Sneezes and Stew

I think people are at their most unattractive the moment a sneeze shoots out of their nose.

Eyes screw up, neck turns into a sleeve of Swiss cake rolls, nostrils flare in a frightening manner, mouth contorts itself into a number of embarrassing yoga poses. Not to mention if you fart or something.

Ever witnessed a sneeze fart? Not sexy.

Anyway, I say this because I am either horrendously allergic to something or I have a head cold. Regardless, I've been doing a lot of sniffling, sneezing, nose blowing, etc., and to try and cure my malady (since the medication you get here is as effective as herbal tea), I went to Village Cafe for some soup.

Village Cafe is a favorite amongst tourists and locals alike, mostly for the great customer service (an extreme rarity in this neck of the woods) and the funky decor. It's probably been in a few guide books.

I settled into an empty corner at the back.

Today's soup: vegetable.

Good, I could use some veggies. Maybe what I actually have is an allergic reaction to the lack of vegetables being processed in my body.

My soup comes, steaming and accompanied by a monstrous piece of homemade bread. I mean, it had the demensions of 2 bricks placed side by side.

Mm, veg-

...meat.

It appears vegetable soup in Namibia actually means lamb stew with bits of cabbage, potato, and carrot. The mere fact that vegetables were to be found along with the meat and broth was enough to celebrate it's appearance.

Don't get me wrong, my stew was good. And I didn't mind because I've become a lot more carnivorous since moving to the Land of Sand. But the misleading title of "vegetable soup" was just so typical of the Namibian diet that it made me smile.

Then the smile turned into a weird look of pain because I had a series of sneezes lodged up my nose that wouldn't come out.

The Nam-Diet, practiced by all ethnic groups to some degree or another:

A large mound of starch or grain, accompanied by meat if you can afford it and/or some sort of saucy business. Veg, optional.

Usually the option is met with a
"Um, no."
"Nee."
"Aaye."

As I've finished my soup and have awkwardly stuck wads of toilet paper up my nose, which was witnessed by a passing waitress, I should probably take my leave.

Have a good week, readers. Eat your soup.

To Give A Flying Frikkie

We have recently become full out pet owners.

"What kind of pet?" you may ask.

Well, he's gray. He likes to cause a ruckus and loves attention.
He gives the Boyfriend kisses and gives me bites (love bites maybe?).
He's been known to poo on the furniture.

Have you guessed yet?

We keep him in his house at night so he won't get into trouble. He likes eating peanut butter and keeping lookout from the roof of his house.

No, it's not snoopy.

But if anyone can make him turn into a dog, abracadabra that shit.


Ladies and gentlemen, meet the newest addition to our household.

 

Frikkie, the African Gray Parrot

Although his distain for me has continued throughout 3 weeks, after countless attempts to befriend him with treats and attention, perhaps I will learn to love him. Maybe one day in his long, long life he will decide I too am not the enemy.

In the meantime, I should probably buy myself some sturdy gloves.

Let the fun commence.

This Side of the Ocean

Things I should have written a blog post about:

1. Omaruru Game Lodge, an awesome weekend spent with Boyo, feeding wild elephants and patting rhinos.
2. My failed attempt to find the ingredients for my mother's brownie recipe.
3. My much failed and physically painful attempt to befriend a bird.
4. The day my hair went up in flames. Yes, the day finally came when I accidentally set fire to myself.
5. Quad biking in the dunes, and in conjunction, what to do if you have to take a pee whilst in the dunes with all males.

But no, I will not write about those things. You must just use your imagination. (However, I will post some photos of Omaruru Game Lodge. And for the record, merely popping over the nearest dune to take a pee is not as easy as it sounds.)

But to the writing part.

Yesterday I sat on the beach. Yes, a novel idea, as no one has dared do that before.

It's winter here, or the end of winter. So, due to the cold, I was the only person out there besides a few kids who, as we know, for some reason, do not feel temperature.

That was entirely too many commas in one sentence.

The kids were playing with something that looked to be alive at one point.
I climbed out onto some exposed reef off the shore and sat on a bit of rock.

Probably I killed a bunch of microscopic aquatic organisms with my jean-clad bottom.
Probably.

I apologize.

Gray mist hung over the ocean, the clouds casting down to grip the horizon in an effect that made me feel like I was stuck in a dome. Like in that scene in "The Truman Show" where Jim Carey reaches the wall of his little movie set world thing after going nuts and sailing across the sea or whatever.

Right. But moving on.

A flock of flamingos had congregated in the shallows, looking cold and out of place, a dash of pink in the monotony of gray.

It struck me as funny that as I sat on this rock out in the water at that moment, that I was just barely in Namibia.

I was at the edge of the huge continental mass behind me. If you looked at the map, I would be a point on the left edge of the black line that denotes the end of Africa and the beginning of the Atlantic.

I'm in land limbo.

It was interesting to me to think that I grew up on the edge of another continental mass just across this ocean. I've already spent years swimming in this ocean, just from a different side.

If I turned had around this day, I would see huge, 3 story houses, hotels, holiday homes. Many with slightly tacky seashore themes. Much like what you would see in Stone Harbor, NJ.

I felt a cold misty breeze blowing as if it were early March back home, winter still lurking in the heavy, salty air.

I watched as little tide pools formed in the rocky reef and tiny, transparent fish darted around them at frenzied angles. I thought about playing with the periwinkles on my Jersey beach growing up. Trying to catch them before they buried beneath the sand. Making a habitat for them in my bucket before an adult told me to go put them back.

It made me feel both connected to my younger years and detached from this current year all at once.

What once was distinctly foreign about this place has now blurred into a continuation of sameness.

It's actually the same story, this side. It's just translated differently.

Once you work out the translation, get past the accent and the intonation and the syntax, it's not so difficult to understand.

Upon sticking a finger in the chilly water and deciding against putting my feet in, I stood and awkwardly hopped my way back to shore in a way I imagine looked very like walking with bare feet on Lego bricks.

If you are waiting for a philosophical point to this story, I suppose I don't have one. If you've read this now and thought "that was a giant waste of my time," then again, I apologize.

After reaching solid ground, my mind again wandered onto other things. There was no epiphany. While calming, the ocean provided no revelation about humanity or life or belief or whatever. I didn't feel compelled to take a photo and attach a meaningful quote and post it to a social media outlet.

It was just an odd moment. A moment where I did not feel confined to one space. I wasn't fully in the present, nor was I lost in the past. I didn't feel as though I was in a distinct, name-able location. Both curious and mundane, disquieting and peaceful, occupying only a tiny piece of the edge of something.

In whatever form it may take, I think we all need more moments like that.

Omaruru Game Lodge

Each bungalow has 1 to 2 rooms

Inside

A deck area off of the dining room lets guests greet some of the more friendly animals...

...or you can just have a beer.

Bar area

Rhino and Goose: buddies for life. Every evening during feeding they meet each other at the gate and spend dinner together.

Giraffes all congregated around a feeder

Here we go safaring

where we made some wrinkly friends.

You can't tell in this photo, but I am the happiest gal alive.

Blog Botox

I've decided this blog needs a facelift.

I know.

It's the day you've all been waiting for, but try to contain your excitement because I've already had a dog pee on me in excitement today, so I don't need another incident like that.

To explain, I'm house-sitting for friends (quite literally, as I have been sitting in the house all day), and conjointly taking care of two bouncy Labrador puppies and a rather loquacious parrot that dislikes me.

