, individuals. Being able to understand and navigate all of those fun little toys would give me a big head, too.
Once the Pilot jumped in we were ready to roll. Taking off almost immediately, I didn’t get much of a chance to think about the unpaved runway, which was probably better. Like a lot of the side roads in Swakop, it is a compacted mixture of semi-salt water and the gypsum soil found here. Apparently it’s far cheaper than paving, and to be honest the surface is nice, but it still makes you pause when you’re in a plane hurdling along it.
The flight itself was, of course, the best part. I know from hanging out with the local pilots that this guy flies very well so I was looking forward to it. We stayed low after takeoff and after a few deft maneuvers the railroad appeared directly underneath the plane. A train came and passed quickly below us. We followed the windy rails at the speed of a bullet train. While making one of the sharp corners, I looked out my right window directly at the track (yes, the plane at a right angle) and thought, “Man, this job kicks the shit out of mine.” The pilot must have read my mind, because he immediately said something like, “Not a bad day at the office, hey?” Definitely not.
Soon enough we were cruising over the ephemeral Swakop River, easily distinguishable from the surrounding desert by the plant life growing in the riverbed. The stark contrast between yellow-brown of the gravel flats and the dull green vegetation doesn’t often come into view like this from the ground. A few acrobatic turns later the Rossmund Gold Course came into view. Like the river, this place also sticks out from the surrounding terrain. The fairways didn’t look too friendly—not that I spend much time on those anyway—but the carefully manicured greens looked lush and inviting. But I had much more important things on my mind. Watching the familiar sights one sees from the surface transform into smaller versions of themselves, as anything does from the air, occupied my thoughts. I love the view from a low-flying plane. Usually it’s only available for a short time after takeoff and before landing, but these small planes are the ticket. The ability to stay so near to earth is priceless. I wonder if the Wright brothers knew exactly how lucky they were to see this for the first time. The temptation to keep the secret to myself, this unique view of the world below, would have crossed my mind. Thankfully for the rest of us, though, the boys from Carolina weren’t that selfish.
Rössing Mountain began to loom in the distance. The words ‘mountain’ and ‘loom’ are perhaps overstated here, since ‘hill’ and ‘appear’ would probable be closer to the truth. As an Idaho boy, I can’t with good conscience lead you to believe we were about to traverse over a great peak, but since the plane was relatively small I’m allowed to embellish a bit, aren’t I? My friend had obviously flown this path more than a few times, judging by our trajectory. We flew right at the mountain, skimmed between two peaks that couldn’t have been placed better to accommodate the wingspan of our aircraft. Then we pulled up over the last ridge and did a turning dive maneuver (with a name I’ve already forgotten) down the other side. The negative G’s we achieved made my insides feel like they were suspended in mid-air. It was like the drop on a big roller coaster—only considerably better. I call this dude ‘Maverick’ after Tom Cruise’s character in Top Gun, and I could have sworn the intro to “Highway to the Danger Zone” started playing in my head while we were partially inverted in that dive. Great stuff.
At last the runway (paved this time) in Arandis became visible through the windshield. As we approached, it seemed to me that we were still flying pretty fast but I’m no pilot so I kept my mouth shut. Turns out Maverick was planning a low fly-by over the airstrip. (Too bad there wasn’t a tower with a man drinking a fresh cup of coffee nearby.) Glancing out the side window, the ground was as close as it would have been from the upper level of a red bus in London… only blurring by slightly faster. At the end we pulled up in another acrobatic move to prepare for the real landing approach. This time, we did come in at a pace that seemed suitable for touching down on terra firma. It was the softest landing I’ve ever experienced—advantage of flying a light plane I guess.
Once we climbed out of the plane, a man with a clipboard approached. “I don’t know this guy, I hope he doesn’t tune me kak for buzzing the runway like that.” That comment definitely sums up how the pilots feel about us land-based organisms trying to regulate their fun. And they enjoy their fun. The final part of this escapade highlights this point. While the paperwork was being filled in, I was on plane-spotting duty. At the first sight of one, we booked it out to the runway. “This is called a runway inspection if anyone asks. We’re looking for potholes, debris or anything else dangerous… although we’re technically supposed to do them from 300 ft away.” Wink, wink. “Gotcha.”
