Kenya (Nairobi) – Kibera: Part One

Alan squatted down on a bare spot of ashen rubble and shattered office ware he had kicked clear. His slightly torn red shirt contrasted him apart from the charred blue concrete walls, balanced by a shallow glow of daylight from an empty window behind him.
The 12-year old flipped scraps of burnt cardboard with a plastic shard as he explained, “I was just at home giving stones to my father and one of my friends was shot here,” he pointed to his thigh. “There was a fight in which enemies were fighting, and people were fighting each other.”
“Who exactly was fighting? What happened?”
“Police and also people. They go to house by house, house by house. They open the door, they beat you, they beat you, they rape you.” Alan clapped his hands together. He sat quiet for a moment. “You know most of them were my friends. One of them is in Kenyatta hospital.”
Alan continued, “In Kenya, tribalism is the thing which is going on and it is not finished. Because there are a lot of tribes and every tribe wants a land. You know there are forty-two tribes in Kenya.
“There was a tribe called Kikuyus—you know there is a place, Lainisaba, if they find you there, they take you and they circumcise you,” Alan waved his hands over the rubble. “Just like that, because they are their enemy.”
Public circumcision is a means humiliation and dominance, especially for tribes opposed to the traditional ritual as in the case between the Kikuyu and Luo. The Luo tribe set off the violence in December of 2007 after the Kenyan incumbent president, Mwai Kibaki, a Kikuyu, apparently stole the election from Raila Odinga, a Luo. The police, mostly of Kikuyu origin, joined the violence. Their orders and execution are subject to debate.
“Do you think peace is possible?” Tyler Batson, the director of our documentary, A Chance for Peace, asked.
“No. I do not think so.” A pause. “But now there is grand coalition government of Kibaki and Raila. They are the ones who are in power now. Raila is prime minister. Kibaki is president.” In Kibera, Prime Minister Odinga is refereed to by his first name. “Raila” is painted on the walls of homes and businesses always in reference to “peace”, especially in Kibera.
A melting pot of over 600,000 residents—and on some estimates, one million—Kibera is the largest slum in Kenya, a scant fifteen-minute matatu (bus/van) ride from downtown capital Nairobi. Along the main one-lane highway, hundreds of private vendors hawk goods and services to town residents and adjacent Nairobi. Although bustling with heavy foot-traffic and mass transport, commerce appears scare from competition and poverty.
Tens of thousands of shanty shacks, few of concrete construction, many of corrugated tin siding wired to blue gum branches, blanket gentle rolling hills as one seamless rusting contoured floor. Home to many Kikuyus, as well as Luos, a dozen occupants may sleep in a space the size of a small studio apartment. Water is provided through a well system, but still boiled before drinking. Before the wells though, streams running between villages was potable, but a careless regard for rubbish and unsanitary latrine use has made the watercourse a reeking exposed sewer system.
Post-election, Kibera epitomized the example of violence from tribalism and political outrage. We met Alan while filming the ruins of a government building mobbed by protestors and torched by petrol bombs. I was told three people were killed just a few feet from where I set the camera. Alan, curious about the camera approached us.
Over the concrete fence, a choir’s praises resonated through cracked and scorched walls of a church still in use after fire bombed. A felt a drop of water splash on my neck, and although the sky looked as if it wanted to rain, nothing more fell.
“Can I ask you a question?” Alan asked me studying the camera as I reviewed footage from his interview.
“Sure.” No question followed. He slid two fingers over the camera’s focus ring. “You said you want to be a journalist?” I offered in exchange.
“Yes, but it is not going to happen.”
“Why?”
“Because I do not have money to go to college,” he stated quickly. (Refer to a previous post titled, “Namibia – Sundowner”)
“Do you need to go to college to have a job?”
“Yes.”
After a pause second-guessing my response, I explained to Alan how through persistence and unpaid labor for a local television station, he—in a sense—would get a “free” education, as well as establish connections that could lead to a paying job. In the States, internships especially in the film business are common practice, but here in Kenya?
He looked at me as if his heart, in all seriousness, skipped a beat. “I want your e-mail.”

Dressed in a flannel overcoat, forest-green beanie and enamel-splattered jeans, Solo7 carried a bucket of white paint to a wood fence and brushed the words, “Keep Peace by Solo7”. Local bystanders call out his name with affection as he crossed the Ngong Road to an advertisement wall. Smoke burning from heaps of trash blacken and peal the already muted colors of Melvin’s Chai Tea. “No Dumping” a sign reads. Solo writes, “Keep Kibera Clean by Solo7”. The bold white letters join the hundreds more political statements on every other surface in and outside Kibera’s main throughway. The vandalism is accepted and appreciated, and as a result, Solo7 is a hometown celebrity artist.
A tight dirt corridor between dividers of brown corduroy and pasty mud opens to a four-man Kenyan board game situated across from Solo7’s communal art studio, M2. A heavy metal door pushes into the enclosed cramped patio of a two-story shed. At the edge of the door’s swing is Gambo, another artist dabbing yellow acrylic onto a near-finished art canvas, his studio dubbed, “China”.
I walk up the bottle-cap coated staircase into “Amrika”, Solo7’s stage. Paintings, collages and sculptures shield the rusting tin wall. A window peers over the patio and surrounding Kibera framed over a bench littered with Giger-esque wire-frame figurines and woodcarvings.
Solo7 clears a space, sets a legal-letter sized composition against a propped-up translucent Coca-Cola banner, and outlines an ominous depicted figure with a soft lime-white glow. He dabs the acrylic paint heavily against the canvas; his brush blunt and hardened.
“After people heard that President Kibaki had won election, people grew mad ‘cause they expected Raila to be president. People say that they rigged election results. After that people had grown mad and they started torching people’s properties, setting them a blaze, and they were hunting Kikuyus from this place claiming Kikuyus are responsible for election rigging. So I saw in such a fashion, people cannot live that way forever since we are all suffering. All tribes of Kenya, because it was not business as usual.” He dipped his brush into a cap of green paint and touched the canvas. “Children were dying of hunger, and old men and women too. I decided to come up with this peace initiative writing on the walls at least to educate my fellow youths. ‘Cause they are the youth causing all this chaos. So I wanted them to understand and retreat back.”
Solo7’s penname originates from a series of coincidences: his proper first name, Solomon, being the seventh child in his family, and a series of life incidences that relate or reference the number “7”; in a much more significant way the number “17” has impacted my life.
“How has the post-election violence influenced your creativity?” I asked.
“It only affected the sense of my artwork, but not the creativity. I paint these pictures I normally see a kind of fire feeling. Like this piece that you see here,” Solo turned his body and pointed a large fabric canvas of human shapes worked into a flare of red brilliance. “Its got a lot of warm colors that depict fire.”
Solo continued to describe his depiction of the violence he experienced. I admired it for its composition, but above all the meaning from an artist of resistance.

