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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

(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.

(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.

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 :).

Moving on up... to the west side.

17 August 2007

If you’re looking for excitement and adventure this particular entry may not be for you. In fact, this is probably the most domestic you’re going to find me on paper. So consider yourself warned.

The reason for all this talk and forewarning of blandness is: I MOVED!!! Yes, the purple house seen earlier in the year is no longer where Alexis, Casey and I can be found. (Just don’t tell our kids… we’d like to keep a bit of anonymity for now.) We’ve been looking for a new place for a while because our former landlord decided to sell, but the move took place rather quickly. In no less than 1.5 days we went from cramped into a 2 bedroom house with a nice yard to a roomy 3 bedroom number above one of the shops in town. I despise moving house, but it’s nice having it all out of the way.



So. The new place. Someone will have to give Google Earth a shot at locating it given the cross streets of Libertina Amathila Ave. & Hendrik Witbooi Str.—I’ve generously provided a picture for you. Kaptein Hendrik Witbooi was kind of a bad-ass in Namibian history, having supplied the Germans with as much guerrilla warfare as they could handle while they were running the place (or something like that). I’m sure Libertina Amathila is a person of importance as well, although I have no idea in what way. Anyway, looking out over the balcony at their names on a sign placed rather artistically has become one of my favorite activities on our small terrace.



My absolute favorite part about being here, however, is having a room of my own. Now, I was never much bothered about my situation at the last place (I am a volunteer teacher after all, and a lucky one at that), but it is nice to have a place where I can retire, shut the door and read/listen to music when I crave peace and quiet. The girls were also generous enough to give me the master bedroom with en suite bathroom. I almost feel like a grown-up now! The room is pretty big and made even more so by my lack of furniture. There are only a bed and small bookcase to go along with my half-unpacked suitcases. The bathroom is nice. Our last shower was one of those trickle-trickle numbers and this one pleasantly removes an entire layer of skin with its steamy blast… I love it.



The living area is also spacious and not quite furnished. We’re still working on getting some couches and chairs to fill the place up a bit—and give us a somewhere to sit. So far there haven’t been any fistfights over the papisan chair, but eventually there are bound to be. I’ve been content to sit in another crazy hippie chair we’ve got—one that apparently helps with posture—but Alexis keeps laughing at me whenever she walks into the room and sees me sitting in it, reading.



The kitchen inspires dreams for us. The last one we had was terribly small. Two people could hardly fit in there. Let alone three. This one is big enough to accommodate a team of hungry scavengers. Alexis has a houseguest from Canada visiting, so that along with her parents being in town means Casey and I have been on our own for dinner. We’ve put the kitchen’s capability to hold both of us to the test a few times over the past week and it has passed with flying colors. One of our board members, Vera, gave us heaps of stuff for the house, not the least of which is our very own microwave! I can’t wait to grab some microwave popcorn for my next DVD watching session… mmmm.

A couple of drawbacks have made it slightly less than ideal, but in no way unpleasant. First, our cat. Well, more like Lexy and Casey’s cat. He’s used to being able to roam free—in and out—and now he’s stuck permanently in the flat. Luckily he’s a master of the litter box. (I’d pack him a lunch and send him on his merry way if that weren’t the case.) But he does miss being free. His meowing can attest to that. The other thing is our front door doesn’t latch. That’s a fixable problem, but for the moment it’s slightly irritating. We have to lock the door by key upon entering and leaving. This is made infuriating by the lock which chooses not to work for 3-5 minutes at a time. It’s funny to listen to someone else jingling their keys trying to jimmy the lock open (even better when you can look down the hall and see it happening), but no so much when it happens to me. Must get that sorted out soon. Otherwise, I’ll have to get on some kind of blood pressure medication.

The last thing to say about the new digs is how close to town we are. It’s amazing. Now before we weren’t exactly stranded, being15 minutes from town center, but now the walk is more like 3 minutes. It’s already worked out for me a few times that someone texts about meeting up and I’m out the door and seated in a café in under 5 minutes ordering a cappuccino. Sounds like a tough life, hey? I’m telling you: being a martyr for development is rough work, but someone’s got to do it.

Ngepi

20 July 2007

The latest installment of my Victoria Falls road trip covers day 2: the road to Ngepi Camp. After Laura and I left the little private game park at Otjibamba, we headed northeast towards the Caprivi Strip. Caprivi is a little strip of land that looks like a handle connecting Namibia to Zambia and Zimbabwe. It’s a completely different area of the country, having been added/removed a couple of times during the colonial era. The drive up also took us through the Kavango Region, which is where one sees the transition from Southern Africa to the more typical picture of “Africa” we most imagine. The homes near the road are no longer made of brick, corrugated steel and/or wood. Almost immediately mud huts appear on the side of the road—and all villages seem to be built just off the main road along this route.

