Diamond Processing in Namibia

I always thought that diamonds were a snooty business, especially when people take out their monocles and tweezers to scrutinize imperfections. They do it all over a swatch of black velvet and bright light, determined to see every angle, every sparkle. Diamond people are the ones who won't touch handrails. They wear Italian fashion, get manicures, and carry an alligator skin binder. That, or their assistant does.

It makes sense though. Historically, Greeks once considered diamonds to be the tear drops of Greek gods. Diamonds symbolize power, courage, virility, and love, and especially reserved for royalty. So when I booked a tour to visit Hard Stone Processing, one of Windhoek's smaller but highly competitive diamond dealers, I imagined all sorts of vain snobbery.

The experience was anything but. Greeted by a bespectacled man named Thomas, he was in jeans and a fleece pullover. We walked past the security guard who left his loaded rifle tilted against the chair, the kind we used to set out for church functions at the school gymnasium. Thomas sat us down on a saggy, white leather sectional and handed us a laminated sheet on the four Cs: cut, carat, color, clarity. He explained that in his processing plant, there are two diamond categories: aggregated, which are boxes of unprocessed diamonds that come from Canada, Botswana, and South Africa, and un-aggregated, Namibian originals. Many people want a home town original, he said.

Namibian diamonds are mostly mined from the sea. They washed up there from the Orange River millions of years ago. At some point they returned to the Namibian desert, starting a diamond frenzy back in 1908. (See the Kolmanskuppe blog post for more of that story). Because of this, Namibia one day will run out of diamonds as there are not significant mines within the earth. But for now, the Namibian diamond companies enjoy a prestige that was once kept as a highly guarded secret.

Thomas pulled us into one of his labs, where a technician named Axel was using an ultra-red light laser to project the rock's image onto a computer screen. He too was wearing jeans and fleece. He manipulated the image with a sophisticated software from Israel that plots points on a rough diamond to make future cuts. The technician turned a 2-D image into 3-D like it was no big deal. Between Axel's eyes and the software, he could pick out inclusions that he'd need to compensate for when the official cuts would be made. All this on a cloudy white rock that was no bigger than the piece of gravel I once got stuck up my nose as a child.

Thomas and Axel introduced us to several of his artisans, many of whom had been there for ten years or more. They wore smart, blue cotton uniforms, warmed by portable heat lamps. A few were in charge of the beginning process called bruting where two diamonds are placed on a spinning axle across each other and spun around to give them a round shape. The computer screens on these babies were fresh out of 1984, just like the Macintosh 128K.

Some artisans were assigned to buff the diamonds, a painstakingly patient job that involves micro adjustments to keep the diamond as symmetrical as possible. They use a what looks like record player to smooth the rough parts, a clamp to hold it, and a monocle to inspect. The whole process takes about one hour per diamond.

The last group we visited were the ones creating facets around the circumference of the diamond. Perched on stools, these employees have to have a steady hand and well developed fine motor skills to make the final marks.The problem is, the facet machine can make the diamonds extremely hot and force them to ping out of their holders. Their solution: they built a netted cage to minimize the fly-zone.

One of the most famous cuts HSP does is the Namibian Sun. It's a patented design of the sun on the Namibian flag, a perfect circle outlined by twelve triangular sunbursts. They only use Namibian diamonds and Namibian artisans, and is only available in Namibian jewelry stores.Their first Namibian Sun masterpiece was donated to the First Lady of Namibia. I am not sure if they meant their current First Lady, Monica Geingob, or the succession of First Ladies (there's only been three). Either way, it's one hell of a souvenir.

Crazy enough, after the diamond receives its finishing touches and is ready for shipment, they are placed back into their original container: a folded piece of paper with a sticker on it. By then the paper is thin and gray with smudgy pencil notes. The folded pieces of paper are boxed up and sent to Belgium for further evaluation and grading. I guess that diamond business isn't 100% snooty after all. After all the care and handling these artists do from computers to lasers to tools, I'd knock the snootiness down by at least 20%.

Showing us the future of this rough diamond.

Bruting machine, something
I imagine what a multi-media
modern artist might conjure up.

The old timey way to brute a diamond,
using a foot pedal and wooden dowel.

One of the owners is an
honorary Turkish consul. 

The workspace.

Clamps aka Table Tongs.

