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.