As you cross Kavango, there is a very big urge to drive faster than the 120 km/h (75 mph) allowed. The road is very straight, and the chance of coming across traffic police very slim. However, I mentioned the settlements near the road earlier, and they come with an inherent concern… living, breathing road obstacles. Now in Namibia no one seems to have much use for sidewalks, or just staying out of the street in general, so I’ve been conditioned to keep an eye out for people while driving. Though it is a completely different ball game when you’re speeding down the highway at a rate that would send a human cart wheeling to almost certain death upon impact. And people are just the tip of the iceberg. After that you’ve got goats, donkeys, dogs, sheep and cattle—each of which I almost hit at least once along the way. I’m glad we haven’t designed cars that are truly smart yet, because our little Toyota Corolla probably would have turned tail and run halfway to our destination. But Laura and I were resolute.

The late start from Otjibamba after our game drive, combined with a grocery stop in Otjiwarongo (where we scored a cooler for pretty cheap) made for an adventure trying to get to Ngepi before dark. Driving at night is not a good idea in this part of the world, mostly because of all the animals wandering around in the road, so I put the pedal to the medal as the sun began its descent to the western horizon. We had stopped for fuel and some sandwiches in Rundu in the late afternoon and thus energized we were on a mission. As it turned out, I got to watch the sunset through my rear-view mirror and we were forced to navigate our way to the camp in moderate to complete darkness. We made most of the journey without incident, but the last 8km (5 miles) were on a sketchy dirt/gravel/sand road and that was an adventure. We managed not to get lost, though. Neither did I hit the drunken woman stumbling aimlessly through the night along our road… but that was a close one. A washed out earth bridge threw us for a loop, but our little Japanese off-road champ saved us. (I hope no one from Thrifty Rental Car is reading this.) Finally, we arrived at our destination.

Checking in was a classic Namibian scene:

“Hi, we have a reservation.”
“Um, we don’t have anything listed for that name. Did you confirm your reservation?”
“Well, I called and reserved. The lady told me I was all set.”
“But did you confirm?”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Well, she must not have written it down.”
“Sweet.”
“You’re lucky, though. We do still have an opening.”

So just like that we were booked into the same tree house bungalow I had reserved 3 weeks previous.

The tree house was pretty sweet, though, I have to admit. It was an open-air room with a couple beds (complete with mosquito nets) and hammock overlooking the Kavango River. The view wasn’t too spectacular when we arrived, being in the dark, but the night sounds were. We could already hear the hippopotamuses moving around on the marshy banks near our bungalow and the birds were still singing on the river.

We had planned on braaing for dinner, but in the dark finding the braai pit and getting it all set up would have been too much of a chore. Plus, the hippos sounded really close and in the dark we hadn’t seen the fence that would have kept them from challenging us for our dinner. So we ended up eating lunch meat, cheese and veggies for dinner… with a couple of Windhoek Draughts to wash it down.

After, we walked down to the communal area where the bar was located in search of the famously friendly bar staff and guests I had heard so much about. We were sorely disappointed. Pretty much everyone ignored us until they went to bed. Then the staff acted put off enough to send us scurrying back to the tree house. Problem was, in the dark we couldn’t find our way back. So they lent us a flashlight and sent their dog to accompany us back. Now this little guy was AMAZING. There are probably 15-20 different bungalows, campsites, etc. at this place, but this dog just kept trotting along past the others, turning occasionally to make sure we were following him, and walked us straight up to our tree house. I’m not sure how he did it—smell, dumb luck or genius—but he almost earned himself a spot in the back seat for the rest of the trip.

It was an interesting night in the bush. I remember having heard that hippos were nocturnal, but I was not prepared for the melee they were bringing into the bushes below our bungalow. There must have been a whole team of them. The sounds were magnificent. After a while of their jostling, wallowing and general debauchery, however, I wanted to shout at them to cut out the racket. I chose not to, though. They are the most dangerous killers in Africa and I didn’t want to have to watch my back while loading the car the morning after.



I set my alarm to wake up for the sunrise over the river the next morning. I found it wasn’t necessary as the first light of dawn came spilling into our tree house and roused me straightaway. Laura wasn’t as keen to be pulled out of bed by Mother Nature, but lucky for her all that was required was to roll over to check it out. I took full advantage, though. Chilling in the hammock was the perfect way to watch the colorful display of sunlight on water, trees and bushes.

