Namibia - “Oh my two goats!” (Reader's Discretion Advised)

Eilene annunciated each word with a soft deliberate emphasis through her Namibian accent. “I know you will love it. You are a passionate person and this dance is very passionate.”
She put my right hand on her left hip, took my left hand into hers and closed the gap between us alternating leg space. One of two Busters at the lodge, Eileen is one of the few women I’ve met with a flare for both city life and the outdoors. She surprises me some nights hosting in snappy sharp attire, but during the day could pass as a ranger.“In Angola this is very popular.  It would be good for you to learn it.”
Our two bodies churned in sync with precession around a tight circle. The music’s pulsating beat reminded me of Latin dance woven into African R&B. She let go of my hand and took my side. I did the same.
Admittedly, I have a sense of rhythm in the edit room, but that sense does not translate well on the dance floor. As a result, I try to avoid the ritual like a certain day of the year, yet here I find myself dancing on my birthday—a birthday both Eileen and I share together.
The night was well into the wee hours of the morning. Many of the staff had retired to their rooms for an early work call. The few occupying the entertainment room of the staff village down their wine or beer with purpose. Wemba refilled a butter container with white wine and drank it like soup from a bowl. I sipped my Windhoek Lager from the bottle. Openers, like drinking glasses and cups, are scarce in the village; here we pop bottle caps with our teeth. I was still nursing my first, though. The combination of 80 proof hard liquor, red wine and beer (in that order) left a sour twist in my stomach, even though I had very little of each.
“I have the dance on DVD. We should practice it some more before you leave,” Eilene offered. “You will love Kizomba.”
We would dance it many more times along with a little “sak-ka, sak-ka, sak-ka”.

Sky transparency and seeing the next night at the observatory was some of the worst of my then three weeks at the lodge. Wind kicked fine dust and smoke from inland grass burnings had settled in the atmosphere above drastically reducing contrast. On a good day, mountains thirty kilometers away are clear as crystal, but today were near extinguished. At night, the stars and Milky Way disappeared more than 15 degrees above the horizon and the sky had a general murkiness whereas I could sometimes see the zodiacal light span 180 degrees (reflected sunlight from dust left after the creation of our solar system). Usually, atmosphere stability compensates with sharp star images, but tonight seeing was near absolute shit. I know most guests aren’t keen on the difference and just happy to look through a telescope, but I feel bad—like I can do something about it.

“Frank, Jaryd has two questions for you,” Anna, six year-old Jaryd’s mom asked me standing beside the telescope. Her demeanor and British accent reminded me of J.K.K. Rawling. I don’t know why, I never met the lady. Maybe it was partly because their family is the fifth group passing through the lodge showcasing the author’s final “Potter” installment.
“What are your questions, Jaryd?”
Jaryd smiled and hid behind his mom’s leg.
“Last night,” Anna began, “We were looking at the stars through the sky window and Jaryd wondered how old you were. I asked him what he thought, and he thought you were a teenager.”
“Well, sad to say, I turned 29.” I can’t believe I openly acknowledged my birthday. “What’s your second question, Jaryd?”
“Does God live on Jupiter?” Mom answered.
I knew religion would be brought up sometime.
“Well, Jaryd,” I said squatting down across from him. “Don’t you think God lives inside you?”
“No, Jesus lives in me.”
I bowed my head down in stupidity. “Yes, okay, but do you think God watches over everything?”
“Yes.”“So look up.” Everyone gazed up at the Milky Way bridging overhead. “Don’t you think God is in everything you see?”
“No, that’s too much space.”
I slapped my brow. Next object through the telescope before closing shop.

I shielded myself against the cold wind with a thick blanket from the seat behind me. The only vehicle available at the lodge was one of the two safari Land Cruisers. The open vehicle has two additional rows of seats on an incline to the rear of the truck and is used to transport guests on scenic and game drives. There is a small space behind and below the last row for refreshments, specifically gin and tonic.
The vehicles are surprisingly stable for passengers on rough 4x4 climbs and dune excursions and handle very well with power and maneuverability. I had driven one earlier that day with Bryan, Sossusvlei’s other general manager to pick-up a scared guest from a quad biking trip.
Automatic transmissions in southern Africa are about as common as stick shifts in the States. I learned this in Jo-burg the night before arriving in Namibia and setup driving lessons at the lodge before departing on my 2200+ kilometer self-drive.
The party had started well before Bryan and I could arrive—an encore event of greater magnitude in celebration of Eilene’s and my two birthdays and the visit of the lodge’s previous general manager, Peter. I was told they were planning to get goat and lamb for the party. Sounded like a big deal … okay.
Most of the staff conveniently congregated by the entertainment room’s entrance, which provided enough light to vaguely see faces through the HD camera. A mix of African R&B and dance (Kizomba) music blasted on repeat from a nearby boom box. I distinctly got the feeling parties like this do not occur often, but when they do it is a distraction to revisit in memory and with friends for weeks until the next.