So anyway, I was talking about my blog. After playing around with photo apps and Blogger for a while, I came up with what you now see on the screen.

However, after coming back from walking the dogs, I realized that the tape on my heading graphic actually looks like bacon.

I don't think I care.

I mean, I like bacon too. More than tape.

So that's it. That's my post. I just want to proudly say that I've got unintentional bacon on my blog, and I'm ok with it.

In other news,

The bird has now mimicked the phone noise and is having a conversation with someone on the other line. It's really bizarre to hear a bird laugh a person's laugh. Mental.

When I Grow Up, I Want To Be...

It seems to me that most people remember what they wanted to be as a kid. That's not to say their career dreams actually stay the same or are at all practical.

I mean my cousin wanted to be a piece of cheese. Which to this day I still think is a valid life goal.

But I don't remember wanting to be anything. Perhaps a veterinarian like my older sisters wanted to be. I quite liked to copy my sisters' ideas, even if I didn't know what they were going on about.

(Obviously that did not last forever as they are now in various science fields, and I am unemployed. With an art degree. In Namibia. The last two of which I am very content with.)

Perhaps deep down what I really wanted was to be a professional cookie eater or a permanent inhabitant of Disney World.

Let's not kid around, I would still like to be those things.

Then I got older and older and still could not settle on one thing I would like to pursue as a career. I think it really wasn't until my senior year of college that I was 95% committed to attempting a job in some sort of humanitarian relief. Now that still may seem like a broad area of focus.

Correct.

But it was, and is, broad for a few reasons.

One. There are more things wrong in this world than I can count. There are a lot of assholes that make life for other people (and animals, and the environment) really shit. And I would be happy trying to rectify any one of these problems in any way that I can. Because I can. And because I want to. (And not in a peace and love sort of way, in an angry way. Because I just don't understand why some people are so stupid and self-entitled. Anyway.)
Two. It's not an easy line of work to get into. It doesn't pay well. Sometimes it doesn't pay at all. And if it is a paid position, I am perpetually either over or under qualified, or don't have enough of the experience that no one is willing to give me.

And that last point is a problem for young Americans on all career paths. Which all seem to lead to The Cape of No Hope. Which is like the Cape of Good Hope, but everyone is cranky and has a shot of grain alcohol with breakfast.

Unfortunately, I am encountering the same problem here in Namibia. Sans drunken eggs and bacon. Rightfully, it is in the interest of the country to hire Namibians before out-of-towners like myself. That's great. It truly is. It also leads to me getting a lot of "We would love to hire you, but..."'s and dead ends.

And while I know this entry is quickly spiraling into a essay of self pity, I would just like to say this.

I, like everyone else in there 20s, understand that I must work my way up from the bottom. And I am willing to have that desk job, calling donors, returning emails for a few years. And I'm willing to work hard, in a stressful environment, with difficult people, and even more difficult environments...if I know that my work is important. I just can't seem to even really get on the totem pole in order to be at the bottom of it.

I'm totem pole-less.

Obviously I'm not throwing in the towel. I mean, seriously, there's so many opportunities, it's ridiculous. And also I'm broke and can't afford a new towel.

But in the meantime, I think I will open up a cafe/bakery that has some funky name like The Button Jar Bake Shop, where I can sell exciting cupcakes and brownies and my art and crafty nuggets and have big cushy chairs and lots of plants. With a painting studio in the loft, which you have to walk up a giraffe-shaped staircase to get to.

Because that, sadly (or maybe not sadly, but bizarrely) is more plausible at this point.

Happy Friday, my lovely friends!

That's NamTune-tastic

Not often does one hear the phrases "scouring the flatware" and "booty poppin'" in the same sentence, but in this precise moment that is exactly what I am doing. Simultaneously, but not well on either end.

I wasn't feeling too great about getting out of my duvet nest this morning to wash every dish that we own. Because as I have tried to explain, I have never been a fan of keeping up with the cleaning past putting all the dirty items into a haphazard pile and collapsing onto the floor in exhaustion.

Sometimes I wish I had just a touch more obsessiveness to my personality.

So I turned the TV to the channel TRACE, which plays exclusively music videos and is thus exceedingly superior to the disgrace that is now MTV.

Beyoncé is on. Hey, girl.

It is a well known fact that work always goes faster when there is music to dance to. It practically does itself. Or rather I am too busy shaking it in an impressively bad way to notice how many plates I have already cleaned.

I soon tire of being Drunk In Love and switch to music on a USB drive that is plugged into a sound playing device, which is the preferred method of music storage in Namibia, and is in this case plugged into the TV.

This particular drive has electro-trance-dance-house music on it. I have no idea what the difference between those 4 kinds of music is, but apparently strung out millennials in neon clothes can tell the difference.

I, however, just want to dance my pants off. Or pants on, rather, as I am clad only in well-worn athletic shorts from 8 years ago.

Which brings us to the topic of this blog post, which is popular music in Namibia. Not old shorts. Took me long enough to get there, but we've finally arrived at the point.

Like anywhere in the world, Namibia has different genres of music. Pop is big. In some places, you can even tune in to Ryan Seacrest counting down US chart toppers. South African music also has a big presence in Namibia, and is full of talented pop and rap musicians, like AKA, Mi Casa, and Goldfish. Of course, SA has a rich and diverse music scene that I know little about, but I'm just talking about pop artists here.

One Million Views-Goldfish

Namibian pop artists, though, are a very different breed. Whereas big time South African artists usually sound more polished, like what you would hear in the Western world, the sparsely populated country of Namibia has a more undeveloped music scene, being that there are no official record labels. Some of the more popular hip-hop groups are PDK, Sunny Boy, Gazza, and The Dogg. But a lot of what I hear in the Kunene region and beyond was music called Oviritje. All of which songs are heavy on the synthesizer, utilize the same tempo for every song, and share a similar backbeat that sounds like one of the 5 that are preloaded onto mid grade Yamaha keyboard. Music videos are usually full of dancing people in random public places and goats mulling about in the background.

For instance...

But the kind of dancing Oviritje produces is always fun to watch. It causes a normal man to turn into a bouncing African Gumby and produce quite bewildering dance moves.

You also get a lot of a capella gospel music here, this being a very Christian country and all. You know, some gospel is nice, serene, peaceful. But some sounds like the air being squeezed out of a badly broken bagpipe. I can appreciate it for what it is, but it's really not my thing. Not blasting through my walls at 6 in the morning, not any time.

And then there is Afrikaans music, which is a bit like pop country music with much less twang and much more...boer. If you don't know what I mean by that, then I do apologize, but I cannot describe it any other way. But it is widely appreciated by the white population, and after a few double brandy and cokes causes people to go utterly ape shit with the singing and the drunken swaying.

However, in the younger Afrikaans crowd, you often find an innate love of trance music. Or dance music. Or whatever the hell you want to call it. Hence why the TV in my bachelor flat is now pumping out music that should be in venue full of ginormous speakers and lots of light shows and DJs and...sweaty people. And stuff.

Can you spell MDMA?

It really gets you excited about housework, though. I, myself, am going fairly ape shit with these plates.

Obviously I don't entirely know what I'm talking about anymore, but I did manage to finish the dishes with only once slicing my finger on a cheese grater.

So, right. There's that.

I encourage you to search YouTube for Oviritje and Namibian music videos. It will be entertaining, I promise.

Cheers.

Travel, a la Lone Wolf

You don't know the character of a person until you've travelled with them. And seen how they handle tangled Christmas lights.

