Embassy wife reviews Embassy Wife

I am an embassy wife. I've never called myself that, but considering the alternatives of toity "diplomat's wife" or cringeworthy "trailing spouse," for the sake of a book review - I'll own it. I've leaned into this role for over ten years and four countries, reaping the benefits of travel and serving my country abroad. Some of this lifestyle is admittedly lavish: embassy wives get black books. Housing and schooling is generally paid for, allowing the paycheck to stretch much differently than it would in the U.S. (ie: hired help). We get invited to fancy balls and dinners. Sometimes we get to meet famous people and dignitaries. Others might have gotten to meet Wynton Marsalis or President George Bush. I for one, got to meet Katie Crouch. She's a mega babe.

However, embassy wives also capitulate to homesickness, frequent unemployment, and the exhaustion that comes with starting a "new" life every few years. It can be pretty intense trying to make friends and build a community in rapid succession when nothing is familiar. Limitations might be the high turnover of families arriving to and leaving post, where gatherings feel more like speed dating. Often, there's language and cultural barriers too. Just try ordering a taxi when the only vocabulary you know is from Duolingo. Or ordering a pepperoni pizza only to find there's no timeless, cured meat discs on top, but rather a pile of extra juicy pepperoncinos that have soaked all the way through the cardboard. Freedom of movement might be restricted to an embassy compound or to city limits because of crime or poor infrastructure. But, perhaps the biggest limitations are boredom and loneliness- particularly when there's no job or palatable hobby to pass the hours. Day drinking anyone?

That's not to say anyone should feel sorry for embassy wives (or husbands), it's just that all the parameters we constantly are forced to adjust to ultimately make us weird. Like, super weird, and it lingers a little bit more with each post. So much so, we forget how kooky this lifestyle looks from the outside. I had the honor of meeting and befriending Katie Crouch along with her daughter, son, and partner Peter Orner, who moved from California to Namibia as a Fulbright Scholar. The program is an outward facing part of the State Department. That was how Katie found herself in the middle of an embassy wives' coffee hour, freshly arrived not even days before. There she met a handful of us weirdos all at once: the Real Housewives of Embassy Windhoek only without the lady fights and spray tans. But we did have the chic hostess, ultramarathon athlete, yoga teacher, CrossFit junkie, and other assorted mom squads.

Katie's book was begging to be written. How could it not?

Embassy Wife makes for a quirky perspective of diplomatic life, where "two women abroad search for the truth about their husbands—and their country." It's tall-taleish and funny, but the story goes beyond the notion of entitled spouses spreading hot goss and drama of who's the secret agent. The true heart of the story comes from the cultural exchanges that the supporting characters allow us to see. The housekeepers keep the reader grounded as they astutely observe the Americans agonizing over abundance of choices with menu planning, or the helplessness of a sad, whiny, white man who'd been robbed and feels like the end of the world. "And to have no money, that is a problem. But you are white. There's always more." After that smackdown, he figured out how to get over himself.

Mila's story could stand alone. Her past wrought with racism, poverty, and heartbreak, should have led her down a different path. She should have failed, fading into the Namibian landscape. But we get to meet her her as a domineering wife to a high ranking government official and in between then and now, the we get to understand a little bit about what it's like to be raised in one of the many Namibian cultures. The more Mila opens to her American characters, the more we get to see too. She shares hard moments of living in constant danger from wild animals, heat, drought. These moments feel very private, intimate - especially for someone who embraced Namibia in a manner just like the rest of the embassy wives: privileged. It's not something I to take for granted.

Serious homage aside, the book is antic and fun. I laughed and smirked my way through each page. Most of all, it made me miss the country and the people in it.

Embassy Wife on an embassy couch.

WDK -> IAD -> the burbs of VA

For the past couple of months I've been trying to figure out how I could best close out the last three years of my life in Namibia. It would be rude not to do so, considering how much Namibia meant to me and my family. The stars, the camping, the game drives, the dry weather, the friends we made, it all feels like they were wild dreams and imaginary narratives. 

But I know that it was real when I'm in my Arlington kitchen, avoiding dinner plans and I'm suddenly struck with the urge to call up my friends for impromptu cheap dinner dates and I remember they are thousands of miles away. Dinner gatherings with friends in Virginia, though special, require a lot more planning, patience, and money. Braaing will never be the same. Now it's all about the efficiency of propane and sharing a grill with hundreds of other residents in our building.

