The C26

It seems that the famous Namibian C28 road that connects Windhoek to Swakopmund has a little competition: the C26. It's an unpaved road that takes you south by southwest from Windhoek to the edges of the Namib Desert and the C14. The first climb out of the city might be unimpressive, what with the potent smell of the Kupferberg landfill, but after that, the landscape takes over. Campsites, guesthouses, and D-roads chase one another down the gravel, as the kilometer signs barely seem to budge in the direction of Walvis Bay. The numbers seem to stuck in the mid-200's and never seem to decrease. Baboons, goats, and warthogs dash across the road and in the distance, springbok, cattle, and zebra might be seen grazing. It's on the C26 where the entertaining lodge names start popping up like Melrose Place, Weener Farm, Corona Guest Farm, the Hakos Astrofarm and best yet: Weissenfels Guest Farm which has an honest to goodness Vortex Center. They deal with things like ethnomedicine, healing crystals, and labyrinth walks. I don't even know what that means, but I want to sign up. Immediately. 

Along the way, mountains turn to hills and back to mountains. The most notable one being Gamsberg Mountain, which has a flattop peak easily seen in all directions and is thick with quartz.  With zero light pollution and steep climbs, it's a huge draw for nighttime photographers and brave 4x4 drivers. We drove down Gamsberg Pass, which takes the cake in steepness and beauty of bald commiphora trees, nary a guard rail to slide into. We were warned watch out for Hartmann mountain zebra and indeed, nearly drove into a set of four who were trotting along the roadside. Further down the pass, leafy green trees start to peter out as if the gods ran out of paint, giving way to an area known as the Valley of 1,000 Hills. It's literally where thousands of hills colored in shades of cream, tan, brown, and orange are squashed between a desert and a mountain range. "Protected" from the forces of cloud cover and rain, this region hasn't seen moisture in about three years. Inhabitants depend on bore hole water sources. 

From a distance, the hills seem to roll into each other continuously. However up close, many of the hills have deep crevasses that once upon a time, were carved by water. Leopards, caracals, and jackals hide here in addition to zebra cobras, as we found out. While hiking between a rock and a hard place, Deets encountered a black and white striped cobra. Despite his unmistakable announcement of "there's a cobra in front of me!" he continued to advance on the snake as if hypnotized. Deets only snapped out of it when Mark and I started yelling at him to stop. I caught up next to see the snake poised upright to defend itself. We gave him a wide berth and watched him until he calmed down and slithered away. 

This was an excellent teaching moment to review snake safety. All of that seemed to go well until Deets protested " I needed to get my fright on because I'm a reptile too! That's why I kept walking toward it!" Well, of course he is. 

On another hike, the kids, Mark, and I scared off a jackal. Not two minutes after that, Deets fell behind to inspect a rock overhang and while his back was turned, a very large caracal ran between him and me. It ran down one side of the canyon and up the other, with its unmistakable black-tipped ears tipped backwards.  Prepared as always, my camera was in my backpack. During this same hike in the river bed, we passed vacant beehives embedded into the canyon wall, zebra carcasses, and large cat footprints left in the dirt. 

When we weren't hiking, we drove the 4x4 trails at the Rooiklip Guest Farm, where we camped over the weekend. I don't know if I will ever get over the exhilaration of cresting a mountain and not being able to see over the hood nor the path down below, or navigating past rocks of agreeable size. The views were cool, but we didn't see any animals along the way. At one point we saw a truck speeding over a mountain top, heading in our direction. It was the owner of the farm, a researcher, and a farmer who were in hot pursuit of their lost shepherd baboon. You heard me. The farmer had a trained baboon to herd the goats, and he got lost. They stopped just long enough to ask if we'd seen him and get annoyed that none of us had any idea what they were talking about. Good news for them, they found the shepherd baboon and put him back to work the next day.

This is exactly why I love Namibia. 

I also love Namibia because we get to stay in ecclectic places like Rooiklip. The owners, Hannelore and Frans, are leathery old Germans who have turned their land into a gorgeous oasis focused on conservation and solar power development. Some of the walls are built with beer bottles, and they are mid-project building a recycling center behind the lodge's kitchen. Interns come from the Technological University of Munich for school credit and research projects. While we were there, the interns spent a lot of time surveying land with twine grids and punching data into solar-powered laptops. 

