"Camping" at Erindi

When we went camping as a kid, I remember watching my mom systematically stack layers of camp gear, dry boxes, coolers, and duffel bags into the back of our Toyota Tercel. In the car my brother and I would sit on a rolled out sleeping bag and the back seat stuffed with what I considered at the time all-essential: cassette player, dried out markers, and Big Chief tablets. My brother would bring his bike magazines and complain about his unrelenting growing pains, justifying the need to stretch his legs out across my lap. Since I was pretty much obsessed with my brother, I was a total sucker and fell for it. Every time. Then we'd roll into whatever campground site, stuff some money into a metal box and find the perfect spot to set up tents. 

It didn't matter where we camped, on the beach or in the mountains. Inevitably, I'd drench my only pair of shoes only to forget them as they'd melt by the fire. I always got sunscreen in my eyes, and spent an unhealthy amount of time worried about spiders in my dome tent. But man, did I love camping. It meant freedom, burning things in the fire, and listening to my parents sing glorious songs from the 80's. My parents, the camping experts, always seemed even keeled and extra relaxed on these trips. Maybe it was from the fresh air, or maybe it was from the gin & tonics. Either way, it didn't matter.

Now that Mark and I have started our own camping traditions, I wonder what my kids will remember. The plague of corn crickets? The heartlesslcold nights? The hours of boring car time spent with Mark and me yelling "look out the windows!" in search of wild animals?

This past weekend we went camping at Erindi, one of Namibia's most famous game reserves. Ten times the size of Manhattan, the land was once a cattle farm stuffed with cows and decrepit vegetation from overgrazing in the 1970's. The owners phased out cattle farming and began to reintroduce wild animals, and in 2007, Erindi became a legitimate wildlife conservation. We're talking all the animals sacred to Namibia: elephants, giraffes, cats, antelope, dogs, birds, and more. They created 2 islands surrounded by 9,000-volt fencing to keep the people out of animal territory: The Old Trader's Lodge, supposedly the fanciest of all fancy lodges that ONLY the fancy people staying there could visit, and Camp Elephant with incredibly chic chalets and camp sites. We're talking a fridge, hot plate, kettle, private solar showers and bathrooms, stone fire pits (with secret ash cleaning fairies), shade, and grass. No wonder the Gondwana staff was so concerned about "lack of amenities" when we went to Sossusvlei. No wonder we would pay $66/night to sleep on the ground.

I loved that Tercel, but here, it's more than reasonable to have a 4x4 SUV particularly if you want to do some edgy adventuring. Everyone knows that stuff (crap) fills the space you have, and indeed we filled it, but in my defense, we packed two spare tires and back-up car tools to go with the rest of our items. In the backseat the kids barricaded themselves with a pillow wall and their preferred camping essentials: a crocodile pull toy, one slipper, a stuffed penguin, a marble, and a single sheet of paper and marker. They were ready. 

We checked in and set up camp, and just like before, I spilled water on my shoes, managed to get sunscreen in my kids' eyes, and handled the curiously huge crickets (which are really a type of locust) with suppressed anxiety. It was all coming together.

Unfortunately, due to the rainfall in the past month, all the walking trails were closed as well as Camp Elephant's swimming pool/playground. We asked if we'd be allowed to use the pool at the fancy pants lodge and they scoffed saying anyone from Camp Elephant caught lurking at the lodge would be fined $1000 Namibian dollars. This basically limited us to hanging out at the camp site, visiting the watering hole (which was very cool) and signing up for self-drives and game drives (also cool, but $$$). It quickly turned into an expensive weekend. Also, of the "24" (I use quotes because five of their activities are the same thing: game drives) advertised activities on their website, only a few of them allow children younger than six: the kid-centric, closed vehicle midday game drive and a visit to the San Village. They say it's a safety issue. In short: for anyone planning an epic trip to Erindi with their kids, keep this in mind. 