The point of this exercise is to sit down in the middle of the tarmac and wait for the next pilot to buzz over your head as close as possible. I’m pretty sure I saw something like this in a movie one time. Only in that case, the person was caught by the wind drag and thrown for a loop by a Boeing. I figured a Cessna wouldn’t upend me so I was keen. The first guy saw us late and circled around after flying a little high on the initial pass to give us an encore. I swear these pilots have too much fun. The remaining fly-bys didn’t match up since it was getting a little dark and, although adventuresome, these men are still professionals who aren’t looking to create unnecessary danger. I was looking to really get my hair blown back (figuratively speaking), but I guess it’s better to have less of an adrenaline rush and live to tell about it.
We ended it all off by cracking a few Tafel Lagers in the van on the way back to Swakopmund. In that sense it is just like any other day at the office I guess: a few friends kicking back over a brew and swapping stories about the day. The only difference is their normal routine amounts to a miniature adventure for me, the odd man out. The man without wings.
Here’s a fun story about the random Friday evening adventure in Namibia.
I was just sitting on the couch reading a book because my two roommates are out of town for a MYO field trip to Etosha National Park. Having the house to myself doesn’t happen very often so I planned on having a quiet night in to unwind from my hectic week. Then I got this text message: “Can you get to the airport in 30 min?”
One of my friends here is a pilot. He told me a while back that I could hitch a ride to Arandis with him sometime. Apparently they occasionally have to drop passengers here in Swakopmund and then park the planes at that airport (about 60km away). Usually the pilots fly over there alone, which means there are empty seats for a guy like me. I hear talk about flying a lot so I told him to let me know whenever he could fit me in. But even having known I would fly with him sometime, the SMS caught me by surprise.
Needless to say, I put down my book immediately and replied that I’d try to get out there. Since I don’t have a car the process was complicated slightly. Not like that was going to stop me, though. I grabbed my sweatshirt and bombed out the door.
Once I was on the street I started looking for a taxi. At 5:30pm on a Friday night, finding an empty one is more difficult than it might sound. (Remember, the taxis here pick up as many individual passengers as will fit inside and charge each N$5.50 [US$0.79] for the ride.) Once I stood on the corner for a while, my taxi came into view. I flagged him down and asked him if he’d take me to the airport. Now the airport here isn’t a normal destination for a taxi since white people don’t usually set foot, cheek or whatever inside them, and tourist pleasure flights don’t figure into the budget of your average black or coloured person. So I knew immediately he’d assume I was a tourist and get ideas of fattening his wallet off the 7 minute drive. My instincts were right. He tried to hustle N$50 out of me. I gave him the ‘get serious’ look—which drove the price immediately down to $40—but I wasn’t satisfied with that. We finally settled on $10 after I pretended to shut the door and look for a more fiscally reasonable driver. I was on my way.
I arrived at the modest airfield and watched the planes from the various flight companies touch down and queue up for fuel. Our plane was first in line, so the wait wasn’t very long. It did give me enough time to watch something I’ve never seen: planes being pushed and pulled around by a single person. I’ve flown quite a bit in my life, but never in a machine that weighs less than my dad’s Dodge truck. I suppose this is where some people might have had some reservations about the plan… but hey, I survived jumping off a bridge with a glorified rubber band attached to my ankles six months ago, didn’t I? This didn’t seem out of the question.
Once I finally climbed into the co-pilots seat of the Cessna something-or-other (210?) my focus immediately shifted to the –ometers, gauges, knobs, dials and switches on the instrument panel in front of me. There are the dozens of them. The setup is quite impressive. All of a sudden, learning to drive a car seemed like child’s play—a couple of pedals, speedometer, fuel gauge and maybe a tachometer—who can’t do that? I think I saw my first window into why most pilots are extremely confident, if not cocky, individuals. Being able to understand and navigate all of those fun little toys would give me a big head, too.
