Road trip to Southern Namibia

No Schlink car trip can ever start off without my preoccupation with stockpiling essentials like snacks, water, and sunscreen. Mark worries about much less important things like printing out proof of insurance, the spare tire and securely fastening down the duffel bags. What kind of priorities are those, am I right? Once satisfied, I had enough apples, dried fruit, and biltong to go with the waffles, soft pretzels, cheese, crackers, and several gallons of water, and celebratory stock of gin, tonic and limes- off we went, headed south through Namibia. The kids were giddy with 6am excitement, unable to go back to sleep- ignorant of the long hours ahead. I desperately wanted to nod off, but as the first leg co-pilot, I knew my allegiances should remain awake with Mark. For our first burst of excitement, we drove past the Tropic of Capricorn, completing a lifelong dream photoshoot at the southernmost latitude point that receives sunlight directly overhead. 

The best part of driving in southern Namibia is that the landscape is consistently unique. Not having been particularly far north, east, or west I can't speak to them yet. But the south is definitely cool and unpredictable. One minute we would drive past rolling mountains,  another past rocky steppe, or farm land, and another through canyons. Sometimes all four seemed to happen at once and although Namibia is drought ridden, there's still a mess Pantone colors swathing the landscape. It's pretty great.  The only thing that is less great, is the endless, straight road (though the B1 highway is well paved and marked) which will make any driver sleepy.  

A few hours later we approached our next pit stop of Keetmanshoop, and decided on a detour to the Quiver Tree Forest/Rest Camp. Owned by a German family with what seemed like 43 sheep dogs, this private property contains an impressive spread of quiver trees which are part of the aloe family. The owner estimated that some of these trees are over 300 years old. It's impressive they don't whither in the hot sun, which at our time of arrival, reached 40C (104F). Beet faced and only "slightly" sweating, we explored the rocky and hilly terrain chasing lizards. After chugging the once cold turned tepid bubble water, we visited the Giant's Playground: a place filled with very old, very big rock piles. Essentially, they are 160-180 million year old igneous rocks spread over 180,000 square kilometers. Essentially, it's pretty cool. And hot at the same time.

I love how Google has its mind made up with the most efficient way to arrive, but then promptly changes to divert via dirt roads. Yet, I still believed as we bid goodbye to the B1. Perhaps it saved 3-5 minutes, perhaps not. What the new route did do was take us to through suspiciously green, and soldier straight vineyards and palm tree farms. It was a pleasant surprise, even if we were only 90% certain of the correct way. Finally, with an eminent arrival to the Gondwana Canyon Village, we enjoyed spartan yet massive rock columns, and buttes, along with a sneak preview of the Fish River Canyon. Everything mind you, was dotted with oryx, gembock, and ostriches.  Once we checked in and pretended not to notice it was 42C, we had no choice but to cool off by swimming and taking a sunset hike before eating dinner under the stars.  Dinners here start and end late. So much that, the kids wanted to skip dessert, falling into bed at 9:30, with us not far behind at 9:31. We all had enough bursts of excitement for the day.

23°26′13.5″

Quiver tree forest! 

Photo credit: Deets.

Mistakingly taking a selfie with a quiver tree photobomb.

Hiking around the Canyon Village.

View from the shade in which I was hiding.

View from the porch of our "chalet."

View of the village from above.

Ostriches and Crocs in All Their Glory. Maybe.

Luckily my kids don't give me the wary eyeball when I announce we are taking an adventure trip in the car. Yet. To kick off holiday break, I picked out a rest camp an hour north of Windhoek that boasts keeping tame, hand fed ostriches and crocodiles. Seemed like a nice combination. We found the place easily and signed up for the "tour" led by a 26 year old employee who loves all things ostriches: their stupidity, their greediness, their color changing beaks during mating season.  After spewing out a few facts, she eagerly told us how a man snuck into their camp last year to steal a backpacks' worth of ostrich eggs and was killed by blunt force trauma. Cause of death: trampling by a 2 toed ostrich. Yes, she told this to Deets and Margo who were then offered to hand feed them. Needless to say, no one took her up on the offer. Those birds are legitimately crazy-mean birds! If they could flare their nostrils and thump their chests, they would. 

