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 — 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 >

kutakuta.

An ode to my old Nikon 18-55mm lens. This was the last photo before the old lens died. Finally. A kuta kuta.

I managed to get down south to the capital the next day to replace it.

Six hours there and six hours back.

It was a pretty great day, actually. I welcomed the unexpected break from school.

Somehow I was miraculously excluded from the invigilation timetable, and, with the HOD’s blessing I fled.

Got to know two of the curmudgeons in the upper management at NDC in my village.

Though the ride home was bit of a litany on grace…

Someone trying to convince the unconvincible for 4 hours is a bit much.

I should have put in my mother has been trying to steer me towards it my entire life.

I’m not going to give.

Anyway.

Got in and out of the Zambian embassy in under an hour with my visa.

They’re pretty fantastic there, in their rooftop office. Nice digs.

Afterward, inadvertently found myself where all the white people were, but by the time my quiche Lorraine and beer arrived, I opted not to care. I haven’t seen that many in one place in a long time. It put me on edge a bit. The beer helped. The manager giving me the stink eye for drinking beer at 9:45am did not.

At some point you get to an age where it is no use pretending that the arbitrary line of noon being the accepted drinking hour means anything to you. Then again, I gave up on that years ago. And, hell. I’d been up since three.

After that I roamed to and from Marurua Mall – intent on replacing my lens. The selection at the one store was crap. No I am not in the market for a telephoto lens that would not even begin to fit in my camera bag. Luckily strangers directed me back downtown. Ignored the constant honking horns of cabbies intent on giving me a lift.

Got pulled into yet another tourist trap by the lure of pumpkin cake. I mean, seriously. How am I supposed to resist pumpkin cake? Almost spent an idiotic amount of money on a green sun hat. Realized I was only attracted to it due to clever merchandising. Fought my way back to the cake.

Found the sought after camera shop in Windhoek I’d been given vague directions to – “Near-ish the Hilton, on Independence, near Markhams, I think..” Nitzsche-Reiter Cameras at San-Lam plaza. Worth it. New lens. Reasonable price.

Went across the street to lay on the grassy knoll in the park and nap while clutching my backpack with a death grip, when an impromptu engoma drum circle started taking shape. People from all walks of life joined in, and were given basic percussion instruction. It was pretty damn cool. Not the cheese you feel, say, if you’re on the Venice Beach boardwalk and there’s a band of white hipsters with Rastafarian dos and no rhythm going at it. There was joy in it.

Laying there, it was definitely an up moment. One of those hell yes, I live in Southern Africa - this is what modern urban Africa looks like. It may have just been the sleep deprivation, but I enjoyed the moment.

Back into the car. The ‘grace’ thing. After about four hours, I decide to launch in and use misdirection, distraction, and confusion to my advantage. And the fact he was speaking in a second language, Afrikaans being his first. Holy trinity semantics, Sodom and Gomorrah and Westboro Baptists, Adam, Lilith, and Eve, translations from the original Aramaic versus the versions in use now. The poor man didn’t know what he was up against when he started.

Finally worked the conversation back to the Namibian landscape. We started discussing underground lakes and rivers. The area I live in is rife with them. Not least of which is Dragon’s Breath Cave. It is about an hour away from where I live.

Dragon’s Breath Cave is the world’s largest non-subglacial underground lake. It is over a 60m descent underground, and the lake’s depth is over 100m. No one’s gone farther. Yet. It is also on private property, and in order to climb and dive, you need your own equipment.

So. New ten year goal. Not that I ever had one before.

Diving certification. And an abundance of climbing experience.

And I’m going to attempt it on a return trip.

2025.

I’ll be 39 years old. And hopefully still physically fit.

Though the ‘still’ is a bit hopeful now.

Anyway if you've never heard of Dragon’s Breath Cave…

Check, check it out.

Discovery

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Lake Scientist

If these links don't work... Well... That's the reality of being unable to open them on my end and check them, what with a 55kbps connection.

The plight of the PCV, unconnected from the world... And immersed in it.