I'm fairly certain that's not how the phrase goes, but it's true nonetheless.

So, folks, sometimes it's more enjoyable to go it alone on your world adventure than with your type A friend Rick whom has a strong aversion to crowded spaces, nature, and doesn't like any lumps in his porridge.

Sorry, Rick.

Traveling alone as a woman has a negative aura surrounding it. It encourages gasps from non-travellers. This reaction is especially amplified for younger women who want to travel alone.

Side note: some cultures have serious respect for age, and that could perhaps be to an older woman traveller's advantage when traveling alone. (Any comment, ladies?)

But I often receive questions like:
"Aren't you scared to travel alone?"
"There is so much crime! How can you trust the people you meet?"
"Haven't you seen 'Taken'?"

No really, I've gotten all of those questions multiple times. Apparently Liam Neeson and his "special set of skills" have left a strong impression on the American populace.

Firstly, the world is not such a horrible place has you might think. In all my travels, I've had an overwhelming amount of kind people see that I was traveling alone, and choose to help me instead of harm me. And I've met many solo travelers, both women and men, that have had the same experience.

As a point of reference, let me explain my situation. I'm an American, 25 years old, currently living in Namibia (which is obvious, as it is the whole point of this blog), very nonthreatening in stature and appearance, and I've visited 15+ countries in Europe, Africa, and Asia. And North America too, I guess, if you count Canada. Not many people do. Which really, any country where you can ice skate up to a Beaver Tails stand to buy a large sugary piece of dough should not be discounted in my opinion. Anyway, I'm by no means an expert in this field, but I've acquired a bit of knowledge over my years of travel, and I want to share with you what I've learned in order to encourage women to travel more and simultaneously occupy my time on this boring Tuesday.

Two birds, one iPad-shaped stone.

So, to the tip section!

Mailin's Tip Section:

1. To both women and men, before you enter a new country, if you can, do a bit of research. What is going on in that country at the moment? What is the general societal role of each gender? And youth? Now, ladies, while I also disapprove of some of the societal restrictions set on women, the time to come out guns blazing is not when you are traveling alone. So, you might consider making sure Thelma and Louise aren't falling out of your travel-worn brassiere, while taking note of the cultural practices going on around you. Perhaps, although you don't normally do it, wearing something to cover your shoulders or head might make your life a little easier and the people around you feel more at ease. Not that you should go out and buy a full-out burka, but be sensitive to a culture's norms. Which brings me to my next point.

2. Observe to learn more, yes. But also to protect yourself and your things. I always try to be aware of my surroundings, not just the awe inspiring view in front of me. Of course, stay calm and relaxed, enjoy yourself, experience things fully--that's what travel is about. But have some idea what the people around you are doing and where your possessions are, i.e. If you are in a crowd of people, talking to someone, etc., don't let your attention fully wonder away from your surroundings. Humans have peripheral vision for a reason. This is a lesson that many people, myself included, learn the hard way.

3. Like I said, the majority of people are not out to get you, so don't be afraid to talk to people and get to know them. Be the intelligent woman you are, and "feel out" the situation. If something feels a bit dodgy, it probably is. You've heard the phrase "Hope for the best, but expect the worst," yes? Well, something I've always preferred to live by is "Expect the best, but be prepared for the worst." It seems to give a little more credit to humanity. But, anyway, play things by ear.

4. And if you feel it's time to make like a tree (meaning leave, not grow bark or produce maple syrup), don't panic. Be confident, calm, assertive, keep the language friendly. Getting upset and hollering or crying at people usually only escalates a bad situation. Attempt a graceful exit (says the very not at all graceful person).

5. Everything else is common sense. It's ill advised to get raging drunk or wander off the beaten path by yourself after dark. Duh. If you feel the need to let off some steam at the bar, ask for a suggestion as to where to go from the hostel or hotel or wherever you are staying, and find another tourist or trustworthy local for a drinking buddy. And probably nix Battleshots as the evening entertainment. Otherwise, wait until you are traveling with friends, you party animal.

6. Also, in some countries it's totally normal and legal to hitchhike, and it's a great way to get around. Obviously find out if you are in one of these countries before trying this. But if you feel uncomfortable getting into a certain car (that goes for taxis too), wait for a ride you feel good about. The point is that you shouldn't give yourself an unnecessary panic attack before anything even happens. There is no fun in that, and stressing before there is cause for stress causes even more stressful situations. So don't stress. Stress, stress, stress. Stress stress. If it makes you feel more safe, wait for a car that has another woman inside.

6. I guess the biggest suggestion that I can give you is to keep a sense of humor. Sticky situations, cat calls, marriage proposals, they occasionally happen. Turn that frown upside down, Sweet Pea. Life is good, and an adventurous life is the best you can have. Be smart, expect some bumpy times (those happen even when traveling with a group), and give people a chance to surprise you.

Traveling by yourself, as a dude or a dudette, is totally possible. So, if you want to give your independence a work out, give solo travel a go.

Does anyone have any other tips or questions about traveling as a woman or traveling as a party of one? If so, I'd love to hear from you. I always love hearing from you.

Happy day to you all!

The 411 On 911

If you are spending any time in Namibia, it's likely that you will have some sort of medical malady running the gamut of "I've chipped my tooth trying to open a bottle of cool drink with my mouth" to "Get me to the hospital as I think I have cholera, and I have no fluids left in my body."

Sadly, or perhaps not sadly, the former is more likely. The worst I've encountered in this year and a half is a nasty and long-running bout with an intestinal parasite, and while highly unpleasant, was not life threatening. Several doses of antibiotics later, I was right as rain.

Living in town now, access to legitimate healthcare is easy. I've even seen ambulances whirring about. However, calling that ambulance is not as easy as the 911 you learn in school. I don't actually know the number as it appears to be a lengthy sequence of binary code.

0110010 or 1101001 or actually perhaps that is just the police and ambulances have private numbers.

In any case.

Last year in the bush of Kaokoland, our "ambulance" from school grounds to town was my coworker's beat up Toyota bakkie from the 80s that you could start with any key you could get your hands on (or some other flat, pointy object) and drove at a warp speed of about 30 MPH. Thus, improvisation in medical crises was a tool that I learned early on.

Someone is bleeding and you're out of bandaids: Wad up some toilet paper and tape it to their skin. (I actually learned this trick while working in a café where slicing bagels required more care and attention than I tended to pay to my fingers.) It also brings joy to the faces of many a child if you use multicolored patterned duct tape instead of scotch tape, and you will soon see people wandering around with bits of neon tape stuck to their faces as a fashion statement.

Sunburn: This one only happened to me and my blindingly white self. So, lotion that shit up, take the ridicule from your non-sunburnable coworkers that comes with it, and drink more water. Or just remember to put on sunscreen, eh?

Broken bone: Yeah, your only option is to take the 1980s slow mobile over jolting bumps on a dirt road into the nearest town.

Headache: Drink more water.

Nauseous: Drink more water.

Feverish: Drink more water.

Unless, that is, the water is the problem, and it isn't potable. Well, if you were camping savvy, you would have iodine tablets or a Steripen. But if you are like me, and terminally unprepared, find a metal container to boil the water in. You will need to build a fire. That's right, you should have joined Wilderness Scouts like your parents wanted.
While you might end up with an empty Coke can with the top cut off filled with scalding, yellow-tinged water with things floating in it, at least you won't die of dehydration or whatever ickies are in said water. Or just live in the moment and drink from river. In which case aim for the rapids and avoid the crocodillas. Sorry, Mom.

