“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 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.
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