The buff girls.

All hail President Hage Geingob.

The facet cage.

Admiring a 2 carat Namibian Sun diamond.

Saturday morning shopping

It's 7:30am on a Saturday and I am standing in a fat, globular line for the gates to open at 8:00. The folks at the front arrived between 6:00 and 6:30, before the sun was even thinking about coming up. Most of the locals are standing in the chill wrapped in blankets and towels, holding space for their friends who arrive late. No one here pretends to be apologetic about pushing their way through, they just do it.

The cold air smells strongly of manure and faintly of blood. I can't take a deep inhalation through my nose not because of the smell, but because of my allergies. My sinuses are blocked because of the dander and animal hair floating in the air and I regret not bringing coffee. Drinks can wait, I reason. I am here to experience one of Windhoek's most anticipated sales of the year: the Nakara Leather Factory Sale. 

Nakara only holds their sale once a year and only at their factory site. They hardly advertise. Or if they do, they stick with the German and Afrikaans newspapers. Plus their website had been down for about a month prior, so you really had to pay attention to the rumors for the official sale date. I found out about the date when I was talking to heavily lip-stained individuals at a wine extravaganza the night before, an event that had advertisements on every light pole in town. 

The clock ticked closer and the crowed squished tighter, pushing toward the gate that I hoped would  open inward. I worried this leather sale might resemble a Black Friday or a wedding dress sale in the States and regretted wearing my slip on clogs. If I went down, would anyone notice? And what about the children who dotted the crowd as well? I could feel my chest get tighter as the employees on the other side rattled the chain, unlocking the gate.

Once that gate was cracked, it was all over. About fifty people sprinted forward with blanket tails flying behind them. They'd played this game before, dodging the wide eyed newbies and sliding past the little ones. I had no idea what I was looking at or where I was going, so I let the crowd carry me around the sharp left hand turn. Down a long outdoor corridor were neatly stacked waist high mounds of skins: springbok, kudu, cow, zebra. Shoppers had already started making discard piles, scrutinizing one layer of skin before tossing it aside. 

In high school, I worked at a bingo hall to earn money that went to fund the marching band I was in. Every weekend, we would don our marigold band t-shirts and stand behind the pickle counter. Pickles are like scratch tickets, except players don't scratch: they peel. The sound of perforating cardstock still gives me chills. Our customers were mostly chain-smoking women with terrible lipstick.  They'd slap down a twenty or a hundred, and we would count out the pickles. Some of them were 50 cent and 1 dollar pickles, but most of them were 25 cents. These women were fast and didn't miss anything, not a winning pickle, not if you miscounted their sacred stack of 2,500. They'd open those pickles as fast as I could sell them, leaving a sea of losers swimming around their ankles. 

It was deja vu. I watched people guard their piles, making rapid assessment of quality, one layer at a time. Only when they found their desired skin would they relinquish their territory. The scavengers would take over, making even bigger, tangled messes. By the time the weakest arrived, the only things left over were the dusty, furry haze of poorly handled material, and kins with patchy bald spots or weird patterns. I picked up a few springbok furs and tucked them under my arm, ignoring the pungent tannery chemicals that gave me contact high.

Shopping carts were only doled out to the serious buyers who could afford it. I am not sure how this was determined, but the cart guards were turning people away forcing a few to sling heavy zebra or cow hides over their shoulders instead. The guards had eyes everywhere.

The corridor eventually led into the warehouse to the smaller items. Ostrich bags of all shapes and sizes went down one wall, wallets on the other. In the center was rack after rack of leather jackets and belts. The cement floor was clean but slick from loose hair. I felt pressure begin to build behind my cheeks and my eyes burned, begging to be scratchedt 

I picked up an ostrich bag pretending to look like I knew what a decent ostrich bag should look like.  The lady next to me said it was hers and grabbed it out of my hands, giving me side eye and a curled lip. I picked up another and ran away from her, but she had turned her back to me, already forgotten. I browsed the wallets and glanced at the jackets. One man caught my eye who was doing a runway walk with a black leather jacket, testing out the zippers and sizing the pocket depth. I wondered if he knew it was a women's jacket, but it didn't matter. He looked great. I hope he bought it.

