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.

Baby Rhino at Gocheganas

Two words: baby rhinoceros. A couple of friends shared the news of a two week old white rhino running around the Goche Ganas Nature Reserve, so naturally I had to see him for myself. (I wonder sometimes if game drives will ever get old living in Namibia, but right now that'd be a big fat nope.) We arrived to the reserve with enough time to drink a beer before piling into the truck. I packed nothing but my camera and a container of blueberries, much to the guide's horror. He was unimpressed when he realized we didn't pack warmer clothes for the kids, as we'd be making our return to HQ after dark. For children who are accustomed to running around barefoot here, I found his comment peculiar, but reassured him my kids could manage.

We drove hardly 2 minutes before seeing animals all over the place. They were awesome enough that Mark had to admonish Deets, Margo, and myself to keep quiet. Steenbok, kudu, wildebeest, hartebeest, and giraffes all stared us down, before bolting as we passed by with our cameras plastered to our faces.  They were impossible to miss. Seeing the first batch of rhinos was a bit trickier because they were situated across the hill. I figured we'd take the long route around, but Mateus shifted into low gear and proceeded directly across the valley, driving over shrubs and jolting over rocks. We crossed the dried, steep river bed and BOOM! Four adult white rhinos eating grass, barely casting glances our way. My only distraction was Deets who kept trying to sneak off the vehicle to get a closer shot with my camera phone. An incredulous eyebrow raise from me promptly fixed that faux pas. 

Our drive continued, full of wild jackal, oryx, and the tiniest deer species I'd seen yet: steenbok. Had I not already known about the baby rhino, I could have died happy. The air was thick with pending rain, greenery, and a brilliant sun pasted across the sky.  We passed warthogs, rabbits, ostriches, and the weirdest squirrels with long, skinny bristle brush tails. Eventually, we made our way to the second batch of rhinos: a pregnant mom with her 2-year old baby giving themselves healthy scratches against telephone pole support wires. 

Sun was setting faster and faster so I had internal moments of anxiety that I wouldn't get to see the baby.  But as all grand finales go, Mateus saved the best and cutest for last. The little guy was loaded up with thick, saggy skin that promised how big he would get (5,000 pounds). His feet were too big for his body, tripping him up as he shyly ran after his mom. They are never far from each other, and will stay a an adorable duo until he's three. So. Cute.

Finally our game drive ended with a "sundowners" (what southern Africans call happy hour) during a wickedly magical sunset. And ants. Side note: professional journalistic investigation revealed that wearing flip flops are not the best choice of footwear on game drives, even with minimal walking involved. Never mind the thousands of thorns that went through my cheap sandals. I'm talking about the tiny angry ants that defended their homes to the ninth degree when I had an emergency bush break and ended up peeing on them. I drank my gin and tonic, dancing with ants literally in my pants. I'd like to say I learned my lesson, but who can really predict the future when it comes to this kind of common sense? 

Lady Kudu! 

Oryx

Baby Jeorge!

Jeorge and Jolly

Springbok
Credit: Mark

Inspecting thorns and ant carcasses against the dusky light.
Amazing photo credit: Mark

Untouched, unfiltered. 

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.

Stargazing in Namibia

Over the next two days we needed to drive 16 hours and 1600 km to get home. For blogging sake, I almost wish we got ourselves into some hijinx, but for sanity's sake it was terribly boring and uneventful. Out of curiosity, Mark and I consulted iTunes to figure out the top five albums we listened to on this road trip, and I will share below. I don't know if that's enough to make you want to join us, or run for the hills. But it kept our attention between those achingly long stretches.

1. Hamilton the Musical Mix Tape - it makes us tear up. Every. Time.
2. Paul Simon - Concert in the Park (Deets' request)
3. CHVRCHES - Every Open Eye (my request)
4. Rolling Stones - Let It Bleed (Margo's request)
5. a mixed playlist of music to which I am learning dance routines for an fitness certification that requires me to submit videos of myself teaching. I would embarrass my family pantomiming the routines and confuse them by belting out commands to move, shake, turn left, ect. 

Our last overnight was spent at the Gondwana Roadhouse, a fun vehicular themed hotel. We were blessed with clear skies which meant Mark could do some stargazing photography. At 3:00am he took full advantage while the rest of us sawed logs to the blissfully quiet air conditioning unit... 

Needless to say, he gets all the credit here. The only credit I deserve is the slow clap of congratulations when I sprained my ankle (for the upteenth time these past three weeks) as I stepped out of our hotel room. I swear, it wasn't to get out of driving. 

Stellenbosch, Spier Winery, and A Terrible Massage

After a lively stay in Cape Town, we did an overnight in Stellenbosch, a colonial-ish university town surrounded by thick vineyards. We thought this would be our opportunity to finally slow down, drink wine, and relax for once. More than a few friends recommended going to Spier, famous for a few reasons: wine (duh), their farm-to-table food sources (omg), and an all day kids club (hooray!) 

