Salty dried meat: biltong

Does anyone else find the English word "jerky" weird and unpalatable? Granted, jerky is an age-old tradition and the salting/drying process makes an excellent preservation tool, but - the word "jerky" lacks a certain... je ne sais quoi. Why would we pair a tasty protein-packed snack with a word that refers to silliness or uncoordinated movement?  The word jerky is so bad, even Macho Man Randy Savage calls his jerky snacks Slim Jims to make them seem better!

Other languages describe jerky in at least slightly more appealing terms: Brazilians call it carne de sol. Spaniards, cecina. Bosnians call it suho meso, and Mongolians name it borts. Here in Southern Africa, dried meat is universally known as biltong, derived from Dutch meaning "rump-strip." Sounds appropriate. Biltong's counter partner is droëwors, or "dry sausage," which upon experiencing, sounds pretty appropriate too. 

Biltong and its popularity in Namibia compare to no other country. That's no surprise considering the ubiquity of game that exist in the bushveld, a region in the hot, dry north-east of Southern Africa that is dominated by low-growing thorn trees and bush. Stuart's Field Guide to Mammals of Southern Africa counts 39 types of buffalo, antelope, wild pig, and deer species alone. Plus, there's always cows, which admittedly are the post popular forms of jerky worldwide. According to several biltong stores, oryx (also known as gemsbok) and springbok are a close 2nd and 3rd in sales in Namibia. 

Okay, we've established that biltong is dried meat. How does it get from animal to package? In short, the meat is cut into strips, rubbed with vinegar, and coated in spices- usually coriander, pepper, salt, and garlic. The meat is refrigerated overnight and then hung in a place to dry with decent ventilation: outside under a yurt roof (for making borts), a slatted wood table (for carne de sol), or in a showy display box with meat hooks (hello biltong!) The meat hangs out for about a week, then should be ready to eat. YouTube and Google offer endless entertainment on DIY biltong boxes. 

Now for the fun part: eating it. Low in fat, high in protein, biltong comes in a variety of cuts, textures and flavors, so choosing a preferred type is individualized. For people with extremely sharp knives or teeth of steel, there's the biltong "pieces." They are thick and huge. Even though "snap-sticks" sound like dog treats, this cut is much much thinner but still gives your jaw some work to do. Biltong also comes in "slices," cut in the opposite direction to create a flatter, chewier consistency. There's "chip" shaped, but won't fool anyone who wants a substitute for the real thing.  Lastly, biltong comes in "shredded" and "pulverized" for topping lovers, or those who want extra protein in their health shakes. Maybe?

Supermarkets carry decent varieties, like original, bbq, or coriander. But it's the boutique shops that have flavors like pepper, fatti (chunks of fat still attached to the meat), peri-peri, chili, sweet 'n sour, chutney, ect. Boutique shops will also vacuum pac orders for tourists. Sliced cuts tend to have a higher moisture content (thus making it chewier) so vacuum pacs seal in the smell and flavor. Sadly, the Animal and Plant Health Inspection Agency (APHIS) says any Namibian meat exports are prohibited to bring into the United States. Same goes for South Africa. Read the 754 page document right here.  There's concern for the spread of various animal related viruses (did you know there's such thing as hog cholera?!) To this effect, the idea of eating your weight in biltong while in-country, gets better and better. Once you've had biltong, a Slim Jim will never taste the same again.

Boutique store presentation. It's almost as much
 fun as going to a butcher. Almost.

They're called pieces, but only in comparison to the animal it once was.
So. Hard. To. Eat.

Biltong chips.

Droe wors: meat stuffed into sausage casing and at some point, dried.
Not my favorite. At all.

Slices. Probably the most useful for
those who want to eat discreetly.

Snap sticks, my personal favorite.
As you can see. I ate it all.

Shout out to small business owners in the Foreign Service.

