in a row??

Let’s talk records for a second.

We all have two. Or twenty-four of them.

Like a personal best on responsible inebriation and the last time you've cast up your accounts — on account of your idiotic intoxication..  Thirty-two months ago.. Do not party with a C.P.A. … They will drink you under the table, my friend.

Or number of daily morning (6:40am) briefings I've been at least five minutes late to since I've started my job here in Africa... All of them, but… six? So.. Somewhere around 175…

Or… Amount of time you can hold your breath under water. I’m at about five seconds there, so… a little work in that arena might be a good idea.  (Unless I’m wearing snorkel gear, for some reason I don’t panic then)..

At any rate, this tangent occurs to me in combination of the fact I've watched too many (all of) Kevin Smith’s movies… and recently participated in a conversational game (suggested by A—, I think?) called, well, what it is, ‘First, Worst, Best, Last.’ As far as revealing party conversation games go, it is fairly innocuous, and takes only a handful of minutes, and you move on. Not nearly as banal or tedious as NHIE, or TOD or 7MIH… All of which are juvenile, embarrassing to witness, let alone participate in;  and rarely do anything to move the conversation along, because how could they, seeing as they are designed to extract unusually intimate information in the longest, most mind-numbing, method ever.  (Another aside: PC Kenya’s Instagram pics showing them playing beer pong on vacation, previous to PC service, terrified me with the prospect that I’d be stuck reliving a college experience ten years later. Thankfully, Namibia has not been quite so… scro. Miss you K—, M—, D—, et al.).

Anyway. The way I hear it is Elvis bedded quite a few ladies. He was, after all the King. But, as he shared a quite close relationship with his mother, his way of figuratively notching the bedpost — versus literally — was to notch a pair of jockeys so she wouldn't get wise. (See what I did there M—, you grammar-nazi?) Who knows if this is true, but it’s a rumor.

We all have a prime number. The King’s was everyone else’s prime number times 6 to the power of 25, or so. The standard rule of thumb is to take a man’s admitted number and divide it in half. And a woman’s number and double it. Because there’s a double standard. On everything. Or everyone could be telling the truth all the time. Who knows? It’s what we all least expect. (Or that’s what Steinbeck implies.)

But I keep thinking of mine. Blame it on serendipity (or Clerks), but this here is blog post no. 38. I've been staring at no. thirty seven for two days. And I've been living in SW Africa for 10 months, almost exactly, if the incessant/constant countdown by some of my other group 38 members is accurate. (Not that I wasn't just complaining to A— the other day about my own internal countdown that kicked in the day I got back to site)…

And my point is that living here in this place gives you a lot of time to think. Yes, we’re working our asses off, and according to the PC volunteer surveys, PC Namibia volunteers mostly work far and away in excess of the normal 40 hour week… But you still have a lot of time to really get to know yourself. This of course implies one might not already be acquainted with themselves; and some of us aren't fully. You even might chalk up the number of existential crises up to time spent alone with one's self, really... (As an aside, I think all this time alone might be solidifying all of my bad habits rather than breaking them…) But with all this time, we’re also trying to figure out what we want next.

So I’m thinking on my prime number. Have I hit it? Surpassed it? Can I even remember it? Maybe I’m just getting old?

Here’s what I know.

I’m twenty nine years old.

I've been in two serious relationships.

One, if I’m truly being honest. And I hope I am.

I've kissed more men than I care to count.
I have felt an inexplicable, physiological connection five times.
I've been in love three times.

I have the best, most amazing, friends than I could ever hope for, even if I am a terrible at correspondence. The antithesis of my mother, in that, at least. (Thank you all for loving me, anyway, guys. I appreciate it).

So next for me. Which side of my personality shall I embrace?

Becky Sharp? Or Anne Shirley? Just their finer points? Or those not so fine?

And, really. How did the number 37 take me on this unexpected mental ramble through the weeds?

Oh. First, worst, best, last.

Mother, turn away.

F/W Same guy. Ten years apart. 

(If you’re not, technically, counting California C—, which I do, really, but not for this application).

B/L Same (but different from the above) guy.

The exercise struck me as waggish the way life turns out when you don't bother to look ahead.. The introduction of random information, situational conversation, how it fires one’s mental synapses, and what it quickly reveals about us.

Now playing:

A Goldfrapp + Grace Potter + Haibe Koite + Hall & Oates + Hot Chip random mix.

Perfect. And unsurprisingly alphabetical. Love my Zune.

cast and crew..

A few of the PCVs whose mere presence helped make the holiday fantastic.
Note to self: Stop biting lip when taking selfies. No one needs to concentrate that hard on the shot.

Morris Brown | Idlewild | Outkast... still on repeat.

writer's bollocks.

In trying to gather my thoughts of the holiday..

I’m having trouble tacking down the happenings.

And the men..

Paradise. Experimentation. Surprises. Long talks. Short swims. An invisible lighthouse. Mayflies. Grueling overland travel.

The long talks were up there.

Especially with the Brit.

I never knew where we were going to go with it.

But we always circled back.

Having a series of long discussions with someone with a mastery of the language is an aphrodisiac after a long lull, having had subsisted so long on stilted half conversations.

Of note.. A—, N—, C—, C—, D—, B—, A—, and even M—..

Then again, if you can transcribe everything you felt and all that happened, perhaps you were paying too much attention, and enjoying yourself too little..

This holiday definitely topped the last.

Even with the overland madness.

Nevertheless, a list of notable firsts (those I can recall, that is)...

Climbed my first fence. Ever. (Cattle gates and corrals don't count).

An ambulance ride, as a hike.

Witnessed the madness of a mayfly swarm. As J— would, and did, say, "I hate it.."

Folded to peer pressure in taxi rate negotiation.

Slept in a hostel (discounting the Belgian Nunnery – it had private rooms).

Broke a rule in blatant disregard to serious repercussions. (I’m really quite straight-laced).

Spent half a month’s pay on a party dress. Happy belated birthday to me.

Beheld thousands of years old rock paintings. (Your facsimiles were poor, Field Museum)..

Traveled through a logging area for first time. Damn non-native pine species in eerie rows.

Wild eagles up close while straddling the bow on Lake Malawi.

Broke a terrible record. Enjoyed every minute of it.. Especially evening two.
Enjoyed a plate of greens mostly every night.. (Thanks, N—).

New locales: Zambezi (Caprivi) Strip, Zambia, Malawi.

Now playing: Idlewild | Outkast … on repeat: Morris Brown… 

i don't know a lot about wine...

...but I know what I like.

Buying wine in my village isn't an option. And the beer options are downright depressing. Apart from selection, openly drinking in my village is something I look to actively avoid. Brings far too much attention and isn't an ideal image for my learners who live around the shebeens to witness.

On the one weekend a month I head into my shopping town, I stock up.
So much so that, after introducing my friend L— to my favorite wine, we proceeded to buy out their entire stock in a month’s time.

Upon going into the bottle store in Rundu a couple of days ago and searching for it, L— discovered that they were out.. But they’d anticipated our needs. The buyer had ordered a case just for us the last time I’d been in and walked out with six bottles. Apparently I've developed a reputation — not for the absurd armfuls of wine — but for my reusable BAGGU bags. They recognize me on sight, evidently.

We can afford few luxuries as PCVs. But good wine. I’m not giving that up. Even while other PCVs are happily chugging down tassie/coca-cola concoctions.

And next December holiday — if I can save enough pennies, or nickels, rather, as they are the lowest form of Namibian currency — I’ll be in Cape Town and Paarl on a wine tour visiting my favorite winemakers. First on the list is Fairview and the Goatshed Restaurant.

I cannot wait.