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.