Kenya (Nairobi) - Pieces

On the cover of Lonely Planet’s Guide on Kenya are the confident and anxious gazes of a cheetah family. Flip a couple pages past the front cover to the introduction page and you immediately get the sense Kenya is the premier tourist destination of eastern Africa. When taking into account the extensive wildlife, vistas and culture, nowhere in Africa is arguably so diverse and so accessible.
Outside the terminal gate at Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi, forty or more drivers crowd a painted line on the floor holding paper name signs. Four middle-aged women decked out with outdoors safari attire, apparently a tour group, rant about the lack of pages provided in their passports. No free page, no visa, no entrance. They find their driver and laugh out the sliding door.
At the end of the line, a short, bald-headed Kenyan holds a sign with the title, “Village” for Village Volunteers, an NGO (Non-Government Organization) who’s purpose is to create sustainable development projects with other NGOs. This is achieved through grants, fundraising and importantly, to send volunteers where the help is needed.
Not far from the airport is Embakasi and the Doonholm district, a middle-class suburb of gated—and guarded—communities. (The term “suburb” is used to reference the upper-class locations of Nairobi.) Homes in Doonholm are like townhouses in the States; a two-minute walk from the Village Volunteers transition home however, will take you to the outer fringes of the Pipeline slums, a shantytown of makeshift huts and development housing. Interspersed between the shanty shacks and cement-framed apartments is a communal market of produce, services and apparel, in particular a wide assortment of shoes.
Vendors hawk their goods from a blanket or branch constructed shed. Higher end services, including salons and computer repair to government offices are walk-in closet-sized alcoves found along tarred roads leading into city center. The term “hole-in-the-wall” must have originated from the slums.
I stepped away for the rail track and let the six-car train chug over puddles of murky rancid water. The uneven chatter frightened a nearby chicken to flutter its wing fruitlessly. Scrupulous hawkers followed Winnie, a 26-year old Kenyan girl, and myself from behind their disheveled kiosks.
“Mzungu,” a group of guys ID-ed me smirking. We kept walking.
Two girls whispered.
“Go find your own mzungu man!” A man passing by witnessing the exchange yelled in Swahili at the girls. Winnie laughed.
“I’m going to open my own kiosk and call it the ‘Happy Mzungu’,” I joked. Happy white man.
“You should. You would have everyone’s business,” I was told. “You could listen to people’s problems and give them money,” Winnie suggested.
Maybe not. White is the color of Kenyan Schillings, in fact, and wearing an Arsenal jersey and speaking through an acceptable South African accent doesn’t change the fact I am a mzungu out of his element. Time is key.
An hour through standstill traffic brings me to the Kenyan capital of Nairobi. A dense commercial market centered by the Hilton hotel—a landmark reference surrounded by rail, bus and matatu services, as well as a cluster-fuck of vehicle and pedestrian madness. And madness is an understatement, as a thick skin and ample patience is required to deal with the daily commutes and transfers of the mass population, where everyday is an endeavoring experience. Government willing, a civil engineer would generate serious bank to organize the civil chaos that is Nairobi.
Eight nights will be spent here, an excessive amount for anyone visiting without necessary purpose. But our purpose is necessary. And as the country regains credibility, we will examine the pieces that led to its fallout, and what picture it will construct as a result.
I’m sure somewhere in Kenya, Simba is presiding high on Pride Rock and those same middle-aged women from the airport are locked comfortably in their Land Rover jovially snapping pictures from a safe distance. As much as I’d like to join them (privately and unguided where one can break park rules and throw a rock at Simba for the sake of an exciting shot), that is not my purpose here in Kenya. Behind the tourist veil is a forgotten and misconceived reality, raunchy and impoverished, rife with corruption and hope of peace through a morbid recent history and uncertain future.
“This is Africa,” Leonardo DiCaprio’s character states in the movie, Blood Diamond. Although used expressively before the movie’s release, the phrase—and its variation—is spoken with heightened popularity; at least it is here in Nairobi. “T.I.A.”
And as the electricity randomly switches off and on, herding pedestrians narrowly dodge reckless traffic, taxis and buses alike regularly fail or demonstrate the effectiveness of driving on empty, and political passions run rampant from city center to the bush, I am in Africa. No singing lions or wisecracking meerkats. This is Kenya.