“Sak-ka, sak-ka, sak-ka,” a dozen or so chanted in a circle to a performer in the middle (“Sak” = “Down”). He or she would squat as low as possible while still trying to dance. The lower down, the more cheers. Here is an example of how hockey has proved some personal benefit off the ice.
I made way to the kitchen. Brechnef, butler by day/village party chef by night, cut and snapped his way through lamb joints. He dropped the pieces into a large pot of boiling water.
“You’re going to have a traditional African meal,” he told me and the camera. “Simple: water, salt, and onions if you have it. That’s it. Very simple.”
The kitchen services the entire village and is no larger than a small bedroom. It is self serve with one stove, oven, sink and refrigerator. The area would never pass inspection in the States. Poorly insulated and open to the elements, everything has been worn well past warranty, and no one seems to care, unless someone inadvertently turns off the lights through a switch dangling from the wall.
I put the camera down and tore into a chunk of lamb from the pot. Brechnef laughed.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He walks a

way still laughing.
“Brechnaf, what is so damn funny?”
“You’re an American. You eat with a plate and fork, not with your hands.”
“Are there any plates or forks?”
“No,” he lied through his distinctive, broken tooth smile. In fact, there are a few.
“Then I eat it African style.” …And cleaned the bone to commented surprise.
I found other foreigner preconceptions, especially Americans, have lent way to a few inside jokes. Most commonly mocked and derived from game drives is the popular American saying, “Oh my gosh,” but exaggerated to sound like, “Oh … My … Goush.” This would soon evolve into another expression several days later.

“When you go to Peter’s village, I don’t know what expectations they may have for you—and you should ask Peter—but instead of giving money I suggest buying some groceries for the family,” Peter Dunning, former lodge GM recommended to me over managers’ lunch.
Gift giving for the sake of gift giving is difficult for me, in particular with money. Although one could make an argument to money’s versatility, it’s still hollow with meaning (depending on the circumstance, of course). Even before visiting Sossusvlei, I considered what I would bring the staff as a kind gesture. Previous resident astronomers handed out DVDs, clothes and candies to the staff; I on the other hand brought one movie, “Miracle”, and that was in conjunction with a hockey stick. No, I was sadly content to leave a sizable tip unless another option would present itself.
At the staff village that afternoon, the camera and I followed Belinda, Monica and Hilde as they decorated themselves in traditional tribal dress attire—a special gift for Peter before leaving to Tanzania. Several layers of underwear are worn to fill a colorful costume that can rival a wedding dress. The waist is built to blossom outward like a flower and flow with rhythm when in motion. The bust is also built into proportion.  As Monica put it, “Making the dunes.”

I walked with Belinda across the village and past the braai (African for barbeque) where my attention was captured by four pairs of hooves and the heads of a lamb and goat.

“Oh my gosh! When you said you got goat and lamb for the party, I didn’t know you meant literally a goat and a lamb.” I also didn’t know why I was naively surprised. It’s not like one can drive to the corner supermarket and hit up the meat section for party delight here; after all the nearest convenient store is a Petrol station two hours away.

“What are you going to do with the heads?”
“Cook them.”
“Cook them?” Nothing goes to waste. “Everything? Brains, eyes and all?”
“Yup, eyes are really good in stew.”
I thought he was joking; but no, he wasn’t. At dinner I thought about what Peter said, my feelings on gift giving, and the following morning stated my intentions.
“Jafet,” I called to one of the party’s organizers. “I want to buy a goat and lamb.”