Once the Pilot jumped in we were ready to roll. Taking off almost immediately, I didn’t get much of a chance to think about the unpaved runway, which was probably better. Like a lot of the side roads in Swakop, it is a compacted mixture of semi-salt water and the gypsum soil found here. Apparently it’s far cheaper than paving, and to be honest the surface is nice, but it still makes you pause when you’re in a plane hurdling along it.
The flight itself was, of course, the best part. I know from hanging out with the local pilots that this guy flies very well so I was looking forward to it. We stayed low after takeoff and after a few deft maneuvers the railroad appeared directly underneath the plane. A train came and passed quickly below us. We followed the windy rails at the speed of a bullet train. While making one of the sharp corners, I looked out my right window directly at the track (yes, the plane at a right angle) and thought, “Man, this job kicks the shit out of mine.” The pilot must have read my mind, because he immediately said something like, “Not a bad day at the office, hey?” Definitely not.
Soon enough we were cruising over the ephemeral Swakop River, easily distinguishable from the surrounding desert by the plant life growing in the riverbed. The stark contrast between yellow-brown of the gravel flats and the dull green vegetation doesn’t often come into view like this from the ground. A few acrobatic turns later the Rossmund Gold Course came into view. Like the river, this place also sticks out from the surrounding terrain. The fairways didn’t look too friendly—not that I spend much time on those anyway—but the carefully manicured greens looked lush and inviting. But I had much more important things on my mind. Watching the familiar sights one sees from the surface transform into smaller versions of themselves, as anything does from the air, occupied my thoughts. I love the view from a low-flying plane. Usually it’s only available for a short time after takeoff and before landing, but these small planes are the ticket. The ability to stay so near to earth is priceless. I wonder if the Wright brothers knew exactly how lucky they were to see this for the first time. The temptation to keep the secret to myself, this unique view of the world below, would have crossed my mind. Thankfully for the rest of us, though, the boys from Carolina weren’t that selfish.
Rössing Mountain began to loom in the distance. The words ‘mountain’ and ‘loom’ are perhaps overstated here, since ‘hill’ and ‘appear’ would probable be closer to the truth. As an Idaho boy, I can’t with good conscience lead you to believe we were about to traverse over a great peak, but since the plane was relatively small I’m allowed to embellish a bit, aren’t I? My friend had obviously flown this path more than a few times, judging by our trajectory. We flew right at the mountain, skimmed between two peaks that couldn’t have been placed better to accommodate the wingspan of our aircraft. Then we pulled up over the last ridge and did a turning dive maneuver (with a name I’ve already forgotten) down the other side. The negative G’s we achieved made my insides feel like they were suspended in mid-air. It was like the drop on a big roller coaster—only considerably better. I call this dude ‘Maverick’ after Tom Cruise’s character in Top Gun, and I could have sworn the intro to “Highway to the Danger Zone” started playing in my head while we were partially inverted in that dive. Great stuff.
At last the runway (paved this time) in Arandis became visible through the windshield. As we approached, it seemed to me that we were still flying pretty fast but I’m no pilot so I kept my mouth shut. Turns out Maverick was planning a low fly-by over the airstrip. (Too bad there wasn’t a tower with a man drinking a fresh cup of coffee nearby.) Glancing out the side window, the ground was as close as it would have been from the upper level of a red bus in London… only blurring by slightly faster. At the end we pulled up in another acrobatic move to prepare for the real landing approach. This time, we did come in at a pace that seemed suitable for touching down on terra firma. It was the softest landing I’ve ever experienced—advantage of flying a light plane I guess.
Once we climbed out of the plane, a man with a clipboard approached. “I don’t know this guy, I hope he doesn’t tune me kak for buzzing the runway like that.” That comment definitely sums up how the pilots feel about us land-based organisms trying to regulate their fun. And they enjoy their fun. The final part of this escapade highlights this point. While the paperwork was being filled in, I was on plane-spotting duty. At the first sight of one, we booked it out to the runway. “This is called a runway inspection if anyone asks. We’re looking for potholes, debris or anything else dangerous… although we’re technically supposed to do them from 300 ft away.” Wink, wink. “Gotcha.”
