day 3
You know this just means you get a free pass to screw me over, right? I’ve earned it.
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).