When I walk through the National Zoo I notice that the cheetah exhibit is a neglected, lonely spectacle instead of a rare and exhilarating treat. The elephants are not as exotic and I feel like no one appreciates the Griffon vultures or the Damaraland mole rats quite like I do.

There were some good things about closing out our Namibian chapter. Schooling in Windhoek ended up pretty messy with the international school and their unreliable stash of teachers. Some teachers were fine, only a few were good, and the remainders were wild cards with inconsistent teaching skills and bad attitudes. Unable to see any improvement from the school over the past few years was disheartening. I won't miss it.

The kids are in a public school system for the first time, and so far I have been very impressed and more so, relieved. From what I can tell, each elementary school has its own speciality focus such as Montessori, STEAM, foreign language immersion, NASA, global citizenship, expeditionary learning, etc. My kids love their teachers, they've made friends, and I know what they are expected to learn this year. They have an actual curriculum with Standards of Learning testing that evaluates each student's progress on a spectrum. The only thing I would change are the PTA meetings which suck the life blood out of me. The passion is real folks, over electronic flyer distribution versus paper. 

I miss my car, the open spaces, and the spirit of Namibian adventure. Perhaps more so, because we are car light and bike heavy. From now until hopefully May of next year, Mark and I are all about learning Russian language, where we commute every day using Capital Bike Share. The bikes are fire engine red, bulky, and very heavy. I ride like Pee Wee Herman and I am not sad about it.

Classes started about four weeks ago and it has taken over my life. Five hours of class per day, one hour of lab time, and for the normal people, there's about two hours of homework, to make up a typical 8-hour workday. If I am left unsupervised, I could spend another two or three hours studying (or drowning) so I depend on a tight schedule that doesn't allow for me to get any more psychotic than I already am. Russian makes relaxing over the weekends either super easy or super hard and I haven't found the space in between. I am either thinking, obsessing, and agonizing over vocabulary and cases. Or, I am beyond that stage and totally stupid. The other day, I couldn't remember how to use Google Maps or even what the number 5 was. IN ENGLISH.

Undoubtedly, the next few months will be full on slog but I am certain the Russian will come in handy. Like any State Department language course, I might not be able to ask for things in a grocery store, but I will for sure be able to talk about politics in Russian. It's a skill that everyone needs these days.

Old life.

New life.

DC. Credit: Mark

Lubber Run Park
 Arlington, VA

View of Rosslyn Metro and Georgetown U Cathedral
 from the 7th floor where my enjoy my language "hobby."

Northern Namibia Road Trip

During the school term break, Mark and I took the kids on a massive road trip from Windhoek to Victoria Falls. Our intentions were simple: to get a feel for the tropical version of Namibia, and to see a big-ass, famous waterfall. It would take us 1,441 km (895 mi) of tar road, from thirsty landscapes, to farms, to river rich jungle. We'd drive through 4x4 restricted park reserves, and float on pontoons in hippo and croc infested waters, and forced to stand still whilst watching the most beautiful sunsets I have ever seen. There's always going to be "one more thing" we want to see, and though we still have about 6 months left at post, it was also the trip meant to prepare us for the long goodbye, as we frequently make in the Foreign Service.

From Windhoek to Otiwarongo, the Namibian landscape ranges rises and falls along the Khomas Hochland Plateau, and melts into the Central-Western Plains. Distant mountains and hills on either side of the highway contrast the monotonous blur of thorny trees, shrubs, and grasses. There are miles of barb-wired fences separating the properties and sometimes we can see the sequestered game such as springbok, wildebeest, or kudu, or escape artists dangerously skirting the berm next to the tar 2-lane road. Hundreds of warthogs also dot the berm as they eat leaning on their elbows, and rumps in the air. It's the B1 highway, where supposedly everyone follows the posted speed limit of 120kph (75mph). It's the most traveled road for anyone headed north or south, so after the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th time driving it, it's kind of boring. 