“Six hundred,” Vitalis, a ranger and Wemba’s older brother explained to me from the inside one of the many goat pens. We spent the better part of that Tuesday afternoon farm hopping and here was the only seller with available goats—the preferred meat. I would buy two and skip the lamb.
“Three hundred each. Is that a good deal?” I asked following Johannes, a young new hire at the lodge stalking a small pack through the camera viewfinder. At an exchange rate of 7:1, the total damage would amount to roughly $85 USD—the price of two high dollar plates at an upstanding restaurant back at home. Comparatively speaking, I was getting a good value to my dollar; although I got the impression this sale was a little high.
Vitalis stepped in from the fence, “I tried; he won’t go any lower.”
Johannes lunged for one goat, but missed. The evading pack rushed toward Vitalis who knowingly snatched the leg of an unsuspecting escapee; it cried in defeat. The charge kicked a plume of dust against the setting sun washing the setting’s picture with a copper-like luster creating the illusion of warmth on an otherwise chilly evening.
That night would in fact be one of the coldest of my five weeks at the lodge (-6 Celsius). A large number of us huddled around the fire, while the meat cooked on the braai and boiled in the kitchen. A large stainless steal bowl exchanged hands with the first cooked meats. I took my piece and finished it without thought.
“Frank, come here and drink this,” Belinda instructed.
“What’s this?” I asked swirling the brown broth in a plastic blue cup.
“Juice from the lung and liver.”
I gave back the cup. “That’s okay.”
“You must, this is Africa,” Belinda insisted. “You just ate it, so come now.” She lifted the cup to my mouth.
“You mean to say I just had the goat’s lung and liver. Oh, shit.”
She laughed and announced what I had just admitted to the crowd. More amusement and now everyone are eyeing me. “Now drink,” she persisted.
I sipped it.
Each tribe has a different take on the slaughter and preparation of goat, and what I was experiencing is the compromise of many cultural influences.
One method of slaughtering is simple suffocation by cutting into the throat. For the Herero, a knife is thrust into the jugular vein and the animal is left to bleed out. Skinning and gutting also have set rituals depending on whom you talk to.
As for the cooking portion, certain organs are cooked together, while others are cooked separately. What I couldn’t get answered is the liver’s significance. With some cultures, specific family members receive particular organs in order of importance—the liver being foremost. Which family member gets what depends on the situation or again whom you talk to.
“Dinner is served,” Brechnef announced.
I was asked to lead the line and selected my cuts of bone-in meat from different bowls. Texturally, boiled goat’s meat is softer and juicy, but braai goat’s meat taste is sharp with flavor. Both are good on their own merits.
I sat in front of the fire and peered inside a small black cauldron, “What’s in here?”
“Endesins,” Brechnef answered.
“I’m sorry, come again. Endesins?”
“Intestines,” someone clarified dumping a spoonful of fatty-looking narrow tubes into their plastic bin. The stomach, large and small intestines are thoroughly disemboweled, cleaned and boiled separately. Apparently, their respective digestive enzymes and acids alter the way meat and others organs tastes, but provide a distinctive flavor onto itself that is quite popular.
My stomach went sour. “Oh my goats … Oh my two goats,” I grimaced, and in unison, the dozen or so immediately in earshot repeated, “Oh my goats … Oh my two goats,” with hilarity.

Whereas, “Oh my gosh,” is an expression of surprise, “Oh my two goats,” has replaced the word, “shit,” as the evolved definitive expression of complete dismay, pathetic disappointment or utter shock. I have a sense of pride and accomplishment hearing those four words spoken with the sincerity of unconscious usage. Yes, I smile and nod with satisfaction at the gift I left Sossusvlei Mountain Lodge that transcends beyond the value of money or material possessions, albeit at the expense of two goats whose intestines are now digested irony.

Namibia - Nebuloso!

My second night at SML was spent on a cot in the observatory staring at the Milky Way’s center overhead, the rising Small and Large Magellanic Clouds to the south, and Alpha and Beta Centauri riding the Southern Cross setting in the west; the three major astronomical reasons to visit the southern hemisphere. I never get tired looking at the night sky, but here below the equator, the grandeur of our galaxy and surrounding universe is striking, inspirational and above all, humbling.
The observatory is not in a common sense a white dome, but an enclosed round deck above the lodge and villas. The stone wall rises just high enough to shield stray light, but low enough for the telescope, a 12-inch Meade Schmidt-Cassagrain, to view most anything rising over the horizon. Attached to the observing deck is the resident astronomer’s office: a small room of basic observing books and atlases, posters and portraits, and telescope accessories.
I find guests’ reactions to the night sky both appreciative and saddening, especially when a number of them—more than I would expect—rank the experience near the top of their trip’s highlights. Appreciative in that I’m very happy to bestow the wonder on those unfamiliar with the heavens, but it’s that unfamiliarity that is saddening. For many, they have traveled thousands of miles to see something—southern hemisphere skies aside—that should be accessible any where in the world. But as population booms and cities expand, light pollution is endemic for everyone in those areas.
“What is that? Is that a cloud?” One lady asked pointing overhead.
“That is the Milky Way, and in fact that ‘cloud’ is actually made up of billions of stars.”
“Oh my God, I’ve never seen that before.”
One could laugh at her naivety, but it’s not her fault per se she’s lived her life sheltered under a light dome. Then fires a shooting star and the excitement rises.
“Oh, a shooting star. Make a wish.” Minutes later another one followed by another. “Wow, is this normal?”
“Typically from a dark location you should see anywhere from three to five meteors an hour,” I answer on a nightly basis, but let them wish a way, though. God only knows my wishes should have came true several thousands (yes, thousands) shooting stars ago.
I run each observing sessions with a lesson on stellar evolution, beginning with nebulae (clouds of mostly hydrogen gas), to open star clusters (the result of those nebulae), to binary stars, planets, then stellar death in the form of planetary nebulae and supernovae remnants, sporadically jumping into tangents.
After a couple weeks of doing the same “dog and pony show”, one would imagine I should be getting tired of it, but the truth is a number of the visitors take a keen interest, which only fuels my passion.