After the initial ten minutes of adrenaline, my enthusiasm for leather shopping petered out. People must have smelled my lack competition because the elbow jabs got a bit sharper and I was easily weaseled out of the fold. I turned around to an orderly row of employees who wrote out my invoice, then onto another row of people who rung up my bill. I was passed onto the baggers, funneled past security, and escorted to the one-way exit. Checking out was a bit dreamy, and as I stared at the cinder block wall, I wondered if I hallucinated the entire thing. Smells of grilled droëwors and glühwein pulled me around the corner to the exit where food vendors set up to feed the masses. The glühwein wasn't hot enough and I thought that an 8:15am beer might make my allergies worse. But I love that it was there. Namibia is good for things like that.

Haunted by Ghost Hides

Except for Dave Matthews Band blasting throughout the place, our visit to the Tannery Market was a decent one. There is a new local market scene in Windhoek, based out of a converted tannery warehouse about 5 km north of the city. Free and easy parking, free entry, and convenient daytime hours give this market a distinct advantage over the others. We walked into the wide doors, past rows of picnic benches immediately to our left, and scents of caramelized smoked brisket to the right. Directly in front were the smaller food stalls that did not demand ventilation for grilling. 

These stalls were set up in between concrete partitions where enormous oak drums once rotated thousands of pounds of animal hide soaked in a chemical solution to preserve the skin and separate the fur. The oak drums were likely hooped with massive bands of stainless steel, each with mechanical arms on either side of the barrel, working together linked pistons to rotate them all at once. The beverage stall was set up in a corner of the warehouse where likely a conveyor belt moved wet, intestine colored hides to the next station for water and flesh removal. After which, the skins would be trimmed and split, separating the top-grain from the unwanted bottom layer. 

At the end of the giant room sat two bouncy castles, placed underneath a yellow-red painted H-beam that stretched the width of the warehouse, about 40 feet above. The beam still had gnarly construction type hooks hanging,  with just enough rust to threaten a fall. Perhaps it was here, where thousands of pale, bleached hides would hang to dry before the next cycle of tanning and dyeing. 

Beyond the main room were two more rooms, each walled off on the bottom half but with a history all their own. Birds flew in freely under the eaves, where they would game plan to retrieve discarded, forgotten pieces of food that missed many mouths and hit the concrete floor. The swallows chirped and the crows cawed. No wonder Deets thought this place was haunted. Despite the happy screams of children and the roar of jovial Afrikaans conversation, he sat in his chair silent and wide eyed, without an appetite.

Inside, the concrete bricks felt cold and unforgiving, especially with the partitions pained a moody black.  Outside, the mood was much lighter with sunshine hitting the walls and faces of people with pearly red cheeks. The dust kicked up from children playing tag, and Arabian horses stuffed themselves with hay as their caretaker guzzled orange drink. On one side of the building was the vast parking lot with armed guards patrolling row after row. On the other, were the Brakwater Mountains with endless stretches of camelthorn trees, already thirsty from the rainy season about two months ago. Not a drop of moisture was in the air, a stark contrast to the hide soaked history of this building. 

The next market at the Tannery will be June 30. I would like to go back on the premise of learning more about the building that once employed hundreds of staff in the creation of tanned hides. What happened to the staff?  How did they manage the daily processing load? It's a process that prior to our visit, I had never given much thought. Well, a few Youtube videos put that curiosity to rest. Imagine the smells of the factory as freshly skinned hides begin the curing process, perhaps with salt to reduce the rate of decomposition; when they are dumped into a vat of milk-lime, or when soaked in sulfuric acid. No wonder Deets was wigged out by the whole place. 

The hip thing to do in Windhoek: go to markets

Stairway to god-knows-where.
Photo: https://www.instagram.com/tannerywhk/

The great yellow-red H beam.

Drying hides: ghostly skins from animals once.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zbj1QicTdpI

 Chemical treatments with white
partitions supporting the barrels.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zbj1QicTdpI

Partitions now separating food stalls.
Windhoek being cute and whimsical.
https://www.instagram.com/tannerywhk/

Thoughts on Bidding

During every tour with the Foreign Service, there comes a time where bidding becomes an obsession; a period of strategic planning of finding jobs that will be appropriate to the needs of the family: a job that will challenge Mark and help him grow as an officer, an hopefully one that doesn't steal his soul, a place that has decent school opportunities for the kids, and if the Jim-dog can come. We consider my opportunities as well. Can we find a country that I get to explore, or even better: can I work? If I have learned anything at all about myself in the entirety of my life, is that I love to work. I need to work. I crave work, to deter the idle hands of spousal life that is always a precarious risk when your spouse works in the Foreign Service.