We took off from Ngepi pretty early after waking so early. Not much of note happened while packing and getting everything sorted to take off. (Thank goodness I decided not to provoke the band of hippos.) The drive out along the dirt road wasn’t quite as sketchy as it had been in the dark. There weren’t any drunken locals wandering around either. We did have a slight scare when a herd of cattle blocked a stretch of the road. I was sure one of the bulls was going to gore the poor car as they were driven straight past us. In the end, we got a few good pics of them and a story to tell.

The rest of the day was spent driving across the Caprivi Strip. It’s not the most exciting drive, but its beauty made up for the hassle of trying not to run over locals and their pets for the better part of 4 hours. Plus, we were on our way to Livingstone and the magnificent Victoria Falls!

Cheetahs!!!

05 July 2007

Last weekend I got to go on a field trip with my grade 7 students to a place called Otjiwarongo—which you may remember from my last road trip blog entry. We didn’t actually stay in the town itself, but kept going about 44km (28 miles) past for a visit to the Cheetah Conservation Fund (CCF). There were 12 of us in the group. Only 7 were students, though, because the grade 7 class is pretty small and they have to maintain a certain level of attendance to get the privilege. The 5 remaining spots were filled by myself, Casey, Julian (tennis coach), Reggie (office assistant) and Julian’s girlfriend, Rebecca (no affiliation whatsoever to MYO).

Since our driver had something else going on that weekend, I had the honor of taking the wheel. I’d made the same trip in reverse less than a month before so I didn’t mind. My iPod and Casey kept me company in the front seat. Casey provided the conversation that helped counteract the lulling effect of the desert during a 5-hour drive (when she wasn’t sleeping); Apple’s lovely invention aided me in keeping my sanity while 7 kids and 1 Reggie made what can only be described as a manageable African level of noise.

The drive itself was pretty. Someone asked me the other day what my favorite part of Namibia so far is; my answer was the inland semi-desert. It’s not easy to describe, but if you’ve ever seen The Lion King you can picture it somewhat like the savannah Mufasa ruled over… only not as green. There are a variety of durable plants and animals that only require a minimal amount of water, and the scenery is mostly composed of them for as far as the eye can see. Occasionally, there will be a “mountain” in the distance. (I put quotes around that word as someone who grew up near offshoots from the Rockies.) Casey said it looked exactly like the bush in Australia, and she kept waiting to see a kangaroo hopping along or doing whatever kangaroos do (boxing maybe?).

The last 40km or so was on a typical Namibian dirt road: bumpy and bumpy. A few of the boys were especially unhappy with this development because they hadn’t emptied their bladders in about 3 hours. I’m never really sure what to do when a kid starts shouting at me from the back of the combi to pull over. I sympathize with the bus drivers from my childhood—who I hated at the time—that would just shout something gruff about “only a few miles to go” when that obviously wasn’t the truth, I remember the power of will I honed while trying not to have an accident (although, does the term accident really apply in a circumstance like this?), but most of all I recall the fun of making river/waterfall sounds and shaking half-full bottles of water (for the real-life sound effects) in the ears of teary-eyed friends who honestly were on the brink of wetting themselves. Those were the days. So all that combined with the fact that we were “almost there”—I was pretty sure—made me debate whether or not to stop. In the end, I did pull over. But I couldn’t help myself from driving forward a short distance when each of them tried to get back in the combi. Ah, the little things.

Once we arrived and were directed to our campsite, we figured out the sleeping arrangements, unpacked and settled in. All of the adults got their own tents because the boys/girls decided to pile extra mattresses into their respective tents for big slumber parties. Sometimes it’s funny to watch kids at work. They operate on such a different level that I’ve honestly lost touch with in the last dozen years, and the journey back often makes me smile. The boy/girl/grown-up sleeping arrangements held up until a few of the kids got scared by howling jackals and raided Reggie’s tent for back-up. He really had no one to blame, though, since he started the scary story-telling around the fire about people being hung from trees, hunted by cheetahs, etc.

