road trip — a detour

day 6

I think I killed Ali.

I hadn’t, but sleeping in an unfamiliar place is difficult, and when you add the way a car accident jerks you about, it’s neigh impossible. A little past midnight, I found myself peering through the darkness to the adjacent bed for movement.

While we both escaped mostly with bruises and stiff muscles, Ali’s head had smacked against something, causing a lump. Guilt and discomfiture were keeping me awake.

Unbeknownst to me, Ali, was awake, too.  Finally, the wench batted something from the front of her face. Whew. Alive.

The next morning, Titus awoke us with Calvin (the gent who gave us the tour of the cats) and apprised us our Peace Corps driver, Jefda had called ahead – and that breakfast had been prepared for us.

Seriously, Hammerstein Lodge. You are amazing.

The drive out on that same stretch was a little tense, I admit it. We learned—after the incident—that another car, a 4x4 bakkie driven by someone who lived in the area, had overturned about 100 metres from where we had—the week before. Not comforting.

I spent most of the drive asleep, slumped over the backseat, clutching my seatbelt, drooling.

Two memorable moments with the Maltahohe police… After a while, I realized that the glassy eyed man in the cage was not some unkempt officer, but conspicuously drunk. A second, far more bedraggled inebriate joined the first wavering on his feet, and it clicked. A public shaming in the town square.

The other was, upon hearing where we lived, they started hollering for their ‘Kavango’ and ‘Herero’ speaking colleagues.

While the gentleman speaking Herero was able to communicate with Ali, the man who approached me was not speaking Rukwangali. My Ruk is, admittedly, terrible, but I know if you’re speaking it or not. Hell, I even usually know what’s being said. Unfortunately, he started off in one of the seven languages spoken in my region that are not Rukwangali, and while a native speaker could sort it out, I am no such thing.

Turns out, he’s speaking Nyemba, a language spoken in Northern Kavango, but primarily in Angola. He then enquired if I spoke Chokwe, another Angolan language. I’m afraid I was nothing more than a disappointment to them all, but Ali, as she had with the English to English translations, covered for me and rocked a conversation for about ten minutes.

See, not all Americans bungle languages – just me. Pffftt.

Eventually we made it to Windhoek, were x-rayed by astoundingly attractive radiology techs, after being checked out by the Peace Corps medical officers. Ali’s took too long (by about five minutes), leaving me to a pissing contest with the PCMO, Lyn. (Figuratively).

Lyn has been working with the Peace Corps for… 29 years? I think. She’s lived in, at least, 26 countries. During the course of my physical exam, it turned out I have minor hearing loss in my left(?) ear.^[1] The woman is in her sixties with perfect hearing. I had to trounce her on the eye exam just to show her up. Second to last line at twenty feet with my left eye. Beat that, woman.

^[1] Considering that I am struggling to remember details now, perhaps the memory loss should be at the forefront of my mind rather than the hearing…

day 7

Don’t you celebrate Ascension Day in your country? No?

While our x-rays showed no injuries—to our unpracticed eyes—other than the whopper on Ali’s skull… We had to be cleared by the radiologist at the Catholic hospital, whose MRI department was closed for the religious holiday. So. An extra day of medical hold. Joy. ^[2]

Prepared for the idle of holiday (and the eminent temporary closures of most businesses), we entertained ourselves by dying Ali’s hair. I’ve never made an assist apart from my mother’s hair, which, though she attempts to hide it, is shock white. You know if you’ve missed the roots. Not so, on a brunette punching up the colour to an auburn. Just another thing to be paranoid about, I guess.

^[2] So we never got to Sousessvlei, but at least I’d gotten a full night’s sleep.

Ali tells me I fell asleep mid-sentence.

day 8

Get me out of here.

The thought hounding my brain, for though while I’ve been idle with friends in the capital, and we’d been gorging on yummy Indian cuisine at Garnish, and sushi at Nice… the purgatory of medical hold is not an acceptable holiday alternative.