Namibia - Epilogue

Six weeks prior and one week after arriving at Sossusvlei Mountain Lodge, I joined a Dutch couple on their visit to Sossusvlei proper. The mountainous iron oxide tinted dunes are a striking contrast of form and color in the early morning sunlight. Not a far hike from a 4WD track into the dunes, are dozens of dead camel-thorn trees, some over 500 years in age in a desolate clay pan. A location for many commercial and feature film productions, the dead valley and surrounding red dunes are a photographer’s paradise. Camera aside though, the landscape is surreal, alien and unique, a sensation only hinted by some of the best photography. I found myself walking the mud-cracked turf alone; the Dutch couple had snapped a picture from the valley shore and return hiked to the game truck.
How do you travel thousands of miles from home, hike a fair distance then turn around and leave? I thought. The couple had in fact traveled tens of thousands of miles across the globe, visiting locations I personally dream about experiencing, for what? And there lies a difference: visit or experience.
Experiencing another country, culture, landscape, activity is not always easy. On the surface, we paint for ourselves an idea about the world seen, but often without context. Revealing that context takes flexibility. A flexibility in time, tolerance, adaptability and open-mindedness. The rewards are not always tangible, but it’s the intangible where ideas begin. What those ideas are and where those ideas take me, I do not know. I guess I could say, “My experience is not over yet.” Writing this blog has helped explore that experience from breaking preconceptions to shedding new insight on not only another part of the world, but our part as well.

This video was edited at the conclusion of my stay at Sossusvlei Mountain Lodge for demonstration purposes only, and revised shortly after returning home to include a select few settings during those two weeks in northern Namibia. Structurally, the footage follows my travels in rough chronological order.  This is just a tease of the 21+ hours of HD footage captured and soon to be logged and edited into proposal demos and short docs.

Namibia - Sundowner

The score was tied nothing each at halftime. I looked at the sun: a brilliant maroon and gold disc now less than an hour from setting. Peter and Theresa sat beside the truck on collapsible camping chairs at the sideline, waiting. We would need to leave now to catch sunset in Rundu, twenty K from the field.
Although tomorrow would be my last full day in Namibia, over half that day will be spent driving to Windhoek. Today, I considered, would conclude my seven-week journey.
I did not like to think about it. Two months is a lot of time. A lot of time to explore, experience, and build relationships. Relationships that I know will and already have impacted my life. The feeling is nostalgic—to the letter of its definition.
I jogged from mid-field to the sideline, joining the team in huddle.
“It’s time for me to go. Thank you for letting me play and all the best this season.”
Leaving at halftime was never my intention. We arrived just past three to an empty field and yet another example of  “Namibian Time”. This punctual flakiness was more frustrating to Theresa than myself, and she would have to deal with it for the next nine months. We talked about watching the sun set overlooking the Kavango River and surrounding flood plains the last two days, but changing plans and a never-on-time/laid-back approach left this evening as our only chance.
The game would not start until a quarter to five; almost two hours after the team was scheduled to arrive.
“Let’s all be here on time at three o’clock tomorrow. And let’s make sure we get here before Mr. Frank and show him we’re ready to play,” Andrew the team’s trainer mandated the day before at practice.
“Andrew. If the team wins their first game, I will pay for the season,” I offered to
the team’s excitement.
The players are a mix of ages from maybe eight to twenty-something. They have no jerseys, and one soccer ball for practice. Each player is expected to cough up a dollar to cover the $30 Namibian league fee. Doesn’t sound like much, but even a dollar carries a lot of value and makes winning that more important. The sum gathered from all teams is awarded to the season champions a couple weeks later.
The players have talent, perhaps a function of playing on an inconsistent surface, but regardless of their age differences, they play like a team. Discipline is not a problem, but punctuality is an issue. I thought a lack of timepieces was the reason, either by a watch or cellular phone, but no, “Namibian Time” means anytime an hour or so after a scheduled appointment. Incidentally, pay as you go cell phones are very common and make up for the complete lack of landlines. A cell tower is much easier to construct than laying kilometers of wire. Government patience paid off.
“So how did I play? …I know, you don’t have to tell me, I sucked.”
“No, you played well, just off-sides a lot,” Theresa noted loading into the truck. “Peter would say, ‘He’s off-sides again.’”
Coming from a hockey background, getting behind the defense is key. No wonder soccer’s goal counts are so low. Then again, so are hockey’s, just not as bad.
“Erick, are you coming?” I invited.
Erick is a 14 year-old from Zambia and a sponsored student finishing holiday before returning to class in Rundu. He was found living with his aunt by a couple from Florida and brought to Valerie Peyper, n’Kwazi Lodge’s owner and community foundation organizer. Valerie and her husband Weynand, sponsor several students at various ages and levels through lodge profits and visitor donations. Only self-motivated and academically driven learners are given scholarship, and in exchange must return and better the area’s community. At present, two students are studying abroad, one as far away as Moscow, and several working their way through secondary education (high school).
I read about n’Kwazi in Lonely Planet’s guide on Botswana & Namibia. The brief but touching article painted an accurate representation of Namibia’s and most of southern Africa’s third-world education and living environment. In the months leading to my trip, I would collect several hundred U.S. dollars to sponsor a student’s education and living expenses for a year. An effort I hope to continue well after returning to the States.
School runs year-round on a trimester system with breaks in August, December/January and April/May. My timing was impeccable for the holiday, although I never did get to visit a school in operation. Something I wish I could have filmed and experienced.
The government supports a child’s education until form (grade) 10, and on to form 12 if a learner’s marks warrant continued learning. Otherwise, he or she is dropped out—if family needs have not already commanded that course of action. The ability to attend school may be paid for, however school funds and materials like uniforms, textbooks, pens and stationary are left to cover by a learner’s family. Doesn’t seem unreasonable, however even these taken-for-granted items are a needed commodity throughout public schools in an almost all-rural Namibia.
The Mayana Primary School caters to a student body of almost 600 from grade 1 to grade 7 with only a staff of 18. Many children are orphans reared by families in the community, yet they still attend class, sometimes malnourished—an issue being addressed by the school. Although wired for electricity, the last couple years brought potable well water to the school and a block fence restricting wandering animals; all through donated, typically foreign support.
“It doesn’t look like I’m going to play, so yes, I’m coming,” Erick answered.
“Are we going to stop at the lodge and pick up your camera?” Theresa inquired.
“We don’t have the time. I think this’ll be one picture for the memory and not the camera.”
I would wish I brought at least one of the cameras. The town of Rundu rests atop a shallow mesa. Not far from the gate crossing into Angola is a bluff facing the west and a flat countryside sinking distantly below the horizon. The Kavango River defines this part’s border between Namibia and Angola, and during the rainy season spills into the adjacent plains quite some distance from its present banks. The sun was just minutes from disappearing behind thickening haze, and reminded me of a color stamp used on Bingo cards at the casino. I thought how cool it would be to witness a partial or annular solar eclipse near sundown from this location, but for now a normal sunset would be my last scenic vista of the country.
“This is great, Mrs. Tha-ray-see-a. Thank you.” That’s not how her name is pronounced in Germany or back in the States, but it is here. Apart for aiding in community education project building, Theresa tutors Erick and the other sponsored learners over holidays and weekends by their choice. As Erick and Elias, my sponsored student would tell me, “Education is the key to success.” And they believe it.
We sat on the edge of a stone pit. The sun had by this time disappeared, although the sky was just as bright as when the sun was visible. Peter left to walk into town leaving the three of us admiring the view.
“You don’t mind me asking about your parents, do you?” I asked Erick knowing only a little about his history through Valerie.
“No, it’s okay. You can ask.”
Erick is always smiling, always seemingly happy. It’s hard not to be the same around him. He speaks softly, and sounds both humble and accepting. His English is very good for a second language: articulate and proper. I could speak to him with speech no different than I would to someone back at home.
“How long has it been since you’ve seen your parents?” I asked.
“For many years now.” I think he said since 2002, five years ago for one parent.
“Why aren’t you with your parents now?”
“I don’t know why my parents aren’t taking care of me.” Erick explained about his father’s alcohol abuse, his parents’ separation, and tossing between aunties before being found by the American couple. He does miss his family very much, but that doesn’t appear to affect his behavior or goals. All the while, working in a smile.
I couldn’t help feel piteous for the all-too-common situation, but at the same time inspired by the drive to overcome adversity. No complaints, no excuses, just action.
Elias is opposite only in that he doesn’t smile as often as Erick (that’s changed with the nickname of “Smiley II”, a former hockey player reference). Orphaned at an early age after both parents passed away, Elias, now fifteen is independent and very self-motivated especially with his studies.