I'm making things sound very appealing aren't I? The truth is, you usually don't have to deal with yellow water and illnesses. Just don't live at a school of young children and your health should remain above the red. I'm sure elementary school teachers the world over would understand this sentiment.

Nowadays, I suffer only from mosquito bites, wounds sustained from the dangerous art of cooking, and the occasional bruise from the everyday trips and dips of an accident-prone human like myself.

So, here's the bottom line.

If vacationing to Namibia or surrounding Southern Africa, create your own 911 kit.
In this kit you should have: sunblock, some way of sterilizing your water if it is impotable, toilet paper (very multipurpose), a lighter, and most importantly, a vehicle that can drive you to the nearest private doctor and/or pharmacy because not only will they have all the antibiotics and cortizone creams you need, they will also know how to treat your maladies better than Dr. Stan Johnson from Utica, New York.

(Disclaimer: this is a fictitious name. If there actually is a Dr. Stan from Utica, I'm sure he's a great guy, and you should book an appointment today.)

Of course, ask your doctor first, but most parts of Namibia are not malarial zones, and the malaria prophylaxis is expensive. So, just don't be stupid and you'll be fine. And for some serious advice, if you have to go a doctor or hospital, generally speaking you will receive more hygienic and attentive care from a privately owned clinic. But if a public hospital is your only option, that can be Plan B.

It doesn't take a trained survivalist to enjoy Namibia. Only common sense, a few key materials, and an ample sense of humor. In other words, be resourceful and don't panic.

Much love to all you readers on this glorious Friday.

Domestic On Tour (Part 2)

My journey back from America the Beautiful started in Philadelphia, birth place of the Declaration of Independence and the most glorious of the hot sandwiches, the Philly cheesesteak (ok, let's be honest, it's second only to the rueben). I boarded my British Airways flight to London, and hunkered down for a 6 or 7 hour red-eye flight, in which I did not sleep a wink. Since my layover in Londontown was a long one, about 13 hours, I decided to hang around in the city for a while to entertain myself.

In college, I had a layover in London on my way to Kenya for a summer program. I had seen some of the sights already, so this time all I really wanted to do was walk around a bit and avoid the tourists.

When I got there, it was a Sunday, early in the morning.

I got a TravelCard at the airport so I could use the tube without having to worry about shelling out money every time. As soon as I got on the tube, however, I started falling asleep in a really unattractive manner. Mouth open, head lolling about. As much as I loved having a mother of 2 small girls across the way keep giving me the fish eye like I was some sort of drug addled fiend wearing a cardigan, I decided something needed to be done. My solution was to get off at Green Park and collapse in the grass for a few hours. Why Green Park? Because it was on the Piccadilly line, and it had the word Park in it.

I am so knowledgeable about London.

I was passed out. Like really passed out. When I woke up, I was drooling, there were boatloads more people mucking about, and someone had apparently set up chairs practically on top of me. My fellow lawn nappers had started to disperse, so I bought myself a coffee and started wondering around. I was trying to get to the Thames so I could cross over to more interesting places to eat.

I don't know why I thought I would find more interesting places to eat there, but I had myself convinced.

Within 5 minutes I found myself instead in front of Buckingham Palace and figured it would be a good idea if I bought a map.

Let me tell you something.

If you are trying to avoid touristy business, you just mustn't get on the Piccadilly line to what happened to be the center of the London. Of course, it's not that I dislike tourists. I myself was a tourist. But with tourist attractions comes ridiculously high prices and exchange rates. And that is not something I was hoping to experience.

Anyway, I finally found myself over the Thames and at a food truck run by 2 Italian guys that made legitimate brick oven pizza. In a vehicle. With a brick oven. I was impressed. Of course, shortly after, my dining experience was overshadowed when I happened upon a food market/festival/thingy-job that contained all my favorite foods. I drank a craft beer while waiting for my pizza to digest so as I could stuff a grilled sausage in my gob. There was also a multitude of Indian food stands, coffee and juice vendors, dessert arrangements, the list goes on. But I figured I could only be so disgusting for one day.

I'll tell you one thing, though, I don't understand this stereotype of London (or I guess more generally England) having a boring and/or disappointing culinary scene. Nearly every food item I ate and smelled was a delight.

I mean I wasn't eating non-food items, except maybe what was in the airport, so I'm not sure why I said that.

I got myself back to the airport and onto my flight to South Africa, unfortunately singing "Waterloo" by ABBA and imagining Colin Firth in sequin bellbottoms the whole way down. I was delighted by the fact the it was a double decker plane! It was enormous! The wing took up 4 windows, and there were 3 gangplanks, or whatever you call those tunnel things. Had I not been sitting in a cramped economy seat, I would have felt like the Queen.

Anyway, this flight was almost twice as long. Luckily, I slept. I arrived in Johannesburg with relatively little incident, and boarded a significantly smaller plane filled with a distressing number of elderly folk in what they thought to be appropriate safari garb for the last leg of my journey.

Feeling as though I was in the clear as I stepped off plane #3, I entered the tiny Windhoek airport, got out my necessary documents and attempted to enter the country.

One hour later.

I was standing off to the side of passport control, wondering if I would indeed be sent back to my native country as the officials had threatened and trying not to lose my rag (i.e. laughing, crying, staging a sit-in)
You may be asking what horrible crime I committed to deserve a denial of entrance. My crime was not having enough blank pages in my passport, ladies and gentlemen. It's true. Due to the fact that I have traveled a bit over the last several years, due to the indisputable fact that passport control officers like to take up as much clean space as they can when they stamp you into a country, and due to the fact that this little known rule slipped my mind, I did not have the required three blank pages in my passport.

And what Hell broke loose.

Luckily I got passed off to enough people that they eventually got sick of dealing with me and let me through with the promise that I would get more pages put into my passport.

For the record, I am legally in the country. Not like I would post on the internet that I WASN'T legal, but I actually am.

 Also, if you find yourself in a similar sort of jam, know that you can get more pages put in at the US embassy, and maybe with a little sweet talk and patience, you will be able to handle the situation too.

Or just make sure you have clean pages in your passport in the first place. That's probably the better idea.

But I'm back, folks! Back to the home that has not quite excepted me as an inhabitant yet, but, again, with a little sweet talk and patience, perhaps I can worm my way in.

Domestic On Tour (Part 1)

A few years back, my sister got engaged. Soon after, she decided to wait and have her wedding until I was home from my year in Namibia and could attend.

I mean, how awesome is that?

But then time passed, and I decided that I would stay in Sand Land after my year was up, on the condition that I fly home in May for her wedding.

Please, I would not miss that.

So, 2 weeks ago I got on a plane to the USA. And then another plane. And then a few more.

No, really. I travelled for about 45 hours, from Long Beach to Windhoek to Johannesburg to London to New York to Chicago and finally to Minneapolis. But as soon as I saw my mom and my sister in the Minneapolis airport, after a flight cancellation and subsequent delay in O'Hare, my world tour of an itinerary felt well worth it.

Daww, how sentimental I am. I'm serious, though. Love those gals.

The great thing about a wedding is that it forces your whole family to be all together in a general area. So, although I was only in Minneapolis for just under a week, family kept  trickling in to Minnesota, and I was able to see practically everyone by the time I left for the East Coast, where I have lived for 23 years of my life. Poof, there's dad. Poof, oldest sister, niece, brother-in-law. Aunt, uncle, cousin. More cousins.

So many of my favorites! All in one place!

