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!