Back to Damaraland where it's 200 degrees!

The Schlink grandparents and uncle fared well at the Erindi Game Reserve so it was time to up the ante, and the temperature by heading north to the Kunene Region (aka Damaraland). Over Christmas, we'd be staying at the Namibian Marriott: Gondwana Lodge.

If you have met Mark's dad, you already know those two are cut from the same cloth. Both of them are passionate about reading, history, rocks, and pretty much anything related to the great outdoors. We'd be making a return circuit around dinosaur tracks, the Brandburg Mountains, Twyfelfontein rock carvings, and the other assorted must-sees in the area. 

This time I came armed with a German-to-English geology book to nerd out with the best of them: Nicole Grunert's Namibia: Fascination of Geology; A Travel Handbook. During our 5+ hour drive, I'd daydream about the idea that the geological development of Namibia was basically the epicenter of life as we know it, more than 2,500 million years ago, and that the rocks here are older than the existence of terrestrial oxygen.  When driving past a pile of red granite rocks that seemed to pop up from nowhere, as it does in the Kunene Region, I'd point out that they were called woolsacks made from deep weathering along the fissure systems. But I don't think anyone was listening. 

Exiting out the northern end of Erindi, we drove in search Dinosaur Tracks Guest Lodge. Perhaps unsurprisingly to see: dinosaur tracks. One hour later, the owner greeted us at the cars, unsure of what language to speak, but clearly eager to chit-chat. Before I could open my mouth he tried out German, Afikaans, and French. Thinking I was funny, I responded in Portuguese but I could see him calculating an alternative back up plan to communicate, so I switched to English. The gentleman questioned if we were Angolan diplomats or maybe from Mozambique, based on our red license plates.  Despite my explanation, it didn't occur to him that we could be plain old Americans who happened to know a little Portuguese.

Finally settling on a common language, we listened to his thick accent, explaining the history of the dinosaur tracks that "he" found and expressed grave concern over our children's Crocs footwear, even though the trail we'd follow was less than 1km long. Free of his lonely grip and slathered in sunscreen, we followed the path to see a trail of three toed feet imbedded in the sandstone. Experts seem to think the prints came from theropods, 200 million year old carnivores that walked on two feet. We came, admired, roasted in the sun, and continued on our way.

The Damaraland landscape is dynamic, filled with petrified wood, petrified deserts, dead volcanoes and a whole mess of escarpments and peaks. We arrived to the Damara Mopane Lodge, which is tucked against a mountain with some of the sharpest rocks I have ever tripped over. Once we checked in and swam in their gigantic pool, we headed up the mountain to enjoy a sundowner. Overlooking the lodge, we could see an endless stretch of Mopane Trees. Once you see them in real life, you never forget them because their leaves look like butterfly wings. Unless you're me. Then they look like a tooth and the staff all think you're insane when you say so. These trees were a major hotspot for millions of red-billed qualeas, commonly known as Africa's feathered locusts. They are capable of ruining crops in a single night, eating the seeds and bugs hidden among the leaves. Qualeas fly in a looping pattern where the hungry birds in the back fly over the sated ones and so on. You could hear the birds before you saw them too, chorusing what a shimmer would sound like. 

The stay was quiet and relaxing, as much as one can relax by the freezing cold pool (that I couldn't swim in, thank you holiday of the ladies) and boiling sun. Side note: the nearest town, Khorixas had an open grocery store and was only 15 minutes away, it's not a place known for having a decent selection of feminine products. 

We ate under the stars and the kids were treated to a visit from a black bearded Santa, traditional Damara songs, and the sole chorus of Jingle Bells on Christmas Eve. On Christmas Day we did the Twyfelfontein rock carving tour with unrealistic hopes of seeing desert elephants along the way. No elephants, but we did see a lot of goats. So there's that. Mark and I dragged the kids on ungodly hot hikes around the lodge and countered that with drinks laden with syrup and maraschino cherries. 

A few nights there and it was time to head back, and endure one of the most boring drives ever. I was so bored I counted the number of bridges between Uis and Okahandja (24) to keep my brain from melting. This was after the excitement of driving past the beautiful Spitzkoppe Mountain and before the wood carving debacle of 2017 in Okahandja. I tried to prepare myself for all the heckling and cajoling when entering the vendor aisles, but I failed. Once they started harassing my kids and giving them "free" souvenirs, I lost my mind and told them they were all rude and ran off with a kid in each hand. This wouldn't have been such a big deal, but I realized I left my father in-law to fend for himself there. Fifteen minutes later he emerged with nearly N$900 worth of items. I assured him they were all very good deals.