As it is every time my family gets together, There was a lot of talking, a lot of eating. General hilarity ensued. Most conversations didn't make a hell of a lot of sense. It was magical.

Minneapolis is a great city-- not what most would expect from the state that considers Duluth a prime vacation spot. But in the summer, it's a seriously cool place for a wedding. Warm. Lots of things to do. Lots of choices. My cousin, the bride, and myself went out for Mexican the day before the wedding, and the list of tequilas they sold took up half a page of the menu. The font was not large. Like I said, choices.

Who knew there were that many types of tequila? More importantly, where are you keeping all of this tequila? Is there a separate storage room full of imported booze? That sounds very flammable.

I was similarly wowed when I went to the store to pick up taco seasoning (obviously a Mexican theme here). I stared at them. Original, Spicy, With Chillies, Fiesta, etc.

What the hell is Fiesta seasoning anyway? Does it come with a piñata?

"Why are there so many kinds?" I ask.
My mother responds offhand, "There's only one kind."
No, they all just look the same. And probably have the same ingredients. I obnoxiously start listing them off to prove my point. I don't think there was a point to my point either, other than WHY IS IT NECESSARY TO PRODUCE THAT MANY KINDS OF TACO SEASONING? That many kinds of medicine? Yes. Alternative options for lactose-free dairy? Grand. Taco seasoning? Well, no.

After the wedding, my mom and I drove back East to New Jersey, where I spent a few days seeing my other favorites that didn't make it to Minneapolis. The drive back was relaxed. Having a similar adventurous spirit to my own (perhaps where mine started in the first place), my mom was more than willing to get lost several times for the sake of walking on the beach of Lake Michigan or eating cheese curd in Wisconsin. All important things, as I'm sure you understand.

Sans my inexplicable aggression toward taco seasoning, my time at home (well, my original home, anyway) was much appreciated. There's something to be said for hanging out with people who have known you for the entirety of your life and whom you are no longer able to embarrass yourself around.

Upon my return to the airport, though, I was ready to get back to Namibia, eat some meat, and most importantly see Boyo.

That wouldn't come for yet another 45 hours or so, though, and a few (mis)adventures along the way. Which of course I will recount to you in the next blog, so you know what to do if you find yourself on a layover in London or nearly denied entry to Namibia.

Yeah, almost lost my cool on that last one there.

Africa Is Big

Really, it's a big place.
Bigger than published maps and the Western world lead us to believe. More diverse than what we see in Hollywood movies and Save The Children ads.

If you have visited one country, you have not visited them all. Just as Utah differs from Vermont, which differs from British Columbia and the Yukon. All on the same continent, may share some characteristics, but otherwise unique.

Sure. There is poverty on the continent of Africa. There is corruption. There is violence, ethnic and partisan conflict.

(Because we find NONE of these things in the United States, of course.)

These things are a problem, and should not be taken lightly.

But on this African continent, one can also find ingenuity, up-and-coming economies, entrepreneurial ventures, successful educational institutions, national pride, properly clothed children, posh bathroom facilities, the list goes on. Several African countries are becoming strong participants in the world economy. And while some countries do struggle with weak economies, political violence, failing governments, and the like, we tend to lop all the countries into one entity, hiding the good behind the not-so-good. GASP, it's Africa. A mythical place that only exists on maps and TV, harboring scary things and tormented people. A place that has no effect on us in the West besides producing the occasional stab of horror or pity. And lovely collectible art.

The only African history I was taught by the time I graduated high school was that "Way back when, Africans were sold as slaves to [self-entitled, disgusting] whites." Of course, as I've said before, as much as I try to like history, I usually end up falling asleep. But I did read my World History text book for homework, and I can positively say that there was nothing else about Africa in there. And it's not just history. If any attention is paid to this continent in the news, it's almost entirely negative. I mean, personally, my Current Events teacher spent more time on Alien Invasion than World Happenings. But I'm thinking that was just my school. You know, not in the intended curriculum.

Anyway, I think that is stupid. Not about the aliens, I mean about the national disregard for African countries as separate entities and legitimate players in worldly affairs. Actually both are stupid.

No seriously.

Why ignore a whole continent? And if this can't be rationalized from a moral standpoint, how about an economic one. Obviously I am not an economist, but I feel like the West is ignoring what could potentially broaden the playing field for foreign trade. China is on board with investing in African countries, people, so let's get on it.

(If this blog was read by more conservative people, I would expect some off putting comments about commies about now. But I know those people would also shit a brick if/when China surpasses the US in economic growth. So, all I'm saying is let's catch up with the times here, folks.)

Now, I don't kid myself that this post is a.) a wholly original thought and b.) interesting for most people. I mean maybe a few people might read this and give an excited face in agreement before they get bored and go read an article on Upworthy. That's all I can hope for.

So, if you're still reading, thank you. And I promise I'm almost finished.

Africa is big. And diverse. In some places it is scary and unjust (not always a pleasant place to live, yes.),  but in others it is a place of opportunity. Africa cannot be summed up in a movie, unfortunately it's problems will not be solved if you text #AID to 444, and it definitely should not be discarded into a hypothetical trench of unchangeable destitution and misfortune.

This First World-Third World paradigm seems to somehow negate the existence of Africa in the Real World, and it's dumb. It's not like Middle Earth. Africa and North America are in the same realm and on the same planetary mass.

Before I get too out of control here, friends, I will end with this.

There are a few things in life that are simple. Simple, such as a child's innate love of dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets.

But how we see and interpret and understand the world? Not so simple. You and I, though, let's try to give this big, crazy, complex continent it's due, eh?

Now hold my soapbox, please, as I've got to get back to talking the usual rubbish.

A Comprehensive Guide To Beer Drinking in Namibia

If you are anything like me, you evaluate a country not only it's natural and anthropological landscape, but also by its popular food items and, more importantly, its booze.

For instance, I've never been to Russia, but anyone who can drink vodka like water scares me shitless.

That's why I like Southern Africa so much.

Beer, ladies and gentlemen, is the national liquid of Namibia. Water is scarce. Beer is flowing.

I'm a beer gal. I'll choose it over spirits or cocktails any day. Unless we are talking about margaritas, in which case tequila wins out.

In fact I'm drinking beer right now. Don't worry, it is after 1 o'clock, so it's acceptable.

In any case, I greatly miss having access to the microbrews of the United States.

Lucky for me, though, Namibian beer is surprisingly good. After all, there is a German influence in the newly independent country. There aren't many breweries, there aren't many types of brews, but what is here is decent (no equivalents to Natty or Coors Light), and, more importantly, cheap cheap.

On average, a bottle ranges from $.90 to $1.70, unless you want a fancy imported German Weiss beer, which might set you back $5.00, and is only found in like...3 towns in the country. And that price is considered an outrage by Namibian standards. Other imports such as Heineken and Amstel are available in random places, but no one really drinks them.

Every beer says something different about your style of drinking, and since there are really only 4 or 5 beers you need to know about, I will explain.

Let's work our way from the bottom up.

First, we have Castle. Castle is a South African brew, and can be found in a lot of places in Namibia. Almost exclusively drank by tourists that don't know any better or if all other beers have been sold out.

Next, Black Label. Which is a type of Carling beer. Technically not Namibian, but found everywhere, is the drink of choice among the Himba people, and is aptly nicknamed Blackout Label. Actually, maybe that is only what I call it. But anyway, it's not for the lightweight. Usually says "I'm here to kill a.) my brain cells and b.) my ability to coexist amicably with the Earth's gravitational pull (i.e. leads to the question 'Am I even standing up right now?')."