Even though we won't likely find out where we will go until September of this year, bidding already takes a large amount of effort and attention for Mark. He needs to reach out and network, making inquiries as to whether he would be a viable candidate for position X. He seeks advice from past bosses and organizes his thoughts into this complicated web of"if, then" possibilities. It's exhausting but part of the game. Maybe he will get formal interviews by the end of summer, maybe not. Maybe he will be led to water, but will he drink? Will he find something that fits his and our needs? Can we have the best of both worlds?

My point is, there is so much to consider and yet a lot of things are out of our control. It's a long, drawn out dance and while he has his methods to keep him sane, I have to admit that bidding season always leaves me in limbo. I don't work from home or telework, so  I can't really make a career decision of what to do with myself until we know where we will be going. Even then, it's still a mess of "if, then" possibilities and a metric ton's worth of "what ifs" and "maybes." For example: if we get posted to a place that requires language training, then I have to decide whether to work, take language, or study something else. Would anyone even hire me as a nurse? Would I start at the bottom of the totem pole if I did? Probably. Should I study something like massage therapy, or go back to school for a Masters? I wouldn't mind working as a temp, in fact, it could be very fun. But a decision like that in lieu of taking language could be a detriment to my wellbeing at post. After all, human beings as a whole need to feel understood, to be able to communicate.  

All of this consideration leaves me overwhelmed. It also leaves me angsty, gassy, and sometimes hot tempered. I thought maybe it would help to write about it. Maybe it will make it worse. Either way, I should be grateful that I am spoiled for choice. 

During the hiring freeze last year, I toyed with the idea of teaching yoga as a home-owned business. There would be a lot of annoying business junk that I would have to face, but it seemed like a decent option. Plus I am at a crossroads of deepening my practice and I am barely getting to know the fundamentals of a meditation practice. There is so much that I don't know, but at the same time, so much that I want to offer. I thought, perhaps another yoga cert would be just the thing.

I also considered getting an online certificate in copy editing, a skill that could be useful in not only personal blog posts, but to help others, preferably as a paid gig. Boring and painful to read someone else's drivel? Absolutely. Useful? Also absolutely. 

Then a writer friend of mine told me very recently that I should consider getting an MFA in writing, probably the nicest compliment I could ever get. In the U.S., there are a few programs where I could earn an MFA as a low-resident, meaning I would travel to the school twice a year for 2 week, onsite intensives. By intense, my writer friend indicated, would be literal blood, sweat, and tears, as we'd be baring our souls 24/7, writing, editing, critiquing ,etc. Something like 4 semesters and 60 credit hours later, I'd get a Masters degree.

In fact, during my MFA research today, I was looking at the faculty list at one of these low residency programs and saw my college freshman english lit teacher. Even after 18 years, I recognized her immediately and felt nostalgia and admiration pound in my chest. I don't remember much about her class, except that she was an overwhelmed grad student. Half of my class was football players. We tried to write rhetoric and personal essays and I tried too hard to be quirky and funny. I also remember trying baclava for the first time in her class, though I don't remember why. 

Of course I stalked her on FB and sent her a message saying hello. Turns out, she's kind of a big deal in writing circles with all kinds of awards. I bought her books then read her CV with a growing sense of unease and paranoia. How on earth could I ever amount to something like that? How could I possibly have enough intelligence and self-awareness to accomplish such a feat?

Mark told me to shut the hell up. 

Yoga and meditation (as a unified concept, you can't have one with other) basically teaches us to live in the present moment. I observe and honor this concept, but at the same time, I fight it because our lifestyle demands a huge amount of planning and flexibility. It is so easy to get swept up in the "if, then" statements. I definitely love the flair of drama that fuels my ability write, wallow, and freak out about my future. So for now, I give myself the next thirty minutes to do just that. Then I will shut the hell up. At least until tomorrow.