Made worse was someone had let it slip… (A— you’re the worst, I love you). And we had been on the receiving end of frantic enquiries as to our health.

They mention the rumor mill during your pre-service training.
It’s like high school. Equally un-formed, half-coherent tales abound about all manner of situations.

It’s easy to laugh off the idea of adults participating in a specious rumor mill, until a series of your acquaintances get fresh meat in their teeth.

By mid-morning, we were medically cleared and free to go.

My next move? Get to the hazy coast, and sunny Jacques, now, now, please.

For photos of this leg of the trip, check out my google+ album, here.

< day 5 

road trip — the Maltahöhe plop

day 5

Look, the trip odometer flipped back to zero. We were at 1900+ yesterday.. 

We’re at 19 now, plus, I assume 2000, plus the first hundred before we remembered to track it. Nice. ^[1] 

It was our second to last day with the car, and we were headed to Sousessvlei.

Ali had lost her sunglasses, as one is wont to do during travel, and we procured a new pair, purchased food to braai, gassed up the car and headed out toward Maltahöhe—our final destination to be Sesriem.

By this time, I’d learned that Ali, while spectacular in many realms, is not always positive of her geography. It's not that she gets lost. Its the tone of uncertainty in her voice as you head in the right direction. It makes you scramble for the map. Just to make sure you're right, and that you can prevent her from swinging into a U-turn preemptively before you've gotten to the mile marker you're aiming for..

It doesn't help, though, that the tourist maps of Namibia have giant dots to indicate cities and villages, but are so large, they often block intersecting roads, and locales will be designated by their relative location, but sometimes on the opposing side of the road, or even a road over—according to the map, should the graphics prove too overpowering. (The reality is, though, it’s pretty hard to get lost in Namibia, even with a map that is lacking.)

Anyway, we hit a snag.

After the fact we designated it ‘the Plöp.’
Well, take a look for yourself. Do you see the problem?

the Plöp

A decidedly unfortunate turn of events.

One minute we’re slowly chugging down the road, the next, I’m cursing: Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Trying to correct the slide, but we've slipped through deep sand, and, upon spinning, encountered a ridge of sand that proves too great for the combined force and low wheel base.

Ali exits first, crawling through the back, and out the door. I’m hanging there, upside-down, attempting to process the fact I've just flipped a rental car that is, one, on my friend’s credit card. And, two, that we’re alive. Then I’m handing her sandals through the broken window.

I had trouble finding words.. Minor shock, I suppose.
Staring dejectedly at the car for a moment, I looked over at Ali. 
Shit. I am so fucking sorry..

Random snippets from my travelling companion immediately following the overturn:

At least I found my sunglasses.

The wine didn't even break. ^[2]

Hope, I know you don’t believe in God, but I had just taken my knees down from the dash. My legs would've broken.

Don't worry. We have no cell service, but we've got plenty of food. And a tent. ... I've got to pee. 
And off she went. A whirlwind, that one.

In my perturbed state after flipping a vehicle, while staring at the car, I for some reason pulled out my left earring and chucked it away from myself, only to realize my behavior was spastic, and then set to looking for it (to no avail), while gathering other random debris that had been evacuated from the car during the plop.

I tried to rescue the leftover pizza from the day before. 60-second rule, right? We were in the bush—desperate times, you know? (Ali will never let me live this down, so I must own to it, though at the time, I was attempting to be surreptitious. It was ham and pineapple pizza. Worth a salvage attempt, one would think.)

And, though we overturned in the middle of bushveld, with no cell service, it was almost midday – and halfway to Sesriem; within five minutes three vehicles had stopped.

One of the more excited tourists kept voicing, Surely, together, we could turn it over.. 

The Namibians on hand were of a more practical nature. I was whisked to a nearby lodge—Hammerstein—by a Mr. Opperman to deal with the immediate aftermath, and necessary phone calls, while Ali sat on a camping chair with Mrs. Opperman in the bush, waiting with the car.