The next day we were up bright and early for our first activity at CCF: the cheetah run. They set up a rope and pulley contraption around the perimeter of the enclosure which held 3 of the younger cats—each named after a character from Harry Potter, probably because they look like young English wizards—to give them a chance to stretch their legs. Most of the cheetahs that live at the complex were orphans rescued too young to learn survival skills from their mothers (hunting included) so they get to chase a handkerchief tied to a thin rope around for exercise. Top speed of 70mph (110km/h) isn’t ever reached, but seeing the acceleration and running form of the world’s fastest land animal was impressive. They go from 0-60mph in 3 seconds flat and run the 100m dash in about 3.7 seconds, which means they would crush even sports cars off the line. Apparently, they can only keep this pace for around 300-400 meters before overheating and then needing to rest for a while. Still, the distance they can cover in that stretch of time is awesome. At full speed, their stride is 8 meters long. The way they place their paws while running basically amounts to them hovering off the ground the majority of the time. Long story short: I would not want one to decide to chase me. Unless ACME had just dropped off a set of rocket skates—but I think we all know how that usually turns out.



The next activity of note we watched was the daily feeding. Every cheetah has a bowl into which they chuck a hunk of donkey meat attached to a bone. Then they let the cats in—usually via a door suspended by pulley so no humans get caught in the hunger frenzy. Each one seems to recognize their respective bowl, or at maybe they have territorial claims to them, because within seconds they’re munching away without any problems. Once one finishes, however, it’s a whole new ball game. I shot a pretty sweet video of a male trying to steal leftovers from first his sister, then his brother. In the end, he lost the remnants of his dinner for being so greedy. I hope he learned his lesson.

After the feeding, the only other highlight consisted of an afternoon game drive out onto the open CCF property. We got to see bigger herds of animals than I’ve been treated to in Namibia. The most notable animals were oryx (I still love them), red hartebeest and warthog. We saw a few stragglers not belonging to those other groups, mainly a couple kudu (an elk-like animal that can jump like no other—another favorite), springbok, steenbok and Damara dik-dik. The last two are smaller/miniature antelope-ish animals. I always imagine them frolicking around in a miniature golf type wonderland so seeing them tends to bring a smile to my face. While nearing the end to the game drive, I found myself searching the nearby savannah grass for signs of predators. In the area, there are obviously cheetah, leopard (where there are cheetahs, there are leopards), hyena, lion, etc. I didn’t have any luck, but sometime during the investigation I started humming Lion King songs… the cool African ones.

Once we got back to camp, it was time for our braai dinner. Normally this would be the high point of my weekend, but I’m pretty sure I caught the bug that ruined the rest of my weekend from the meat I undercooked or the water I drank from the tap. Yes, I experienced my first serious bout with sickness since arriving last week thanks to poor decision making on a camping trip. Needless to say, Saturday night and most of Sunday was hell. Luckily I managed to raid a local grocery store’s pharmacy section and get all the Tums a person can eat. I spent the rest of the day sleeping/trying to sleep first in the combi and then on the couch once back in Swakop.

Monday was better, but Tuesday I decided an inaugural visit to an African doctor’s office was in order. It went a lot better than I expected. In fact, the whole experience topped most of the ones I’ve had at home. I showed up without an appointment, wrote my name and birth date on a slip of paper, waited 7 minutes, moved to a different waiting area, waited another 4 minutes, went into the doctor’s office, told him my symptoms, let him poke at my intestine for a minute or two, got a prescription, went back out to the reception (which doubled as a pharmacy), got my drugs, paid and was on my way… less than a half-hour after arriving! It was brilliant—almost as brilliant as getting rid of my bacterial invader. Now I’m back to normal and quite happy to be so.

Happy late 4th of July everyone!!!

Useless Birds

06 June 2007



Here's a couple of ostrich just for kicks. The black one is male and the brown, female. They really are bizarre creatures.

La, La Otjibamba

06 June 2007

Ok, ok… I’ve been getting fan/hate mail requesting the next installment so here it is.

My road trip started just like any other Namibian adventure: slow, mildly frustrating and then fun. Laura flew into Windhoek—the capital city which is about 3 ½ hours from Swakopmund. The plan was to rent a car from here, go pick her up and then let the road trip commence. However, none of the car rental agencies in Swakop would let us take their cars into Zambia so I had to rent one out of Windhoek. This meant catching a shuttle at 7am to get there in time to fill out the paperwork and meet Laura. They arrived 15 minutes early to pick me up and I almost forgot my passport. That would have been a gong show at the Zambian border. Luckily I remembered in time, and despite the scowl my driver didn’t drive off as I ran back inside to grab it.

I was a little late to Budget Car Rental, but still had enough time to get the car and head for the airport… until the lady forgot to place my booking when I confirmed. So I had to wait while she went through the entire process of reserving the car. Fortunately they just happened to have a Toyota Corolla on the lot. (Now, we’re not talking about a massive American rental lot here. This place only had about 10 cars sitting around.) After almost an hour, the paperwork was completed, several attempts were made to get the medieval card reader to accept my American Visa card and I was on the road a mere 30 minutes late.