Continuing on with the tour, we met Rita the Warthog, who lived in the tour guide's house for several years and slept under her bed. She gave her up when Rita got too fat. We met a group of tortoises, one female and approximately 12 males all hell bent on mounting her shell. Skipping over to seek out Lucy the crocodile, we saw only a green pool of water from behind the cement fence- which, the guide insisted my kids should sit upon. She continued with her fascinating animal facts telling us how Lucy sometimes jumps as high as 2 meters out of the water. The guide said she likes to jump and catch a group of weaver birds who've set up a ton of nests on an overhanging tree. She tried to coax out the crocodile by whapping the surface with a long stick, but only succeeded in making Lucy sink deeper into the pond. Can't say I blame her. 

After a few more random facts about love birds, weavers, even the camp's resident dog, she tried to bid us adieu. However, the kiddos kept asking her about the giraffes who were shacked up with the ostriches. With only a passing glance, she shrugged saying nothing except "I dunno, they're just giraffes." Totally caught off guard, I could only laugh.  After all, we followed her for 20 minutes as she preened and pontificated about the other animals. I guess giraffes aren't for everyone.   

Having only spent about thirty minutes there in total, I felt we should drive through the nearest town of Okahandja and scope out the local craft market. There's no stop lights in the town, but it's full of activity as it is the water supply HQ for Windhoek, has a chic and modern military center, plus a hefty makeshift craft center that sells anything from wooden hippos, to jewelry, to kitchen stuff. We enjoyed a lively and accusatory encounter with the sales folks who "jokingly" called me mean mommy because I wouldn't buy the kids anything special. Had I been in the mood to haggle, I might have walked away with an 8 foot tall giraffe. Instead I spent my money on gas, thinking that might be slightly more important. 

Just a giraffe.

His ugly mug, all red and hyped up for mating.

Rita, the fatty.

Lady T finally getting a break to herself.

Waterbuck, another animal the guide cared not talk about.
They have distinct targets on their asses.

Personal Touches in the Foreign Service

Even though the Foreign Service provides furnished living quarters to the majority of posts, some people bring furniture for a more personal touch. Many people choose to bring their beds of all sizes and personalities: king beds, day beds, sleep number beds, probably even beds made of space moon foam. Mark and I chose not to, instead relying on our 12+ year down comforter which we spiff up every few years with a new duvet from IKEA or Target. To me, it's an essential and perfect part of what makes me feel at home. The duvet has a perfect warmth to thickness ratio: thin enough for 98% humidity laden Recife or the parched 12% of Windhoek, (so long as you stuck one leg out) but warm enough for the blasted winters of Denver, DC, and Bucharest. We love our comforter like other people love their beds. Or bikes.

On this very fine and uneventful weekend, I decided to effectively burrow underneath my down comforter like a hibernating ferret to relieve some muscle aches I developed while fake hip hop dancing under the shade of our braai. I was jonesin' for some serious nap time. Instead, I found something hiding under the covers: my six year old reading a magazine and requesting that no one should bother him. He was reading: FP USA 2015/16. Say what? Yes people, he was reading the annual publication of the Federation of Petanque magazine. This year they've reached 2,000 members and they tout "It's fun! It's friendly! It's exciting!" 

My husband is turning our kids into retired old men who wear white boat shoes and fedoras, brainwashing them in the ways of petanque. Mark had been dreaming of this moment, ever since we got a preview of our Windhoek home, well over a year ago. He did the research and chose his materials carefully- official regulation, unpainted steel balls, two sets of 3. Each set came with an etched design for quick differentiation on the court. After months of waiting his balls arrived, and Mark wasted no time in teaching the kids how to play. At first I was reluctant, not at all interested in standing in the sun and tossing balls around with the intent to land closest to the neon painted cochonnet (aka "the piglet"). But as Mark is thoughtful in so many things, he proved that the kids enjoyed playing- so much so, that my son was reading all about it in our bed under the favored blanket of all time. I can't really argue with that, so we are now a steel ball tossing kind of family. It's an odd kind of personal touch to our new home, but that's a Schlink for you.

Beer: non optional.

Jim getting in on the action.

Margo gaining two points.

Balls. 

Hiking in Mom Pants - Daan Viljoen

When I tried on the pair of outdoorsy pants I'd ordered from REI, my sigh was 98% relief and 2% disappointment- they fit, but were extremely high waisted. I could hide several sandwiches and an orange in them! To complete the image, I tossed on a long-sleeve button down and my chic sun hat. I can't pretend to ever have dressed well, and comfort wins out the majority of the time, but these pants felt foreign and showy despite their dull grey sensible coloring.  However, Mark and I were on a limited time schedule so I couldn't obsess too much, and I needed to stay out of the sun anyway.  The kids were at school on this lovely Thanksgiving holiday, so Mark and I decided to go hiking at Daan Viljoen, a wildlife park not 30 minutes away.