The Linke family is from San Francisco, and the first American family visiting the lodge during my stay. They arrived to the same warm welcome every guest receives. The staff and managers congregate at the entrance and shake the hands of each party’s member. They are ushered to the panoramic bar/lounge area overlooking the valley plains and nearby sand dunes where lemonade is served and lunch if desired.
Trey, 14, in his Abercrombie apparel and sporting aviator sunglasses struck me as the typical stuck-up kid. Tonight will be an easy night, I thought.
I arrive at the observatory about an hour past sunset, just as the sky turns to astronomical twilight, but just before Saturn and Venus set in the west. I uncover the telescope, target my two alignment stars and casually observe until guests arrive. Before completing the scope’s alignment, though, a flashlight reflects off the observatory’s entrance and Trey pops up from around the corner.
We exchange “hellos” and I ask where is the rest of his family.
“They’re not coming. I’m the only one who has interest in this.”
I should know better not to judge a book by its cover.
Trey and I spent an hour cruising through the sky before his Mom ordered him to come to dinner.
“He would stay here all night with you if I let him,” she would tell me after dinner. I laughed and the next night found myself at the eyepiece with Trey, his little cousin and family friend awake at three-in-the-morning on one of our coldest nights (just above freezing).
The moon was quickly approaching full and its reflected light severely hinders any decent observing with the exception of planets and bright star clusters, but at this phase sets in wee hours of the morning—motivation for early observing, and unlike other observing sessions, this wasn’t the same “dog and pony show”, but a real observing session complete with faint deep sky objects.
Not more than a couple nights later, I would have another surprise.

Although English is the predominant language of Namibia, not every guest speaks the language.
I had just arrived from a game drive late that afternoon and the sun had already set by the time we pulled up to the lodge. Brechnef, the day butler/bartender met me by the doors.
“Frank, you have guests going to the observatory. They are walking up right now.”
Shit. I scaled the mountain bypassing the path to meet an Italian family sitting patiently beside the telescope, except for young Camilla blazing her torch (flashlight) under her face. She stood at the entrance waiting for me and later would follow everywhere I went.
“Her Grandfather was here three years ago and he wants Camilla to see the stars,” the Mom explained to me in broken English. The Grandfather, for the most part, sat in the corner and watched his family at the eyepiece, occasionally sneaking a look for himself.
Everything from telescope operation to astrophysics was translated to the family through the Mother. I couldn’t understand exactly every word used, but just from the terminology, I knew my explanations were being translated near verbatim, even to six year-old Camilla. I would try to pick-up a few words and directly communicate with some success, but the view through the eyepiece was enough description.
The following night, only Camilla and her Grandfather joined me in the observatory.
“Jupiter and nebuloso,” Camilla politely requested, dragging with short strides the step stool to the telescope.
“Saturno and Venus?” I asked, lifting one end and helping.
“Yes … Saturno.”
I smiled, “What about star clusters?”
Camilla looked at her Grandfather. “Cluster luminoso.”
“Yes, cluster luminoso,” Camilla affirmed, but nebulae appealed greater.
I skipped a lot of the lecture and just jumped objects—the Swan, Lagoon, Trifid, Eta Carina, and then Centaurus A...
“Poco nebuloso,” she said of the small faint fuzzy.
“No. Galaxia.”
She gave me a blank expression. With the laser pointer, I outlined the Milky Way. “Grande galaxia.” Pointed to the telescope, “Poco galaxia.”
“Oh, se!” She explained it to her Grandfather, but I have no idea what came across in the comparison.
At dinner, Camilla’s mother thanked me and said Camilla must decide if she wants a horse or a telescope, but thinks she’s too young for a telescope yet.
“I was eight when I used my Dad’s old refractor, and ten when I joined an astronomy club. Camilla can have a telescope.”