“How was your last report card?” Theresa asked Elias at the conclusion of an on-camera interview the following morning.
“I would say it was good as the way people saw it,” Elias began somberly, “But then to myself, it was not good, ‘cos that was not what I supposed to get. But when the people saw it, people like my relatives, my friends, all the people that saw it, they said it was good. For myself, I wanted more than that … For example, I will say that if I want to achieve maybe a B in science, of course I must get that. I’m not happy when I get lower than that,” Elias explained. In fact, he is a lot stronger student than he credits himself.
Independence is a quality I noticed with many youths at a young age, perhaps a function of living in the bush. I do not know how the level of education compares with the States, but from what I briefly saw during a tutor session, some subjects appear on par.
The day was getting late, well past “Namibia Time” for my departure to Windhoek. The time was one o’clock with a six-hour drive ahead, and we still needed to pick-up Peter’s daughter, Anna (nickname: Dik-dik for the world’s second smallest antelope).
I dropped Peter off to visit a day earlier and captured the reunion on video. I don’t know what surprised Anna more, a long overdue Daddy or the white man with a big camera.
“See that man over there,” Peter told his little Dik-dik in Oshivambo pointing at me, “That’s your Daddy.” I had no idea.
“No. No,” Anna cried.
At the conclusion of Erick and Elias’ interviews, I asked if there was anything they’d like to say before switching off the camera.
“How about we interview you?” Erick requested.
I work behind the camera and not in front, but in this case… “Fair enough since I put you through it.”
We reversed places. I connected the microphone to my shirt and sat in the hot seat. As part of the scholarship deal I put together for the students, both Erick and Elias are required to write a letter every couple months and take pictures with the three disposable cameras I brought from home. The night prior was spent teaching Erick how to handle a camera and compose pictures using my digital camera—a challenge after a previous sponsored project left virtually every picture unusable I was told.
Behind the HD camera, Erick smartly composed the frame then asked me the following questions:
“Why are you in Africa? Did you enjoy Africa, and what did you like the best? You’ve been to places where those places are not developed and the people are not wealthy, what ideas would you give those people besides working that those people can change things and get a better living? When are you coming back to Africa?”