I think she may have processed the whole thing better than I, as she had to sit staring at the thing for the better part of an hour.

By the time Ali reached the lodge, I’d managed to have the car arranged to be towed with the rental company and recovery service, had dealt with the mild (yet reasonable) hysteria from the Peace Corps office, confirmed for the eighth time that, ‘yes, we were wearing seat-belts.’ The morning pick-up to file a police report and for the obligatory chest and neck x-rays that follow any auto accident had been scheduled, and I had been head-butted by a rogue springbok. ^[3]

Unbeknownst to me, though, was that not only had the lodge staff stowed our bags in our room for the night, they’d done so in the intention of comp'ing our stay.
Hammerstein Lodge is wonderful. Full stop.

I will say, that such prompt assistance, and ending up at a place with such a warm staff was great luck in a bad situation. Titus (one of the nicest men in Namibia) plied us with espresso and hot chocolate, then insisted we dine with the other guests, but that first, we should rest before the nature walk to see the cats. Pardon, wait, what? Did you say cats?

She's braver than I am.
I'm not into petting animals I'm not acquainted with. Wild or not. I stood nearby the guide, Calvin..
The last cheetah I encountered was decidedly bad tempered.

In the end, that rental car bill will cost us—but, we’re alive, and it’s only money.

^[1] If you count the additional 80 km from Maltahöhe, and the 100 or so from Mariental... We made it about 2299 kilometres before calamity struck. Ali has made the joke that we've now fully integrated as Namibians.

^[2] I would later break this same bottle of wine, by swinging the mini-fridge door open too quickly.

[3] That particular springbok later stood about a half metre away, chewing its cud, staring me directly in the eye, while taking a hefty dump. I guess he told me.

For photos of this leg of the trip, check out my google+ album, here.

< day 4 | day 6+ >

road trip — Keets/Mariental

day 4

Brought to consciousness early—by the industrious sounds of camp being packed all around us, I stumbled over Ali and out of the tent, my bladder compelled in the cardinal direction of the ablution block.

Arriving back at our campsite (no. 11, picked for its proximity to the toilets and it's relative privacy), Ali was standing sleepily looking over the remnants of the previous night's festivities.

We agreed to breakfast at the canyon, and began to pack up camp.

The fire pit was easy work, as I’d cleared most of it the night previous, apart from the coals. It was the tent which proved to be moderately vexing.

When I said we flung it open the night previous, I wasn't joking.

You pop it into the air, it opens up, et voilà.

It had been a while since when I’d packed the sucker last, but my memory served to remind me that the five step process suggested by the pictorial instructions, was in reality three steps that harbored very little similarity to those on paper.

We figured it out, threw it in the back, and trundled out to the rim for breakfast before we would head to Keetmanshoop for our next stop.

Due to some miscommunication, once in cell service we found ourselves without a place to stay for the night, so we decided to take in all Keets had to offer, then head north to another volunteer’s site in Mariental.

It turns out Keets has a thing or two to offer, those things just differ greatly from person to person. In Ali’s mind, I think that offering came in the shape of the tripod pug at the Quiver Tree forest site. She reacted with the same wonder and joy I would witness the next day upon her interaction with cheetahs.

For me, the hyraxes topped the Kokerboomwoud (Quiver Tree forest). Hyraxes are thick, furry and rounded herbivores, usually around the size of a household cat. Once pegged as harmless tourists – and therefore no threat – the mother of the hoard opted to ignore us, sunning herself atop a mound of stones. The adolescents scrambled at any sound, and the babies, curious, peered from the rock crevices, less adventurous, and more likely to take cues from their matriarch.

After we downed the bulk of a couple pizzas under observation of an encroaching flock of birds, we hop, skipped, jumped down the road to Giant’s Playground... which was for me, a bit meh.. But, Ali is down for bouldering, likely due to her geographic origins, so off she went exploring the odd and random geometric patterns effected from wind erosion, while I would occasionally holler to ascertain her location, trying to figure out if there was anything to see here, other than a tourist’s trap..