Although I was disappointed with lack of activities, we LOVED the self-drives. Mark and I took turns tempting fate. I drove through a sandy river bed, mostly because the sign said "beware of elephants." It was good practice, but in retrospect I wish we skipped it. The embankment on both sides abolished any hopes of seeing an elephant unless it was directly in the riverbed. Like a kid in a candy store, Mark drove through suspicious bodies of water at Hippo Lake, with an elephant bull in our rear view mirror. He navigated a rocky, 19% grade hill where we both thought our car would tip backward at any moment. Hilariously, Margo slept through that nail biting event. 

When the sun went down so did the temperature. The adults built huge fires to warm our feet, while the kids ran around shoeless like maniacs. The families we camped with are awesome friends, and the same ones who ventured with us to Sossusvlei. Eight kids, ages 3-10 basically policed themselves while the six adults cooked and relaxed. A few of them even took naps and read books, an apparently rare occurrence. 

I still need to get a handle on sleeping in a tent. Mark is so proud of his 20 year old REI backpacking tent, but to me it's like a coffin. A tiny, narrow coffin built for two. He thinks I should just decide on what position I want to sleep in and stay that way all night, but that sounds like how a dead person would do it. No thanks. I tried out the kids' dome tent, opting to sleep with Margo which went mildly better. I still tossed and turned all night, frantic and deeply annoyed by neighboring snores, grunting animals, and chirping birds with no internal alarm clock, but at least I didn't feel like I was suffocating. Needless to say, the morning coffees were the only thing that saved my curdling brains. In the future, I will invest in more padding and ear plugs- those fancy kind that only the fancy people feign to use when they stay at the fancy lodge. And maybe an extra gin & tonic to seal the deal.

Fancy camping toilet paper.

Our humble cottage.

The penthouse.

The bunker.

Seeking solitude by the watering hole.

Yellowbilled Hornbill aka The Fake Toucan 

One last look.

Bustard. Namibia's largest flying bird.

Traffic.

Captain Phasma Visits Sossusvlei

Caffeinated Phasma

Even a Stormtrooper Captain needs a vacation once in while. After several months of painstaking trials of soldier bootcamp I decided some alone time in the desert would be a perfect respite. Gussying up in my most casual chromium armor, I threatened a few tourists to take my picture against the famous Dune 45 in Sossusvlei. Ignoring the memory of Agent Terex's withering comments about my inherent whininess and apathy for the First Order, I took in the greatness of the iron-rich red sand. The desert's stillness spoke to me, emitting an energy all of its own. A girl could get used to this kind of stark harshness.

Unfortunately, the essence of my enemy never leaves. Literally. Hiking further up the dune, I encountered an inconvenient force who attacked me without provocation! One swipe of the lightsaber and the next thing I knew, I woke up face down in the increasingly toasty hot sand blowing into my nethers, and into the gaping mouths of the tourists I killed earlier. I realized it was the great Jedi Obi Wan Kenobi who ruined my vacation. I didn't even know Kenobi knew who or when I was. It's like I can't escape the shadows. It's an exhausting and lonely responsibility representing the will of Supreme Leader Snoke.  

I trudged down the dune and encountered an awe-inspiring colleague whose vacation was also ruined. Like a marionette, I saw Jabba's lifeless head hanging off his slug body with buzzards approaching. I said a quick prayer in Huttanese and stepped over his body.

I thought a bunch of dead acacia trees in a spread of dry salty clay would cheer me up. I made my way to Deadvlei by paying a small fee and hopping onto an NWR run 4x4 for the last 4km of sandy road, thinking I could spare myself the headache of getting my own vehicle stuck. Following the trail, I found Deadvlei and its nothingness along with a number of overwhelmingly enthusiastic, red-faced people taking selfies and poorly timed jump photos. Beyond them was Big Daddy, a dune of massive proportion, a thousand feet high. Unfortunately, I spied a Jawa and Rey lurking the premises, forcing my hand. I really didn't need another stabbing, so I turned back. I drowned my frustrations with beer and spent the rest of my day considering my career aspirations at the pool. 