After which, we get Windhoek Draught. This one is made in the capital of Namibia, Windhoek. Hence the name, guys and gals. People who choose this beer wish everyone at the bar to know that they are manly beer drinkers. I'm not really sure why this is so, other than the fact that it comes in a larger glass. I don't know, maybe they think it is a sign of superior arm strength if they can lift it to their lips. I tend to spill things on myself on a regular basis, so I do not always opt for this Big Glass of Beer concept. Although I'm sort of a disaster waiting to happen in any instance, so I don't always let a bit of dribble stop me. But back to the program. As this is the only draft (as we say in America) beer you get in Namibia, you need only ask the bartender for a "draught," and he or she will know what you want. But don't say draught like "drought" because you will look like an asshole. Ahem.

Finally, the 2 Namibian lagers, Windhoek Lager and Tafel. These 2 are seriously interchangeable. They taste the same, both recommendable, except Tafel is usually a tiny bit cheaper. However, like with everything, there are loyal fans of each one who are convinced they taste differently. They don't, but I'm a semi-loyal Windhoek drinker because I like green labels better then red labels.

Folks, I think you can learn a lot about a culture from the items with which they stock their bar selves. I'm not exactly sure what that is in this case. Maybe that, in Namibia, beer is more valued than water. That it is more important to your well being to be liquored up in Africa than to be well-hydrated and, you know, alive or whatever.

For instance, if you find a lone Kuka shop in the middle of the desert or a stretch of blazing hot oshanas,



you will most likely find only beer, liquor, maybe the 2 favored soft drinks, Coke and Fanta orange. But no water.

Something my dentist from home despaired about for many seconds.

But as time goes on, I am increasingly sure that beer actually is more necessary to one's sanity than H2O. At least in this neck of the woods.

So, friends, a toast to learning new things and nonsensical blogging, to drinking beer and dehydrating in a quite enjoyable way.

Cheers to you and you and all of you too.

The East Wind

I've been told that each year around this time, the East Wind comes to the coast of Namibia. A strong wind that blows mountains of sand from the East across the coastline to the edge of the sea. It turns your house into a sand castle and the air into a scene from Arabian Nights. All you need is a few camels, and we've got those too, for the price of 30 USD per ride.

(I just made up that price. Sue me.)

The wind thrashes it's surroundings, but the heat stays put. An effect that mimics putting your entire body under a colossal bathroom hand dryer that has been filled with contents of the 1930s American Dust Bowl.

the wind's aftereffect on my street, once asphalt and concrete

Having lived in Kunene for a year, I'm accustomed to dust storms, but that doesn't make them any more enjoyable.

Wanting to avoid the weather on my doorstep, but tired of looking at the inside of our apartment, I have relocated to a nearby hotel for a coffee.

A change of scenery always helps to put me in a better frame of mind.

As I futz around with the plumes of milk billowing about in my coffee cup, I realize that principle applies to my life on a much grander scale. Change is an integral part of what makes my life the marvelous thing it is.

I hope it's like that for most people.

Change often makes me perform at my best, new environments tickle my senses, new experiences, regardless of difficulty or level of success, make me grow. Challenging myself in this way is what makes me feel at ease with myself. Even if I bitch and moan a bit. Going through the motions, although often necessary to be a responsible human being, makes me feel deconstructive, stressed, anxious, etc.. Until I give myself a mental slap and get a grip, of course.

But really, what is the point of living if you know everything you want to know and have done everything that you want to do before the age of 50. Where is the hunger to do more, learn more?

If I have one goal in life, it is, for the rest of my years, to keep thinking about change as a possibility rather than some scary monster that is out to disrupt my way of life.

That is not to say that I don't appreciate consistency. I have constants in my life that are often my saving grace. These Constants keep me grounded and push me to go further at the same time.

Except for bills.
Those are constants that, although they keep me grounded, they do not push me to go further. Unless it is off a fiscal cliff.

Because I like moving around and very few of my material items, with a few exceptions, have serious value to me (This is not a Buddhist revelation. I have always been like this. In fact, since I was young, I used to give away my allowance and possessions like they were peanuts at a baseball game. Its weird, and I really couldn't tell you why.), my Constants are the people I love, and always will love. And I hope they know who they are.

I suppose you could call me a free spirit, although I don't much like that phrase. I can be a handful. I look at the big picture, but sometimes forget the details. I make decisions about my life that aren't always practical (but usually not rash, and, by this point in my life, hardly ever naive), and I get itchy when I am in any routine for too long. 

Believe me, I know it's a seemingly silly way to live. Not very functional. Some people do not understand it. But it is the way I am. Thus far, I cannot turn it off.

But it always turns out ok. Sometimes it even turns out to be the new best decision of my life.

My love of new experiences, both good and bad, and my love of embracing change is one thing I don't think will ever change. I need it as much as I need corrective eyewear, and that is a lot. However, I manage to execute this need in a way that is as haphazard and annoying to those around me as this East Wind, at present rattling the window behind me. Sometimes it is just as much of an annoyance to me.

And for that I am sorry.

To all my Constants out there, no matter how close or far in distance to me you currently are,

I love you.

I love to be around you. I would love for you to share my spontaneous adventures with me.

And I hope you know that even though I am a crazy person whom at this moment has a sudden urge to both go organic farming in Ireland and paint a delightful mural on the beige walls of this hotel, maybe some brightly-colored sea creatures, you might keep tolerating that insanity. Because as much as I need adventure, challenge, and corrective eyewear, I need you.

And I mean, we are all a bit insane, are we not?

Though not as insane as the fact that I can feel my eyebrow hair blowing in the wind when I walk outside.

Much love,
Your friendly neighborhood Blogger

Desert Fitness Challenge

In the land of the unemployed, one has ample time to partake in benign activities such as watching reruns of the Big Bang Theory, doodling on old receipts, writing blog posts at 10 AM, and getting in a bit of exercise. In that order. When the time comes to get my ever-expanding bum around the block, my current preferred method of exercise is dune walking. Mostly because running around the neighborhood is getting boring, and I'm not a fan of jiggling past construction workers in my gym shorts.

So, into the wild it is.

Dune walking is great. If you live in a desert area, give it a go. And by great I mean horrible, but it does it's job. Imagine climbing up a mountain that a fights back. Go too slow and the loose sand starts effortlessly delivering you to the point in which you started.

Doesn't that sound delightful?

If I'm having a difficult time scrambling up the sandy peaks, I do one of two things. Maybe both simultaneously, depending on the amount of gasping and "F*** this"'s coming out of my mouth.

There is one thing that will always make me hurl myself out of the way at a record speed. My greatest fear, after haunted houses that have people that jump out at you. Which, for the record, should be illegal.

If I can can convince myself that there are scorpions somewhere by my feet or on my person, I can quite effectively terrify myself so much that I haul my adrenaline-filled ass up the dune as quickly as possible. My fear is pretty warranted. Scorpions are all over Namibia. Freaky little Decepticon-looking, armored aliens. Not to mention that some of them are LETHAL. I hate them I hate them.

Anyway, the other thing that gets the juices flowing is to pretend I'm Bear Grylls on Escape From Hell. I should probably be embarrassed by that, but then again I should probably be embarrassed by a lot of things that I'm not.