After the 2.5 hours to Otjiwarongo, the B1 splits into northwest and northeast directions. We split right, headed to Otavi, one point of the isosceles "Triangle" with Tsumeb (B1) and Grootfontein off the B8. It's a triangle of expansive green farms, mineral mining, and the gateway to the Otavi Mountains which you notice almost immediately. The uncharacteristically green mountains are notched by dramatic cliffs and stratified brown-orange rock formations. Among the spread of peaks is Ghaub Cave with its underwater lake, and ancient rock carvings. It's deep, dark, and dangerous, a perfect experience for hard core spelunkers. Maybe it would be another trip for another time (NO. WAY.)

For outer-space lovers, The Triangle is also home to the Hoba Meteorite, a giant slab of metallic rock that was excavated in 1920 after a farmer's plow scraped the top of it. An estimated 66 tons, it looks like a big piece of burned lasagna (from its iron content) from a distance. Up close, the shine of nickel and cobalt is evident from the hundreds of slice marks it has suffered from vandals. Though a quick 10 minute visit is all that is required to see Hoba, it's an excellent detour from the B8 (about 30 extra kilometers). 

The northeastern tour continues through Grootfontein (2.5 hours from Otjiwarongo) a town that seems nice with its strip mall and jacaranda lined streets. Once topped off with gas, the remaining 2.5 hours worth of driving to Rundu would prove to be physically painful from all of the sitting, but also the most interesting visually. The fences and expanses of farmland disappear, replaced by expanses of makalani palm, baobabs, and marula trees, and small plots of corn or mahangu in between. Tiny homes are constructed of local materials such as clay, wood, or grass, without obvious signs of indoor plumbing and electricity. Cone shaped, thatched roofing sit atop the homes that sleep up to four people. 

Pedestrians are also seen in abundance as they make their way to/from home, work, or school. Many carry plastic containers, likely headed to the nearest well, others with multiple bags filled from visits to the city. With decent timing in the morning or afternoon, hordes of children are seen out and about on the roadsides, usually wearing smart, matching school uniforms. Brightly colored dresses and skirts for the girls, shorts and button down shirts for the boys. The kids are either barefoot, or wearing white socks with black shoes though everyone else seem to wear flip flops. As usual, the wee ones linger behind the older children who make their way home, but it is evident that they all look out for each other, and few are seen playing in the road. Goats and cattle, however, cross the road in a fashion leisurely enough to force drivers to a complete stop. 

The B8 has roadside vendors selling hand-carved wooden and soapstone animals. The sell miniature and large canoes, locally called mokoros, and decorative mobiles. There's also pottery of various sizes and uses. Most often seen are bundles of wood for sale. Further north and northeast, the bundles of wood turn into bundles of dried reeds and grass that were harvested from the many rivers that  contain actual water (in addition to crocs and hippos). The reeds are frequently used to make fencing or shade, whereas the grass can be weaved into mats. Bargaining for these various items is expected, and often draws enthusiastic participation, especially if the shopper is clearly from out of town or has no idea "how it's done." Once a price is proposed, the sellers shout back to their cohorts in their mother tongue. If accepted, the seller and whatever children are hanging around give head nods, and the transaction is completed. 

After you hit Rundu, the B8 turns east for about 634 km (394 mi) to the Botswana border. It's mostly a straight line that is dotted with people, homes, and farm life, but at the same time, passes through unfenced national parks, Bwabwata and Chobe, which flow into Angola and Botswana.  The former has three core areas that offer 4x4 trails along the Okavango River called the Mahango Core Area, Buffalo Core Area, and Kwando Core. All three are worth exploring either by personal vehicle or organized game drive if staying at a nearby lodge. While you might not get as many wildlife sightings as Etosha, the lush greenery, water, and solitude more than make up for it. These factors make for more interesting photos. 

Our big hope was to see the last of the Big Five, the cape buffalo. We were also hoping to get lucky and see cats or wild dogs, but neither happened. However, while driving in through thick orange sand on our way to a delta plain, we were surrounded by more elephants than I have ever seen in my life. We checked off nearly every bird in our bird book, and saw families of vervet monkeys, Windhoek's equivalent of baboons in this neck of the woods. A few antelope species were new to us too, including tsessebe and reedbuck. Each with distinct markings, but all with the classic deer-in-the-headlights stare. 