The point of this exercise is to sit down in the middle of the tarmac and wait for the next pilot to buzz over your head as close as possible. I’m pretty sure I saw something like this in a movie one time. Only in that case, the person was caught by the wind drag and thrown for a loop by a Boeing. I figured a Cessna wouldn’t upend me so I was keen. The first guy saw us late and circled around after flying a little high on the initial pass to give us an encore. I swear these pilots have too much fun. The remaining fly-bys didn’t match up since it was getting a little dark and, although adventuresome, these men are still professionals who aren’t looking to create unnecessary danger. I was looking to really get my hair blown back (figuratively speaking), but I guess it’s better to have less of an adrenaline rush and live to tell about it.
We ended it all off by cracking a few Tafel Lagers in the van on the way back to Swakopmund. In that sense it is just like any other day at the office I guess: a few friends kicking back over a brew and swapping stories about the day. The only difference is their normal routine amounts to a miniature adventure for me, the odd man out. The man without wings.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
The North: Episode I
16 October 2007
Part I: The Trek
After a long hiatus, I’m back with some more for the people. I’ll give my mom, Erin and Steu specific shout outs for harassing me into writing another entry. This story is a little dated (it happened at the end of August) but I can’t think of a better place to restart my blogging career.
So basically, during the last vacation I really had no plans and needed to get out of town. Herman, the kombi driver at MYO, happened to be heading up to the north of Namibia and invited Casey and me along. His cousin was getting married in a traditional ceremony in her village… and quite frankly I think he just wanted to be known as the guy who brought white people along. In any case, I’d been wanting to head up there and had some time to kill so I accepted.
Sidenote: The northern part of Namibia (or just plain “the north” as it’s usually referred to here) carries the name Owamboland—because it’s populated by the Owambo tribe. I always get confused by the difference of usage between Owambo and Oshiwambo, so if you’re reading this and getting irritated by my inability to use the two properly: get over it. You have too much spare time. Anyway, a large chunk of Namibia’s residents live in this area. The resistance against South Africa before independence was concentrated in Owamboland. And they won. So now the ruling Southwest African People’s Organization (SWAPO) is mainly representative of this, the largest tribe in Namibia.
The start to the trip was delayed by two everyday African scenarios: one serious and the other not so much. The original departure date got postponed by a week because of a death in Herman’s family. To this day, I have no idea who it was. No one really talks much about this sort of thing here because it’s, sadly, not uncommon. It was just mentioned to me as any other reason why we had to wait would be:
“We can’t leave tomorrow.”
“Why not?”
“Someone died.”
“Oh. Um…”
“We can still go next week. I’ll let you know.”
“Um. Ok.”
It’s not callousness. People have just learned to adapt to the reality of life. I find it to be a mix of sad and rather inspiring—a prime example of the different existence for people here. But I’m getting off track again.
The second delay was the more garden variety type: a “misunderstanding.” I’ve included the quotes because like many African misunderstandings, this one was doesn’t fit my definition of that word. I’d go more for indifference. Instead of catching a minibus taxi (or taxi kombi) filled to the brim with people heading up north to visit family, Herman organized us a ride in his friend’s car (allegedly a Mercedes). Now this was music to my ears since the minibuses are notorious for not being the safest mode of travel. Bad tires, poor maintenance, careless and sometimes drunk drivers—these are typical stories of local transportation. On top of all that we didn’t have to get up at 6am to catch the kombi, which made my day.
When the time came to meet at Herman’s place for our ride, Casey and I showed up early to avoid any confusion. There the three of us waited… and waited… and waited. Finally Herman phoned his pal, who was supposedly on the way from the gas station. Turns out the guy skipped town after filling up and decided not even to let us know. Now my vote was to rant at him until he turned around and came back, but I think Herman realized the futility of that ahead of time and hung up after a few choice words. (Actually, I have no idea what he said since he was speaking Oshiwambo, but I’d like to think he at least gave the dude a piece of his mind.) So now we were back to square one.
