Camping and assorted surprises, like hot water

The Gondwana Resort agent glanced sideways and whispered, "Ma'am, are you sure you want to go camping? That camp site has basically nothing. No shade, no trees, no water." I looked right back her, internally terrified that my skull would end up on the dusty plain with a snake creeping out of it, and responded with as much bravado as I could muster: "Absolutely. I love camping. I do it all the time." 

I haven't camped in maybe ten years. And not once with kids.

Audibly sighing, the woman completed my transaction and I walked out of the office shell-shocked that I intentionally booked a camping trip to the Namib-Naukluft National Park, staying at Gondwana's apparently sparse, remote camp site. Here, we planned to see Hartmann mountain zebras in the mountainy parts, and hike the famous Sossusvlei dunes in the sandy parts. The agent did say that we could drive 6km to the actual lodge to use their swimming pool and dine in their restaurant, a consolation prize for our insanity. 

I had about six weeks to prepare my pack list. The first thing I did: purchase a huge canopy and a 20 liter water tank. I contemplated our keep-cold-food stash when I encountered a filterless travel agent who asked me if I had a back up battery for my mini fridge. Mentioning I only had a couple of coolers and planned to use this thing called "ice," she raised her eyebrows and told me "good luck with that." I wrote out our four day menu that allowed for maximum taste in minimal space and froze giant bottles of water as my "back up battery." If there was any doubt, the sippy-sips cooler was methodically planned to have the proper proportions of g&t's, beer, and wine to last four days. I'm not an animal, you see.

I also sorted through musty winter clothes that haven't seen daylight since before Brazil. Desert nights can be unpredictable after all. I bought extra flashlights despite already owning seven, and even picked up a UV light to hunt nighttime scorpions. What would I do if I actually saw one? No clue. But I would be ready. 

I pondered the need for shampoo, wondering how gauche it would be if we used the pool as our source of bathing. And I threw in an unnecessarily large amount of bug spray and sunscreen to ward off evil spirits.  Gorilla tape and huge first aid kit? Always winners. As big day approached, Mark tossed me a monkey-wrench: possible rain in the forecast. For the desert?! In went the rain boots and jackets, and out went my mental health. 

With everything packed or stuffed in the trunk and roof rack (greatest purchase EVER) we took off for an anticipated 3.5 hour drive south by south-west. I've mentioned this before: Namibian landscape is amazing and always dynamic, so as usual, we were not disappointed.  About 90% of the roads were covered in thousands of corn crickets both dead and alive. Also known as armored katydids, these screechy creatures have spikes, sharp teeth, and love to eat each other to get their protein and salt fix. Apparently they also have the capability to auto-hemorrhage when a predator attacks. My kids spent a disgusting amount of time grabbing them by their leg and chucking them into the air during the trip.

We arrived to Gondwana Desert Lodge with plenty of time to hike up their petrified dunes and cliffs behind the lodge. The trail started off hot and boring enough, along a river bed with about 6 inches of sand to get through. Then we hit sandstone on the incline, which segued into rich red sand where the kids went wild. They experienced the glory of running down sand dunes. So did I. It was the first time in years I could "run" without hurting my body. 10km done and it was time to set up camp. Ready or not.

I have to admit, at first glance, the campsite seemed eery and isolated. Of the sites available, only two spots were taken but there were more trees than the agent said existed. We scoped out the spots and noticed all of them had: a standing grill (that got mysteriously cleaned during the day), a faucet, a Skatecity-esque camp light and even an electric socket. We chose a spot neither too close or too far from the "ablutions block" and set up. Anyone who's camped in the U.S. knows that outhouses are an intense experience so we avoided bathroom interaction until it was necessary. But these "roughing it" bathrooms contained actual flushing toilets with toilet paper. There were showers with hot water! There was even a kitchen prep sink to do dishes and clothes lines for use. Schlink score: everything was clean and smelled nice. 

Of course we still had a few inconveniences. The first night was insanely windy and cold. Layers of sand entered the tents and we moved our them to face a different way in efforts to reduce the beach-effect. The wind simply changed directions. The second night, our car keys (both sets) went haywire, locking themselves in the car despite no one touching them. We had to break a window to get back into our car. Thank God for gorilla tape. And the third night was so stagnant and hot, that I flopped like a sweaty fish covered in bread crumbs (sand) on my fart-noise-making sleep pad. Plus both kids at one point barfed: one in the tent, the other on dad. 