Mark chose the 9km Rooibos Trail and after paying our fees we set off on a hearty speed walk to the trailhead. I'd forgotten how excited he gets when he hikes! The trail was well marked and deserted, just the way he likes it. Despite the crunching gravel, high pitched reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee of the locusts, and the snowpant-like swishing of my pants, it was silent. We hiked up, nervous and terribly excited about what we'd see- several of my friends had seen giraffes at this park which set the bar pretty high. I'll tell you straight away that we never did. Instead we were treated to herds of zebras grazing and scrambling around the mountainside which I didn't expect.  I always figured zebras kept to flatter terrain like what we see on TV.  They're shy too, which meant their camouflaged hides quickly ran away even if we were separated by a valley. It made picture taking quite difficult. 

You know what's not shy? Baboons. Only an hour into our hike we saw a large group of about twenty baboons: in the trees, on rocks, and of course totally blocking the trail. The head honcho sat ominously on the ridge watching our every move. Question: what does a group of baboons with ugly butts, gnashing teeth and sharp claws get to do?  Answer: whatever they want.  Warning us to stop with excessively loud reverberating grunts, we backed down the path backwards. I joked maybe it would be less painful to not see them coming after us but Mark didn't think I was funny. At all. But, like all stubborn creatures, we didn't want to give up our beautiful day so quickly. Once the chief baboon stopped his warning calls, his followers kicked up the pace and continued on their path. Keeping a very respectable distance we resumed the trail, talking loudly, throwing rocks, and pausing every few steps to listen for more warning calls. Mark did anyway, keeping his damsel in drab colored sensible-mom-pants safely behind him 100 paces. About 30 minutes later we gained enough height on the mountain to ascertain the baboons had likely continued down one side while we could take the other. Peering over a ridge we saw them harassing a group of zebras on another mountainside which meant we would likely not be mauled today. Win!

Our hike continued unabated. Then it hit me: halfway through this adventure and I didn't have a single wedgie or pant adjustment to deal with! Everything was still firmly in place and I. Felt. Amazing. Except for my toes which were starting to blister, since we don't have our hiking boots (or the rest of our stuff) in country quite yet. I could ignore that. I was in the gorgeously dry bushveld, (sub-tropical woodland ecoregion) hiking with my favorite person in the world. 

My good attitude endured the remainder of the trail. Most of it. I admit the last fifteen minutes of the trail was tough: straight up the mountain, with a full on adult sized kudu decomposing right in the middle of it. I'd forgotten about that special type of smell. Eventually we petered out to asphalt lined with neglected buildings, trash, and a dead lake and dam- a place that was once obviously a thriving hot spot for glamping before Namibia's drought won, decimating the terrain. The reserve had no choice but to abandon this section and rebuild further in. However disappointing it was to see this, the hike was well worth the field trip. We got some exercise, didn't get attacked by animals (the trees and plants are another story. They have some crazy mad thorns here!) and my utilitarian pants solidified their place in my wardrobe. Let's just hope I don't start wearing overalls or housecoats any time soon. 

Emily in the wild.

Oryx.

Chief King Baboon warning heard
loud and clear: don't eff with us.

Windhoek in the background.

Mark considering. We would do it too if I let him.

PANTS! See the coverage?! So thorough.

A Visit to N/a'an ku se Lodge

Yes, I am still here. Over the past 6 weeks I've had a lot going on between Halloween, International Day, Election Day, Veteran's Day. We've had the Marine Corps Ball, a mess of birthday parties (including Margo's), a job interview, car drama, and a regular stream of people coming to our house for a huge landscaping project that couldn't wait any longer (retaining wall/safety kind of thing). The latter has tremendously impacted whatever shell of a routine I managed to carve out since our arrival to Windhoek. I restarted teaching yoga and have signed up for other self-education projects. In short, I've been busy and I found myself without the ability to express pride, joy, angst, confusion, or sadness about these events. I didn't feel like I had any rhythm. Also, I didn't want to sound like a humble bragger or whiner. It's very unbecoming. 

