keel and coconuts.

We, all of us, have gaps in knowledge.

the coconut.
I’m from the Mid-west, landlocked, save for the outlet of shipping lanes from the Great Lakes. The only time we get palms about is at the botanical gardens, or when the bar on Oak Street Beach in Chicago buys (rents?) them for the summer to stick into the beach sand to wither and yellow in the ever-changing, brisk weather.

And I've seen your movies set on tropical islands, Hollywood. I've, myself, purchased coconuts from the grocery. I am also well aware that coconuts are not nuts, but fruit.

Having never before lived in a tropical clime, and the bulk of my movement being limited to the bushveld… I've now seen plenty of palms. Thousands. Mostly makalani (hyphaene petersiana). The stuff of palm wine and tourist trap key-chains.

Did I realize that coconuts have three layers and that what I’m accustomed to is the de-husked center? Nope. I have now encountered my first coconut-bearing palm.

And those green fruits are... Coconuts? Oh... | Cape Maclear, Lake Nyasa, Malawi

an even keel.
Keep(ing) an even keel. An occasional idiom in my repertoire.

As I mention above – I hail from land-locked country, but I’m not a complete land-lubber. I’m seaworthy to some extent… I've been aboard ocean and river ferries, canoes (dugout, canvas, and fiberglass), speedboats, yachts, kayaks galore and once, even a random shipping barge.

Sailboats (save catamarans) have a central fin on the bottom of the hull to lower their center of gravity to afford better stability and greater directional control. I've been around them countless times. I've seen models, designs, paintings, descriptions in books. I've never been aboard one though, and I've a minimal working knowledge of nautical terms.

Did I know that the fin was called the keel? Nope.
Am I relieved I've been using the idiom correctly for the past quarter century? You have no idea...

Ahoy! | Cape Maclear, Lake Nyasa, Malawi

soft drinks. hard liquor.
My childhood was spent in Indiana; the first decade of my adulthood, Chicago. In the Midwest, from where I hail, we don’t say ‘soda,’ or ‘soft drink,’ or ‘fountain drink…’ Or the Southern African ‘cool drink…’ We say ‘pop.’

And we have issues with liquor. Some Mid-western states don’t sell it on Sundays. They tell me it has to do with Jesus..

Whatever the reason for Sunday closures.. I didn't think a lot about pop, or liquor, growing up.  My parents didn't drink much alcohol (partly due to religion and preference), and I didn't much care for pop. (Unless it was made with real sugar versus the toxic-chemical-flavor-version infused with corn syrup.).

I never really put the two together. Until I saw it on a sign in the bush driving toward the lake route in Malawi. “Soft drinks + hard liquor...” Wait… Soft + hard. Non-alcoholic + alcoholic.

That only took me 29 years to master.

winter of our dis-connect

Email is quite a thing.

Always think twice before clicking ‘send.’

Especially those with a vibe of the ‘off-the-rack.’

CTRL+C, CTRL+V to multiple recipients.

Clock-in. Write-up. Wrap up. Sign-off. Un-plug. Withdraw.
It's simply gauche.

Amethyst Sunbird by Helge Denker, 2006 postage stamp | Namibia

Gypsum, Fluorite, Dioptase, Mimetite by J. van Niekerk, 1991 postage stamps | Namibia

remember, when...

(The bulk of this was originally handwritten—in green ink—during the long combi ride home last Sunday).

I just did something I swore I wasn't going to do.

But, there I was, digging in my pack. Excavating in search of my pen like a wild person.

Just after I’d completed a previous dig for my lip balm. I’d unloaded half the damn pack the first time, too.

People always do that.

The frantic, urgent search for something, because in a moment you’ll forget it and it won’t be vital anymore.

I've changed my mind about what I said in Otjiwarongo.

I've friends there, situated in a five room flat, who play host to a never-ending, revolving intake of guests. Because they’re good hosts—and it’s fun to keep track—they have a log-book. Each page has a simple form: Name | Random question | Follow-up question/comments | Dates of Visit.

They humor me, and twice I've pushed for a new line of inquiry/random questions regardless if the last page isn't quite full..