For anyone who has started their own business, I tip my hat and bow to you. It's legitimately hard work that requires boundless motivation and diligence. I mean, I always knew it was hard work, especially since I watched Mark & Co. start up a bike business from scratch nearly 10 years ago. But until I spent small amount of time (I'm talking maybe 16-20 hours) researching the intricacies of starting an LLC, taxes, personal insurance, and branding, I really had no idea the amount of time and energy involved. In short, to small business owners: y'all are amazing. 

Normally I blog about shenanigans and travel. Today, I write this non sequitur blog about for a two reasons: 1) I don't remember anything unless I write it down and someday I might need this information. 2) To share the information to Foreign Service spouses interested (specifically in reference to teaching fitness classes) in earning an income as non-government-related-overseas-employment. 

Background: I am a yoga teacher and have been for about 5 years now. When we were posted to Bucharest (2011-2013), I decided I needed a project to "give me purpose," as if raising two children and churning out embassy newsletters wasn't enough. Having been a yogi-wannabe for nearly 15 years, I figured becoming an instructor might be entertaining.  Without the ability to speak fluent Romanian and the patience to wait until we got to the U.S., I found an online program presented by Aura Wellness Center based in Massachusetts: a 300-hour yoga certification hilariously called Yoga in a Box. 

Study, write, and teach I did, begging anyone from the embassy to endure my free hour long classes in exchange for a couple of booty shots of them doing yoga for my final video submission. I spent many long hours completing assignments, taking exams, and recording videos. I turned it all into one pretty package and boom: I became an instructor. Interestingly, turns out there's a whole netherworld of nay-saying-creeper-yogis against any online methodology. I mean, I get it. Considering how westerners have molded their own versions of yoga, thus taking away the authenticity of traditional practice, it can be downright offensive for me, a nobody, spending "a few hours" doing an independent study for "a few dollars" (737 USD to be exact) versus someone who shelled out thousands of dollars, travelled thousands of miles, or studied for thousands of years to do the same thing. In my defense though, I put my heart, soul and brains into the project and I have zero regrets. 

If my opinion counts for anything, yoga is what you make of it. This program contained the essential learning blocks: the poses, the history, and how to do the "simple" act of standing up and teaching in front of people. It got the job done and I loved it. I mostly loved it. I could write an entire blog dedicated solely to the writhing anxiety attacks and subsequent reactive GI activity that I dealt with before teaching. Every. Single. Class. Regardless, I taught in Bucharest, Falls Church, Recife, and now I teach in Windhoek. With exception to Falls Church where I was a paid instructor, all of the classes are free and taught in the manner of friends working out together. One friend would lead a tabata class, another would lead a dance class or TRX. Oddly enough, I also enjoy clogging, but no one ever took me up on it.

Anyway. Leading classes has been fun and more than a few people have encouraged/egged me on to make a go of earning an actual income. I gave it serious thought, but I knew there'd be a mountain of research to do before going down that rabbit hole. I say rabbit hole in total levity because by training, I am a nurse. I'm all about blood and guts, shots and medicines. Not business, logistics, or accounting. The proverbial rabbit hole is especially nuanced with rules for eligible family members (FS spouses and kids in most instances) for working on the local economy or creating a home business. Rightfully so too: we need to avoid things like conflicts of interest (like running afoul of the Vienna Convention) and abusing or profiting off of government property.

In full disclosure, my findings are likely riddled with holes, and my list is certainly not the only way to go about starting a fitness business, but it's at least a start...

First, I needed to decide if I wanted to get a work permit and work locally. This process needs to be made with permission of the embassy at post. Never EVER leave them in the dark. Post's HR is a great place to start: they can hook you up with the necessary applications, and where to go to file them. Obviously, some countries are easier to navigate than others, and some don't even have bilateral work agreements. 