I didn’t get to the airport for another half hour because some genius city planner decided to build it 30 miles out of town. Just to clarify: Windhoek is not a thriving metropolis like New York, Paris or London. There is not any reason why one should have to drive so far to catch a flight. But I arrived and picked up Laura not too behind schedule, nonetheless.

The feeling provoked by glimpsing a friendly face from home after 6 months away is tough to describe. With family and friends it always seems like you haven’t been apart very long, but there’s a part of you that knows it has been a while. It’s an interesting experience. But needless to say, I was happy to see her. After a short hello and loading baggage, we hit the road. I almost took her to KFC for her first African meal, but opted for a Russian and Chips (sausage and fries) from the service station when I couldn’t find the correct entrance to the parking lot and realized I didn’t have any cash on me anyway.

Our first leg of driving took us from Windhoek to the Otjibamba Lodge just outside Otjiwarongo. It wasn’t too far: 245 km I think. (Sorry, the distances will be in kilometers here because I haven’t converted them into miles.) Not much of that stretch is worth mentioning, except that we got to see the first wildlife of our adventure on the side of the road: warthog and baboon if I remember correctly. Baboons aren’t exactly scarce here so I was mostly interested in the warthogs. Laura described them as “cute”—which I would say is fairly accurate unless they run at you with their unfriendly-looking tusks. I wish we would have taken a picture of the various road signs that warn which game might be in the road ahead. There’s nothing like an upside-down yield triangle with a warthog silhouette to make you recall stories of them tusking vehicles.

The lodge itself made for a nice first stop. It stood on the edge of a private game farm stocked with all manner of animals: giraffe, ostrich, springbok, oryx, wildebeest, kudu, impala. We checked in, dropped our stuff in the room and went for a game drive at sundown. The scenery looked beautiful in the dusk, and there were plenty of animals out since the heat had subsided. However, once it started getting darker it lost a bit of charm. We couldn’t really take any good pictures in the light, and the flash almost coaxed a wildebeest into charging the car. I was kind of freaked out by that scene and promptly drove off. Not long after that, we both caught sight of our first ever giraffes. They were impressive even at a distance in the waning light. After that it started to really get dark so we headed back to the lodge. Along the way, I tried not to hit the various obstructions on/near the road like trees, shrubs, ostriches, etc.

Once back, Laura took a nap while we waited for dinner to start. She had been a trooper, only falling asleep once in the car after a forty-some hour itinerary between Boise and Windhoek. I think she was happy I woke her for dinner, though, once we were sat at a candlelit table and they served our delicious food. The meal was probably the best we had on the trip, or at least top 2. Add a bottle of wine and some catching up after half a year apart, and you’ve got the recipe for a great evening.

We called it a night right after dinner and both settled in for a good night’s sleep to prime us for the long road trip to come… until the car alarm started going off in the middle of the night. Laura was beyond getting up so I had to spend the next hour trying to figure out what or who was setting it off. First, I just did a quick check of the area to make sure all was well and went back to bed. But within minutes it went off again. So I did the same check, and then moved it out from under a tree in case stuff was falling on it. Once again I went back to bed, but had the same result. So this time I cracked the door and did some [very obvious] reconnaissance for about 15-20 minutes. Nothing happened and I got cold so I just went back to bed still puzzled and very annoyed. The rest of the night went without a hitch—assuming I didn’t sleep through any subsequent alarms—and we survived what was to become a recurring problem for the remainder of our travels.

The next morning we ate breakfast and decided to go out on another circle around the game farm. This time we had to search harder for the animals, but once we found them it was much more exciting. (Imagine that, looking at animals in the light is better than in the dark… hmmm.) We got really close to the giraffes this time. Standing with their hind legs crossed, knobby knees sticking out like a sore thumb and eating leaves like they couldn’t care less about you, they really are interesting animals to watch. We frightened some into moving, and I got a video of them sauntering away. They are so long and gangly that all their movements have a slow, somewhat graceful element.

An oryx also wandered across the road in front of us. I’ve never seen one very close, but they are a lot bigger than I had imagines. I can’t really describe it very well, but hopefully the blurry picture will do it justice. They are probably my favorite game animal, beautiful and majestic. Seeing one only 12 hours after I had eaten one of his cousins was a little surreal, but then I figured: I don’t think twice about looking at cows after a hamburger so what’s the difference?