Namibia - Kavango Night Life

There are no streetlights on the one lane B8 highway leaving Rundu towards the Caprivi Strip. Donkeys and goats cross with alarming regularity, as do the hundreds of people walking the shoulder. An inversion layer of smoke front-lit by the truck’s high beams restricted my visibility to a hundred meters ahead on our path, and I slowed the vehicle accordingly.
“What are these people doing? Where are they going?” Peter and I asked ourselves for the umpteenth time. A week earlier on our approach to Ondangwa, I counted 88 pedestrians and seven vehicles over a ten-kilometer stretch ofvirtually nowhere. That ratio would be far greater here if I counted—granted the Rundu area is the second most populated region of Namibia with over 40,000 residents by the most recent census.
After several attempts to phone the n’Kwazi Lodge for directions with no connection, I pulled to the side, rolled down the window and waited for Peter to add more minutes onto his cell service. All was not quiet.
“There’s singing,” I exclaimed before grabbing the camera and exiting.Instead of expected footsteps and distant chatter, I eavesdropped into women singing over a slow drumbeat from a house deep in the bush across the road.
Song did not radiate from just one direction though. It came from everywhere. Different voices, different rhythms; we were surrounded by music. Surreal. Unfortunately, no broadcast camera can record the subtle light given only by stars, and although the video is dark, the audio paints a vivid landscape of Kavango region. Peter and I listened in darkness, but one song stood out and progressively grew louder and louder.
Twenty-some children and adults walked the highway spreading and contracting to the whim of light motor traffic. After finishing one song, the group would immediately start the next. We followed them another kilometer before converging at a roadside mission.
“Our village is ten kilometers from here. We are attending a conference,” the group’s leader explained upon our asking.
These conferences are frequently attended by many tens of church congregations across the area to share songs and ideas over a long weekend of sermon and celebration. Christian—and its various sects—is the primary denomination for Namibian nationals regardless of geographic location.
A Dutch-reform church I wearily attended on my last full day stay at n’Kwanzi is a humble painted brick structure cracking at the seams over a weathered concrete floor. Elder parishioners sit on wooden chairs leaving children to sit on the floor or if available, cement bricks. The attire worn by everyone young or old puts meaning behind one’s Sunday best with respect to the lifestyle. Women wear long colorful dresses, and the men wear suit trousers and a long-sleeve button-down shirt, some with ties and jackets.

Song dominated the service with three choir groups: youth, women’s and men’s. Each choir appeared to compete against the other trying to out-do the former with passion and energy. Regardless of friendly animosity, opposing members would occasional join in another group’s praise.
Concluding the feature length service, parishioners are required to donate $1 Namibian. The use of that money is discussed for hours afterward in a town hall-like meeting. I did not stay long, but not before presenting myself to the congregation.

Theresa, a German schoolteacher on sabbatical, and I pushed our way through a mob of music fans pushing the gate into the Rundu Open Market. We had alre

ady purchased admission and fought to have the faint stamp on our arms seen by police guarding the entrance. At 2:30am, all of us were tired and fed up with waiting for Stanley, a Damara R&B/hip-hop artist to perform after dozens of opening acts.
I spotted the concert poster at a supermarket—surprisingly well stocked and varied—that evening. I had come to appreciate many of the local pop-culture artists loaded onto my iPod before leaving SML, and couldn’t pass on an opportunity to experience a concert in Namibia, especially for Peter’s favorite performer. However, if I knew we wouldn’t see the featured guest on stage until early morning, we all would have opted for a nap and skip many of the weak acts preceding the performance.
“Are we having a good time?” the female MC asked lankily swaying across the scaffold stage to the antsy crowd.
“Peter. Have you seen the movie, ‘Full Metal Jacket’?” I asked. “No.”
“You should rent it. There’s a sleazy hooker that reminds me of this girl on stage.” Short skirt, high heels matching a high-pitched broken word voice with complimenting demeanor, I just waited for her to say, “Five dollar,” and seal the comparison.
“Who are you waiting for? Who do you want to see?” She teased in fashionable “five dollar” stride.
“Stanley!” The crowd answered.
“Okay. We’re going to give you want you want. Here he is … [someone other than Stanley]!”
Oh my two goats.
The Rundu Open Market is the local’s daily fair for food and homemade merchandise. Tonight the small booths were put aside clearing a large space for shockingly couple hundred participants. Surprising in my opinion, but given the number of people hugging the fence I’m guessing unable to afford the $40 Namibian admission charge (~$6 USD), perhaps the crowd is proportionate to the population.
Stanley would disappointingly perform all of maybe six songs to a recorded underscore. We left immediately at his conclusion.

I dropped Peter and Mathieu off at the lodge, a cluster of 12 quaint villas with an open dinning, bar and lounge area designed with 

rustic class, and Theresa a short couple kilometer two-track sand road to the old Mayana Lodge. No longer a lodge, it is owned by n’Kwazi and in the process of being remodeled for community projects.
Many of these two-track paths weave in and out of each other leading to homes, the two soccer fields, n’Kwazi and I do not 

know where else. “Straight” is a relative term when giving directions on these roads. Many V, and either left or right could be taken as “straight”. I had driven this passage through the sandy bush along the Kavango River a few times now, but that morning “straight” meant left and not right.
Driving some distance before realizing this was not the right course I turned around and followed another road. Not the right one either, I turned around again. Changing direction meant jumping off the tire tracks and into sandy grass fields. Just before completing the maneuver, the driver’s side-rear tire spun and dug itself into the soft soil.
3:30 in the morning and I’m buried in the sand. Happy day. Where am I anyway?
Angola loomed over the river. Sounds quiet. I thought about the Malaria infested mosquitoes piercing my skin—I think I took my vaccination pills yesterday—the Spitting Cobra, Black Mamba and a bad-tempered Puff Adder lurking in the bush—No anti-venom here. Shit. At least there’s a Mopane tree, and I do need to take a piss.
A cow “mooed” past me.
I laughed. We would make light of such exaggerated notions later that day. In fact, everything was plausible, but so is stepping on a Rattlesnake or getting stung by a scorpion back at home.
The waning gibbous moon provided enough light to see most of what I was doing, like shoveling sand and clearing a departure path. I secured the forward hubs, engaged four-low and the rear differential lock; all should be good now. Oh yeah, I need to get out of first gear.
Moving into first gear was not a problem until we received the replacement truck from the car hire several days back. This one, a Toyota, was more sensitive and both Peter and I (moreso me) would stall a number of times.
Repeated attempts and shoveling found the vehicle’s bumper flush with the ground. I was digging myself deeper and deeper into the trap.
“Peter. You enjoying your sleeping safari?” I asked after a kilometer-long bush walk guided by my GPS. Fortunately for me, I plotted the location of the lodge earlier the previous day.
Peter grunted.
“Would you like to hear some exciting news? … I got stuck in the sand.”
“How bad?” Peter was more awake.
I reluctantly admitted, “Bad enough I hiked here to get help.”
Excavating a path was no longer an option. The vehicle needed to be brought back to level. Peter jacked the vehicle; I replaced the sand under and around the tire. This required more than a couple resets until a wood plank could be squeezed beneath the tire as a solid launch platform. By the time we returned to n’Kwanzi, the sun had breached the horizon and a church commitment I made was less than two hours minus departure.