We drove and saw animals until we were numb in our butts and brains. Looking back week later, I would definitely do it again.

 Round trip from Windhoek to Victoria Falls was about the same as driving
one way from Denver to Washington DC. 

Investigating Hoba Meteorite after a hefty rain.

Caution: wild dogs on the B8

Cattle and farmers on the Okavango River.

Fog at sunrise on the Okavango River.

1 of 100,000 pachyderms in the Bwabwata National Park, off the B8.

Minding our manners off the Kwando River.

What fairytales are made of.

Maybe it was the double gin & tonic, but the (unfiltered) sunsets here
 bring about many emotions.

Day lily.

Voldemort, who?
Credit: Mark

HP in the Forbidden Forest.

Swallow tailed bee eater.

Observing their territory.

Claiming their territory.

White fronted bee eaters on the Kwando River.

Water monitor on the Okavango. 

Pied Kingfisher
Credit: Mark

African fish eagle
Credit: Mark

Vervet family
Credit: Mark

Woodland kingfisher

Evening mokoro ride.

Weekend animal fix

My daughter on the Okapuka game drive today: "Please wake me up if you spot a lion or a leopard or a cheetah." She promptly passed out in my lap, followed by her girlfriend who had slept at our house the night before. They left drool spots on my jeans and slept through a 4x4 trip through the bush.  If that doesn't count as a mom-win, I don't know what does. On this afternoon excursion, I learned a few things such as, crocodiles embedded tongues, making it seem like they don't have one at all. They also eat exclusively underwater but come up for air to take another bite. The sound of springbok femur bone breaking in half is gross and very loud. Warthogs don't usually kill by using their tusks, but rather by biting their prey and shaking the hell out of it and playing tug-o-war with a goal to disembowel. Our guide told this to three young children who sat in the truck while he idly fed the demanding warthogs handfuls of food pellets. 

Springbok sushi.

Coming up for air.

Breaking the springbok's leg bone.

Margo: I know ostrich don't have teeth
 because an ostrich bit me once. 

Twins, super normal in giraffe world.

\

The never tired girls.

A Thursday Evening Observation of True Love (Trew Wuv)

Last night, while Mark worked out on his bike trainer, I attempted an all-in-one crafting kit meant for kids 8 years and older. I was supposed to make a yarn covered unicorn, but the end product looked more like a hastily bandaged horse with compound fractures because its cardboard legs folded in, under my not so delicate hands.  I spent so much time squinting, trying to peel back the microscopic pieces of double sided tape, that I started seeing spots. So, I didn't think much when I saw a spot dart across the floor. Disgusted with my pile of horse and waning vision, I packed up and started to close up the house for bedtime.

I shut the front door and saw the spot again. This time, I was certain I wasn't seeing things, that a creature had made its way underneath the dresser in the foyer. In this part of the world, I figured it was likely a wall spider. They are huge, flat spiders with bodies that sometimes grow the size of a quarter. They are also wicked fast, which makes me think their legs are more easily ripped off, especially if they make a fast wrong turn. There is a 7-legged wall spider in my bedroom that either has lived for 2.5 years, or its progenies keep losing their legs. Luckily they don't cause much harm. 

Anyway, the spot moved into direct light, revealing itself to be an ordinary mouse, which is kind of disappointing considering all the other things it could be. It ran into the office where I shut the door, as if that would keep it from escaping. I went to get Mark who had just finished his workout. We both know full well that under no circumstances could I handle being in the same room as any creature (snakes, mice, spiders, birds) that has the capability to liquidize its bones and squeeze into tiny cracks or jump on my face. So he took on his heroic role without question. 

Sighing, he picked up my foam roller and walked to the office: in bike shorts that clung and shined with sweat and his cycling shoes. Nothing more, nothing less. In my book, this is true love: dealing with rodents, when he'd rather be doing anything else. Like, taking a shower, or plucking ear hair.

Mark rolled his eyes when I fearfully asked if he might try to kill the mouse using my foam roller. Instead of telling me no, he told me not to worry about it and I closed the door. The next thirty seconds were cartoon sounds of him sliding in his shoes, moving furniture, and opening the sliding door in an attempt to motivate the rodent to make an easy exit. Fortunately or unfortunately, Mark moved a bookcase to the center of the room causing a child's two-foot walking stick to fall down, effectively braining the mouse mid-stride. It died instantly, thank goodness. 