Overall, the experience was a win. It never rained, nor did we use our fancy 3x3 meter canopy- it was way too hot to spend the day at the campsite, returning only when the sun began to set. Having day long ventures is highly recommend to avoid the stagnant heavy heat at camp. But the time we got home, I was already planning our next camping trip not one hour after we finished unpacking the zillion pieces of sand and articles we brought home. 

Corn crickets

Between the campsite and lodge.
Credit: Mark

Wildebeest on the property.
Mark gets all the best photos.

Rüppell's Korhaan
It croaks like a frog in the wee hours of sunrise.
Credit: Mark

Hiking behind Gondwana Namib Lodge
and delighting in what little shade we had.

Deets gearing up for the next hill...

...but turn around and this is your view.
Namibia is so wonderfully weird.

My phone still died. But I appreciated the effort of electricity.

Reaping the benefits of a distant rainstorm.
Credit: the husband. If I took this photo,
it would look like a wasteland.

Farm Windhoek

Every now and then Jim (the dog) looks at me with such hope and yearning that he's going on a walk. "Every now and then" really being every time I put on running shoes, so I feel a little guilty when his hopes are dashed. But the thing is, Jim is ten years old and shows signs of aging. It's weird. When we hit the neighborhood pavement, he only lasts about 20-30 minutes.  Like always, I keep him on a leash, but there's something involved on these walks that tweaks his body wrong. I suppose it is a joint instability or a pinched nerve thing. More than once I've been spotted as the whack job lady staggering down the street carrying a 60 pound dog. People point their cell phones at me as they drive by and no one ever stops.  And course, once we get home, the symptoms disappear. Nearly a year ago, Jim got a blood infection from a tick bite which that nearly killed him. I wonder if his weakness issues are residual from that ridiculous episode? 

Anyway. Off leash, Jim is a different dog. When I let him run free, he sprints and explores for a good hour before slowing down enough for me to catch up and give him water. If it weren't for the dry climate, I imagine he could go even longer. Yes, Windhoek is a small city with a good dose of nature trails that offer up stunning views. Beyond, there's thousands of acres of farmland, wild bush, and mountains that are perfect for exploring. Unfortunately, robberies are commonplace and hikers are easy prey, frequently handing over pretty much everything on them: cell phones, cash, sunglasses, watches, wedding rings, even shoes. Especially shoes. And the land here isn't forgiving on unseasoned feet either. Because of this, hiking in and around the city is highly discouraged unless you are part of a large group with a well practiced escape plan. And never, ever hike at night, including twilight when you think everyone is still sleeping.

Despite the risk, this girl and her dog has got to get out of the house sometimes. Not fifteen minutes away (though nothing in the city is more than 15 minutes from anything else) is Farm Windhoek, a privately owned cattle farm that allows hikers and mountain bikers to explore the bushveld (a sub-tropical woodland eco-region) in relative safety. It's the only city farm out of five that allows public access. The trails within the property are studiously maintained, and are of varying degrees of difficulty so it's a great place all abilities. They have outdoor fitness equipment and obstacle courses for bikes. Plus, dogs are allowed.

$30 Namibian dollars (2.30 USD) gets you entry and the reassurance that there's at least one guard on watch at the main entrance during daylight hours. Well... for the most part. These guards are given bikes in lieu of transport money, cycle to work everyday from the Katutura. They rack up at least 30 km/day, and work 12 hour shifts with a 2 hour lunch break. I made the mistake of hiking at 11am once. I returned 2 hours later with an exhausted and thirsty dog, to a deserted entrance and parking lot - anyone could have "snuck in." Another time, I had arrived to the gate at 7:30am where I learned that people were robbed at gunpoint not an hour earlier. During this time of year, 6:30am is still pretty dark.

