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.