"The trajectory of blood splatter is impressive, you should take a look," he said enthusiastically, handing me back the foam roller, which he had used to block off the main door. I used to take pride in my ability to withstand blood and guts, but the hibernating nurse in me refused to engage. I stood there, all angsty and a little nauseous. Unceremoniously, the mouse was scooped up in a Spar grocery bag, and the crime scene was wiped clean before Mark retired to the shower. The admiration, love, and respect I have for my hero in spandex knows no bounds. 

Windhoek Cactus and the Cactus Lady Who Hates Them

In recent months, Gunhild Voights, also known as The Cactus Lady, had been trying to contact anyone and everyone in local government, NGOs, and any organization to spread the worrisome word of cactus plants taking over the city. Comliments to her perseverance, she tracked down the deputy political/economics officer at the embassy who agreed to take a tour of the city with Gunhild. The officer asked me to join her and I agreed, despite the fact that it was blazes hot and I had just sat down to eat my lunch. I am a sucker for human interest stories. 

We walked out of the embassy to meet her, a tall, thin woman in her 70's with hair so white it hurt my eyes. She was pacing back and forth across the entrance, surveilling the building and worrying the local guards on duty.  She seemed to be talking to herself, rapidly pointing out all of the embassy plants that were considered invasive: wonderbloom trees; all of the cactus planted in the barricades; the trees that bear yellow, bell shaped flowers. It was only then that she introduced herself to me and my colleague. 

Gunhild walked us to her white, 1988 VW van with dual sliding doors where her husband, Friedhelm, a man with a fantastically long beard and thick glasses, waited. The engine chugged to life and he rolled up his window, though I am not sure why. The van had no air conditioning and at mid-day it was 95F and only getting hotter. Gunhild barked orders in German to take a left at the next intersection, as if he had no idea where we were headed. With several more directions given, five minutes later we arrived at the Legal Assistance Center, where our tour would begin. The weathered woman, wearing hiking sandals and pants, she all but ran up the hill, my colleague and I chasing after her in not-so-sensible work shoes and skirts.

A born and raised Namibian, Gunhild is Windhoek’s default cactus expert. She raised her family working as a goldsmith but when she noticed the spread of cactus taking over her children’s playground where she herself had once played as a child, she had an ominously sad feeling. Appeals to the city didn’t work, so she and her husband took matters into their own hands, removing massive piles of tangled, prickly plants one by one. The work was hard and onerous, but worth it. The first project quickly transformed into a mission: all over the city, underneath the brush and hiding in plain sight are cactus plants, proliferating right under everyone’s noses.

Sure, some of the cacti are beautiful. Most of them in Windhoek, however, are unpalatable masses that spread and grow quickly in the dry climate. None of them native either (except for one) to the entirety of the continent, let alone Namibia. Of the 2,000 different types of species found worldwide, 23 of them have been identified within the city, according to Helmuth Zimmermann, an environmental scientist from Pretoria. He came here to do surveillance with Gunhild in 2017. 

The conditions are favorable here, being as dry and hot as it is, so the cacti grow quickly and aggressively. Within the city there are tons of trails amongst the rocky hills, shaded by mostly native trees such as the camelthorn, acacia, and shepherd's tree.  Most of paths have been rendered useless due to the overgrowth of cactus. (That, and because of people constantly getting robbed in the bushes, but that is besides the point). In the outskirts of the city, however, cacti have started creeping up on land used for livestock, taking over essential space normally reserved for grasses and bushes needed or food. Cattle and wildlife can't wander the spaces with ease either.

Gunhild created Cactus Clean Up Namibia, a grassroots organization that exists solely based on donations. When she and Friedhelm have funds, they hire day labors to assist them with the manual removal of cactus patches throughout the city. The laborers earn lunch, water, and a small stipend of N$140.  The labor is brutal too. Blistering sunshine, hot temperatures, minimal shade and water, and these pokey little SOBs. They make for a long 8 hour day, raking out the shallow roots and tossing literally thousands of plant corpses (which equals thousands of pounds worth) into construction bins. There is so much undergrowth that the laborers usually fill up an 8,000 liter bin in a single day. 

