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.
“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.
“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.
“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
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.”
“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.”
“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.
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