Namibia - Black Chef/White Chef

“Are you coming tonight?” Papa Wemba asks.
I look at the time and the crowd of guests finishing desert. “Not tonight. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night. But tomorrow.”
“Okay, that’s alright.”
Sossusvlei Mountain Lodge staffs a little more than thirty employees from on-site rangers to kitchen help. Most everyone lives a short mile’s walk around the mountain at a staff village, although seldom does anyone walk to it. The village is a humble, but well-off example of rural living not just here in Namibia, but throughout Africa. The staff and some of their spouses live out of small adjacent bedrooms with a community bathroom, kitchen and laundry services. The five rangers share a separate living structure, and the manager has his own house.
There is no nearby school, although the oldest child is Mark at 4 and is the managers Vernon and Esmerelda Swanepoel’s eldest child. The village is very much a small community, and its residents as much as by their parents bring up the children.
“What’s that?” Mark asked me referring to Windhoek’s best beer in my hand.
“A drink.” I answered, and with my finger underlined the word, lager. “La-ger.”
“La-ger.”
“Great. Esmerelda would be proud to know her son’s first word he could read is ‘lager,’” Vernon laughed.
Mark would be the proud and only owner of the hockey stick I brought to Namibia. He slept with it his first night I am told until Mom and Dad stored it out of reach in fear he would start slashing people with it. I would later teach him the basics a la Slap Shot style.
“This is a hook,” I would hook him. “And no, you do not do that. Very bad.” I held the stick above my head and motioned to beat him with it. “This is a high stick. No good, keep it down like this.”
Mark insisted to play the puck with the toe rather than the stick blade’s body, and after a while began to kick the puck like it were a soccer ball.
Most communities have a soccer field to call their own, usually made of dirt—not grass like we have in the States—with virtually anything to represent goal posts. And like recreation leagues back at home, games are fiercely contended like it were the World Cup and I am promised a game at some point during my visit. I am told, though, inline hockey is rather popular in Windhoek. I’ll have to check that out.
To pass time, team Dominoes is the staff’s game and is taken just as seriously as soccer, slamming the cards (a domino) onto the table and yelling at each other for smart or pathetic plays. After getting the jest, I joined in. My team won seven straight games, but that would be my only claim to fame. There will be other games and more lager.

Three meals are served a day, and both lunch and dinner consist of three courses. Typically a puréed soup, one of two main course selections and desert. I have yet to experience disappointment and have not ate this good consistently since living with my parents eight years ago.
Running the kitchen is Belinda, the head chef and whom I just recently met upon her return from holiday, Papa Wemba, a Zimbabwean who’s brother Vitalis is a ranger, and Shinkago (a.k.a. Black Chef). Additional hands include Ambrosh and Kabila. Everything entertaining at the lodge takes place in the kitchen and is my hang out destination when not on a drive or filming.
One relaxed night after dinner, Shinkago proudly displayed a tall white hat that he had sewn together. “I am Black Chef!” he proclaimed.
His previous adornment was a stapled paper cylinder, which fit snuggly on my head. Shinkago laughed.
“Frank. I am Black Chef and you… you are White Chef!”
“And I can whip together a mean dish too,” I explained to a curious Belinda and staff. “First I take two slices of bread,” I enacted all of this, “spread one with peanut butter and the other with jelly, then bring the two together. C’est magnefique.”
Smiles all around.
“But for you Belinda, I got something real special. I’ll add sliced banana,” I made a dicing motion with my hands, “and honey … Toasted—White Chef’s special!”
“Banana and honey? Hmm, that is different. You can make me this now.”
I elicited the help of the kitchen staff to gather the necessary ingredients and completed two sandwiches, one to Belinda and the second to both Esmerelda, who was fighting a cold, and Ilze, the new general manager.
“This is nice,” Belinda praised.