After a group of springbok bounded along side us and across the road, we spotted our wildebeest friends. Luckily this time they were lounging in the shade a fair bit away and didn’t feel like renewing our standoff from the previous night. We did happen upon a male impala who didn’t like us photographing his female friends, though. Once he snorted a couple unfriendly sounds and started scraping his hooves, we decided to let them be. (Just to clarify, I haven’t been talking about the Chevrolet automobile when I say impala… it’s an actual animal. Don’t worry, I giggled when I saw the name in the guide book, too. I pictured a redneck game park with rusted out impalas scattered around with real game resting in their shade.)

The last thing we saw on the way out was ostrich. There were quite a few of them wandering around. Some of the females looked to be spinning around in circles for whatever reason. The males just ran away as we came closer. You get to see ostrich everywhere in the desert and semi-desert of Namibia so I don’t really get too excited about them too much. The only thought that makes me wish for them is remembering the game Joust from the old Atari video game system in which you ride flying ostriches and pounce on your fellow riders to steal eggs. It was always my favorite, and I’m convinced if I ever found one airborne I could hop on and conquer the rest even without the joystick.

With that fascinating anecdote, I will end this chapter of “The Road to Victoria Falls.” Looking back over this entry I’m beginning to realize this could take a while… but I hope to have it done by the time I come home in December.

To be continued…

4 picture limits are dumb

27 May 2007

I know this just looks like a picture of a bridge, but just admire its hight above the river and check the next post.



This is just plain Victoria Falls. It's epic in person. You can get an idea of its size by trying to spot the massive bridge (see above) that has been reduced to ant size. Yes, I did have to lean over the lap of an old German guy to take this pic from a helicopter. How did you guess?

Leap of Faith

26 May 2007

Let me start off by saying that the road trip with my cousin Laura was brilliant. There are so many stories and things to write about that I’ll have to do this in installments. As I look at my notes I’m considering bullet points, too, so we’ll see—yes, I took notes.

First things first: the bungee jumping at Victoria Falls. I’m going to step out of my usual chronological style because this was the highlight of the trip for me. Luckily I ran into a Norwegian guy in Swakop a couple months back because otherwise I wouldn’t have known you pay once and then jump as many times as you can handle… I went twice. The third time was tempting, but I held back. I was afraid jumping off a 311 ft. bridge might tempt fate to invoke the “third time is the charm” clause. Dying isn’t high on my priority list right now.

The view from the bridge itself is spectacular. The water is running really high right now, which meant one could mostly only see mist from the falls, but every now and again it would clear away and one of the seven natural wonders came into view. Equally as breathtaking was taking a gander down to the Zambezi River. The second one, however, provoked more of a “damn… that’s a long way down” reaction. Being the logical thinker I am my decision was to jump off with a glorified rubber band attached to my ankles. Basically, they get you all fitted up, try to calm you down or exaggerate your fears (depending on your temperament and their mood), make you hop to the edge of the platform (very interesting experience with one’s legs strapped together), tell you not to look down (which makes you look down), point to the horizon, tell you to jump straight towards it, then count down from five and shout BUNGEE!!! At which point, you are expected to leap off solid ground towards what your body assures you is certain death. I thought there would be more of an internal battle to convince my knees to bend and then straighten again to launch me down to a rushing body of water (ok, it was more of a slight hop), but they didn’t fail me. It’s difficult to explain the feeling of a 75mph free fall for the first time. The drop only takes about 4 seconds so there’s not as much time to contemplate what’s important in your life as I had expected. Probably best since I don’t really like getting metaphysical during an adrenaline rush. What I can tell you is my face apparently missed the memo about the plunge because it was desperately trying to defy gravity and get to higher ground. The last thing I need while trying to have a good time is a mutiny of body parts so I had to clench the muscles underneath and show it who was boss. Other than that little setback, the experience was great. The initial fall is kind of a blur, but the subsequent yo-yo action is pretty clear. Apart from the rush of blood to the head from 43 seconds of being suspended upside-down, the beauty of the river and gorge sticks out. The mist from Vic Falls created an amazing rainbow that changed shape and size as I rose and fell. All I could hear was the rush of the river 10 meters below and natural splendor was all around me so the experience had a very Zen quality. When the guy rappelled down to grab me I’d had enough, though. I was ready to get back up and do it again. Once back on the under structure of the bridge, another guy let me through a quasi-labyrinth of British steel from the 1950s. I was barefoot and I’m convinced the engineer didn’t think that possibility through when he designed it. I looked for a suggestion box to lodge my complaint but no luck.