We camped at one of their three campsites that were located under a rock overhang. While we didn't have electricity, we did have three sinks, a shower, and flush toilets all to ourselves. The star stuffed nights were filled with a peaceful silence that made the buzzing in my head all the more noticeable. Between the campsites and the lodge was the animal pen for the fattest zebra I have ever seen. His name is Linus. They have a donkey named Number 7 and an oryx named Jonathan, plus a bunch of dogs (and a baboon shepherd). It was just the kind of place that makes you want to return to again and again. I am certain this is going to happen sooner than later. 

Campsite #1 at the Rooiklip Guest Farm

1,000 Hills and 1,000 reasons to love this kid.

Zero light pollution.

Bee Trail at Rooiklip.

Meditating by the pool.

The snake's status by the time Mark arrived. 

Trails of 1,000 Hills

Collecting orange sand.
Gamsberg Mountain in the background.

Gamsberg at sunset.

Traffic on the C26.

Shooting Guns with Namside Tactical Services

Last month, I organized a day at the shooting range. The owner, Uys Prinsloo (pronounced Ace), is a true blooded, hard core Namibian and owns a company called Namside Tactical Services. They offer a large round of services: target practice, shooting under fire, shooting while injured, trauma first aid, combat training, etc. He also owns a cattle farm, runs a very busy anti-poaching organization, and does volunteer work teaching self-defense for the various forms of communities, tribes, and incomes around the city. He's the kind of guy who has been around guns his entire life as he grew up hunting in the bush with his father. 

The opportunity to visit a shooting range was a big deal, because in Namibia, shooting ranges require that visitors are licensed with their own firearms. I learned this when I started making phone calls, asking if there was any sort of a Shooting 101 opportunity. They all said "yes, but..." 

Even getting a firearm into the country requires permission, paperwork, and patience. Buying one locally requires a lot more. Uys offered us the opportunity to use his company's firearms, so I accepted with obvious enthusiasm. For me, it was a unique opportunity to fulfill my son's gun roleplaying aspirations and my daughter's natural curiosity try something new. Mark was happy to tag along, since he hadn't practiced shooting in over 25 years. The only time I ever shot a gun was 14 years ago at my best friend's wedding. Yes, her wedding. As a parent, I want to educate and protect my kids, especially if it is over things I am nervous about. Like, guns. (And snakes and spiders.)

A group of us went on this venture: 11 adults, and 7 kids, all with varying degrees of firearms experience. After a safety discussion and demo, the adults would lay hands on a James Bond pistol, a Mark Wahlberg laser guided carbine, and a Tomb Raider-like shotgun. The top five shooters were then "gifted" the opportunity to shoot a Dirty Harry. The sheen of Dirty Harry's metal gave me the heebie-jeebies. This gun meant business on no uncertain terms and the recoil was so so powerful. Everyone's arms flew high into the air after each shot. I technically didn't score high enough to try it, but Uys offered more than a few times. After the first three, though, my curiosity was sated. Shooting has never been my thing, so when I did hit a clay target, I jumped up hooting for joy. It was enough movement that the instructor promptly removed the gun from my sweaty grasp and ordered me off the field. I was okay with that. 

Once the adults were done playing, the kids got to practice shooting cans with an air rifle. A few of them used their impressive gaming skills and shot quite successfully, and not all of them boys. It was pretty awesome. Both of my kids got bored after the first round and opted to run around on the mountains instead. After the firearms were secured, we then brought out the beers and braai meat to close out the day. 

I made trophies for the winners: Best Shot, Best Worst Shot, and Best Kid Shot. This was without a doubt, the best part of the whole event. I know that makes me sound like a crafting nerd, but I rarely have a low-cost inspiration crafting idea, and the trophies cost me zero dollars, so I was too excited to hand them over with regal circumstance.