Australia, which has banned cacti growth, battles their invasion by charging hefty fines for non-removal, using pesticide sprays, and introducing caterpillars to eat the flowers and plants. The potential contamination of Windhoek’s aquifer makes the use of pesticides problematic and not desirable. Introducing cochineal insects such as the Cactoblastis caterpillar (yes that is the official name) would be a logical and safer method, but the expense is prohibitive at this time.

The Cactus Lady wants to spread awareness, knowledge, and motivation to the community and to team up and attack the problem to good old sweat and tears. Recently she did receive a piece of good news: the Ministry of Agriculture, Water and Forestry sent her a letter concurring that cacti are indeed a problem that must be addressed. They agreed to not plant any more cactus on municipal land. It’s a small victories in life, but she's still got a long way to go. 

In the van, we toured several more spots of the city including the future site of the new embassy compound, where construction and landscaping crews are dismantling the current house on the property, chasing off black mambas, and navigating their way through unkempt terrain of- wait for it: jungles of ugly, unfriendly cacti. Hopefully Gunhild's timing will work in the favor of landscape planning and nary a cactus will be found in five or six year's time when they finally open. 

Once you see it, you can't unsee it.
On the plus side, my friend says cacti roots
are incredible for composting purposes. Grind them up and plant
with drought-resistant saplings and BOOM: enviro-plant-power.
Tip credit goes to: Zeke's Dog's Dad

Gunhild in front of one (of four) giant piles of
cacti they cut down over the festive season, about 4 week's worth.

DIE Cacti!

The flyer she hands out

Veldskoen: Super Cool Shoes

Nothing represents American shoe culture quite like the classic sneaker. A 2017 report done by Polyvore show that Nike and Vans were the most searched-for brands in not only the fifty states but the District of Columbia, and Puerto Rico too. That is hardly a surprise considering they are the ultimate shoes in comfort, versatility, and style. I mean, many of us grew up coveting a pair of Nike Air Jordans or looking cool in timeless Vans Slip-Ons. Simply put, America is sneaker obsessed, according to Smithsonian Magazine and it is certain that sneakers will be permanently embedded in our culture.

Unsurprisingly, Namibia has its own niche shoe culture that has enjoyed a recent surge in popularity. Monochrome Magazine, known for its online fashion content, puts on pop-up shop events around Windhoek, providing small business owners an opportunity to sell their items. As animal hides are found in abundance, unsurprisingly leather shoes are among the more popular items sold. Enter the chosen shoe for sale: the veldskoen.

The southern African veldskoen, aka vellies, is a type of shoe that has withstood test of time in the region. In Afrikaans, “veld” means field, and” skoen” means shoe. These field shoes are tough and seen frequently among safari guides and farmers, especially those who wear button down short sleeved shirts, short shorts, safari hat, and an absolute must: calf length socks. One of our local friends who is part farmer, part 4x4 driving expert, and part shooting range owner, has had veldskoen on his feet before he could even crawl. He says these shoes are not only comfortable, but durable.

They are also perfect for the Namibian geography, having evolved from Khoisan culture to Dutch culture in the 1600s. The Dutch adapted and adopted the Khoisan design when they arrived to southern Africa and began migrating north. It was a period of time nicknamed “The Great Trek.” Even though popularity and utility of the shoes spread through southern Africa, it was the British Company, Clark’s, which brought the design to the forefront of fashion in the United Kingdom and assorted British colonies on the African continent.

Typically, veldskoen are made of thick animal leather with rubber soling, sometimes utilizing tires for the sole. The shoes are hand sewn, eliminating the need for tacks or nails, and modern l styles use riveted shoelace holes to increase durability. Veldskoen are lightweight, with a round and flat toe bed, and rise just to the ankle where they are tall enough to hide under long pants but short enough to look decent enough with a pair of shorts.