I spoke with a few studios in Windhoek about the antics of working for them and the process is pretty simple: they get a cut, you get a cut, and liability insurance is covered by the local studio. In Namibia, yoga classes vary in price, anywhere from 100-200 NAM (or 7.64-15.27 USD).  Yoga workshops are typically 450 NAM (34.36 USD). Marketing your talents would require going door-to-door action much like finding a job, but at least the people here are super freaking nice. I got the feeling that most studios would be happy to hire.

Second, I needed to decide if I wanted to teach exclusively to the American diplomatic community. Again, get permission: talk to management. Share your hopes and dreams! If they say yes, give them your business and liability information, and go forth and teach. If you haven't created your own official business, this is where the real work begins.

The first thing I did was email FLOAskEmployment@state.gov. FLO is the Family Liaison Office, an integral part of the FS. They responded with this:

 "... liability insurance is a must have in order to better insulate your personal finances. You may also want to look into a sole-proprietorship LLC or other business protection to ensure you are properly financially protected. There are a slew of companies that specialize in liability insurance for yoga and fitness instructors, and I would leave it up to you to decide which is the best...

So long as the classes are taking place in your residence or a mission facility (both of which the Management Counselor must approve), and your clientele are part of the diplomatic community, then you do not need a work permit. Please have a discussion with the HRO at post for the official definition of diplomatic community at your post..."

Okay then. Insurance wise, I had to figure out a company that would cover me INTERNATIONALLY. Easier said than done, and just to prove that I truly did my homework, I called or emailed the following companies: State Farm, Philadelphia, Sadler Sports Rec, Brock Norton, Hands On Trade, Payne West, Be Yogi, Fraser and Hoyt, Alliant (Canada). None of them offer international liability insurance, though Philadelphia does cover up to 30 days out of the country. 

I spoke with local insurance carriers such as Outsurance and Hollard, which are based out of South Africa.  I presented the scenario: a diplomat-teaching-yoga-in-the-backyard-type-of-insurance. They could do two things: offer insurance easily if I had a work permit and teach locally, or a basic indemnity coverage could be created just for my needs - but the company needs to be home based in Namibia. "Perhaps the company Welwitschia or King Price would work" the suggested. I inquired but never heard back, but I didn't press the issue either. By this time I was too frustrated and too alone. I wanted someone to hold my hand and do it for me. Well guess what? No one's gonna.

I emailed international yoga teachers to see how they protected themselves. The ones who responsed said they utilize the 30-day coverage with  Philadelphia insurance, plus most sponsoring international yoga studios cover them as well. Incidentally, Yoga Journal, Yoga Alliance, and 90 Monkeys are in partnership with Philadelphia or Payne West as well. None of the big wigs wanted to answer me back with exception to 90 Monkeys' owner Amy Ippoliti (she's so famous!) who was kind enough to engage my weird-ass questions and banter. 

Bored of reading this dead end story? Fine. I DID find one company that provides international insurance for yoga. Write this down and don't ever lose it: Alternative Balance. They contract with Lloyd's of London and the process to apply is very neat and tidy. I did enter the realm of Lloyd's website directly to find out more details and almost drowned in there. The company is huge. Huuuuuge.

I found usable, international liability insurance! The feeling was magical. Next up, forming an LLC: a limited liability company. I googled "how to form an LLC" and landed on How To Start An LLC.com. Go figure. To sign up you choose the state in which your LLC will be based, and then follow the prompts. I realize now that the setup seems straightforward, but at the time my head was swimming in numbers. How many classes would I have to teach to pay for the insurance and the LLC registration? What would my taxes for next year look like? How much do I charge for classes? What the heck is overhead? These logical questions quickly spiraled into: How can I make ends meet? Will anyone even come to my classes? Why don't I have any friends? What's wrong with me!? 

And so on, and so on. I needed to take a deep breath and let it go. Starting a business indeed is a serious undertaking, but not the least bit impossible. I am so glad I did the research. In the end, I chose not to pursue teaching yoga "professionally" because I had already accepted an embassy job, so for now, I wait. But at least I could pass on the information to you and do a little yoga in the meantime.