Herman told us to wait and took off between some houses and shacks in search of a minibus that was still going that afternoon (it is 1:15pm by this point). It was getting a little late for a 10-hr drive up north in a kombi by my calculations, but waiting just to get up at 6 the next morning didn’t seem like a positive alternative to me. He returned after 10-15 minutes and had found a ride leaving immediately so we picked up our bags and followed him to step one of our adventure.
Arriving at the taxi rank, we were barraged by several street vendors selling god knows what. Someone tried to sell me phone credit, another some pirate designer sunglasses, but mostly people just giggled at the two white people being ushered onto a kombi heading to Owamboland. Once aboard we settled into the far back seat with Herman and sat back for the long journey. There were still a few over the shoulder glances coming back our way from the other passengers, and to be fair the Afrikaans greetings we were getting were quite friendly. Casey and I, neither of us able to speak Afrikaans, did our best to return the salutations.
Part I: The Trek
After a long hiatus, I’m back with some more for the people. I’ll give my mom, Erin and Steu specific shout outs for harassing me into writing another entry. This story is a little dated (it happened at the end of August) but I can’t think of a better place to restart my blogging career.
So basically, during the last vacation I really had no plans and needed to get out of town. Herman, the kombi driver at MYO, happened to be heading up to the north of Namibia and invited Casey and me along. His cousin was getting married in a traditional ceremony in her village… and quite frankly I think he just wanted to be known as the guy who brought white people along. In any case, I’d been wanting to head up there and had some time to kill so I accepted.
Sidenote: The northern part of Namibia (or just plain “the north” as it’s usually referred to here) carries the name Owamboland—because it’s populated by the Owambo tribe. I always get confused by the difference of usage between Owambo and Oshiwambo, so if you’re reading this and getting irritated by my inability to use the two properly: get over it. You have too much spare time. Anyway, a large chunk of Namibia’s residents live in this area. The resistance against South Africa before independence was concentrated in Owamboland. And they won. So now the ruling Southwest African People’s Organization (SWAPO) is mainly representative of this, the largest tribe in Namibia.
The start to the trip was delayed by two everyday African scenarios: one serious and the other not so much. The original departure date got postponed by a week because of a death in Herman’s family. To this day, I have no idea who it was. No one really talks much about this sort of thing here because it’s, sadly, not uncommon. It was just mentioned to me as any other reason why we had to wait would be:
“We can’t leave tomorrow.”
“Why not?”
“Someone died.”
“Oh. Um…”
“We can still go next week. I’ll let you know.”
“Um. Ok.”
It’s not callousness. People have just learned to adapt to the reality of life. I find it to be a mix of sad and rather inspiring—a prime example of the different existence for people here. But I’m getting off track again.
The second delay was the more garden variety type: a “misunderstanding.” I’ve included the quotes because like many African misunderstandings, this one was doesn’t fit my definition of that word. I’d go more for indifference. Instead of catching a minibus taxi (or taxi kombi) filled to the brim with people heading up north to visit family, Herman organized us a ride in his friend’s car (allegedly a Mercedes). Now this was music to my ears since the minibuses are notorious for not being the safest mode of travel. Bad tires, poor maintenance, careless and sometimes drunk drivers—these are typical stories of local transportation. On top of all that we didn’t have to get up at 6am to catch the kombi, which made my day.
When the time came to meet at Herman’s place for our ride, Casey and I showed up early to avoid any confusion. There the three of us waited… and waited… and waited. Finally Herman phoned his pal, who was supposedly on the way from the gas station. Turns out the guy skipped town after filling up and decided not even to let us know. Now my vote was to rant at him until he turned around and came back, but I think Herman realized the futility of that ahead of time and hung up after a few choice words. (Actually, I have no idea what he said since he was speaking Oshiwambo, but I’d like to think he at least gave the dude a piece of his mind.) So now we were back to square one.