Namibia - The First

Peter Nuugonya is a Owambo ranger and guide at Sossusvlei Mountain Lodge. He is the father of two children: one on the way through a lodge relationship and the first, a five year-old daughter living with mom 1,500 kilometersaway near the city of Rundu. Peter’s two-week holiday would coincide with my two-week trek throughout northern Namibia and provide a great opportunity to live with his family in Ondangwa then retrieve his daughter before returning to Windhoek. 

A seven-kilometer two-wheel track at the conclusion of an eight-hour drive would bring us to a Mopane wood fence under full moonlight.The Mopane tree is as useful as it is common in north-central/western Namibia. Aside for its termite resistantwood, Mopane leaves have medicinal properties. If falling victim to a spitting cobra’s venom, one could have someone chew the tree’s green leaf and spit the saliva mixture into one’s eye. It’s either that or flushing the venom out with urine; Peter experienced the former.
Strangely, spring brings a change of color to the leaves no different than autumn for the maple tree as an example. And with that change, a secreted crust forms on the leaf’s surface that is edible and is referred to as natural chips—tasting like a sweet potato chip.
“This is my home,” Peter announced as we narrowly squeezed the truck through a narrow passage.
The huts—or rooms—are built of clay bricks from soil at the base of meter-plus high, spire-like termite mounds, and the roofs are tightly bound Mopanie twigs or long grasses thatched together over a concave circular frame. The interior is decorated to the person’s tastes or interests, and can resemble a dorm room at one extreme. Peter’s room, though, is the only structure made from concrete brick and sports a tin plate ceiling and bare walls. These village-like homes make up the vast majority of houses through Namibia.
At night, everyone gathers together around a small fire gradually fed by long Umbrella tree branches. The smoke carries a sweet, yet pungent fragrance that is unique to this wood’s character. Peter is the fifth of nine siblings at age 24, with five sisters, the youngest being 13, Josephine, and the oldest, a 32 year-old brother, Philemon, and police chief in Opuwo whom we met on the way to Epupa.“Good evening, sir,” Nelao shook my hand speaking very slowly, as if rehearsed. All children are very polite and proper when formally meeting people, and Nelao, a family kid at age seven, was being trained as such. She seemed nervous though and had a very uncertain posture to her body language.
“You are the first white person to visit our village in seventeen years since the independence,” Peter’s mom explained in Owambo and translated by her eldest daughter, Benny. “They are afraid of you—well, not afraid, but they’ve never seen a white person before,” Benny added.
Nelao and two other younger children sat and stared at me with steady big eyes, Josephine though, would shy away every time I spoke to her.“You can expect a lot of people to tear away when they see you tomorrow. But it’s good because they will learn about the independence in school and they will be able to tell their friends how a white person came to the village and say how different you are.”
Nice.
The now-ruling Swabo political party revolted against colonists from South Africa on the 26th of August in attempt to make Namibia a state of the country. The first bullet against the South Africans began the liberation at a place named Omugurugwombashe. Every year the Namibian president addresses the nation on the 26th, also known as Heroes’ Day. In fact, President Nghifikebunye Bohamba addressed the nation from Eenhana, a small town an hour’s drive north of Ondangwa and east Oshinkango, a border city I tried to get into Angola on Heroes’ Day. I found this out after the fact, and would have visited the festivities instead of being interrogated about filmmaking in the chief border patroller’s office.
“Maybe you will come here and marry a Namibian woman.” Benny continued after I laughed, “It’s not about color, it’s about the person inside. That’s all that matters.”
I agreed. I wonder if I’m being groomed as a sugar daddy, I jokingly thought.
Peter’s mom spoke again and Benny translated, “You can have her daughter; do you want her?” Referring to 22 year-old Beatha.
I’ve been here all of an hour and already been accepted as a potential husband. Not bad for the first white guy in seventeen years, I thought.
Even under the moonlight, I could tell Beatha was blushing. I looked at Josephine; she shied away again.
“Does Beatha agree with that?” I asked. No answer, but the idea would be brought up a few more times into my stay. Maybe Peter’s mom wasn’t joking.
A metal tub was placed in front of me and a bowl of macaroni and fresh chicken is served to Peter and I. I asked why there wasn’t enough for the half dozen or so here.
“Because we don’t eat white food,” someone answered.
“Is that white as in white person food, or white as in the macaroni is white?” I joked as the others ate their “black” meal (maiz meal). Maiz meal: a sticky, thick porridge-like substance made of maiz seed, cooked into a porous cake and eaten like cotton candy for consumption. The meal has a plain taste, but I am told, provides all of the nourishment required by the body. Preparing it is the woman’s task in the mornings. She will sift sand from the seed then pound it to a powder. The women of the house do a fair amount of physical work, as the men maintain the livestock and bring money to the family.
The house has no electricity, nor running water and toilet facilities. Back in the States, we would call this camping—with all one’s personal effects. Water is drawn from a well and balanced in small tubs at the top of one’s head (usually the woman) sometimes a couple kilometers hike to home. The water is not always clean, and is boiled for drinking and cooking, but also to provide warm hand baths. Contrary to what one might think, hygiene is very important. Hands are washed before every meal and baths are taken every couple days.
The village spans many hectares and consists of dozens of homes and families, a community water well, shabeen (shack convenient store and major hangout), and one or more soccer fields made of cleared sand turf and wood goal posts. On the weekends, villages play against each other with teams made up of talent regardless of age. Soccer balls and jerseys are not in abundance, and cleats are a luxury. Children will wrap scrap plastic bags or ragged fabrics bound together by tape or string to fashion a ball. Shirts and skins sometimes define teams, and foot apparel consists of hiking boots, sneakers, sandals, or more commonly bare-feet. I tried all but barefooted and regret not trying.Playing in the sand, or gravel in the case of Sossusvlei Mountain Lodge’s village (identified as the “World’s Greatest Soccer Field in the World” by a local paper), has its advantages and difficulties. I found it easier to lift the ball on a pass or kick, but dribbling is chaotic on the inconsistent surface forcing many pass plays. Superstars shine controlling and protecting the ball, but rely heavily on support. I was pleasantly surprised by the strong team play and communication even with younger players, but given the playing conditions one really has no choice to rely on his teammates.