In short, it was delicious, nice, and pretty. But, not particularly relaxing- because the minute we laid eyes on the black and yellow cruiser bikes, we all gained a second wind. We couldn't just not ride, so we brought the kids to their club and took off as if we were starring in a summer romance film in the country side. I loved every second of it, plus Mark took the kids on a bike ride while I could escape for an hour to get a relaxing massage. However, I am pretty sure I just don't know how to relax...

A five foot tall, 20-year old man-teen with a sparse goatee and meat-packer hands called me into the room. I made my usual idle chit-chat and during my massage I managed to learn the following: he's 1/2 Afrikaaner, 1/2 German, and 1/2 Portuguese (verbatim). The latter is why he likes spicy food so much. Though he's never left South Africa,  his dream is to travel to the United States and visit... Kansas... for no known reasons other than "it speaks to me" and that he likes the color yellow.  He loves gaming, hates his parents, and considers himself the black sheep of the family. Lastly, he hasn't quite graduated from massage school yet, but he knows deep in his heart that aromatherapy is a holistic-health game changer. He just couldn't stop talking! But I guess it's not his fault, I couldn't stop responding. 

As we came to the near end, I figured he'd finish the massage with arms and hands, my absolute favorite part. Apparently, that is an extra 250 Rand (17 USD), and proceeded to the scalp massage instead. He announced he'd be doing something different and not asking to see if I'd care.  Like an oily baptism, he ladled directly onto my face and proceeded to rub his hitch hiker thumbs into my 3rd eye. It felt like a mother sternly rubbing dirt off her kid's face, but grosser and totally unrelaxing. Then he palmed both sides of my head and squeezed it like a cantaloupe. With that, he left me to gather my leaked brains and get dressed. 

Now, I had a feeling he used a bit of oil, but I didn't know how much until I stood up. I wiped out taking bottles of lotions and the bedding with me. No one can make a graceful exit after that, but I held my lubricated head high as best I could, and strolled out the door like I did that sort of thing every day. I found Mark who had just dropped the kids off at their club. We drank some wine, ate dinner and laughed at my non-relaxful, sopping existence before preparing ourselves for a full day driving back to southern Namibia. 

The only photo I took that day, and I was of a tireD cow in Stellenbosch.
I guess I was too busy drinking wine and getting slopped on.

Cape of Good Hope

Mark and I promised ourselves there would be no hiking today. Who were we kidding? We ended up doing a 90 minute hike to sit on the edge of the world, at the Cape of Good Hope.  At least the hike was easy, consisting of 95% wonky boardwalk and 5% rocky trail, but at the end I was still sweating like a pig. I guess coastal humidity and wearing jeans didn't help. But oh, the views of churning waves, resident birds, and the rock faces made it all worthwhile. (If you could ignore the pregnant wife and shirtless husband trying to kill themselves taking selfies on the cliff edge.)

Upon our return, we had the option to hike up to the official top where the famous lighthouse sits and funicular stops but unanimous votes went to eating at the Two Oceans Restaurant. Mark and I were pretty convinced this restaurant, though with a spectacular view, would have food only "meh" at best. Boy were we wrong. Between ribs, roasted chicken, and sushi, we went to town. The food was absolutely amazing. My only advice, (and this goes overall for visiting Table Mountain National Park where Cape of Good Hope is situated) is to get there early. By the time we left the restaurant at 1:30pm, the line grew to over an hours' wait and at the park entrance, the line of cars to get in was 1/2 mile long.

Prior to this touristy adventure, we took the kids to Boulders Beach to see penguins. Here we could stroll the boardwalk and admire those adorable creatures do their bird thing from a distance and we could swim among them at a tiny public beach on the other side where there's a second entrance. Margo was convinced she'd be the first Schlink in the ocean. She packed her swim suit and towel and couldn't stop talking about it until she put her feet in and realized how cold the water really was. The icy water didn't stop a lot of people though, and by the time we got there around 9:30am, the beach was nearly packed. The park with the beach section closes their gates when it's filled to capacity, so: get there early if you plan to stay.

Overall, the penguins were cute and I am always glad to pay fees to support public parks. But. Our first experience of seeing penguins in the wild was last year in Ushuaia where we had to drive 2 hours, boat for 20 minutes, then hike to the rookery. The effort of arrival was real which made the whole journey feel magical. Here in South Africa, we walked past the entrance sign that said: Welcome To Boulders Beach, The Easiest Way To See Penguins In The Wild! Well I can't deny that statement. 

Cape of Good Hope.
Down below: Dias Beach. No swimming is allowed due to riptides
but you can descend a long staircase to get away
from camera toting tourists like myself.

View of the original lighthouse.
A second more useful lighthouse was built
farther down the cliff after a Portuguese liner named
Lusitania was wrecked in 1911.

Waiting for us at the end of the world.

Father daughter. The family that's
dirty together, stays together.

Mother son. He was telling me a story about  mutated
 seagull-shark with bomb hands.

You've been warned.

Hanging out.

Going for a swim.