Herman told us to wait and took off between some houses and shacks in search of a minibus that was still going that afternoon (it is 1:15pm by this point). It was getting a little late for a 10-hr drive up north in a kombi by my calculations, but waiting just to get up at 6 the next morning didn’t seem like a positive alternative to me. He returned after 10-15 minutes and had found a ride leaving immediately so we picked up our bags and followed him to step one of our adventure.
Arriving at the taxi rank, we were barraged by several street vendors selling god knows what. Someone tried to sell me phone credit, another some pirate designer sunglasses, but mostly people just giggled at the two white people being ushered onto a kombi heading to Owamboland. Once aboard we settled into the far back seat with Herman and sat back for the long journey. There were still a few over the shoulder glances coming back our way from the other passengers, and to be fair the Afrikaans greetings we were getting were quite friendly. Casey and I, neither of us able to speak Afrikaans, did our best to return the salutations.
(Me and Herman in the Taxi Kombi)
Now I imagine this is hard to picture for most of you, so I’ll try to describe it better. First of all, we’re in Mondesa—the black township. You don’t see many whites in this area. In fact, most of the residents of Swakopmund have never even driven through it. So our presence, although not unheard of, is quite unusual. Add to that we’re getting onto a mode of transportation that VERY few white people use (mostly foreign volunteers). In fact, I’ve never even heard a story of a local white person riding in one of these. So it’s a bit of a spectacle for the people watching.
Once on the road, another kombi legend turned out to be true: mid-day drinking. The guy sitting in front of me pulled out a small bottle of cheap brandy and began to pull off it. (I was to realize soon enough that this was the first bottle of many… the man came prepared.) It smelled like paint thinner, but I’m sure it was better than his breath so I figured more power to him. That idea backfired on me when later he spilled a 1.5 liter bottle of coke on my shoe. Classic.
The ride ended up taking about 10 hours. I attribute this to our stopping at EVERY town along the way. Sometime people got off. Sometimes people got on. Sometimes we just stopped for snacks and the bathroom. Everywhere people were trying to sell stuff: bags of oranges, key chains, cell phone credit, etc., etc., etc. At one stop, the rest of the minibus seats filled up completely so we had to jam another person into the back seat with us. There were 5 individual seats but I have no idea what toothpick they were using to determine their size. In any case, 4 of us in the back was an awkward fit. Leg to leg, hip to hip, arm to arm and shoulder to shoulder in a crowded bus during the late afternoon heat is not comfortable. This is the point where you realize why this transport doesn’t fit into the normal tourist itinerary. Thankfully the man got off after only 45 minutes or so. I was not looking forward to swapping sweat with him for the next 4-5 hours.
Once night started to fall, I began to get nervous about the last leg of the journey. At each stop I double-checked to make sure the driver wasn’t one of the crowd headed for the beer cooler in the service station. It seemed like his 2 pals were running interference for him though, so I’m not entirely sure he wasn’t hitting the bottle a little. (I know for a fact the guy in front of me was, those little brandy bottles didn’t stand a chance.) My insecurity about the nighttime travel wasn’t appeased by our man’s driving either. During the most dangerous part of the journey, a winding bit of road over some hills, he was really moving. It wasn’t bad enough to warrant shouting at him from the back, but I was white knuckled and tight bottomed. Once we came out of that alive, however, I began to relax.
Not even the sudden stop on the side of the road got to me. Although the blown tire on the trailer wasn’t entirely reassuring, at least it wasn’t on the bus. We all got off to stretch our legs while they changed the tire. A few of the men wandered off a little way into the bush and relieved themselves while the rest of us chatted and looked at the magnificent view of the stars. Casey, Herman and I had bought a couple of Tafel Lagers at the last stop so we cracked those open and enjoyed their coolness in the warm evening breeze. A lot of the other passengers did the same; the blowout obviously wasn’t fazing them in the least.