The sky wants to rain, or at the very least it gives that appearance. A white haze of fine dust mixes with the blue sky to create a concrete gray horizon. Only at the zenith does one know any different. Although this atmosphere extinction drastically dims the sun to a pale maroon orb at dawn and especially dusk, the sky is opaque to many dim stars. There may be a lack of light pollution, but that doesn’t mean anything if the transparency is opaque. And with a waning full moon, I could be in the center of suburbia and know no difference. Perhaps this is the reason for a lack of interest in the stars for many Namibians. An excuse shared by their light polluted counterparts elsewhere, although I found that impression changes when the stars are put into context.
No exception to the white haze is the Etosha National Park. At the heart of north-central Namibia and stretching over 22,000 square kilometers Etosha means “Great White Place” in Owambo for a giant pan at its center. This evaporated delta is not the reason of attraction for most all visitors to Namibia. Etosha is a living wildlife zoo. If the park were a state or country, its many water holes would be major cities teaming with springbok and zebra to elephants, rhinos and much more.  By my second day, many species would eventually blend with the scenery in the hunt for more exotic game, like leopards and lions.
Finding a leopard was easy. Actually, spotting one was a case of being in the right place at the right time, and in fact a leopard sighting is rare. Lions are little easier to come by. Tipped by a ranger, we found two sleeping under a tree a short distance from the main road. Sleeping, how interesting is that?
We waited for the road to clear of spectators before trucking into the bush via an unmarked, near inexistent two-wheel track. The GPS coordinates I plotted earlier led us just a couple hundred feet away from the lions. They watched me as I unfolded the tripod from the rear cab window and locked the camera. I would have like to gotten closer, but this would do.
Even at a distance, the growl penetrated my chest hanging from the window like a deep thunder. A sudden noise. One lion sat up and looked at his mate as if asking him, “What should we do about these two?” Simultaneously, both jumped into a defensive posture, barking a much louder thunder. Looked more like they wanted to make a snack out of me.
“Oh shit!” I yelped grabbing the video camera and ducking in the truck. Peter laughed.
“It’s okay, they’re not going to do anything. They’re just letting us know to keep our distance,” Peter explained. “Besides, we’re safe in the car.”
Pitifully, I replaced the camera to record the lions’ trot into the bush.
Etosha National Park has a number of visitor-governing rules. Foremost on that list and reminded at every turn and place of interest is, “Stay in you car.” Michael, a guide at Onguma Resort just outside the visitor restcamp Namutoni told us a story our first night in the park—an opportunity arranged just hours before arrival to visit Onguma and meet with the lodge’s general manager about future video production.
“These Japanese tourists happened by a couple lions resting underneath a tree and decided to prop their video camera on the roof of their vehicle and stand in front of the lions. On the video, you can watch one of the lions stalk one of the tourists and take him out from behind.”
I can only imagine what that might look like on TV. Certainly, I get more than a few laughs replaying my lion footage.