After a pity party and a good dose of STFU, I made reservations to visit an animal sanctuary and lodge to get out of the city limits for the day. The inspiration morbidly came from my friend who took her family the week before, where a lion (the same one we would see), charged the fence in the direction of her five year old kid. Our guide would inform us, it was his way of establishing dominance and had he really wanted to attack, no fence, electrified or not, would stop him. It piqued my motivation so I signed us up for the Sunday 10:00am carnivore feeding at N/a'an ku sê Lodge and Sanctuary. I figured we all could use a bit of savage animal therapy.

Even the car ride out was therapeutic. Though sluggish, rainy season has arrived and the thirsty brown landscape took on a new look with green trees and bushes against a never ending sky and dirt roads. The kids couldn't help themselves. They screamed with discovery when they saw scrappy wild baboons, warthogs, and herds of oryx and zebra from the back seat, losing any hope to take picture. Once we checked in (the customer service here is very good), we explored the premises and not-so-silently tracked colored lizards to the edge of a cliff that houses marmots, turtles, and weird bugs. 

The tour was pretty good. The guide gave the standard wildlife monologue, but also kept the kids engaged. They delighted in his collection of juice box offerings and his bucket of animal meat. He spoke about how the sanctuary's baboons are all vegetarian orphans, no longer able to assimilate in the wild; how cheetahs behave like domesticated dogs; that the African wild dogs always hunt in packs, and will tear an animal to pieces in less than 5 seconds, ensuring a quick death.

At each stop our guide diligently reminded us to be aware of the electrified fences.  Some places we could hear electricity humming, others not so much. Anxiety raged through my body only once or twice when the kids walked too close to the fences as they enthusiastically waved sticks around. Visiting the caracals, one lady announced that she had touched the fence and found it wasn't electrified at all. She seemed royally disappointed, and the guide seemed to not quite register her declaration. I decided ignorance was bliss on this matter especially when we got to the lions. After a few minutes of calling the kitties over, the same lion that charged our friend's son, sprinted toward Mark as he wandered up the dirt road, separated only by 2mm thick wire. Feeling that was probably a good end to the tour we finished up unharmed and exhilarated. 

We returned to our car dusty and hungry. Thank goodness for intelligent design- the lodge has solar panels built on finely lashed wood supports, which double as shaded parking spaces. It saved us from hot seats, warm water bottles, and spoiled turkey and cheese sandwiches. Normally I would pack heat durable PBJs but the kids don't like them! They are so weird. But the children devoured their meals like the wild animals they are and passed out in the merciful air conditioning for a quiet rode home.  

Coming up over this hill literally stopped us in our tracks. 

A crabby, screeching marmot and his sidekick.

Lunch 

Waiting for her brother and sister to join the party.
As siblings, they cannot and do not mate in the wild or captivity.

Spotted leopard.

Full of attitude: a hissing caracal. 

After calling for several minutes, the dogs were a no-show.
We headed to the other side of the property where they appeared
out of nowhere and rapidly closed in on their object of affection: meat waiting to be tossed overhead.

Taking his sweet time to get lunch.

Backyard Fauna

According to my mother-in-law, you know you're old when you own a bird book. Well I joined the upper ranks of adulting when my very own Photographic Guide to Birds of Namibia arrived in the mail. I spend an inordinate amount of time paging through the pictures and practicing my bird call enunciations. But only when I am alone- or does that make it sound creepy? The rest of the time I sit watching the birds devour their bird feed during peak hours and try to get the hang of being stealthy with my camera. Usually I buy the cheapest food I can find because we can go through 5 kilos per week, but we do reap the rewards. One time I mistakingly bough fancy bougie feed and a flock of lovebirds came and emptied the feeder in 2 hours, but it was enough time to take pictures. 

Birds aren't the only thing visiting our yard. We have a mess of wicked fast lizards too. Most of them are drab brown. One in particular caught my eye with its bright yellow head. I scared it by accident and followed its path to the roof of our braai area where I mentally willed it to come down. When that didn't work, I climbed up to get a better look and chased it around the chimney like a ridiculous game of peek-a-boo. Turns out this resident lizard is missing a foot, and either has good luck or is crazy tough: last weekend we had our first snake experience when a 2 foot snake hunted this lizard around our yard. The snake literally jumped from rock to rock, and spiraled up a tree trunk before giving up the hunt. I sat freaked out and glued to my seat, imagining it crawling up my pant leg. Mark sensibly Googled the snake first to determine its lethalness (not for humans) and then grabbed his camera to capture footage before it disappeared for another day. 