Now I imagine this is hard to picture for most of you, so I’ll try to describe it better. First of all, we’re in Mondesa—the black township. You don’t see many whites in this area. In fact, most of the residents of Swakopmund have never even driven through it. So our presence, although not unheard of, is quite unusual. Add to that we’re getting onto a mode of transportation that VERY few white people use (mostly foreign volunteers). In fact, I’ve never even heard a story of a local white person riding in one of these. So it’s a bit of a spectacle for the people watching.
Once on the road, another kombi legend turned out to be true: mid-day drinking. The guy sitting in front of me pulled out a small bottle of cheap brandy and began to pull off it. (I was to realize soon enough that this was the first bottle of many… the man came prepared.) It smelled like paint thinner, but I’m sure it was better than his breath so I figured more power to him. That idea backfired on me when later he spilled a 1.5 liter bottle of coke on my shoe. Classic.
The ride ended up taking about 10 hours. I attribute this to our stopping at EVERY town along the way. Sometime people got off. Sometimes people got on. Sometimes we just stopped for snacks and the bathroom. Everywhere people were trying to sell stuff: bags of oranges, key chains, cell phone credit, etc., etc., etc. At one stop, the rest of the minibus seats filled up completely so we had to jam another person into the back seat with us. There were 5 individual seats but I have no idea what toothpick they were using to determine their size. In any case, 4 of us in the back was an awkward fit. Leg to leg, hip to hip, arm to arm and shoulder to shoulder in a crowded bus during the late afternoon heat is not comfortable. This is the point where you realize why this transport doesn’t fit into the normal tourist itinerary. Thankfully the man got off after only 45 minutes or so. I was not looking forward to swapping sweat with him for the next 4-5 hours.
Once night started to fall, I began to get nervous about the last leg of the journey. At each stop I double-checked to make sure the driver wasn’t one of the crowd headed for the beer cooler in the service station. It seemed like his 2 pals were running interference for him though, so I’m not entirely sure he wasn’t hitting the bottle a little. (I know for a fact the guy in front of me was, those little brandy bottles didn’t stand a chance.) My insecurity about the nighttime travel wasn’t appeased by our man’s driving either. During the most dangerous part of the journey, a winding bit of road over some hills, he was really moving. It wasn’t bad enough to warrant shouting at him from the back, but I was white knuckled and tight bottomed. Once we came out of that alive, however, I began to relax.
Not even the sudden stop on the side of the road got to me. Although the blown tire on the trailer wasn’t entirely reassuring, at least it wasn’t on the bus. We all got off to stretch our legs while they changed the tire. A few of the men wandered off a little way into the bush and relieved themselves while the rest of us chatted and looked at the magnificent view of the stars. Casey, Herman and I had bought a couple of Tafel Lagers at the last stop so we cracked those open and enjoyed their coolness in the warm evening breeze. A lot of the other passengers did the same; the blowout obviously wasn’t fazing them in the least.
(A preview of things to come. Me and the fam in the back of their bakkie.)
Since the rest of the trip went without a hitch I have to mention the giant cloud over the entire 10-hour drive: the music. I’d heard some stories about the ear-splitting tunes they these drivers have been known to play, mostly consisting of kwaito (Namibian hip-hop, usually in a language I can’t understand) on the radio or on mix CDs. However, I was not prepared to listen to the one CD this driver brought with him. Nearest I could tell it was R&B gospel music in Oshiwambo. Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem as I’m an open-minded listener, but hearing the same 5 songs on repeat for hours on end was enough to drive me nuts. Luckily I brought my iPod and was able to somewhat drown it out when the driver didn’t have the volume knob maxed out… which wasn’t very often. Herman felt the same way I did, and the poor guy didn’t even have headphones to help him escape. I’ll never forget our conversation at the last service station:
Me: “Man this music situation sucks.”
Him: “Yeah, I knew I should have brought my new mix CD.”
Me: “Probably should have, hey? What was on it?”
Him: “Oh man, it’s nice. Do you know Michael Bolton?”
(This is the point where Casey and I exchange looks and wonder if the guy has finally picked up sarcasm.)
Me: “Um… are you serious right now?”
Him: “Yeah, he’s great.”