The other day, I ran into one of the instructors. Mario couldn't but help to share the good news: after months and months of paper trail, he finally purchased "the gun of his dreams." He showed me a slide show of it on his phone, he was so proud. "Here's my gun getting delivered! Here it is again on the table. This one is of me, of course, holding the gun. And here it is at another angle..." he said,  reminiscing.  Mario begged me to do another event with Namside so we could all have a go at his newest baby. The people who run this company are so infectious, and serious, and excited about they do, it would be hard to say no. Even if guns are about the last thing on earth that I would ever be into.

Uys is all smiles whenever he's out here. 

The black dots were where we missed.

Dirty Harry

Part of the combat training course.
The kids were desperate to shoot the car.

Prizes to be had. All you have to do: be the best or worst.

Erick Mwiya's Katutura Tour

View from the top of Katutura,
behind Fidel Castro Primary School.

Last July, there was an article in The Namibian featuring a young man named Erick who made a name for himself in the world of tourism as a professional and independent tour guide within Windhoek. This article spurred an interest to visit a town mostly unknown to locals and to get to know someone trying to make real change.

Erick Mwiya was originally from Katima, a town in the Caprivi region over 1,300 kilometers from the capital, is best known for its stop-over value on the way to Victoria Falls. It's a place where elephants make the rules and safari operators seek refuge and restocking after emerging from the bush. The town is hot for Zambia travel as there's a recently opened bridge over the Zambezi river. Erick returns home every Christmas where he hops onto a donkey cart after having driven for 15-16 hours to visit his family's farm and reacquaint himself news of the north. 

Twenty-seven years ago Erick lost both of his parents to alcohol poisoning. Unable to continue with his schooling after grade one, Erick went to live with extended family, doing what many Namibians are tasked with: finding work and surviving. By age 14 he ventured south to live with an uncle in Windhoek, or rather, Katutura, the infamous township where blacks were forced to live during South African rule in the 1950's. A Herero word, Katutura means "the place where people do not want to live." Squeezed together in tight quarters, yet tribally separated, creating community and solidarity was impossible. The new location also meant no access to gardening or farming, little to no access to education and medical care, and long commuting distances to the city, usually by way of overcrowded buses or unlicensed taxis.

Finding work for Erick was difficult. He partook in many menial jobs before finding a job as a taxi driver. For several years Erick drove people around, contributing to his family, and saving what he could. Naturally loquacious, he would talk to anyone who joined him on the road even if they didn't speak the same language. A lot of his trips involved driving back up north, so the hours were spent learning to communicate with his passengers. Before long, Erick was fluent in local 7 languages including English and a bit of Portuguese, tools that would prove to be invaluable with his next career step. 

Erick credits a lot of his early success to his old taxi boss who encouraged him to do more. So when his clients asked him about real life in Katutura, he saw an opportunity to educate outsiders on the dynamic realities of living in a place that today, still functions without plumbing or electricity. There are no pipes to provide the tin houses with running water. Instead people load money onto fobs that operate the water access points. Residents must store their water in whatever container available and hand carry them back home. There are no toilets, not even drop ones, only the trash dump to do "big business" as Erick tells it.

Erick went for it. With the blessing of his family and community, he started Mwiya Tours and Transfers a couple of years ago. The cooperation of the community was vital. He wouldn't have been able to do this venture otherwise, because one of visions is that visitors get to meet with locals and share their personal space. Guests enter windowless shacks, walk past personal showers and gaze at the pile of cow skulls tucked away in outside corners. There's no trash service either, but the bones are anything but trash: Meat Co., a Namibian company has a program called Meat Ma that sells cow heads, legs, and entrails at N$40 ($3 USD) for the whole set. Buyers take them home where the meat is stripped off the skulls and legs, piece by tiny piece, and hung out to dry in the sun. They are a main source for nutrition, frequently paired with pap, a corn based porridge. Leftover skulls are also dried and will be used as fertilizer for the family farms. 