Midday, we headed up to Mariental to hang with Sinthu and Evie.

I think in the end, it was better all the same for the change of overnight locale…
Oh, and I finally took a picture of this: 

Namibia is host to a large number of ephemeral rivers. Though most of the year they are dry basins, they are never-the-less marked at each bridge along the highway. In the north, the names of these dry tributaries are varied—in the south, such imagination isn't evident. Aub, for example is, I'm told, a Herero word for watering hole. Wasser is, well, wasser.

From day one, we'd taken to calling out the names of the river placards as we passed them. 

Aub, Aub, Aub, Wasser, Fish, Aub... 

This was day four, yes? 

We'd gotten to the point we'd just call out: 'Aub, aub, aub, fish, aub' at random.

For photos of this leg of the trip, check out my google+ album, here.

< day 3 | day 5 >

road trip — Hobas

day 3

You know this just means you get a free pass to screw me over, right? I’ve earned it.

My comment to Ali after a miscommunication had me pulling the car around (stalling first) in a U-turn to proceed to the /Ai-/Ais hot springs and camp site. 

This was after a morning of patient instruction on proper shifting of gears. From Luderitz – where car guards are taken very seriously – to a few handfuls of kilometres from Keetmanshoop – then south toward Fish River Canyon and our campsite at Hobas.

She was right in her hesitancy to proceed to this interim destination. As a retreat to recuperate after hiking the canyon – yes, the /Ai-/Ais NWR resort could be an ideal locale, were it not for the sheer number of guests (largely European and S. African). The site itself is small, and tightly packed with buildings – though their facilities are lovely (as is the large outdoor pool pumped with heated spring water).

I will say, though, that I’m glad we drove through the park. While Ali is from Colorado-land, I’m from a flat-land. I will take any and all of the mountains you can throw at me.

Her, she is bored by them. (An attempt at Namlish).

As it turns out, my Namlish is atrocious. The speed and cadence of my speech is still largely Americanized, and as such, I was often misunderstood in the south.

Luckily, we had Ali on hand as our collective English to English interpreter.

When we finally arrived at Hobas, we had just enough time to fling up our tent, then pop to the NWR tuck shop for overpriced beer (N$108 for a six-pack, and Ali’s choice in extracting pain as punishment), then straight to the viewing station for an epic sundowner. We closed the joint down, and waited till all one could hear was the eerie howl of the wind rushing over the canyon’s rim.

But then the stars came out, and our bellies growled and we headed back to start up a fire.

After living in Namibia, I tend to employ a 3-stone fire (though I recognize it is an inefficient use of fuel in a land susceptible to desertification).

This was a rare treat for me..

I don’t know what it is about women, pasty-white ones in particular, but there seems to be general consensus they are unable to start a fire. In Namibia, tending the fire is woman’s work – unless you’re pale, then it tends to be assumed you don’t know how to start a fire, or that such work should be considered beneath you. Though, in America, its man’s work, so don’t get yourself dirty there, little lady.

Again, I’m not sure why, but there seems to be a general sense of astonishment after I build a fire. I've never understood the thinking. If cavemen were able to do it, why should I be considered less capable? (Also I was a girl scout for at least a decade, so it continues to exasperate me).

A topic Ali and I discussed and expanded upon while heating up chakalaka, warming sausages, toasting brötchens, and swilling a fruity moscato before tucking in our meal, and then ourselves (into our tent).

Top freaking night. 

For photos of this leg of the trip, check out my google+ album, here.

< day 1+ | day 4 >

road trip — Luderitz

day 1

My camera is in the trunk. My coat, too.

These are the thoughts skimming my brain as Ali and I ease back in our seats, on our final approach to Luderitz.

Ali, in the driver’s seat, turns to me and asks if I’m seeing it, too.