Getting One-Upped in Etosha

During our nine hour driving escapade in Etosha National Park, I thought I had a pretty good handle on my elephant viewing repertoire: three here, one there, and later spotting seven more elegant, gray creatures in the distance. Finally, upon exiting the Andersson Gate at 5pm, a group of four sauntered across the road single file. I felt pretty smug, until I saw a girlfriend’s Instagram account showing twenty around a night-time watering hole, babies included. I also read that Etosha is home to only about 2,485 more. I got royally one-upped. 

I have to tell you, Etosha is HUGE. The white pan of nothingness is easily spotted from outer space. It would take about ten hours to drive across the park, and that is assuming you don't take any detour roads,visit the waterholes, or stop to pee. The place has something like 340 different types of birds, 46 of which are raptors. There's 144 different mammals, 50 kinds of snakes, and 134 different types of flora. 

Whether you see any them depends on two big factors: water and luck. The best time to go is during the winter months, so June, July, and August are ideal. It's less hot, and with low precipitation animals are more likely to head to the watering holes. I say luck because most of the animals are not tagged, and also because visitors have a funny way of guarding "their" animals. They don't want to share their "secret stash sightings," yet remain irresistibly boastful of what they saw. For example, while we were photographing elands on the side of the road, another driver casually mentioned that he saw lions first thing upon arriving and gestured vaguely in the direction of where he saw them.

Most of the day was pleasant but boring, with short episodes of excitement. At one point we drove towards a large line of vehicles, each jockeying for position to see whatever was in the bushes. Naturally, we followed suit. Soon we saw two black rhinos that were growing increasingly agitated. I can't blame them. They were basically cornered with vehicles parked on two sides of the triangular piece of land. If a charging rhinoceros isn't enough to scare you, then you are insane. I know they can't see particularly well, but since our car was in its direct line of sight and only slightly larger than it was, I was convinced one swipe of its horn would do us all in. I think Mark's fear was already used up last year, when he had to untangle fencing wire from our drive shaft while elephants walked past, because he was happy as a lark. He snapped photos of these endangered creatures who ran towards the car. Whereas I, literally had to change my underwear. What were the kids doing? I don't even remember.

After that exciting drama, we found ourselves at another watering hole. We watched a giraffe stoop down to drink, enjoying real zen and beauty despite growing hunger pangs for everyone in the car. Shortly thereafter, we saw another fascinating sight: a man chucking large rocks and logs into the bushes so he could park his rental truck. You aren't allowed to be out of the car in Etosha unless you're at a rest stop, because: lions, leopards, charging rhinos, etc.  He also had a flat tire, and we watched in utter confusion as he drove the truck into soft sand. Mark got out to help and found that the Swiss man and his wife had no idea they had flatted. They also had no idea how to get their spare tire out from underneath the car. So Mark showed them the secret hole at the back of the truck where the Allen wrench tool is inserted to release the tire. 

Swiss Man broke his, so Mark grabbed ours. While our tool worked to get the tire down, it got stuck in the secret hole because Swiss Man had recently backed his truck into a pole. And, when he crossed the Namibian border, had his license taken away because he didn't have any money to pay the fine for losing both license plates in Botswana. 

The kids and I watched Mark troubleshoot their mishap. We watched Mark slide underneath their car, getting his backside covered in the fine off-white dust. We watched him squat behind the car, muscles flexed in an effort to extract the stuck tool, which he did successfully. We watched Swiss Man's wife pull out a tissue and delicately wipe Mark's sweaty brow in obeisance. I had to change another pair of underwear. 

On another detour, we followed a huge game drive truck and got stopped at a spot where several cars were log jammed. There was a leopard in the road and everyone was hell-bent on seeing it. I enjoyed the novelty, because how often do you get to see a leopard? However, other cars took it very seriously, swerving far left and right to get a view. They couldn't get one though, because of the  game drive truck. One car opposite us insisted on driving in reverse. The driver behind us wanted to lay on the horn to make the other vehicles share the discovery. I could see his rage-y eyes and feel his impatience. Luckily no one cut off the nose to spite the face. Aside from engines idling, all was silent. Eventually, we all got our chance to see the beautiful creature.

Finishing up the day, we drove through a zeal of zebras where one kicked my car. We spied more birds, towers of giraffes, and of course the parade of elephants. We were spent. The kids were crabby, whining that they didn't want to look out the window anymore, Mark was hungry, and I had run out of underwear. It was time to get back to the lodge for a drink to celebrate the day's work of sitting on our asses. 