Regardless of those disconcerting experiences, the trails are fun, the air is always fresh, and the sounds of nature, even if it's the sound of giant beetles buzzing by your ear, is a welcome break. But, I guess I am not a fan of the spiders who spin webs across the trails. Nothing induces a panic attack better than to walk into a sticky web with the prospect of a spider falling down the back of your shirt. The fear results in frantic and uncoordinated shedding of hat, backpack, and shirt, whilst sprinting blindly up the trail and slapping body parts to flick off the spider. I'm just saying. Honestly, spiders are grown big here, and harmful or not, calmly extracting myself from a buggy situation never flies. Pun intended.

Anyway, when spiders and their webs don't ruin the solitude and peacefulness of hiking, there's views and cool flora to enjoy. Sometimes the farm's two black bulls can be sighted, but you will likely hear them first. The guttural bellowing sounds of an un-castrated cow really takes the imagination to weird places. Same goes for the birds: there's tons of species for bird enthusiasts but you most likely hear their songs and chatter before seeing them. I made friends with the couple who manages the admin/membership/events side of the Farm and they've seen TONS of animals, including aardvarks and leopards. An aardvark?! So jealous. Jim has run across blue headed guinea fowl several times, scaring them out of the grass, each one running in non-sensical directions, the same way I imagine dodos must have done. 

Jim and I: we hike together about once a week and we are both so much better off each time we do it. I realize that it's not the safest to venture out "alone." I quote "alone" because I always see 3 or 4 other people doing the same thing at FW. I bring nothing I'm not willing to lose, put on my don't-mess-with-me-game-face (though really, it's more for the spiders and insects), and we go for it. I hate to admit it, but my mental health doesn't fare nearly as well as it should when I am not keeping busy or working - so these opportunities are essential to keep me in check. Thank goodness for a place like Farm Windhoek where I can let my sh*t go while the dog gets a taste of freedom. 

View of the Auas Mountains
before a storm blew in.

An aloe variation

Future moth bodies were all over the trail. 

Catching his breath.

Electric yellow. No filter.

You Never Forget Your First

Grabbing onto the "oh shit" bar, up we went on the 4x4 trail, its last use being something like 8 months ago according to hotel management. Ever since we bought our SUV, Mark had been determined to get his money's worth, eager to venture into the bushveld like the professionals do it. So when we spent an overnight at Midgard, a resort/gaming lodge with an intense 1963-Poconos feeling, he was stoked to try out their self-driving 4x4 trail. The manager only agreed to this when Mark promised to follow the game-drive guide in their vehicle to the entrance.

Once we passed through the gate, energy was high with four adults and 2 kids chattering away. Thirty feet in we were stopped by a huge camel-thorn branch that covered the road. Trees in Namibia are serious business, thick with thorns and tough bark that can sustain drought. They can puncture a tire in no time, so it wasn't a simple as shoving the tree out of the way. Extreme times called for extreme measures.

Mark busted out our cargo straps, a friend whipped out his Leatherman and the other circled them up to discuss the plan of dissection. Being the documenter that I am, busted out my camera. The guys were joined by the guide and another tourist wearing sweatpants and Havaianas.  His girlfriend, impressively dolled up for an evening in the bush, stayed in the truck. She didn't take her eyes off her iPhone the entire time. Anyway, one of them set to cutting through the main branch while the others noosed up another.  The "ax man" stopped a 1/3 of the way through, and the men used traction to split the branch safely. Solemn manly nods were exchanged, and we hopped back in our respective vehicles. From there, the game drive veered left and we went right.

Rather, we went up. Up and through overgrown brush and low hanging tree branches, which scraped off the car's paint job like fingernails on a chalkboard. Luckily, it was only secondary noise to the roar of the engine, the blaring music, and me yelling out "Mark! Mark! Mark! Mark! Mark!" while I pressed my imaginary brake pedal, clinging onto the window bar. But really, he drove well despite the uncertainty of the road, which at certains points was totally washed out from previous downpours. We jostled up the trail and ended up at a clearing to drink beers and watch the sun fade.