The sunset; a hazy technicolor dream.

Chalky and brilliant.
The sun permeating the haze, making the air appear to shimmer and move.

Gold deepening to amber, a deep carmine flooding toward the horizon.

The landscape, a dark and shifting backlit horizon—ever-changing mountains, ridges, and hills as the road wound through.

In the end, I rationalized no pictures, no words can express the scene.  Also, that, since my coat was in the back, I’d be cold fetching it and the camera… after driving continuously throughout the day, comfort was king.

notable absurdities:

—A very kind lady at a petrol station agreed to fill up my Nalgene water bottle, and asked if I wanted cold water. Um, sure, I replied – it doesn’t have to be cold, it can be a little warm. Strange, I thought, I've never had that question, before… And she seems to be taking an awful lot of time for the tap.

Turns out, due to my miscommunication, this obliging woman took the time to boil water and proceeded to fill my Nalgene.

Never will I not say ‘tap water’ again. My mistake, absolutely. Oh, my poor warped Nalgene.

—That night, tired and snuggled under the covers in the next room, we listened as marginally inebriated PCVs discussed Himba culture and the industry of tourism that their tribe engages in, and the startling contrasts evident now in their culture from such interactions, with a fully intoxicated German tourist.^[1] 

While they meant well, the conversation didn't lend to fully informed discourse, but I've got to applaud them for trying to rally—and engage in a third goal conversation (essentially) with a semi-hostile German.

^[1] Levels of intoxication are approximated. It was a conversation through a wall, after all. We didn't rouse them to our arrival until morning, because, hey – it was late, and we were warm and comfortable under our blankets, having a lively conversation about relationships and sex at an audible level in the next room. So, maybe the onus of responsibility was upon them to recognize our voices…

Though, as it turns out, I was on the receiving end of a minor bed-bug attack at that particular back-packers… So immediate karmic retribution for avoidance, maybe?

day 2

For photos of this leg of the trip, check out my google+ albums, here and here.

With luck, and the local PCV's assistance in finding the tourist bureau, we made the last tour of the weekend at Kolmannskopp.

Loved Ali all the more for it. One, for submitting to my enthusiasm, and secondly for actively engaging intellectually. We tramped along the dunes from structure to structure. Myself, mostly silent, photographing faded stencils and accumulating sand—Ali voicing her observations and thoughts on the tour introduction and the realities of the DeBeer's Co. practices.^[2] Echoing my own thoughts, and expanding on them.^[3] 

We stayed until the last possible minute, then headed back into town. I had my first turn at the wheel of a manual transmission in… a decade. I stalled that mother. A lot. Those next thirty minutes were comical. Also, pedestrians do not cross the street in the same type of fear you witness in the north of Namibia. In the south, they stroll. Evidently ‘right of way’ is an acknowledged right of pedestrians. Culture shock, for this northern Namibian transplant.

Kolmanskopp, Namibia

Kolmanskopp, Namibia

Kolmanskopp, Namibia

Afterward we picked up the local PCV, who we’d previously (unceremoniously) dumped at the tourist bureau to scramble to the NamDeb tour. Before we headed to a braai at Griffith Bay, we decided to head to Agate Beach and try our hand at spotting washed up agates (diamonds embedded in rock) on the shore.

‘Smooth, and oh they can be any colour’ wasn't the most illustrative expression of the object we sought… With a questionable description on what we were looking for, exactly, and after rambling a ways down the beach, we had given up. I hadn't cared much to begin with, and had actively been picking up shells and keepsakes as if I've never seen an ocean before. (My purse pocket was filled, and by then possessed the salty smell of decay particular to such treasures).

Finally, I looked down, and saw one rock that was not like another.

Success. An agate. Embedded in rock, beaten by the ocean floor, until the hearty strength of the stones within were exposed by a softer stone, layer by layer. Upon holding out the stone for inspection, Ali pounced upon the smoothed encrusted stone, and I knew I’d need to find another if I hoped to have one for myself.^[4]

Can you spot the agates?