Popular or not, the cool thing about vellies is that local shoe makers still make them by hand, using thick needles and thread. They rely on only a few tools such as an awl, hammer, and scissors to create the patterns, and iron shoe molds to give them their shape and size. Take Thomas “The Shoe Guy” Mbuaandjo. He started making shoes about 15 years ago after working with Air Namibia. Now, instead of commuting every day to the airport, Thomas gets to work from home, making and selling veldskoen. It takes him about three hours to make a shoe, five for a pair. He particularly enjoys the extra free time spent with his family. Thomas says everything he needed to know he learned from his aunt, plus You Tube. His resourcing skills are pretty impressive, as is the quality of shoe he produces. I compared his shoes with store competitors and found his to be as good as, if not better. Plus he charges about 20% less. 

I bought a pair a few months ago and it's been a pleasure to parade his shoes around work, town, and home because everywhere I go, people ask where I bought them and how they can get a pair themselves. The radiology staff at a local hospital bought vellies for themselves, as did a handful of teachers at the kids' school.

I chose a burnt orange, brown red combo, and I have managed somehow, to pull them off wearing a little black dress or in work pants. I convinced Mark to buy a pair too, so we look like shoe-twins 3 days out of 5. My next plan is to convince Thomas to make vellies with hot pink springbok fur or in zebra print for an extra kick in style. It's all part of the perks and normal progression of living in Namibia, a privilege that I am just not ready to give up yet. 

Thomas with my new pair of shoes.

Vellies by the ocean, compliments of Thomas. 

Etosha Road Trip

I'm not sure what I can write about Etosha National Park that other blogs and travel sites haven't already written. The place is simply amazing, there's tons of animals, and tons of driving. As part of Mark's celebratory forty-first, we drove north to Etosha for the weekend, stopping outside the park to sleep at Ohange Game lodge, located ninety minutes southeast of the Von Lindquist (east) entrance of the park. We ate outside under the stars and enjoyed sleeping in orange chalets.

Following that, we spent two nights experiencing what Namibian Wildlife Resorts (NWR) were like inside the park. The NWR company has monopoly on all national parks in Namibia, so you don't have much of choice. They aren't my favorite company because they sacrifice customer service in exchange for proximity. 

Our first night was spent at Onkoshi, perched on the edge of the pan with the lodge and chalets built on stilts. Walking on the suspended boardwalk, it was like we were waiting for high tide to come in. Supplied with a single fan for the room, I worried we would all roast and sweat together, as the temperature that day rose to over 90 F. Thankfully, as soon as the sun went down, so did the temperature, well below 40 F. Interestingly, with all of the dust kicked into the air, the sun and moon sets are gorgeous but without lingering moments of romance. They just set and that's it: they are literally done and dusted. 

On the second night, we stayed at Namutoni in a family room that had side by side shower heads in the recessed bathtub. What seemed like a fun idea of taking a family shower (I'm totally joking. I think...) turned sour when one shower head fell off revealing tatters of saran wrap that was stuffed inside the pipe. At least we had air conditioning and a mini fridge to chill the remaining two beers of our trip. 

In between lodge stays, we were on the road, driving from watering hole to watering hole on an obsessed mission to see elephants and cats. A lot of the animal sightings depend on being in the right place at the right time, so Mark and Margo got luck with a leopard sighting after I successfully whined my way to be dropped off at the lodge. Our friends enjoyed teems of lions at one watering hole, and others got to see cheetahs. It was hard not to be jealous, but I did take solace that we finally got to see more elephants than we could handle, some of which we could smell their breath they were so close. In case you were wondering, they smell bad. 

As a last hurrah in Etosha, Mark elected to drive west out of the park which added on two hours of driving. But we were both keen to see the lesser frequented area, and saw basically nothing. It was the kind of nothing that makes one irritated and grumpy after being on the east side and inundated with wildlife. We blew past anything that wasn't feline, thinking that maybe we'd been in Namibia too long when giraffes or oryx were no longer exciting. Then we saw elephants mating in the bushes, so that helped. The kids logically followed up with "how are babies made?" and immediately regretted asking me that question. 

Ohange Lodge

Kudu

Literally surrounded by wild animals and she's reading a book. 

Onkoshi

Onkoshi

Moon set. 

On the edge of the pan at Onkoshi. 

Among the acacia thorns.

We couldn't' figure out if he was truly stuck or just resting his big head.
After 15 minutes, he extricated himself with moderate struggling. 

Watering hole at Namutoni.

Banded meerkcats at Namutoni.

Black rhino sighting early in the morning. 

Greater Kestrel.