This last time, the random question, and the follow-up were, “What would you do in Nam that you wouldn't do in the states?” With the follow-up question, “What would you do in the US, you wouldn't in Nam?”

This was prompted by the realization that the act I’d been currently engaged in was far from polite behavior. What would I do in Namibia and not in the States, you ask?

I was picking at my nose. At a table. With other people present.

Would I do this in the states? Probably—but not so blatantly.

That I realized my behavior was atrocious table manners—and then vocalized it—brought on a conversation amongst ourselves of other strange, and previously dormant or slight habits that have popped into the noticeable realm since we've been living here. Things considered acceptable in our current culture.

The second follow-up question was scribbled in over what was previously the “other comments” section, when I realized former's inadequacy, and that the line of thought needed to be completed.

What would most of us never do in Nam that we would back home? The general consensus of the women ringing the table? Date. We followed this unanimity with our own personal horrors stories… Even those fresh to the country (two months in service) had a wealth of tales to tell.

And since we’d all come to consensus, we needed to come up with our own response on the log. Mine? Enjoying bar culture/drinking in public.

I don’t enjoy partying in clubs crowded to stupid proportions in Chicago, to be fair… But in Namibia, the shebeen culture here is one mostly rooted in binge drinking. There are exceptions to that rule, and for that I’d like to belatedly rescind my log-book statement.

When you don’t know the proprietor, it’s easy to have an opinion on someone else’s set up. A faceless entity is easier to criticize. And, though even though the set-up is often one of ramshackle nature, there are, again, exceptions.

Around payday—it’s hard to see around the village binge-drinking culture, what with the throbbing amps pouring Afro-pop into our village lanes, and ranch hands stumbling in and out the doors—still in their blue work overalls, 'KCR' emblazoned on their backs. Some are propped up on crates—leaning against the walls made of mud from softened termite mounds. Others, still, are asleep in the shade in the street out front of the bars in the center of the village, while more pass in and out of the doors exchanging unopened bottles of warm beer for cold, or looking for friends, conversation, gossip, or a decent fight.

All that said. On any given day, in the middle of the month—when the money has run out, and there isn't a steady stream of customers roving from bar to bar—one might find scenes more familiar to what one could find in the states.

Whereas the image at home might be of persons tuned into one of the multitude of sports channels flickering at the front of the bar.. Or of two old cronies on a park bench playing chess or checkers with the board between them—here we have 'bao.' Played by teams or in solitary face-offs, the [male] old-timers of the village hunker down in the shade and wait semi-patiently for their time at the board, watching the game as closely as one might follow a professional sports game. Focused concentration with bursts of verbal abuse, or praise, for an ill-considered, or a clever move, respectively. They've got big bottles of beer at their feet, and they’re steadily drinking, sure—but their main focus is the game.

Another reason I want to rescind my assertion? They’re sitting right in front of me in the combi. Two of my colleagues have a shebeen. One that I frequent about once a month. We play pool, I make my other colleagues buy me beer, we braai chicken.

Whereas in a larger town (one that shall not be mentioned), people are more likely to sidle up and try to run their fingers through my hair… Or, alternatively, smash bottles against the posts in the streets and start brawls—and, in this case you get either locked out of the bar in the cross-fire of flying glass – or you are locked in with those too drunk to care to witness the insanity... Or they’ll just stand and stare at me, because what the hell is this pale woman doing in this bar in the rukanda?  

In my own village, where people know me, I've got less to worry about... I can hang out and few people bat an eye at my presence. And really, I’m not fond enough of bar culture in the states to make such a statement (excepting the now-closed Bluebird wine bar... moment of silence, please).

But, back to the original general consensus on what we women—in particular—would do in the States, but not Nam. Date.

Namibia—Southern Africa in general—is a culture stuck in a lock-step of antiquated ideas of gender that have no legitimate place our evolving world. Will this change in our lifetime? Probably, towards the end of it… Now, though, we’re struggling. People (usually men) will frequently say, “It’s our culture.” To which I tend to respond, “Bullshit. It’s your sexism.” Probably not an appropriate PCV response, but damn, if you ask a learner to sweep up a mess he’s just made, and he tries to refuse because it’s a “woman’s” job to wield the broom... Well, you want to forget that corporal punishment is illegal and cuff them on the side of the head for their stupidity.