The second time around made me more nervous than the first surprisingly. Maybe it was because I had decided to do it backwards. Whatever the case, I had to seriously psyche myself out as I hopped in reverse to the edge of the platform. I even made the bungee guy wait a second before starting his countdown so I could squash the butterflies in my stomach. Once I took that moment, I was ready to go. He told me to jump as far out as I could and to pretend I was landing on a big mat behind me. One quick glance over the shoulder effectively dissipates that little fantasy, but at BUNGEE!!! I took the leap. Word on the bridge was that it looked rad. Later on I tried to go see the video of myself, but since I wasn’t going to pay $40 (US) to buy the DVD the guy was a jerk about it so I settled for pictures. Jumping backwards was 20 times better than the standard dive off. When looking down at the river it doesn’t seem like you’re falling as fast as you actually are. When watching the bridge you just fell from disappear at 75mph, the picture is pretty clear. Also the freefall is better because it makes you feel as if you’re floating. Once my body completed its 180 and I was looking down, the view was spectacular. The rainbow I had seen before formed a complete circle, contracting and expanding with each rise and fall. The Falls must have cleared somewhat, too, because I had an awesome perspective when I spun around that direction. All of that probably contributed to making me less nervous and light headed this time around from the upside-down dangle. Then once again, the man came down to collect me. He joked the whole way up about seeing me again in a few minutes after my initial ranting and raving about how sweet the jump had been. The whole way up I was giving some serious thought to going one last time but ended up talking myself out of it.



I came really close to changing my mind when a guy did a “shooting star” 20 minutes later. Laura and I were waiting on the bridge to watch some English friends we met at our youth hostel, Jolly Boys, bungee. Out of nowhere this guy gets strapped to the cord by his harness instead of his ankles and proceeds to take a running start to the edge before leaping out into his destiny. He got some serious distance for his effort and the result was basically a pendulum jump. I was so blown away I almost signed up for my third go.

A few minutes hesitation allowed me to re-negotiate myself back to leaving. But self-debating must have used all my energy because I couldn’t haggle well at all with the street vendor (bridge vendor?) named Abraham who had been with us since we parked the car. I ended up buying copper bracelets at a terrible price. Lucky I did buy from him instead of someone else, though. (There were a lot of options.) When we got back to the car to leave we didn’t have any Zambian Kwacha left to pay the car guard, and he started getting very flamed off. Then Abraham came to our rescue and told him to back off. He motioned for us to take off as his friend/colleague/whatever turned on him. So we did just that—left. I’ve never been happier with a purchase of metallic wrist wear and probably never will be again.

Well, that’s the end of my most death-defying experience to date. Next on the list is skydiving. I can’t wait to try that. As for the rest of my adventures, you’ll have to wait for the next installment. I’ll try to get it posted as soon as possible, but until then I’m leaving you with the very cliché:

To Be Continued…

Did You Bring Your Permission Slip?

15 April 2007



I got to go on my first field trip with some of the kids on Friday. It took us a while to get things moving since we were taking a group of grade 4’s, but once we got on the road it was a great experience. The plan was to go to a place called Dune 7—which you might well guess is a sand dune. Then head down the Walvis Bay Harbor to take a tugboat ride. Finally, go swimming and braai at a place called The Dolphin Park. All in all, it’s a pretty eventful day trip.

First, the Dune 7 plan pretty much got knocked out by our leaving almost an hour late. Only about a third of the 17 students going showed up on time. So we had to call their schools, track them down and stuff them in the combi. I was a little disappointed about missing the dune. Apparently, it’s the biggest one around and takes about a half hour to climb. The trek up doesn’t sound very appealing, I’ll admit, but running down a giant sand dune is nothing if not pure enjoyment. We did get to drive by and take a look at it, though. The kids didn’t seem to mind at all. They were interested in boats and swimming.

So we headed for Walvis Bay for the tugboat ride. Walvis Bay is about 30km south of Swakop so we’re not talking very far away. It’s a pretty important harbor with a lot of history that surrounds it, but that’s not part of the field trip story so I’ll leave that on for another day. Anyway, we arrived early as instructed and ended up running around all over the port authority trying to get our permit to enter the harbor because either the lady who organized it for us got it all mucked up or the guy who was handing out the permits was an idiot—probably both actually. In the end, we had to wait until the lady who organized it came back from lunch to actually figure stuff out. She sent us off with two of her staff who promptly sorted out the permit, and we were in business. Or so we thought. Then they informed us there was no boat ride. Instead, a tour of the port itself was supposed to be our entertainment… yawn. “Here we’ve got cranes unloading shipping containers.” “And there they are loading salt to be shipped to Congo.” You get the picture. Luckily, when we were just leaving the place we would have taken a boat, some random guy stopped us to ask if we wanted to go out on one of the boats. So we did end up getting to go out into the harbor a bit. The kids loved it. Most of them, if not all, had never been on a boat before. Plus there were seals swimming around, clapping, barking and having fun.