How professional yoga photos are done.

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.

How To Braai

Grilling in southern Africa is serious business as evidenced by many humorous road signs advertising the life altering greatness of meat. "Ostrich: lean, tasty, red meat." "When it comes to health, bring on the biltong." Or simply, "hot and meat." In fact, grilling has its own culture here. First off, instead of a grill, it's called a braai both in noun and verb. Second, a true proper braai starts early and burns hot all day, keeping the company amongst friends and family. People party at home, at lodges, even on the side of a country road. The party only ends when the last coals have cooled. 

Cooking on the grill/braai is a huge past time for Mark, and one he had to put on hold while living in Brazil since our apartment building wanted no part in building fires. So when he arrived to Windhoek, six weeks after I got here, he joyfully kicked me to the curb and took over the cooking.  It didn't help that my first attempts at grilling ended in embarrassment.  I mean, in the past I have successfully grilled, but here, the logistics of big metal boxes and drawers confounded me. One time I tried placing charcoal briquettes in the top box, but they all fell through the bottom. I walked away covered in soot, and no dinner to show for it. Another time I made a cute pyramid of coals and lit them on fire in the bottom drawer. They burned, but didn't emit enough heat. My filets rubberized by the time I figured out the drawer was actually to collect ash refuse.

Google didn't help either- no blogs or Youtube or Wikihow had a decent "how to guide" for setting up the braai. I enlisted the help of my dad via email. Reading between the lines, I could feel him laughing at me as he suggested I just "ring the neighbor's doorbell and ask." Well that's all good and fine when you don't have 2 hungry kids on a school night. Or that everyone has 8 foot tall, electrified and barb wired walls with roving security. It didn't exactly make me feel ready to show up unannounced (though since my arrival, I have met some very cool neighbors.) Finally, after a few more trial and errors, I figured out how to braai. I can make mean fire. With wood- which is how a true southern African does it. 

Turns out, several of my newly arrived American friends were in the same position: in possession of a really cool braai, but no idea on how to use it. I happily passed on my knowledge, and ultimately decided to document this process for anyone who felt as clueless as I did. 

To create a wood powered braai, you need:

- Grate. Either a large one that covers the entirety of the braai, or a handled mini grill that you can sandwich meat in between. 

 - Wood. The grocery stores sell perfectly portioned 10kg bags of split wood. Pick up two or more bags to keep yourself fit, and save face from ever running out of wood. Your guests will relentlessly tease if you do.

- Newspaper or kindling. Fire starters are a popular option too. They come in various shapes, reek of gas and leave oily residue everywhere, especially if you are clumsy like me. 

- A metal poker. For poking. Ok, and for stoking the lit firewood and encouraging kids to make the sparks fly.

- A metal rake. For raking. You have to be able to scoot the coals over and spread them across the grilling area.

- Fire resistant gloves. Not required, but dead handy.

- Time. Maybe 90 minutes to get a decent fire ready to grill. Oh yeah, and meat. 

Schlink braai, behind our house.

Arnhem Cave Bat Adventure

Sure, the dark was darker than dark. Sure, the potent scent of ammonia made my eyes water and the dusty guano covered the ground making the rocks slippery to hike on. Of course, the 50 foot long section of low clearance made my innards churn, and the cave humidity + 27C (80F) underground made my sweaty skin extra grubby and itchy. And those blasted bats, thousands and thousands of flying mammals, darted through the cave disrupting my calm demeanor. They dodged heads and flashlights, eager to get away me as I was them.  Yet, I persisted.

For a long time I wanted to visit Arnhem Cave, a place thought to be the longest cave in Namibia at 4.2km, according to the polo shirt our guide wore. I imagined the educational glee we'd all experience, and the exhilaration facing my fear of flying creatures head on. Claustrophobia was also a factor, but I refused to even acknowledge it. I signed us up for a 9:00am tour, and we took off on a 90 minute drive involving 3 major turns to get there: onto the highway, onto the county road, and into the camp's entrance. We arrived to Arnhem Resort and Cave in plenty of time to be told our tour would be delayed by a half hour; plenty of time to go into denial! 