Men are coddled in this part of the continent (probably other areas of it too, but I’m not living there, so I can’t speak from experience). They have it pretty good. Sure, they’ll be called in for manual labor from time to time, but the bulk of the menial work is done by their mothers, their aunties, their sisters, and their daughters. Boys and men take it as a foregone conclusion that women and girls are here to serve their needs. They feel they have the right to the upper hand domestically, socially, and—ultimately—economically.

What happens when a women holds a job in a field that is traditionally held by men? I live in a country of over two million. We have countless male truck drivers. Hundreds. Thousands. As of December 2014, there were four female truck drivers that operate out of Walvis Bay. I've never been there, to Walvis Bay. How do I know there are four females currently behind the wheel—and that one drives an American-style cab that has the steering on the left instead of the right? Because people talk about it. All the time. People who've never met them know their names. It’s an ‘exceptional’ thing for a woman to have a ‘man's’ job here. And, being on the road is a mobile workplace, it’s visible. Even female police officers shake their heads in surprise.

With that mentality in mind… You think you've seen something in a Hollaback NYC video? Friends, take a gander at gender relations down this side. Whistling, stalking, shouting, harassing, whining, begging, snapping, honking, groping, serenading. Whatever it takes to get the attention of a woman pointedly ignoring you, because here, as they say—“No means maybe” (and they wonder why rape, assault and domestic abuse are such problems). A woman may be half a block away, and they’ll start hounding her. How such behavior has produced results, I’ll never know, but half of the population in this country is under 18... So, all I can say is either the women here are either far more forgiving to the pathetic way men behave… Or they just don’t know any better. (More's the pity).

While this is a solid reason not to date the bulk of Namibian men (this includes Afrikaaners/Boers as their behavior is no different than native Namibians), my reasoning to the dating bit was along a different line of thought.

Dating an ex-pat living abroad is an equally frustrating experience. You think when travelling abroad you’d meet independent, adventurous souls open to change, right? Sometimes, occasionally, sure..

More likely? They’re less independent, and more self-involved than they first appear. And adventurous? Open to change and experiencing culture? At the initial glance, yes. And why not, they're experiencing other cultures, and stepping outside of their comfort zone.. Unfortunately, many get to a point where they break. They want home. They want their normal. They get angry and frustrated at little things. They’re monstrous to be around.

There are exceptions, but let’s talk briefly about the dominant ex-pat profiles:

Foreign aid-worker: They’re often fresh out of college, a retiree, or if not, on a specialized career path with certain short-term and long-term goals. Dependent on their integration, there may not be a great deal of wiggle room for a changing perspective. (Maybe when they've had more life experience?) And if they've left their sweetheart/girlfriend/wife behind, only to engage in a fling overseas, they prove their lack of worth/staying power right off the bat...

Perpetual travelers: There is a large variety of these, dependent on age, experience, mode of travel and personal wealth, but I’m speaking to both extremes of the spectrum. The wealthier ones, who flit from place to place with a massive chunk of id, and a blindness to their surroundings… and the ones on a shoestring budget, who tend to mix a bit better in their surroundings.. At times it seems as though they'd prefer the landscape without the inhabitants.

Permanent Ex-pats: Often in a hotelier or tourist driven line of work, they tend to surround themselves with other 'western' compatriots. A bit of home, abroad; sometimes this isolation of themselves from the culture they're living in can turn a bit nasty.. In the form of racist diatribes they assure you 'aren't racist, they've just lived here long enough to know...' 

As to exceptions. Yes, they exist. They've either fallen in love with the culture they lived in, or with a host country national, and found a way, together, to make it work.

The bulk? They’re headed home. They’re dabbling. They’re tourists.

It’s hard to date here. It's hard to date abroad. Southern Africans, and ‘fellow westerners,’ alike.