Cheesy Phasma

Stabbed Phasma

Unconscious Phasma

Dethroned Jabba

Defeated Jabba

Considering lunch options

Deadvlei

Rey on the move

Jawa running and clawing through the pan

Beleaguered Phasma

Contemplative Phasma

Hungry Phasma

Namib-Naukluft National Park

When I started my pack-buy-hoard research for camping, I kept coming across frustratingly vague details for accessing the Namib-Naukluft National Park, where the Hartmann mountain zebras had an entire section to themselves. Sure, I learned that this park is 4th largest in the world at 40,000 km2 (between the sizes of Maryland and West Virginia), and where to start and finish the famous 8-day hiking trail, but I couldn't figure out whether entry permits needed to be purchased ahead of time, or if I could literally drive up to the entrance and get one there. All I could ascertain was that it was required.

I called the Ministry of Environment and Tourism, but the number was disconnected. It took me quite some time to figure out which building I needed to visit (because of course the address wasn't listed) and when I did, the secretary, a spitting image of Roz from Monsters Inc., couldn't be bothered to answer questions. Without missing any texts from her phone, she slid a paper under the glass to fill out. I assumed this to be permit paperwork and BOY oh BOY would my friends be impressed by my preparation! Next goal: to not lose the stamped piece of paper.

Turns out, any old Joe can drive to the main entrances of any park in Namibia and buy a permit straight from their car which is what most people do. I also learned that Sossusvlei Desert is part of the Namib-Naukluft Park, which... doesn't mean anything. I was just happy that my stamped piece of paper counted for two park entries instead of one. 

Anyway. About the zebra park. The entrance reminded me of Jurassic Park with rolling valleys paired with mountains beyond mountains, an inspiring teaser for how many secret animals the land would hold. I'll tell you now how many zebras we saw: zero. I'm not surprised, considering how shy and skittish they are, but it was still disappointing. The guide books also talked up a storm about the other animals we'd likely see: golden moles, oryx, ostrich, birds of prey... the usual sorts one sees in Namibia. All we saw were baboons. Lots of baboons of all sizes just loitering along the trail. Taking in the situation, Mark and I were shocked to see how little everyone else cared about them being so close- particularly with kids around.  Maybe we are too cautious, but having watched Baboon Wars and Planet Earth enough, we're okay with cautious.

We hiked anyway, choosing a 10km (out and back) that promised natural pools and caves. Up we went, dodging baboon eye contact. Loaded to the gills with water bottles, our pace was slower than usual, but it also meant I got extra workouts when those giant, black, shiny-butt bees flew around me. I should totally let a bee loose during an Insanity® workout to really up my game. Mark implored me to control myself. I tried my best.

Loads of people took advantage of the hot sun and natural pools, but we hiked on, hoping the crowd would dissipate by the time we came down. Of course by the time we made it down, baboons took over the pool, likely scavenging for forgotten food. Deets held back tears as we denied him the chance to swim, and it just about broke me. We continued back to the trailhead after having to bush wack to appease the extremely stern looking baboon guarding his brood and guzzled beers before hightailing it back to the campsite. In short, yes the scenery was pretty. And since I'm not allowed to have regrets on a meh sort of hike-day, I'll say we LOVED the hike and everyone held hands singing camp songs toward the end. Even if we didn't.

The entrance couldn't have been any farther away from where we stayed.

Starting off fresh: 11:30am.

Powering through.

Baboons staking their territory.

Camping and assorted surprises, like hot water

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Corn crickets

Between the campsite and lodge.
Credit: Mark

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

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

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

Deets gearing up for the next hill...

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

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

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

Salty dried meat: biltong

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Biltong chips.

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

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

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

Shout out to small business owners in the Foreign Service.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How professional yoga photos are done.

Spiders in Namibia

I didn't want to write about them. I didn't want to read about them, nor did I want to study the detailed pictures of them. But I did because learning stuff is good: spiders and all their spidery parts. And, whether we like it or not, they are part of everyone's lives no matter where we live. A few months back we found two dead black widows outside our house. One was floating in the dog's water bowl, another swaying in the breeze, caught in it's own webby mess. Mark and I mentioned these appearances to a few local friends, each of whom were surprised by the thought of them existing in Namibia.