With indemnity forms for death and injury signed, we met our fellow hikers. Two of whom were Czech veterinarians here to collect test tubes of bat poop and a few bats close enough to bag (and tag). The vets were conducting an investigation on white-nose-disease, a fungal infection that infects only bats that hibernate. I was unaware that bats hibernate at all. The infection has been on the rise in recent years and has hit Europe's (the United States as well) bat population hard. They spoke very little English but had a translator on board who also carried the biggest camera lens I have ever seen. It was fantastic to see people so excited about caving, I couldn't help but to soak up their enthusiasm. Good thing I did, because almost immediately, one of our flashlights ran out of batteries. I suppressed the urge of an impending heart attack and continued on, using my phone's flashlight (at 50%) to guide the way. 

Margo and I hiked down, hand in hand. Mark and Deets were ahead of us, and the rest followed behind with their fancy lab equipment. Our guide told us this cave was once a cash boon for exporting guano to the United States for making explosives. He pointed out various bat species that were clinging to the ceilings and showed us mummified porcupine remains. Air circulation is quite stagnant inside the cave, so corpses do not decompose at a normal rate.

I am certain he said a myriad of other interesting facts, but I missed quite a bit. I mostly concentrated on keeping Margo distracted from my inner turmoil. At one point the cave split into two: the right was reserved for people who enjoyed walking through underground water and the left side for the rest of us. We continued on, where the smells of ammonia went from a whiff to full on saturation. Margo asked at this point why we needed flashlights in the cave and we proceeded to turn off all the flashlights for educational purposes. "Yeah, I guess it's dark," was her unimpressed remark. 

Beyond our guide, I spied a rapidly narrowing passage that dropped almost straight down and overhead was the saturation point of bats. The ceiling was literally moving. The group crowded together when one of the veterinarians produced a radio that picked up sonar, and we could hear the bat's tiny "voices" crackling through the speakers. He filled his tubes with guano which looked like innocuous, mushy Grape Nuts, and bagged a few live specimens. He held one up to show all of us the bat's tiny mouth filled with tiny yellow teeth before tucking him away. The vets were obviously in their element, so we left them to play while we headed back to the surface. I all but ran with Margo, in the lead. Fifteen minutes later we saw the light and I was safe again. While we waited for the rest of the group to return, I basked in the brilliant sunlight, grateful for my mental rebirth while I dripped ammonia laden sweat all over the place. 

In total we spent about 30-40 minutes in the cave which was more than plenty. Sometimes guests book tours for three hours and it makes me wonder about health ramifications of breathing in the pungent air- especially for the guides who conduct tours up to twice a day, 7 days a week.  I asked the guide if he knew of anyone contracting histoplasmosis, (a fungal lung infection contacted by inhaling microscopic particles of bat or bird poop) and he just looked at me like I was speaking in tongues. I guess it's gauche to speak of such atrocities.  

Arriving back to the lodge, the kids were legitimately hungry and begged for food. Before any of that could go down, we had to change clothes and wash hands. The clothes were tightly bagged, but I could still smell the off gassed ammonia, or at least I imagined I could. We wolfed down PBJs and made an anticlimactic return to Windhoek. Overall, I am thrilled we went despite the danger, the stink, the dark, the flying animals.  It was cool to try something different, and I will encourage anyone who's remotely interested to see bats to give it a go. If anything, perhaps cave dwelling builds character? 

The inviting foot path- though not far, would have taken us at least an hour to arrive.

Going down.

Grabbing his specimen. All that sandy stuff: poop.

A low hanging bat.

A victorious Margo, first out of the cave.

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.

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.