Although a few families live at the staff village, many employees are a parent working far from home to support their parents, spouse and children. The expense of travel, even across the country—not much larger than the state of Texas—is so great that many have not seen their kids in a couple years, leaving the grandparents and community to bring up the child.
Papa Wemba is thirty years old, passionate, loyal and caring. Wemba is also the comic relief, but has softer side. He is married with two kids, a 13 year-old son and a 3 year-old daughter, both living in Zimbabwe. Just shortly before I leave, his wife will move into the village and also work at the lodge. He has not seen his children in two years, although speaks to them every weekend over the phone.
One afternoon instead of hitching a ride with one of the employees, I hiked to the staff village. The mile long trail took me over the lodge’s mountain, past the water tanks and down a ragged dirt road to the encampment. For the first time here, I felt isolated in a different world. Walking on an empty road leading to seemingly nowhere have that effect.
Wemba showed me to his quarters; a single covered window and open door provide the only light. There are two beds, a night table and attached bathroom. He has two computer printed pictures on his wall, one of a soccer match, the other Wemba with a friend. I asked him a stupid question as he put on Mark’s soccer cleats, “Do you miss your kids.”
His eyes dropped and his body language softened. “Oh, yes. I miss them very much. I think about them every day.”
“Why don’t they live here with you?”
“No. They need to go to school.”
I sat on the only chair and tossed Mark the soccer ball out the front door, thinking about what Esmerelda and I talked about not much earlier. This is a fact of life for much of the rural working population. And rural is pretty much everywhere.
“Is your son a good student?”
“Yes. He’s very intelligent like his father,” Wemba laughed and paused, “Yeah, he is a good kid.”
“Does he know what he would like to do after school?”
“Nah … he’s too young to know such things. At school he’ll learn about all things and decide.”
I asked if he would like to see his son be a doctor, or something of that sort. He thought that would be nice, but I got the feeling that would be unrealistic.
Wemba went to shower and I played soccer with Mark. We kicked the ball back and forth over the rocks. Today was probably the most attention Mark had gotten during the day all week, especially since his best friend, Chinode, was away for a couple weeks. He cried after Wemba and I left.

After a good deal of peer pressure and the offer of a limited-time 0% interest American Express business card, I purchased Panasonic’s new HVX200 camera. Needless to say, the purchase of this camera was a great expense, especially without a definitive project in mind, but in short, it is the best high definition camera in its price class and robust enough to handle most anything.
I read an article a while ago online about the increasing fear in our society. Without going into specifics, the author made a point that struck me as very true. Generally, city people are afraid of rural areas, and the rural population is afraid of the city. Afraid of what exactly? Attacked by an animal, perhaps. Mugged by a criminal, maybe. More specifically it is fear of the unknown, and that fear is heightened by the movies we watch, the news we envelop, and the stories we read.
Now, there is truth in those stories. Bad things happen, the world is at war and elephants pin people with their foot and rip off their limbs (apparently this happened at the park I’m camping at for three nights). It’s not safe out there. But, where is it truly safe? The feeling of safety is in some part a function of comfort.
Before leaving, the jokes about how I would die painted an interesting picture of the beliefs of others and the continent I am to visit. Mauled by a lion. Shot at by rebels. Contract HIV. Getting injured in the middle of nowhere. All of which are possible, especially the latter. But it is interesting how the media has influenced our perception of people and locations, and to a substantial degree, our level of comfort and latitude for flexibility.
On the flip side to all that, many have a different perception of Africa. In the case of southern Africa: a vast savanna home to grazing giraffes, rhinos charging through the brush and lions chilling in the shade of a phantom tree. There is also a culture alien to what we experience in the States: bushman walking barefoot on sizzling hot sand stalking prey, or tribes dancing and singing to pounding drums at a giant campfire. These are true as well, but there is a middle area between the contrasting extremes, the story of everyday people providing for their family in a remote, yet exotic part of the world. How is their life different? Similar? And is there anything others can learn about their own life and what is important?

I’m sure to get plenty of stock HD wildlife footage, but I think the story here is about the people we never see in a land of contrast. A story that’s not sad, but inspiring.