In the Namib desert, it's easy to pretend that you are in the middle of nowhere, struggling to survive in the wilds of Africa, your brute strength and critical thinking skills the only tools you have to get out alive. Really makes the heart start pumping and your legs start moving with more conviction.

You lean mean extreme survival machine, you.

Then I look down at my thighs and Nikes with the hot pink laces and realize that I am, in fact, not Bear Grylls, I am Frodo Baggins in neon trainers.

Eh, I can be happy with that.

After an hour of romping around, my leg muscles start seizing up, and, wishing I had a sandboard to ferry myself back on, I turn for home.

Thus is the saga of Mailin and the Sand Dunes.

Conquering flab, one day at a time.

Makalani Mayhem

I have lied to you all.

I do not live IN the town of Swakopmund. I live in the Swakopmund area in a little town (more of a development, really) called Long Beach, about 15 kilometers to the south of Swakopmund. It is made up exclusively of housing, apartments, houses, hotels--not a shop or even an ATM in sight. Thus, if you want to purchase anything, eat food outside of the realm of your refrigerator, or utilize any services, you must get yourself to Swakopmund.

I currently have no vehicle. Yet, I go into town a few days a week. Which means the nice people of the Welwitschia Shuttle Service can now recognize me by voice when I call to request a ride into town. As a repeat (repeat, repeat...) customer, I even get a discount.

Whoa.

On this particular day, I am traveling with 2 suitcases full of clothes because it's Laundry Day. My ride drops me at the laundry service (complete with bar, which I think is a brilliant idea), but it appears to be closed. I ask the driver to instead let me off at my favored coffee shop, the one with the tried and tested fastest free wifi signal that I can find in this town. I'm sure about this. It took me 2 months to test all of the alternatives. I walk in looking like a homeless person with my 2 suitcases, but by this point everyone knows me there and, instead of questioning the look of struggle on my face, my waitress brings me a coffee and asks how the job hunt is going.

I'm feeling quite good about myself, feeling like a local. After finally dropping my bags off at a different, bar-less laundry mat, I begin my strut around town to do some errands. As I stop to read my to-do list, a man approaches me to chat. A man whose presence means you are not fully convincing as a legitimate resident. Bother.

My foreigner status returns in a flash.

Normally I am not a rude person. If a person on the street asks me to buy his sunglasses or other cheap item, I say "no, thank you," and continue walking. But there is one type of person I no longer bother to be nice to.

The nut men.

Don't let your mind wander too far on that one, as I am about to explain. There is a nut that grows on a tree called a Makalani tree. Thus, the nut is called a Makalani nut. I know, I'm blowing your mind. Anyway, budding entrepreneurs pick them off the trees, carve a hurried design into them, and try to sell them to tourists for 10 to 100 times what they should be. The nut men are everywhere, in every major town. They are resilient. They are annoying beyond belief. And the first rule of the street is don't talk to the nut men, especially do not tell them your name. Well, I mean, you shouldn't make a habit of telling your name to strange men anyway, but there's a bigger reason here.

They chat to you, all friendly-like. Oh, look, you are friends. But as they do, and while you are not paying attention to the deft movements of their hands, they slyly carve your name or any other personal details into the Nut of Death, and then guilt you into buying the item that they made "for you only," even if you have proclaimed multiple times that you do not want that, thank you kindly.

Many a Westerner have fallen prey to the Makalani nut.

I won't lie to you, I'm sure I have been seen walking down the street, Nut Man in tow trying his very persistent best to get my attention after I have ignored him for a good 4 minutes, as I yell things over my shoulder like "I don't want your damn nuts!" and other inappropriate exclamations.

In my fluctuating struggle to be seen as something other than a tourist and maintain some dignity on the streets of Swakopmund, I felt that I should impart some wisdom to those of you who are considering visiting this strange and wonderous place.

Consider yourself warned.

But If you can't beat them, join them. The next time the nut men come round, I will attempt to sell them a pet rock for, say...US$50. After all, a rock is nut's best friend.

...I'll let you know how it goes.

To See The Seals

A few weeks ago, my fella and I drove north to a place called Cape Cross, on the coast of Namibia, to see the famous Cape Seal colony that I kept hearing about. I was very excited, as I had never seen a seal before, except for the dead ones that wash up on the shore of Swakopmund. Which is sad and smelly. So I wanted to witness these interesting critters for myself, and possibly fulfill my childhood dream of riding a giant seal through the ocean like an aquatic Rainbow Brite.

On the way out of town, we pulled off onto a part of the beach where, a few years ago, a ship wrecked itself in the shallow reefs along the coast. They don't call this the Skeleton Coast for nothing--many ships have lost the same battle. This particular ship is now home to a crew of sea gulls whom have made the ship's poop deck quite literal and no longer able to be swabbed.

Back on the road, the drive to Cape Cross was relaxed and almost completely devoid of any other cars. Along the the road, scores of abandoned tables, which normally display the local's traditional and horribly overpriced crafts for tourists, were scattered exclusively with deteriorating bundles of raw salt crystals. The road slithered through a dry landscape of undulating structures of geological wonderment, the earth marbled with the sun-bleached white and burnt-red sand that is characteristic of the Namibian landscape.
There's something about driving through the desert that makes you feel like you are at the (oh so cliche) ends of the earth, a stretch of land between Old Blue and some other planet.

However, I get the same feeling when I've had entirely too much coffee and my nervous system is on the fritz. So take that sentiment with a grain or two of salt.

After making a pit stop at a salt table to investigate and see whether someone would by chance pop out from behind a shrubbery to guard their salty souvenirs (they did not), we arrived at Cape Cross to be immediately greeted by a tour bus, quickly bringing me back down to the sandy earth.

Oh my god, we are going to see seals in like 5 seconds.

What do I do, what do I do...

We rounded a corner and heard what sounded like a bunch of belching old men and crying donkeys. What Hell is this? And then there was a smell happening. The Boy and I looked at each other with concern for each other's digestive tracts. But it was not us, thank you, it was the brown lumpy sausage-shaped beings covering the rocky coastline.

Noses covered, we got out of the bakkie and walked onto a slightly raised boardwalk where seals were so close to you that you could hug them if you wanted. Because of the smell, I decided not to.

Seals. Everywhere. Lounging on the rocks, surfing the waves, lying under the shade of the boardwalk.

Let me explain what a dormant seal looks like. Have you ever seen a cat get stuck in shirt sleeve or some other tubular object with only its head poking out of the end?

Now you have. And the similarity is uncanny.

Upright, they look like dogs that have shoved their back end into a fish costume. More specifically, they look and move like my old dog Max, sadly no longer with us, but who for sure is happily noshing on the cheesecake and dove soap bars in Heaven's garbage bin. Seals sort of budge themselves along in a loping diagonal waddle until they build up enough momentum from their front half that their butt eventually catches up with it.

The sounds they make run the gamut of a terribly asthmatic honking cough to the sound of a low octave B flat emanating from a tuba full of water.

Better still, there were little baby seals all over the place, frolicking together, having baby seal races.

I love them.

We moved on to look at the monuments that had been erected centuries ago at the discovery of Cape Cross and read about the history of its foundation. I would love to tell you about it, but frankly I don't remember any of it because I was so enthralled by my little sea dogs, and also I have been turned off history lessons since my elderly sophomore year history teacher made a joke about FDR's gentleman parts.

This sealy experience left me with me with a smile, and has since encouraged me to cook more fish for dinner in homage to my belly-sliding pals. It has also nearly cured me of my desire to raise one as a pet.