Today I spied the same lizard still as a statue amongst the same rocks he scaled to escape the snake. He must like it here. I think I do too. 

Redbilled Francolin

Bird. Book proving unhelpful. Perhaps a lark?
My super smart (and adorable) friend Laurie says: English Sparrow
She's definitely right.

Another bird. Maybe a bishop?

Rosy-faced Lovebirds

Blue Waxbill

Striped belly sand snake that chased and
failed to capture a three footed lizard in our yard.

The victorious 3 footed Namibian Rock Agama
(aka common lizard)

Windhoek: The Dog Has Landed!

On this cool quiet Windhoek morning, I paced back and forth, nervous about when the dog would get here. The flight from Frankfurt to Windhoek landed at 5:24am, an hour earlier than scheduled, so I calculated perhaps by 8:00 he'd show up at the door step. Should I take a shower for him? What should I wear? Should I pull out my real camera to capture the moment?  God. Seriously. I envisioned his drop off to be like those tear jerker videos of reunited pets and owners, the ones we see on Facebook. 

Literally seconds after Mark left work, Jim's transport pulled into the driveway, delivered by two lady knights in shiny armor. They cut off the zip ties and opened the crate door for final liberation. Instead of a tail wag, lick and immediate demands of a good butt scratch, I got a dog who immediately ran to a tree for relief. And to a bush. And to another tree. And into the dirt, desperately trying to, well, poop. He just couldn't knock one out! For the rest of the day, forlorn, my dog kept his space but at the same time wouldn't let me out of his sight. I am certain he will come around, especially with a healthy dose of steamed pumpkin to motivate his system. He might be annoyed by his lengthy travel (Recife -> Sao Paolo -> Frankfurt -> Windhoek) over the past week, but I have confidence he will come around.

I did force him to take a selfie with me to show the people who pooled brains, resources, and time to get him here. Just from my email alone, I collected over 150 emails, corresponding to get him to Windhoek dating back to June 12. I can't imagine the number of other emails extended out of my sight- all for the love of a dog. Even with missed deadlines, incorrect paperwork, and original copies getting sent to the wrong country, I never once worried about Jim's overall well being mostly because Airpets Transcontrol (who are based in Brazil) monitored and corrected these errors for me and at times unbeknownst to me.

Our friends in Recife cared for him like their own, even after doubling the commitment time it took to get him out of the city. The energy spent by the U.S. Embassy staff in Namibia, orchestrating relationships between pet companies and foreign ministries, and the amount of miles accumulated across the city hand carrying documents- blows my mind. And the pet service company that functioned on several time zones, never once gave me reason to doubt their dedication. I am indebted to their attention to details, to pick up what others neglected to do.

Indeed the process was pricy, a little painful and at times frustrating, but he's home at last. After making several laps around the property and coating himself in thick layers of dirt, Jim has settled himself reasonably well. The Schlink family is finally at 100 percent!

Recommended Pet Travel:

Brazil: Airpets Transcontrol, http://airpetstranscontrol.com.br/?lang=en
Germany: G.K. Airfreight Service, http://www.petshipping.com/en
Namibia: Pet Travel Namibia, http://pettravelnamibia.com/

Cold shoulder selfie. 

Going through his paperwork, some which
mistakingly showed up to Windhoek.

Happy campers.

Making it snow in Windhoek

My kids want it to snow. So much so, they claim balderdash to any scientific explanation; it simply must snow in Windhoek. For the time being they settle on making sand angels, even if it means sand in their underwear and gritty bed sheets. We did discover something bittersweet: we have a row of trees that have not endured the lengthy drought. They seem to be ash trees with tattered leaves and skinny seed pods bunched at the ends giving the branches a heavy, droopy look. Inside the cracked brown pods are papery white seeds with dark centers and they look like the enlarged white blood cell drawings from biology class. 

Testing out their sturdiness, I shook the dead trees totally oblivious to the idea of knocking off resting spiders or bugs and falling down my shirt. I lucked out and instead received a mess of seeds falling like fat snow flakes. Of course this amused my children to no end and begged me to make it snow.  So I shook those trees as if I were strangling skinny bird necks, all for the love of kids. I wonder what the neighbors must think?

Let it snow!