It might seem like the story stops there, all romantic and cozy. But of course, we needed to head back as the echoes of our friends who stayed back at the lodge couldn't be ignored any longer. That, and rumbling stomachs. Mark skillfully navigated down the trail onto a dried out river bed were we witnessed about 20-30 zebra dashing across our path. Everyone thought it was super cool except for the kids who saw nothing because they were stuffed into the 3rd row. No matter, because once we returned to flat ground, instead of heading back to the lodge Mark suddenly turned into the game reserve and were immediately rewarded with giraffes.

We finally broke our giraffe cherry, and it was every bit as good as we imagined. Those creatures are so weird looking, yet unbelievably beautiful. Magical, even. Margo and Deets crawled into the middle seat and onto the laps of our friends, enjoying the improved view. Our friends smiled knowingly as I squealed like a stuck pig, hanging out of the window with my camera. "You never forget your first," they said, having seen more than their share of hypoxic colored tongued animals. Indeed. I won't. I wonder if I'm too old and nostalgic for the power of these moments, but damn- I teared up! Someone hand me a cigarette.

Mark toured the river bed for a few more minutes, and we watched the other animals doing their evening machinations: hartebeest sprinting and bucking, oryx stoically giving us the stink eye, warthogs and foxes dodging between bushes. During all this activity, we managed to drive past a bleached out oryx skeleton with its 2.5 foot long horns in perfect condition. Like porcupine quills and exotic bird feathers, oryx horns are a great collector's item. They are sold at craft markets, usually made into super awkward, quirky bottle openers. 

The excursion came to an end with the rapidly fading sunlight so we headed back to the lodge- a mere 60 seconds away. We huddled up for dinner, dumped the kids in bed (FYI, bunk beds!) and proceeded to indulge with a bottle of wine underneath the stars. I could get used to this. 

Teamwork. 

Celebrating teamwork.

Roof-time juice box sundowner. 

Shy AF.

Father-son.

Skittish red hartebeest.

Caution.

Unfiltered, untouched photo. Seriously.
I thought it was a fake flower at first.

Hiking outside Gondwana Canyon Village

Turns out that when Namibians tell you the hike will last approximately three hours, they mean: three hours. From our experience, hikes in the U.S. are frequently overestimated, so we lured the kids on a New Year's Day hike thinking we'd be back in time for breakfast. We left at 6:00am, fresh after sun rise. Everyone was up anyway, and we wanted to avoid the unavoidable hot temperatures, as we'd be in nearly 100% direct sunlight. The goal was to reach a naturally occurring arch formation so with sunscreen, hats, and water, off we went. It only took the kids about an hour to start complaining about hunger, so with my secret weapon I offered up apples. Apparently no one was hungry enough to eat those, and on we went. Up past the quiver trees, we followed the path of the springbok which led us close enough to see a herd of zebras. One of the hotel staff would later try to convince us we only saw deer, or possibly oryx even after we described these mysterious black and white striped, horse-like phenomenons. He was a peculiar guy.

With zebra sighting excitement wearing thin, we crossed over a high pass thinking sights of this arch would soon happen. Instead we saw more valleys, rock piles, and a few lizards. It was incredibly disheartening because by now we had reached hours 2.5.  Everything was hot, dusty, brown, and far away. I turned into Mean Mommy, Margo and Deets turned into, well, realistic 4 and 6 year olds and Mark tried to hold us together with his deleterious joke telling. We pushed on, hiking through valley and back up another butte towards a sliver of shade, coaching/threatening the kids to get a move on when I saw it: the arch, hidden snugly in the middle of the rock that seemed impenetrable from our point of view. I heard an angel choir, smelled the fresh cool air (that likely created this arch thousands of years ago) rip past us, and touched the rocks sweetly chilled from the desert night. Everyone's bad attitude dissipated, especially with knowing our hike back to Canyon Village would be no more than 10 minutes hike down and 20 minutes across a sandy stretch of land. We missed breakfast, but no one cared. The only thing more desired than food, was to drink cold sparkling water by the pool and take a nap. All of which was easily accomplished, with plenty of time to visit the famous Fish River Canyon in the afternoon, get caught in a massive (but refreshing) downpour, and take in the impressive lightening that cracked the skies into a million pieces. 

Mountain Zebra

No where to hide.

Current mood: this rock.

Victory.

Photo credit: Margo

From the front side. Mission completed.

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!

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.