Casey: “I think I’d rather take the 4-songs on repeat.”
Him: “No way. Why?”
Me: “Why?!”
(Still not sure if he’s jerking my chain. All signs inticate otherwise, but come on… Michael Bolton!?!?)
Him: “He makes nice music.”
At this point Casey and I mumble something like “sure he does” and slowly walk away from the conversation. After that I was still not happy about the loop playlist but secretly thankful it wasn’t Michael Bolton on repeat.
(More preview. Casey with some of the cousins at the wedding.)
The last part of the trek to the village where Herman’s aunt stays provided a good window into things to come: a stop in a place I was completely unfamiliar, meeting some random African relatives of Herman, and a bumpy ride on a country road. More specifically, the minibus pulled over to the side of the road at the previously specified drop-off location: a local bar, or as they’re commonly known: shebeen. The little pickup truck, or bakkie, waiting out front was our ride to the farm. The cab was occupied by a few of Herman’s cousins from the area. So we piled into the back and set off over the sand/dirt/rock path that wound from the main road to Ontananga, the village which was to be our home for the next 4 days.
To be continued...
P.S. I promised Adam a shout out months ago so here you are, Mr. Howlett. Last, but certainly not least.
Since the rest of the trip went without a hitch I have to mention the giant cloud over the entire 10-hour drive: the music. I’d heard some stories about the ear-splitting tunes they these drivers have been known to play, mostly consisting of kwaito (Namibian hip-hop, usually in a language I can’t understand) on the radio or on mix CDs. However, I was not prepared to listen to the one CD this driver brought with him. Nearest I could tell it was R&B gospel music in Oshiwambo. Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem as I’m an open-minded listener, but hearing the same 5 songs on repeat for hours on end was enough to drive me nuts. Luckily I brought my iPod and was able to somewhat drown it out when the driver didn’t have the volume knob maxed out… which wasn’t very often. Herman felt the same way I did, and the poor guy didn’t even have headphones to help him escape. I’ll never forget our conversation at the last service station:
Me: “Man this music situation sucks.”
Him: “Yeah, I knew I should have brought my new mix CD.”
Me: “Probably should have, hey? What was on it?”
Him: “Oh man, it’s nice. Do you know Michael Bolton?”
(This is the point where Casey and I exchange looks and wonder if the guy has finally picked up sarcasm.)
Me: “Um… are you serious right now?”
Him: “Yeah, he’s great.”
Casey: “I think I’d rather take the 4-songs on repeat.”
Him: “No way. Why?”
Me: “Why?!”
(Still not sure if he’s jerking my chain. All signs inticate otherwise, but come on… Michael Bolton!?!?)
Him: “He makes nice music.”
At this point Casey and I mumble something like “sure he does” and slowly walk away from the conversation. After that I was still not happy about the loop playlist but secretly thankful it wasn’t Michael Bolton on repeat.
(More preview. Casey with some of the cousins at the wedding.)
The last part of the trek to the village where Herman’s aunt stays provided a good window into things to come: a stop in a place I was completely unfamiliar, meeting some random African relatives of Herman, and a bumpy ride on a country road. More specifically, the minibus pulled over to the side of the road at the previously specified drop-off location: a local bar, or as they’re commonly known: shebeen. The little pickup truck, or bakkie, waiting out front was our ride to the farm. The cab was occupied by a few of Herman’s cousins from the area. So we piled into the back and set off over the sand/dirt/rock path that wound from the main road to Ontananga, the village which was to be our home for the next 4 days.
To be continued...
P.S. I promised Adam a shout out months ago so here you are, Mr. Howlett. Last, but certainly not least.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
17 August 2007
P.S. I almost forgot the view of the dunes to the South and the Sea to the West!!!
Check the photos. In the one looking to the ocean, the window open on the right is my bedroom. Never thought I’d have a room with an ocean view… even if I have to stick my head out the window and crane :).
Check the photos. In the one looking to the ocean, the window open on the right is my bedroom. Never thought I’d have a room with an ocean view… even if I have to stick my head out the window and crane :).
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