At the Dinosaur Tracks Guest Lodge.

Damara Mopane Lodge.

Claiming the best seats for the sundowner.

The sharp rocks I mentioned. Guess what?
They indeed, hurt very much if you fall on them.

Mopane leaves.

Qualeas filling the night sky.

Schlink family on Christmas Eve.

Merry Christmas, giraffe carvings!
Twyfelfontein 

Organ Pipes formed by magmatic events 130 million years ago.
Polygons: nature's most perfect shape.
Not pictured: the swarms of interested, hungry flies. Ugh.

Erindi Elephants, Lions, and San Tribesmen

In an effort to deliver wild animals, culture, and landscape highlights of Namibia over a period of six days for Mark's family, we drove north to Erindi Game Park and the Damara Mopane Lodge in Damaraland. Erindi, predictable as always was spot on as usual with its flora and fauna. The elephant bulls were sweating pheromones from their ears, the giraffes stared at us unimpressed, and the lions ignored our oohs and ahhs when we were "treated" to watch them eat a giraffe carcass that had been rotting in the sun for the past five days, and sleep in the slightly less hot shade of camelthorn trees.  We loaded up on game drives, swimming, naps, gin & tonics, and we loitered by the watering hole watching hippos waddle along the shore and spray poop. Absolute magic. One day an elephant bull made its way there, so we enjoyed watching him cool off and scratch himself on a giant anthill that reached his groin area, just so.

Of particular novelty, we ventured to the "other side," famously known as the Old Trader's Lodge where only the chic people stay. Grubby, cheapskate campers and self-catering chalet goers are not allowed to mix. It's such a big deal, that you get fined if they catch you on the road without a documented reason. Our documentation was to visit a San village on that side of the park, a set up where the fees go to their livelihood in exchange for giving demonstrations and sharing their culture. I know what you are thinking: it's classic poverty tourism and indeed, it felt exactly like that as a truck load of white folks arrived to take pictures of them. Multiple families from age 9 months to 90 joined the group, donned in hand made leather clothing and ostrich jewelry. We felt like voyeurs with one exception: one German woman thought it was totally appropriate to pick up the babies and take selfies. Ugh.

Despite that, the San were super chill and showed us a great deal. They started fires, demonstrated string making, and showed us how they made traps and weapons. The chief got our children to participate in some of the demos too, so after a while it didn't feel as weird.  Their medicinal demonstrations were super cool because to my uneducated eye, many of the plants look like burdensome thorns, tumbleweeds, or scraps of useless bark. When in fact, they are excellent sources of poisons, anti-inflammatories, or soothing tonics. 

It was only 11:30am and the sun was starting to wilt all of the white people. Piling into the truck we waved goodbye and headed back to the lodge only 2 minutes away. Once we exited, no love was lost by the lodge staff on making sure the miscreant Schlink family made it to the car for a hasty departure back to the dark side. 

Mud bath at the watering hole.

Meat sweats.

Credit: Mark

The pharmacy: devil's claw, African onion, acacia bark.

Hand made ostrich egg jewelry.
The woman in the background is making
 perfectly rounded beads by chipping the shell with a blunt tool
against her workspace (granite slab)

The chief stripping down an aloe plant to make into string.
Once it becomes a fine, silky texture, the hair is rolled along
the thigh to bind the hair together into a string.  

San children. Photo credit: Mark

Really Good Bread in Windhoek

Publishing interviews of people I meet around the world isn't my usual blogging platform, but in this case I felt compelled to do so. You see, no matter where you live, finding really good, proper sourdough, baguettes, and croissants are hard to come by. Unless of course you are shacking up with a French baker and extracting their scientific methods of bread making while they sleep. It takes talent to make great bread, and I just happened to find Windhoek's best kept secret - and not everyone's happy about it either...

On an early Wednesday morning, the line to the le Pain Bakery located inside the Puma gas station continues to grow. The line is all women, perfectly coiffed with a fresh sheen of lipstick give their orders to the cashier. I stand too in line, slightly sweaty and without lipstick to experience what many would say is the best bread in Windhoek. I ask the woman behind me if the line and eager sense of anticipation is always like this. Her eyes widen and she says “Yes! You have to get here early or order ahead of time. Their stuff is the best, but don’t tell anybody because I am sick of standing in line.” I take that awkward, slightly unwelcome comment as a sign that I absolutely need to interview the people of le Pain and tell everyone about it.