Namibia - Missionaries, Bribery and a Party Truck

I purposely kept awake the night before leaving for Namibia, hoping 24 hours of sleeplessness would make for an easier purported 29-hour transit to the southern Africa country. An uncooperative suitcase, flat tire on the 202 freeway, and a snail’s paced line through security brought me to the gate minutes before boarding closed.
For two-thirds of my stay, I will be the resident (amateur) astronomer at the Sossusvlei Mountain Lodge (SML) before trekking solo for two weeks through northern Namibia. Loneliness is a definite consideration, especially traveling through a foreign—African—country, and for sure I would enjoy the company of another, but since leaving Phoenix early Monday morning, I have been anything but alone. I shouldn’t be surprised, as almost every unaccompanied outing has introduced new friends. This transit was no different, and a little adversity helped.
The Delta itinerary to Windhoek, Namibia includes a plane transfer in Atlanta, Georgia, a re-fueling stop at Dakar, Senegal, and another transfer onto South African Airlines in Johannesburg, South Africa. I would manage some sleep, on the 19-hour flight to Johannesburg.
Seated beside me was Natalie, a cute university sophomore with her southern accent, tiny glasses, soft white skin and strawberry-blonde hair. Throughout the flight she would participate in song and banter with her fellow church-mates. Everyone I met was either a South African national or on a humanitarian mission of sorts. No vacationers, including myself I suppose.
Natalie and her twenty-plus member Botswana-bound group will provide aide to one of the many local AIDS orphanages. AIDS is of pandemic proportions throughout Africa and unfortunately, children are an unpremeditated victim of the disease most having been born with HIV. Many are orphaned early in their lives after family members pass or abandonment. Many organizations exist to support these children over the short course of their lives, providing food and care, but mostly hope.
I don’t quite understand the word “hope” in the circumstance of dealing with AIDS, but I do understand the necessity for love. Missionaries contribute everything from finances, manual labor, nursing and compassion. They originate from churches, charitable organizations or are simply righteous individuals. These people are a child’s only hope for survival, as local and national governments have decidedly chosen to ignore the problem due to economic or social woes—another rampant illness throughout the majority of African countries. Namibia is politically stable at this time, but like elsewhere on the continent much of the population is impoverished.
An hour’s cumulative delay in Atlanta and Dakar left three others and myself no time to meet our connecting flight to Windhoek (pronounced Vin-took) and were rebooked on a flight late morning the following day. This would mean missing my charter flight to the Sossusvlei Mountain Lodge and a night’s stay in Johannesburg. First things first, though; what about the checked baggage?
“There are a lot of bags. It would take a lot of time to locate and retag them,” the South African Airlines attendant informed the four of us—an older inter-racial couple from Colorado and Jeremy McLaughlin, a 23-year old wrestler from Oregon State University.
“How will they make our flight tomorrow morning if they are not retagged?” I asked.
“I will look and see what I can do,” she kindly offered, left her desk and returned an hour later empty handed. “I’m sorry, I did not find your bags.”
“What do you mean you did not find our bags? Did they arrive from Atlanta? Can you please look again?”
“There are so many bags. It’s a lot of work.”
No shit, really? I thought. What are you doing now aside for sitting at your desk and bitching to your associate about wanting to date a white boy? (Later in subsequent conversation I was asked, “Do you like chocolate?”)
“I know it’s a lot of work,” I acknowledged, “but would you please keep looking? Can I buy you a drink?”
A spark.
“Oh yes! A drink would be very nice. Yes, buy me a drink.”
After four cans of Coca-Cola (one to the girl and her cheeky male associate, and three to the X-ray security staff for tolerating my several passes through the checkpoint), she found one of each of our two checked bags. I would buy the attendant another Coke to find the rest of our luggage—each can costing $2 USD.
Finding a Delta agent for hotel and transportation would be another ordeal. Jeremy took charge on this, and after three hours—conveniently and coincidentally at the same time our bags were found—enter Colin, a young British airport liaison for the airlines specializing in handling passenger relations. Since arriving, he was aware of our situation and had already mobilized an effort to take care of our needs, a pleasant change in service, and an intriguing conversationalist on the current social state of South Africa.
Fifteen years ago marked the prison release of Nelson Mandela and a conclusion to apartheid, a political system in South Africa from 1948 to the early 1990s that separated the different peoples living there and gave particular privileges to those of European origin. Since then, a state of affirmative action is in place granting employment opportunities to those of race over skill or education. Colin, university educated in computer programming, explains he is where he is now due to the over-supply of computer programmers by unqualified technicians.
Delta would cover a night’s stay at a rather nice hotel, plus unlimited food expense and services—not that we had much time to take advantage of those accommodations. Jeremy and I would share a room, spending a great deal of time drawing comparisons to past travel experiences and future aspirations.
Involved in the church, Jeremy has traveled quite extensively since late in his teens, from two home-building projects in tsunami ravaged areas of Thailand to three months in Namibia working at an AIDS orphanage. Unlike past undertakings, he is traveling alone for a month to develop a wrestling program in north-central Namibia. (Kind of like me bringing ice hockey to a country with no ice, but I think he’ll have a better chance of success.)
Jeremy is quite different from other missionaries I’ve met. He is a self-driven leader with an intense worth ethic, uncanny flexibility and a fearless, savvy attitude. He has experienced cultures and places in this world few have explored or paid great money to witness. His only expense: good will and hard work. I question whether I could do the things he has accomplished; nevertheless he’s an inspiration for a higher standard of self.