Namibia - Sweets

“Shit happens, I know that,” I paced behind the truck scowling into Peter’s cell phone. Although cell coverage is available throughout Namibia, it is only found in areas of major population and attraction. Fortunately, Epupa Falls is such an attraction and apparently so was I, as a small crowd of visiting Italians and Epupa natives had gathered to watch and listen in on my phone conversation. I would charge an attraction fee if I could. “If the vehicle needs repair work—like fixing the fuse problem yesterday—fine, I expect that; but what I don’t expect is not being prepared with the right tools to fix a simple thing like a flat tyre. That’s bullshit.”
We were given tools to change a tire, I made sure of that before leaving the car hire, but the jack rod would not connect with the axel and the wheel spanner’s socket was too large for the rim bolts. A rod for our tent sufficed as a replacement to raise the jack; but what good is that if we cannot get the tire off the bearing?
“What if this happened on the Kunene River Road? We’d be screwed with kilometers of nothing but four-wheel drive track in either direction. I’m glad it happened here than out there, but that still doesn’t help us.” Hitting the 96-kilometer, rough-going Kunene River Trail would be impossible this late in the morning and I made this very clear to the rental clerk as the reason I rented a 4x4 truck before searching and finding replacement tools from a local couple.
Nonna and Charles are residents of the Epupa Falls area. Charles, a spitting image of Captain Morgan, is a geologist with mines 400 kilometers south of us in Damaraland around the town of Uls and home to the Damara tribe, and elsewhere in Koakland, a region home to the Herero and the tourist-popular Himba tribes, as well as the Epupa Falls. We would unwittingly pass Charlie’s blue sodomite mine the following day in route to Peter’s home village near Ondangwa, another 400-plus kilometers east along the Angolan border.The couple also shares a special relationship with the Himba people. Only a selected few white people are currently accepted into a Himba tribe. This honor requires years of building trust and can easily be taken away. Such an acceptance offers the opportunity to participate in meetings, weddings and funerals, the latter two are of great significance bringing members from great walking distances for one to two weeks of straight partying. Disappointingly, the Namibian government does not recognize Himba marriage, but that will not stop the matrimony plans of Nonna and Charles.
The Himba are considered one of the last remaining traditional tribes in Africa. Painted in iron oxide from head to toe as a mosquito repellant, their appearances are unique to Africa and are endemic to northwestern Namibia and adjacent Angola. Settlements are first seen northward approaching the town of Opuwo.
I was writing when Peter stepped on the brakes looking through the side-view mirror. “Himba!”
Mistakenly classified as a village, the small arrangement of SUV-sized thatched-roof huts enclosed by a Mopane wood fence is regarded as a house. Beside the gravel road, three Himba women and two children construct apparel in the shade of a Mopane tree dressed sparsely in beaded necklaces, leather belts and a loincloth. Everything is painted rust red—with exception to a couple necklace bone ornaments—to match their skin. The language spoken is very close to Herero, in fact the Himba were once the slaves of the Heroro many years ago. Peter translated for me.
“They said, if you pay them $30 dollars, they will dress themselves up and you can take pictures of them.”
“Dress up?”
“Put on their traditional necklaces, bracelets.”
Although culturally the Himba remain the same with deep traditions, tourism has brought western product and money into their lives, thus changing their behavior to accommodate the wide-eyed interests of tourists. I’m not gonna lie, I too wanted to meet the Himba after viewing pictures online, but quickly became disinterested after feeling like I paid for a side-show act in the passing circus. The Himba are a people grasping to their traditions in the midst of temptation, and find its members untouched by aspects of the real world is difficult. Although, not far west of Epupa and near inaccessible to outsiders are the only Himbas sterile from outsiders. Many have not seen a white person, let alone a car or cell phone, but the genetic pool is running shallow and time is their greatest threat.

Roads in Namibia are labeled according condition maintenance. “C” roads are sub-major gravel highways in good riding condition, and the majority “D” roads equate to some of the best forest service roads in northern Arizona. A small percentage tarred “B” highways connect the few major cities/areas, and intersecting everywhere are two-wheel tracked paths joining villages and homes.
One can imagine a number of hazards facing motorists on these gravel roads. In fact, a week into my stay at Sossusvlei Mountain Lodge, a family rolled their vehicle several times on the adjacent C27 highway; both children walked away, however both parents suffered major injuries. Even with a (gravel) landing strip a mere few kilometers from the acc

ident site, twenty-fours hours would pass before the couple would receive proper medical attention. Needless to say, the best way to survive an injury is to not get hurt in the first place. I’m no stranger to injury, but at the time of writing this, a few mosquito bites are my only harm.
On any given day or night, you will pass more pedestrians walking the highway than vehicles—a tremendous luxury. Even bicycles are few in number, and combined these are an example of the poverty level throughout rural Namibia. Children rush into the path of moving vehicles, sometimes not expectantly. This is a hazard on both the gravel roads, as well as on the tarred highways.
“Give me cap. Give me book,” one boy asked at the window, but for resale and not for himself.
“Sweets?” is commonly begged when turning down a child. Seldom is money asked, but that doesn’t mean you cannot have your windshield washed without notice and haggled for compensation. Negotiation is an art taught a young age through the sale of semi-precious stones to handmade trinkets.
“Do you ever feel bad or these kids?” I asked Christopher, a 12 year-old transplant from Germany as we washed our dishes inside the Omarunga campsite at Epupa Falls.
“No.”
“Even when they ask for things?”“Don’t give them any money,” he sternly stated. “They’re rich. Their family has many goats and cattle.”
“What about pens or sweets?”
“That’s okay.”
Pens can be hot bartering tools if you just don’t hand them away like I did. Although these families may be rich with livestock, school supplies are up to the families to supply their respective learners. Money that is brought in through the sale of items like livestock, donations, or a family member—usually one or both parents—working away from home. Thismoney is in the form of tens of U.S. dollars, not so much hundreds let alone thousands.

Peter and I would camp two nights on the banks of the crocodile infested Kunene River feeding the Epupa waterfalls. During dry seasons, the water is shallow with very few pools to swim, or at the very least dunk your head under. The overflow area is used by the locals to bath and wash laundry, as well as provides drinking water after boiling. The setting is very “African”, especially with 3pm sunlight refracting in the mist of the falls forming a near 180-degree rainbow on its side.

The Kunene River marks the international boundary between Angola and 

Namibia. One gets a great view of the many tertiary falls from the Namibian side, but Angolans got the lion’s share for playing in the showers—a tourist attraction unexploited by the foreigner unfriendly country.
Angola has come along way in the last eight or so years politically. Civil unrest is finished, although many parts of the country are ravaged by war, and land mines remain a problem in certain remote regions. Tourism is slowly making headway in this natural resource rich yet poverty stricken country, where a man can be a financial mogul one day and dirt poor the next.
Namibian nationals are free to cross the border legally, as many families transcend the borders. Even as a foreign national, I can cross into Angola with a purchased visa, but unlike in Namibia where English is the national language (like just recently in the States), Portuguese is native tongue and little effort is made to accommodate outsiders, after all tourism is an unnecessary industry when the land is loaded with diamonds, gold and oil, among other things.

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.