I make my way to the front and blurt out “I hear you’re great! Tell me what to buy.” The gentleman with a brilliant smile patiently tells me about all their bread and pastry selections. I buy pretty much one of everything, and then request the owner’s business much to the same lady’s chagrin. I grab my stash and she whines “Come on! I’m in a hurry!” I still have to pay, which involves smashing the bar-coded bag up against the thickly pained security window and shoving cash in the tiny slot. It’s an awkward move, but oh so worth it. I can smell the delicious baguettes, brioches, croissants, and sourdough in my car. Family and co-workers give the thumbs up, which seals the deal: Puma Gas Station’s little French bakery is anything but.

I got a chance to meet with the head baker, Stephaan Coetzee, a loquacious Namibian with fine taste in artisanal, locally made products. Even as a young child, he knew deep down he’d be a culinary master of sorts, with the dream of owning a tiny café that prepared freshly baked goods every day. In 2006 and 2007, Stephaan trained with Markus Farbinger, an Austrian/South African/Baker extraordinaire. Farbinger trained at the Culinary Institute of America, dabbled in chocolatiering in chic LA, owned a bakery in the Western Cape, and also worked at the famous Le Cirque New York. It’s the kind of place that requires jackets and closed toed shoes, and has a $$$$ price range. The two remain close to this day, and Stephaan clearly delineates his knowledge and credit of success to Markus’s mentoring.

In 2015, the Eros Marketplace Puma Gas station (complete with a kitchen) was up for sale. The Coetzee family took over ownership and Stephaan moved in his oven and mixers. Since then, he’s polished a team of bakers and salespeople, people who he credits to for making his business shine – and make no mistake: creating bread from flour, salt, water, and yeast is no small feat. The process of preparing the dough to rise and ferment is called proofing, and elements of temperature, humidity, and the handling of the dough literally alters the outcome of the bread from one day to the next.

The continually changing environmental and physical factors make teaching and maintaining consistency a precarious balance to ensure, but that is why, Stephaan explains, he loves bread so much. It requires slowing down, attention, and care – attributes that are reiterated in his work life and personal life. People just don’t do enough of that personal care.

In an ideal situation, Stephaan would use 100% local, Namibian ingredients, but the availability just isn’t there yet. Made in South Africa and packaged in Namibia, the bakery uses Snowflake Flour. He loves its unbleached, chemical free texture because it produces a rich, natural flavor. Pre-mixed flour concoctions have no place in his kitchen. Nor is margarine, a proverbial dirty word. He uses only butter: the ubiquitous Clover and Springbok brands we know and love, plus a German brand of butter that he is lucky enough to get imported, solely for his baking purposes. When you have connections, use them. As a principle, Stephaan only uses local honey to sweeten his breads and is proud to say for the two years he’s been in business his sourdough yeast is still going strong.

Live sourdough yeast is an organism that must be treated with care. It literally needs to be fed everyday a diet of flour and water. It needs to be kept cozy, between 70F-85C (21C-29C) during the feeding time, which lasts about 8-12 hours. You know the yeast is hungry when the yeast forms a brown liquid layer called hooch. This gets poured off and the yeast is fed some more. 3-4 hours later, the yeast is ready to be used. Unused yeast can be stored in the fridge. It takes a lot of attention, but it's so worth it.

Why not expand the bakery to a larger place? Stephaan is emphatic about staying small because he needs and wants his products to remain as authentically artisanal. However, Stephaan speaks enthusiastically about opening a second location to produce more small batches in Windhoek, and perhaps one in Swakopmund, the place where he can reset from the onerous demands of bakery ownership. The ocean has and always will be a big part of his life. For now, he looks to the New Year with notions of macarons, cakes, challah, and the American dream: bagels.

On a late mid-morning, I return to the bakery to pick up some more bread. It’s a slower moment of the day and I am the only one perusing the already half empty shelves. His staff is just as friendly as before and I request another sourdough loaf. I love its heft and thick crust, and look forward to sharing it with my colleagues. I attempt to socialize a bit more with them, but before I know it, a rush of eager bread enthusiasts makes their way into the store. More decked out housewives are taking the bakery by storm and even I can't stop them. No chit-chatting this time around either. But I’ll be back.

The bakery staff. Photo courtesy of Stephaan Coetzee