And bar culture? Forget everything I said. I’m headed off to the shebeen, shortly.

We’ve got a braai on tonight.

The view from behind Feb's Sport Bar Shebeen | the Kavango Cattle Ranch, Namibia

the usual suspects

I miss my friend, E—. At staging, and at pre-service training, this man came off as high energy. HIGH energy. Nothing, though, was better than when he was his mellow self and just sat down to talk. Which really is his forte. Getting to the meat of the matter with no pretense.

No topic was off limits. Some topics, strangely specific.

Linguistics of oppressive labeling in speech was one we bandied about during lulls one day at a gender camp we ran last year. He’d sidle up, and whisper, “And what about this...” And off we’d go on a tangent, instead of corralling the youth.

My last memorable conversation with him, though, was about plans. And how they change.

To E—, if my memory serves correctly, a plan is made with success of the goal in mind. The inability to reach the goal isn't a total failure, but to change a plan—it is more akin to weakness than strength.

I could probably pinpoint the root of this philosophy somewhere in his personal experiences… A personal tale of surmounting the odds and knocking goals off the punch list, if there ever was one. But, I couldn't help but disagree with him.

Plans are forever drawn. A layout of where things should go, and the way things should happen. They are scrapped, re-routed, re-drawn, re-mapped.

We look for the best perceived route to the goal. Whatever that goal is.

In life, there are epiphanies and obstacles, dreams and revelations.

I’m of the opinion that when you want something, you work your way towards it, but if something else comes along you want, too—then figure out a way to get both. If you can’t have both, decide what you want more. Then work the conundrum again, and see if you can align both desires.  

For myself, the plan is always going to change. What I’m doing now isn't what I’d imagined I’d be doing ten years ago. What I’ll do next probably isn't what I planned on before the start of my peace corps service.

There are a finite number of choices… I acknowledge that reality. (And, in those choose-your-own-adventure books from my childhood, I’d make the wrong ones, always ending up suffocating, locked in some wardrobe.)  

But, now... Now the choices appear infinite. The trouble is—the beauty is—I don’t have an end goal in mind. So, now… Now is a time to line up all the options—and to try my hand sketching a route.

Even if that route is destined to change.

positively 4th street.

I couldn’t get the tune out of my head.

Then the whistling started.

But, what were the lyrics?

How would I find this song in my collection?

I knew the genre, right?

60’s rock. Chirpy intro, overall depressing theme.

To whom could I call and attempt a rendition?

Who would understand the strangled warble over the patchy cell service?

Unfortunately the only one who came to mind who could manage the task wasn’t a viable option.

It seems to go, that you’d consider other failures and false starts in times like these.

It triggered, too, another memory that once I’d had another person, who could take a 30 second phone call and manage a tune to match my memory.

Mistakes made today:

◦ Waiting until the last minute to buy bread. Slim pickings limited to white loaf.

◦ Arriving on time to combi. (Which is two hours late, in my book.) Waited two hours more for repairs.

◦ Leaving my green Coach in the combi. Contents included, but not limited to: my passport, American VISA, Namibian ATM card, all remaining VICA for the month, my MTC Netman dongle, last mint Blistex from stash, new neon-pink alpaca-knitted parrot finger-puppet, lock and key earrings.

◦ Bungling traditional Ruk greeting in haste to find combi, in effect, was rude to best friend’s mother, Clementine. 

◦ Opening my email.

Wonders experienced today:

◦ Overabundance of brie in the dairy aisle.

◦ Lone giraffe loping ahead of our combi in the full moon.

◦ Best friend Em, and cousin, Kavax, (also our combi driver) having already dropped off my purse back at my home, even as I was setting off under the night sky on the hunt in the general direction of the rukanda (location).

◦ Managing to remember the opening lyrics. Finding the tune on google. Finding it in the ranks in my zune.

◦ Not having to make a call to the south, because, it would have driven me mad, not knowing.

◦ Appreciating the irony of the song, the recall, and the trigger.

a rock, an island | Clear quartz found near Botswana, one breezy winter morning, last year.