The vices of living rough are everywhere. Every neighborhood in Katutura has bars stocked with liquor, beer, and tombo, an illegal sugary home brew. The neighborhoods are filled with drugs and marijuana, if you know where to find them. But as a white person, don't ask because they won't tell you. Narcing is something they take seriously. Prostitutes do what they can to survive and unfortunately, it's almost never worth the price. HIV-AIDS continues to be a problem, (here and throughout the country) as are orphans left behind. It paints a deary picture, but Erick tells the stories with blazing candidness. He knows the solution lies far away especially with corruption, lack of funding, and overall disorganization of a new country trying to make its way in the 21st century. 

He doesn't let himself think about the injustice too much, because he has his priorities: managing his company, and taking care his family, particularly the younger ones. Erick visits two of his younger cousins, one who will study biology at the University of Namibia, and other who should have left a few days ago to start the 11th grade. Instead she stayed home, unmotivated to make her way into the city. Erick responds not with anger, but love and patience. School starts Wednesday and he will drive her himself if he needs to. He tells her that education is the only way out, and hopes she hears him. When asked about whether he'd ever go back to school, he responds with a firm "no" but acknowledges that he's been studying Islam for the past couple of years. He calls it his perfect religion and enjoys the time spent exploring God and praying under the guidance of his teacher, who also works with Erick on his English. 

Every tour ends with a visit to a local market for lunch. The unbeatable smells of fried fat and meat linger in the street. The markets sell beef which doesn't require the same stringent testing standards as game meat (oryx, springbok, kudu) does. There are several aisles of dried goods: mopane worms, grains, beans, and spinach, followed by lunch tables where drinks and breads are served for about N$40-60.  Down the next aisle is the butchery where the slabs of beef are chopped apart with whatever is available, though usually it's an axe. Some cow heads stare blankly on the darkened bricks ready for sale, but the choice cuts of the cow is what really sells here.

The butchery tables provide easy, fast access to the grills where piles are meat are cut down to finger foods, seasoned with salt or kapana spice and sold at N$50/plate. The fires are readily restocked from the last aisle, where people are chopping logs of wood. Grease, wood chips, and flies are everywhere, but with the sensational meal that is about to take place, none of it matters. Erick says white people should only come with someone legit from the community, otherwise service might not ever happen.  

He loves to watch the reactions of his guests, who eat with either alacrity or suspicion. Either way, this is downtime for him to sit and evaluate what they liked best or least. He offers language lessons to the lingually inspired or settles into a comfortable quietness after having spoken for 3-4 hours straight. A brief reconnaissance of the market finishes the tour, and it's time to head home. Usually, he is scheduled to do airport pick ups thereafter. It is evident Erick likes to keep busy not just because of the money, but he says people walk away from his tours with a deeper appreciation and respect for Katutura. He has a hard life, but it is still a beautiful one because it is lined with hope: maybe he can be part of the change that Katutura desperately needs by doing it one tour at a time.

Tour with Erick: 
https://www.facebook.com/mwiyatoursandtransfers/
http://www.mwiyatours.com/

Windhoek West

Plate of plenty for a price.

Enjoying some cookies while their
the moms received bags of nonperishables.

Water station.

Keeping cool: out and away from the hot tin.

Private shower. 

Piled for safe keeping until the next trip north.

Meat drying day. One head and four legs
will feed the family for a week.

Meat drying day.

Saturday morning walk.

The most recent spread of Katutura to the west.

View of Windhoek from Katura. Coffee Pot Museum (National Museum of Independence) to the far right. 

Mopane worms.
Highly nutritious but
 seasoning is necessary.

Before.

After:
Kapana,  traditional Namibian grilled beef, seasoned with
 kapana spice (orange).

Back to Damaraland where it's 200 degrees!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At the Dinosaur Tracks Guest Lodge.

Damara Mopane Lodge.

Claiming the best seats for the sundowner.

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

Mopane leaves.

Qualeas filling the night sky.

Schlink family on Christmas Eve.

Merry Christmas, giraffe carvings!
Twyfelfontein 

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

Erindi Elephants, Lions, and San Tribesmen

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

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

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

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

Mud bath at the watering hole.

Meat sweats.

Credit: Mark

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

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

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

San children. Photo credit: Mark

Really Good Bread in Windhoek

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The bakery staff. Photo courtesy of Stephaan Coetzee