Sunrise in Nambia

In Brazil, the Atlantic ocean sunrise was so strong it penetrated the "blackout" curtains, and it was always around between 5:00 and 5:30am. We were awake before we ever wanted to be. Nowadays we don't get light in our windows until well after 7:00am, but it's so intense it bleaches out the sky before settling back into a looming cloudless blue. Needless to say, hats and ridiculous hat hair make regular appearances around my house.

Rising with the sun, 7:24am

Arrival to Windhoek, Namibia

Knowing me, one would expect that a lengthy stretch of travel over several time zones and airlines, combined with two young children, that something would go amiss. I prepared for the worst on this move from the United States to Namibia but all things considered, it was one of the most boring life events to date. Other than the kids commandeering the airplane bathroom lines announcing their urgencies and charging head-on to the front, they didn't cause a ruckus nor complain. We landed in Windhoek very tired and covered in food stains, but intact and on time. We arrived to our house and thanks to overwhelmingly supportive social sponsors, we had a bit of internet and a whole lot of cable TV to get us started. A few days after that, the kids started school and I was left to set up house.

The landscape of Windhoek in a nutshell is: dry and quiet. I walk around the house like a creeper with my giant bottle of Lubriderm, drinking liters of water that never seem to quench my thirst. With a 6+ year drought, most of the landscape has varying shades of brown though a few species of drought resistant plants and trees flourish with blinding color. The sky is huge and the wind blows high, so that you hear it causing mayhem in the branches but it never really seems to touch the ground. 

I'm told that during rainy season (January-April) the entire landscape is absolutely mind blowing with neon vegetation growing overnight. For now, there’s a huge variety of cactus, as well as succulents, perfectly waxed to hold in slivers of moisture. Looming palm trees have the thickest trunks I have ever seen, and the spiny aloe plants are unmoving, unswaying as they belligerently stare the sun down.

There is a single resident bird in our yard who has set up a mess of real estate in one of our trees, moving from one nest to another. His spread is impressive, homes with bottom entryways, carefully domed using nothing but grass wrapped around a branch. I see why the yellow bird hangs out in our yard: we have shudderingly huge grasshoppers here. Down low, instead of squirrels, mongooses dart up tree trunks and drain pipes. Instead of stray dogs, baboon troops roam the streets and what passes for sidewalks. Sometimes they make unwelcome entries into homes or dump over trash cans, rioting for free finds.  

The kids are recognizing their school-focused routine, getting up at the crack of dawn for a 6:20am bus pick up. Combine that with springtime day light savings and we’ve got the perfect brew of crabby pants. They start and end early due to warm temperatures, so they do get home around 2pm. Deets has been launched into a lot more reading and writing than he cares to do, but he counters that frustration in his Portuguese class, where he gets to relax and answer easy questions. I question whether this was a good idea. At least his homeroom teacher has solid footing on her curriculum, so I have confidence he will adjust. Margo, our chameleon, adapts to anything- she’s off and running, happy to be here getting filthy every day (did I mention it’s dry and dusty here?) For both of them, getting dirty is a point of pride.

For me, I have yet to shape my own routine. It’s been a stop and wait kind of lifestyle when people come by to make repairs, sign papers, or attempt to install internet. It’s not bad, I’ve learned to bake bread and have put forth an effort to cook meals half as good as Mark’s. Turns out I make decent daal, pizza, and bagels. I even made hamburger buns. I tried grilling for the first time. It didn’t go well. In between those times I get tangled in my TRX straps, or take walks around the neighborhood which is full of intimidating guard dogs. I inspect left over remnants of the people who lived here before us: snakes of fat pool tubing that explodes with dirt and dead bugs; neglected furniture that collapses when I place a cup of water on it; gathering up of forgotten, rusted herb planters and random tied up socks across the yard. I found about 20 so far and they keep popping up. 

However, I am happy to be here and ready to make scary decisions like buying a car- if I can. More often than not, spouses of the officer are limited to decision making because they are the “official” ones who can sign things, not us. It’s infantilizing, but I will make the best of it. That is what affordable South African wine and gin is for, right?

The ridge behind our house.  

Bougainvilleas

Resident Weaver.

His newest remodel.

Tiny and spiny orange tree.
The kids drew Halloween faces on the oranges.

An acacia type derivative, next door.

Up close with purple spikes. If the tree wasn't surrounded
by razor wire and an electrified fence,
 I would have tried to feel the puffs.

Socks. Everywhere.

They grow them big here.