Photo credit: Mark

Photo credit: Mark

Female impala

Grumpy black rhino

Knight in corduroy shorts

Photo credit: Deets

Photo credits: Deets

Photo credit: Margo

Sundown at Etosha

Mark Goes on a Bike Ride

On any given road we take, whether in Namibia, Brazil, or literally ANY other country we've set foot in, Mark scrutinizes the countless miles driven, judging them on one thing: how much fun the roads would be for riding a bicycle. He looks at the quality of pavement, gravel, sand, or dirt. He looks at the shoulder, the paint job, and the guard rails or lack thereof. Most importantly, he looks at climbs and descents. 

Ever since I've known him, Mark lives by the thrill of steep hairpin descents, the supreme reward for enduring the long climbs. So after our last camping trip off the C26 two months ago, Mark was sold on riding my his single-speed cyclocross bike from Windhoek to the Rooiklip campsite. Approximately 160 kilometers long, this unpaved road would take him past hundreds rolling hills and up and over Gamsberg Pass which has a wicked descent into the edges of the Namib-Naukluft region. 

Mark started training the day after we got back. He also recruited a friend to join him, someone who was in Namibia this past year on a Fulbright Fellowship, teaching writing at the University of Namibia. This guy, Peter, earned his badge early on by riding the hilly streets of Windhoek every single day on a very large Giant mountain bike. He defied careless drivers as he rode across the city with a ball cap shoved underneath his helmet, his backpack half on, and a notebook, pen, and book crammed in the chest pocket of his shirt. Always: with a notebook, pen, and something to read while waiting at red lights, during dinner parties, or at the grocery store.  Little did he know how handy they would come in during the BIG ride...

Mark was so diligent. He cut out junk food and alcohol, and committed to using his bike trainer which he set up on our patio and rode during the weeknights. He'd haul out a small table and set up his iPad and speaker on it to pass the time as his legs would churn over and over. During the weekends he would toss in a couple water bottles into his car and drive away with his bike for rides that would last 4, maybe 5 hours. 

Mark's post-cycling routine was always the same: His unitard-onesie bike shorts looked like soggy lingerie as they'd dry in the bathtub, while his jersey was often left on the ground for days, stuffed with uneaten Clif bars and bike tools. His snotty, wadded up gloves were usually left in the garage, and his water bottles grew a peaceful, peach colored algae from the warmth of the Namibian sun. Oh but his bikes (if you know us, we own a few) would be cleaned, shined, greased, and prepped with the care of doting  model train enthusiast.  

To say he nearly died a few times on these long rides would be dramatic. Mark did however, put himself into danger two times, running out of water on dirt roads that offered zero services, zero shade, and next-to zero traffic. The first time this happened, he managed to hitchhike the last ten kilometers where an Afrikaaner farmer proceeded to chastise Mark's stupidity before dropping him off at the car. Mark managed to drive home in a state of heat-exhaustion. He stumbled up the steps and crashed on the floor of our living room where I cooled him down with ice packs in his arm pits and groin.

The second time he ran out of water, he got trapped behind the gated entrance of a friend's farm in the mountains outside Windhoek. And, in these neck of the woods, you can't just go driving down to the house to ask them to open it. Unexpected guests + gun owners + large swaths of property do not equal a good idea. So he had to wait for someone who was leaving the property to open the padlocked gate. One hour later, this wish was granted along with an extra bottle of water. Mark promptly drank that bottle and, promptly threw it back up. It took him hours to keep down fluids, and longer to recover from the lactic acid that dehydration brought. 

Third time's a charm, he hoped, and it was. To do the ride, we coordinated three waves of people leaving Windhoek at different times. I left first, two hours after they started their ride, which meant I had the most waiting to do at the campsite. By the time I caught up, the two were in great spirits despite the fact that Mark had flatted five times. Mark had already gone through his extra tubes, so he was enjoying the dusty sun. His friend happily sat in the shade, reading his book and taking notes.

Restocked, watered, and apparently very well rested, I left the men to their riding. They would get assisted two more times, so indeed they were in very good hands. I knew that logically, but regardless, my mind drifted to doubts and fears. Could he make it without flatting more? What about distracted drivers? What about heat-stroke? What about the lack of guard rails? What if there was an angry baboon or warthog? In the end, he did flat more. Mark's tires gave out four more times that day. Luckily, there were no distracted drivers, only a skiddish troupe of horses. It wasn't hot-hot, no one flew off the side of the mountain, and they only encountered an eland that stared them down with disdain. 