Last week Deets found a similar spider loitering in his bedroom, and Mark and I realized it was time to educate ourselves on who else might be lurking around. It took me several trips to the bookstore to find my courage and purchase a book on spiders in Southern Africa. I placed the book on top of the microwave and for a few days I could only leer at the cover, unwilling to open it up. It took the realization of seeing suspicious clusters of creamy-white, spiked balls hanging on our fence that I needed to get my act together and find out just what other types of spiders we were dealing with.

Indeed, we were staring at latrodectus egg sacs with a very pregnant spider gearing up to make more. Latrodectus: of the black widow variety. Turns out they are very prevalent here and while they all have the telltale red-orange markings, not all are black. Some are brown, some are gray, some are striped. More importantly, these kinds of spiders have potent venom capable of inducing intense neurotoxic reactions if bitten. Symptoms such as anxiety, palpitations, sweating, abdominal and chest pain. Oh- and burning site pain that lingers. According to my spider guide, no one in the past 60 years has died in southern Africa which is great news, but it doesn't keep me from feeling overwhelmingly paranoid for my family's safety.

Mark and I scouted our yard and found more widow spiders than I was comfortable with: two shacked up on the fence, one underneath a table chair, and a few more underneath our lounge chairs. All of them with several egg sac trophies chilling in their messy, nonsensical webs. We showed the spiders and eggs to the kids and gave them a fun-filled pep talk on leaving these creatures alone. The entire ordeal was educational and calm for everyone. 

In the book, we also looked three other highly venomous species that are endemic to this region: violin (brown recluse) spiders, 6-eyed sand spiders, and prowling sac spiders. Brown recluses have that extra dark marking on the upper back segment and prefer dark spaces to do their roaming. The sand spiders love the deserty stretches of Namibia. They are flat with big butts, and hilariously bury themselves into the sand- luckily the book shared no reports of documented sand spider bites in humans.  Lastly the black faced, hideously semi-translucent prowling sac spiders: super aggressive creepies that lay disc shaped sacs in curtain folds and inside cupboards. Each of these spider's venom is cytotoxic: the bite will likely start off a painless red bump, but 24 hours later the tissue becomes inflamed, ulcerative, and painful, leaving impressive scars. Anyway. I finished writing about these fine specimens and managed to forget about them. Then I went to bed.

I went to a dark place, feeling every itch on my skin and shift of the bedding to mean these spiders were on the move. I tossed and turned, gasped and flopped my way through the night. This morning I woke up exhausted and sore, and I have spent the first half of my day overreacting at the flies and moths flying by. Logically, I understand spiders are useful and don't want to be bothered, and I am working on anxiety management, but it's an uphill battle. At least I can take solace in the fact that we all learned about what do to just in case someone does get bitten by a spider...

Oh great. A spider got me. Now what?
With luck, you saw the offending spider and can determine which one it was. Without luck, immediate or delayed symptoms will tell you whether the venom gives neurotoxic or cytotoxic symptoms. Either way, if you have no idea what bit you, seeking medical attention is the safest course of action.

First Aid: 

1. Stay calm. You need to keep the heart rate low which aids in slowing the spread of venom.

2. Clean the sting area with soap and water and remove all jewelry. Tissue swelling may impede circulation if not allowed to expand. Never cut into the wound or apply suction. Nor does urinating on the wound help - this is an old wive’s tale. 

3. Apply a cloth with ice or cold water over the sting site: 10 minutes on and 10 minutes off. Repeat as necessary. 

4. While busy with first aid (washing, covering the wound with a bandage) organize transport to the nearest health facility. If possible, call ahead and alert the doctors on duty. Take this step seriously, especially if you don’t know what spider bit you, or the victim is less than 5 years old.

5. Take acetaminophen or ibuprofen for pain management.

6. It bears repeating, especially if you are freaky about spiders like myself: STAY CALM. 

For anyone curious, below are photos of the latrodectus/widow spiders we found in our yard:

Super pregnant. Found underneath our lounge chairs.

On our fence.

Orange marking: bullseye! Stay away.