Finally, we made it to The Dolphin Park—which doesn’t actually have any dolphins. Mostly it’s just a big swimming pool with a sweet water slide. The place was awesome. We showed up only about an hour before it closed so no other visitors were there. Having the run of the place was good, particularly because there was no line for the water slide. I’m not sure who enjoyed it more, me or the kids (as you can see from the picture above). Very few of them could swim and the water at the bottom of the slide was kind of deep so I ended up taking them down with me quite a few times. It was great flying down the slide, trying to get as high up on the corners as possible and then dunking myself while holding a kid over my head to keep them above water. As soon as I came back up all I would hear was: “again! again! again!”

Once I tired myself out and their appetites were worked up, we got the braai going and fired up some hot dogs. Ahhh… BBQ and a pool. It brought back memories. I’m pretty sure I had 5. The kids must have been thinking, “fat Americans.”
After that, we packed up and headed home. On the road, I turned around to see a combi load of children who were falling asleep of exhaustion. Now that is the way a field trip should end. Can’t wait for the next one.

Quad Biking!

12 April 2007

I think that might be the cheesiest photo I’ve posed for in a long time. The reason for the helmet and the desert in the background is that I went quad biking in the dunes just outside Swakopmund. (Quad biking = 4-wheeling for us Americans.) It was a lot of fun. For the first half of the ride I was with the “slow” group, which means I got stuck behind an older British lady why was not exactly riding the accelerator. But it did make me feel kind of like a rebel adventure junkie passing her over-the-top style on a dune. Let me explain. We pretty much had to ride in a single file because in a lot of places the natural surroundings could be torn up by a pack of quad bikes. There were also some serious drop-offs that the dunes hid well—and I guess it’s bad publicity if one of your tourists ends up eating with a straw for the rest of his/her life. Anyway, once we got into a ‘safe’ area in the dunes we could branch out ever so slightly. Plus the guide would come in at a big dune at an angle and drive his bike as far up as he could, waiting until the last moment to turn back down—in what they called ‘a roller coaster’. It was solid fun trying to match his tracks (since his bike was a lot more powerful than ours were). However, I had to spot the guide’s move coming a while back so I could ease off the gas and let Old Mother Hubbard get ahead of me. This allowed me to gun it at the proper distance and have a sweet ride. Then I got the idea to James Bond it a little early and pass her at the top of the roller coaster. So I waited until the next big dune and followed in her tracks until she chickened out and turned down. At this point, I kept on the gas, drove a little farther up, pointed my bike downhill and let loose. I picked the right dune because I got some serious speed going back down. So much speed, in fact, that the turn at the bottom left my back wheels sliding like a rally car and kicking up sand. And just like that, the deed was done.

After we stopped to look around, take some pics (like the one above) and grab some juice, I decided to head off with the fast group. I had originally tried to go with them, but I got stuck behind my friend Konsta (the other guy in the photo) because I thought he was going with them when in fact he was waiting to be the guide all the way in the back. Talk about your all-time backfires. Anyway, I took off with the guys who wanted to ride fast and was not disappointed. Earlier, when I mentioned that the guide had a faster bike I didn’t mention that I had the chance to get the same bike when I chose mine. I chickened out and took the automatic for fear of not being able to work the gears on the fly. Wrong choice. Even with a few stalls, the manuals would have run circles around their less complicated counterparts. I mention this because in the new fast group, I was the only guy with an automatic. So in the first half I was constantly letting off the gas to not rear-end someone, whereas in the second my thumb was getting numb constantly pushing it to the max—and I was barely keeping up. Nonetheless, it was a blast. We were going off some pretty sweet stuff. On the roller coasters, if I weren’t at the back I was the one in danger of getting half-mooned (that’s a term I just made up for getting passed over-the-top). We took a few trails that had some nice jumps, and we drove over some drop offs that were scary to even look down. On those, I felt like “The Man from Snowy River”… it was intense. A couple of times we caught up to and passed the slower group before heading off on other trails. I waved.