Point is, if you are an animal-lover and find yourself traveling the coast of Namibia, pop by Cape Cross Seal Reserve for a looksy.

Just remember to bring nose plugs.

(Note: Seal photos [hopefully] to come.)

Afrikaans

Now, last year, the language to learn was Otjiherero, as that was the predominant language in Kunene. Swakopmund is more of a melting pot. Many ethnicities live here because of the opportunity for employment. Thus, the commonly spoken languages are English and Afrikaans. Because I'm white and not traveling in a herd of tourists, it is presumed I speak the latter, and people start rapidly speaking this foreign language to me. Because of this fact and because I would like to be able to communicate with my boyfriend and his friends in their first language, I need to learn Afrikaans.

This is difficult for a few reasons.

The first is that unless you made a habit of hacking up a loogie several times in the middle of a sentence during your formative years, the ability to pronounce the Afrikaans "G" will not come naturally. More easily adaptable, but still foreign to my repertoire is the rolled "R" and the necessity to open your mouth and enunciate while speaking. As I am from New Jersey, this is like asking a person with scoliosis to stand up straight.

Afrikaans is very like listening to Dutch or German. Gutteral, emphatic, and sometimes bewildering. But also like German, there are enough words that sound like their English equivalent to indicate generally what the conversation is about. By learning some key words, listening for the recognizable words, and watching body language, I can now decipher what is going on in about 1 in 20 instances.

Making progress.

But although directions to the nearest supplier of biltong or other meat products may often sound like an insult to your mother, Afrikaans can sound almost cutesie sometimes. What a language of strange contrasts.

Example: the word for sock is sokkie

Perspective: a big burly man in a safari shirt and seal skin shoes growling about where his sockies are

Example: the word for bread is brood. But as I gather, bread refers to anything from a loaf of bread to a piece of bread with things on it (I.e. A sandwich) and can be called a broodjie (said like broy-kee)

Perspective: in my mind, this is like asking someone "Are you going go eat that piece of bread-ski? I need something to wash down my pork choppy and chippies." Say this to your family with a straight face, and I will give you $5.

But I don't mean to diss Afrikaans. It's actually a fun and interesting, albeit difficult, language.

Side note: if anyone knows anything about South Afrikaans/Namibians and are able to effectively explain to me why "shame" is used as both a positive and negative response to something, I will be eternally grateful.
(A: "I baked some awesome brownies yesterday."
 B: "Oh, shame."
Conversely...
 A: "I just tripped and dropped my brownies in the ocean."
 B: "Oh, shame.")
...What?

Cheers, ya'll.

How To Cook African-Italian

I love food. Mostly, I love to eat it. Sometimes I like to cook it.
That said,

I am not Gordon Ramsey.

But, with the occasional flop, most of my food is edible, and some of it is even good. However, when your ingredients are not what you are used to, cooking can go awry.

Welcome to my cooking class: How to Cook Italian Food in Namibia.

Step one: If you are in a place other than Windhoek or Swakopmund, be prepared for your only option to be soggy noodles in a tin-flavored tomato sauce. No herbs, no cheeses besides the occasional cheddar, often no garlic or olive oil. But if you are desperate enough to eat something besides meat and porridge, this might do the trick.

Step 2: If you are in one of the two previously mentioned places, you can buy most of the things you will need. However, never count on the items you need to be in stock, count on going to 3 grocery stores to obtain said items, and expect to pay $11 for a small hulk of Parmesan cheese.

Or you can wing it. Like me.

I've finally found a brand of pasta sauce that's reliably good. Although it's no Rao's, it'll do. Plus, the name is Ina Paarman, which sounds like Ina Garten, and I've been watching a lot of Barefoot Contessa.

So, it's spaghetti and meatball day at our house! Allow me to give you detailed instructions on how to make a meal that will wow...you know, someone, at least.

1. Make your meatballs by putting together ground beef, Worcestershire sauce, salt, pepper, egg, a bit of mustard, a bit of ketchup. Obviously straying from Italian flavors.

2. Grate some onion to put in as well and then realize it's all stuck in the grater, and give up.

3. Pour yourself a drink, you've done well so far.

4. Decide you want to make your own breadcrumbs because you couldn't find any in the store and you are feeling creative.

5. Throw in the breadcrumbs and mush your mixture around like no ones watching.

6. Taste the raw meat to see if it's seasoned well enough. Then realize a year ago you never would have done that, it was probably a poor choice, and that's what happens when you date an Afrikaans man.

7. Rinse your mouth out, like that's going to help, and decide you don't care.

8. Form your meatballs and put them in a frying pan because your oven is broken and shuts off the power when you turn it on.

9. While that's browning, and after burning your fingers on a few things, throw some pasta into a pot of boiling water. You notice a few little insects floating around in the water, casually fish them out, and decide that the heat will kill off any bad things. For good measure, throw in some more salt. Why? I don't know, but salt makes things better. Tell to your boyfriend that tonight's menu will be bug poo with a side of meatballs, to which he responds with an unfazed "ok." You're good to go.

10. Put in your sauce and start adding random things to it like a mad woman until it tastes more normal. Go crazy.

11. Be surprised that it tastes quite good and not at all reminiscent of insects.


I hope with these helpful hints, you too will be able to cook like an African Mamma Cucina.
Bon apetito, amici.

What's This?

To those of you who read my blog from last year, A Girl, A Year, A Blog, and glimpsed into the ridiculous inner workings of my mind--welcome back! Prepare yourselves for round 2. To those of you who perhaps don't know what you are getting yourself into, welcome for the first time. To both parties, I'm so excited to have you, I could dance like Carlton Banks.

So, you've read the title, and now some of you are thinking "Oh, poor child. She thinks she's domestic."

Wrong. I know I'm not domestic.

I will start wearing bathing suit bottoms for underwear to avoid doing laundry.

But I am making an effort to be adequately like a...person. So, this blog follows what any person would do at this time in his or her life--the day to day nonsense--finding a job, cooking, cleaning, finding friends outside of college, organizing finances, pondering life,etc. However, since it's me we are talking about, I am doing it in the most spastic and inefficient way possible and in a country that baffles me so much, even after being here for 14 months.

"But..why?" I ask.
Namibia. That's why.

But I guess I will do a quick recap before I begin my real entries.

Pay attention.

Last year I left my house in New Jersey, and adjusted to living in the bush of Northern Namibia, teaching learners who apparently thought I was a ghost for a good part of the year.
Hello, my name is Professor Bins.
In that time, somehow this country became my home. I fell in love with this area, and also with an Afrikaans boy I met at a coffee shop and haven't been able to get out of my mind since. So, I finished out my year at school and moved to a coastal town to live with said boy. I've been here for just under 3 months now, and it is a 180 from where I lived last year. Gone are the bucket showers, the intestinal parasites, the spotty electricity, goats in my kitchen, and being able to wear gym shorts to the bar (that last one makes me sad). It is a weird and very Western oasis in Namibia, but do not be fooled--it is still Africa. Walk 1 kilometer out of town in any direction, and you will be smack dab in the middle of the Skeleton Coast of the Namib desert. Or in the Atlantic Ocean, obviously.

So, kick back, relax, and don't judge me too harshly.

Sometimes I do inappropriate things. But if I have to use a sock as an iPad case or tie my hair back with a plastic bag, who gives a flying...thing.

One last note. In an attempt to make this blog more family friendly, I will try to keep cursing and poop talk to a minimum.
Although I think it loses something. And I don't know how long that rule will last.

But enjoy, friends!