I started to pace. Windhoek airport reminded me of Scottsdale airport, but with commercial jets. Jeremy had accumulated all three of his checked bags, and I with only one of my two. The same luggage on the stile had cycled through with no additions and our commuting plane was being be taxied to the runway with a new batch of passengers. I always hear of missing luggage stories, and never think it’ll happen to me. Well, why not this time? And why not happen in a foreign country? Fortunately, I had nothing of real value in the case, only all of my clothes, astronomy and camping gear, and my digital still camera (I carried-on the HD camera).
Jeremy left baggage claim to find his ride and notify the CC Africa driver of my present situation. Meanwhile, I met with Tuyiimo, a pleasant lady with little good news.
“There has to be a reason why your suitcase did not make this flight, but your other checked bag did,” Tuyiimo deduced. “What? You had a camera inside? That is why you did not get your bag. Jo-burg is very bad about taking possessions. You will get your luggage, but will be very lucky if nothing was taken.”
Great. Later that day, and as if I needed more good news, I would open my one received checked bag to find a shattered leg joint to my HD camera’s tripod. Fortunately, the hockey stick I stuffed with it survived. Whew.
“How are you doing?” the CC Africa driver asked after I bid farewell to Jeremy.
I laughed, “Just waiting for what’s next.”

CC Africa (Conservation Corporation Africa) is continent-wide company with many lodges throughout southern and eastern Africa. Namibia has three lodges, including the one at Sossusvlei—the only lodge with a visiting resident astronomer program. I was taken to the regional headquarters just outside Windhoek proper and greeted by organization administrator, Hazel, and associate, Corrina.
Namibia is everything the movies and wildlife documentaries have portrayed Africa to appear. Architecturally, African-modeled establishments are simple in floor plan with open spaces and many cylindrical walls. By contrast, the European influenced structures consist of long narrow hallways and square rooms. I equate the African design to a panoramic photograph, whereas the western-influenced model is as bland as 4:3 standard definition television. Light and dark browns accompanied by deep reds and olive greens accent sandy tans to mimic the desert’s color scheme. Of course, there’s also African-European hospitality: cordial, proper and prioritized. Service overall is very respectful, and although Africans do a great job separating business from personal among each other, they maintain professional distinction with foreigners and their European nationality managers, unless given an opportunity. Apparently, Namibia is a different story socially than South Africa, but there is still a lot to see and learn.
Windhoek, on the contrary, is like any other small city with its malls and supermarkets, offices and bars. Many people walk the streets named after prominent individuals like Nelson Mandela or Fidel Castro. There are also several small farmers’ markets along crowded areas where one can buy fresh produce or chew on freshly cooked Springbok (a mild tasting venison).
Since I missed the morning charter flight, the new plan was to truck me to Sossusvlei, a five-plus hour drive, over half of which is grated dirt road. The trip would in fact take almost eight hours with stops at the pharmacy, supermarket, KFC, gas station and roadside bushes. What McDonalds is to the US—sadly—KFC is to south African countries. When asked if they liked McDonalds, the answer was, “They have good chips.” (Fries.)
I rode with the SML staff. Nine employees spanning rangers and chefs to butlers and housekeeping, six of which sat with me in the belly of the box truck and the other two to the left of driver all aged somewhere between mid-twenties to early thirties and good friends. Conversation was guided by put-down after put-down, but no “mama” jokes. Ambrosh, a hefty kitchen worker, took the blunt of many jabs. He could of beat all of them down to a pulp, but instead rolled with the punches.
The talk constantly changed from English to Afrikaans, and perhaps some other tribal tongue, which there are many. Note: Swahili is not the only language utilizing clicking noises.
A single loud speaker blasted African folk music including, every now and then, a song from home—rock, like Phil Collins. Rural Africans in general take a lot of pride in their music and would appear to be a bonding element in a community, be it family, school or a live-together staff.
The arrival at Sossusvlei Mountain Lodge would conclude almost 58 hours of passage. I was escorted to my villa by the night butler, a short walk along a flagstone path illuminated by red lights (to preserve eyesight dark adaptation) to the end of the lodge’s guest section. As if the southern night sky weren’t enough to excite me, the place where I would be sleeping for most of the next five weeks left me saying, “Wow.”