Diaz Point, Luderitz, Namibia

Then off to a braai held monthly by the international volunteers in Luderitz. (First with a detour to Diaz Point, of course). All quite young, and mostly recent transplants, it was a fun, but interesting dynamic to observe the conversation amongst them. I may just be jaded, and though I am absolutely thrilled by their spirit of service, it is hard to relate, at times, with newer volunteers—and those who have not experienced the cultures of the Namibian north. I hope they make their way from the coast, and above the Red Line. ^[5]  

^[2] It reminded me of E— + E—’s wedding. When R— was shushing me for quietly commenting on (dissenting) the vows the minister was employing.

^[3] Namibia bought a 50% share in the DeBeer’s diamond mining industries in the nineties, and as such, the controlling interests are ‘NamDeb.’ This means the government is able to participate in and profit from mining their own resources. This is, of course, after the great bulk of diamonds have been harvested from the sands of the coast over a centuries’ time. In some places, like in Sperrgebiet, the diamonds were so plentiful, they could be gathered, essentially, by the shovel-full from the dunes in which they resided. The tour guide, of European descent, gave the introduction a level of incredulous humor in stark contrast to the gaping realities of the subject matter. Especially in reference to the smuggling attempts, and southern Africa’s first and finest x-ray machine. The NamDeb tour needs to be rethought, and a cultural curator employed. Stat.

^[4] I did, of course, once we knew what they looked like, but my favorite catch of the day is a nearly perfect orb of clear quartz reminiscent of a pearl.

Much of my rock quarry was abandoned in the courtyard at the back-packers. I’d like to lie and say I artfully arranged them to some end, but really, I just dropped them in a half moon around a potted succulent and then laughed at the absurd number I’d acquired, then discarded, in an afternoon’s time.

^[5] One particular volunteer was highly offended by my using my knee to gently push back the face of a waist high dog that was nosing for food near the fire. She gave an insulted cluck, and snidely remarked ‘That’s rude...’ Americans and Europeans, you are this close to driving me nuts with your treating dogs like humans. And the expectations that others should do so, too. Curb your damn dog.

Oh, my. I could go on this rant for ages. I won’t.

day 3 >

oh, tate..

Camille Paglia was the point at which I fully picked up on the vibe.

The idea that I was subtly being shamed had been daubing across my consciousness for a while.

The confusion was, to what purpose did it serve?

During the conversation, I had made certain allowances, I admit.

At no point did I back down, or defer to my hoary colleague, but I did allow certain avenues to go undiscussed due to the obvious discomfort of the other conversant.

My considerations were thus: he is markedly older, and of a different culture of time, and recently his daughter had passed.

I couldn't say he was fully outside the bounds of propriety—whatever they may be..

He is an intelligent and mostly polite older man. He speaks his mind. A quality I have (usually) enjoyed.

The conversation—itself—spanned art, culture, memories, personal histories, anecdotes on relationships, feminism.

Its conclusion, a disappointment.

Not only the sense of entitlement in the assertion and request; the method in which he attempted to steer the conversation.

An old trick.

Confuse your target—vacillate between compliments and criticism.

Offer sympathies, then assert authority—demean gently.

Skirt the edge of insecurity.

Make the approach, and your case.

The flustered quarry seeks approval and submits.

A key point may have been made by Paglia.

Men do reveal themselves as the weaker [sex] in approaches such as these.

Are you sure you wouldn't like to share the tent?

I really think I would enjoy holding your body against mine.

I just bet you would. 

meet Jacques.

The holiday... I'm trying to gather up my thoughts and get them on paper..
And unpack.
And plan for the week's lessons.
Miraculously, one day of holiday remains before I get started on this last term.

So, while I organize, and decompress, feast your eyes on this lovely Minolta that was gifted to me by a new friend—and named after said benefactor.

Can't take my eyes off of it today.