At 4:30, the sun was already low so I picked up Mark and Peter twenty kilometers from the end, a gesture they appreciated shortly after seeing the road conditions. The backside of Gamsberg finally received rainfall which meant all the spots we remembered as orange and brown were now hues of neon green and yellow. It also meant the roads were either washed out and very rocky, or thick with sand. They were conditions that despite their physical fitness and mental wares, would be difficult to manage after hours in the saddle. The piled into the car and I drove them back to the campsite where we would feast on steaks and red wine. 

The camping was exactly how we remembered it with the leathery landlords, the farm dogs, Tippy the baboon-shepherd, Linus the fat zebra, and Number 7 the donkey. We had the brilliant stars, the hot, dry hikes, and the same vast spread of hills and mountains. Only this time, we shared it with friends who are pretty much family as far as I am concerned. 

After all this, is Mark sick of riding? Not exactly. In fact, he is more in love than ever. Just today he rode 112 kilometers of Namibian roads. Except this time he did it on 100% pavement. With his road bike. And no flats. But he still ran out of water.

Km: 0 at sunrise
Mark and Peter

Km: 0.05
Godspeed.

Km: 50, flat #5

Km: 50, Peter using his time wisely
to come up with ways to describe
the desert without using: vast, hot, or dry.

Km: 140

The NEW, watered Gamsberg.
Green green green (for Namibia, anyway).

Last drag of the road to Rooiklip.

Stars of all kinds.

German Karneval

At the end of March and beginning of April, German Karneval hit Windhoek full force with royalty nominations, parades, games, sausage and beer drinking, and massive parties to gear up for Lent where sobriety and fasting take over. Namibia has been celebrating their version of German Karneval for 66 years, but this year's celebration was bigger than ever because Deets' hip hop dance got to perform during Juka (yoo-kuh), aka Youth Karneval. Only kids aged 16-26 are allowed onto the premises unless you are royalty, related to royalty, or a stage parent for the performers. 


Stern, square jawed ticket takers clad in red blazers and soldier hats admonished me for my tardiness, which was all of five minutes past 7 o'clock. Reluctantly, they let us cut the line past the throng of teenagers who were bottle necked at the entrance and told me that I was not allowed to leave until after his performance, which would be at 9:20pm. I dropped David off backstage was left to my own devices. 


Wandering through the dance hall, I grabbed a beer and watched the crowds of teenagers. Many were proudly swigging full bottles of cheap wine while others double fisted bottles of beer. The kids were dressed in pithy Halloween costumes or in rhinestone-sequined gowns and heel, that would no doubt chafe their underarms and ruin their feet before the night was through. 


The emcees and brass band were on stage warming up the crowd with coarse German chanting and Bavarian music that everyone seemed to know by heart.  Dancers also took the stage wearing white boots that went up to the knee, short skirts, spanx, and vests. There was a lot of red lipstick and a lot swaying, straight arm raises, chorus line kicks, and cartwheels. And so. Many. Encores. Unsurprisingly, the entire show was spoken in German. 


Luckily, because they were all of German heritage, I knew the schedule would run on time, so I spent my time remembering what it was like to be a teenager (I'm so glad I'm not anymore) and why I didn't see any other parents hanging around. Turns out, all the other the parents were classically Namibian and decided to drop their kids off and leave, no matter what the entrance people said. 

Finally, around 9:18pm, the crowds on the floor parted as a line of deafening Harley Davidsons drove in the older Fusion Funk dancers. The younger kids followed on bicycles, and for those who didn't know how to ride, or happened to get flat tire at the worst moment possible, they walked in like a group of tiny, David Bowie thugs. 9:20pm, the music started and the kids did their hip hop thing, and the crowd went wild. 

A few minutes later they ran off stage and did their encore, per the demands of the cheering crowd. I spent the remainder of my evening carrying Deet's bike with a flat tire and waiting for him to remerge from the dance hall. He had decided to disappear into the drunken (yet harmless) crowd and collect champagne corks from underneath the tables and benches. That kid kills me sometimes.